Hank Roberts — Stephie’s stepfather — held out his hand, which Bill shook. “Thank you,” Hank said, before he began to cry. Bill put his arms around the man and felt his own eyes water.
When they parted, Bill went to Stephie’s door and knocked lightly.
“Come in.” she said in a high-pitched voice.
Bill found her lying in the four-poster bed wearing a night shirt with a frilly trim. Her head was propped up on two thick pillows, but her body lay flat except for her toes. Stephie held the top edge of the sheet up to her shoulders with both hands. Bill sat on the bed beside her.
She looked down at the lace trim of her bedclothes. “Mom bought this for me,” she said. Stephie was scrubbed and fresh. The doctor had said her wounds were relatively minor. At least those that you could see. Stephie sniffed. Her eyes were red, and black bags formed half moons beneath them. Still looking at the girlish trim of her matronly nightshirt, she said, “I think it makes me look like a freak.”
First Bill, then Stephie laughed, but Stephie’s laughter turned to tears. She sat up, and they embraced each other. Again, Bill tried to calm her while being careful not to touch her back. He had seen a photo taken by the doctor of the red welts criss-crossing her skin. He had to fend off the cold tide of anger to continue his tender care.
Stephie sank back down to her pillow and told Bill stories about John Burns. There was some laughter, but mostly it was tears. Bill told her about how he had known John, who was one of the youngest members on the presidential detail. When he had volunteered and been selected to guard Stephie, John had met with him in the Oval Office. He didn’t repeat to Stephie the vows that John had made — unsolicited — but he had promised the president that he would give his life to save her. It was the pledge that Bill had wanted to hear, and he had stamped his seal of approval on the young agent’s mission with a single nod of his head. John’s death warrant.
“There’s something else,” Stephie said out of the blue, “that’s been bothering me. Lieutenant Wu — that Chinese officer who saved us — he said, well, that he and I are cousins.” She studied Bill’s carefully masked face then went on. “He said that his mother is my aunt Cynthia. My mom’s sister.” She waited.
Bill said, “Did you ask your mother?”
Stephie snorted. “She wouldn’t tell me shit.” She stared up at Bill. “Will you?”
“This really should come from your mother,” Bill tried.
Stephie scoffed at the suggestion with a roll of her eyes and wave of her hand, then pleaded with him. “Don’t I have the right to know things like this? I’m not a child anymore!”
Bill tried to placate her with vague apologies for her mother, but in the end all that would do was the truth. The whole story. “Han Zhemin seduced your mother and broke up our marriage,” Bill began. An explosive puff of air escaped from the incredulous, scoffing girl. That wasn’t the mother that she knew. Bill struggled to explain. Rachel was young. Han was rich and glamorous. Han was what she had thought she’d married in wedding Bill. It was as much his fault as hers. He hadn’t told her that he planned on leaving Hollywood for a dreary life at graduate school. Han offered her everything that she’d wanted. Luxurious private jets carrying her to exciting world capitals. Extraordinary wealth in the hands of a man who had been born and bred to spend it.
Stephie was incensed. “So she wasn’t a small-town, church-going saint like she always made out! She was just a gold-digging whore!”
“Stephie!” Bill chastised. “She was young! I was young! We were all young, and young people make mistakes!”
“So when Han Zhemin — on that stage by the bridge — said I was like my mom…” She choked on indignation, then let out a grunt of anger. “That bastard!”
“He is a bastard,” Bill agreed. “About a month after they ran off to Hong Kong, your mother found out she was pregnant with you. She called her sister — your aunt — who flew to Hong Kong. Rachel asked Cynthia to go to Beijing and explain to Han that she was expecting. To explain that it was my child.”
“Mom was in Hong Kong,” Stephie commented, “and Han was in Beijing? Why?”
“He’d probably already tired of her,” Bill replied.
“So Aunt Cynthia flew to Beijing, and he boned her too?”
“Stephie!” Bill said, grimacing. “That’s really, sort of, crude.”
“Well, Jesus!” she said. “That’s what happened. isn’t it? He ‘seduced’ her, or whatever you wanta call it. He knocked her up, and out pops Lieutenant Wu!”
“You’d better get some rest,” Bill said.
“Talk to me!” Stephie demanded. “Don’t leave! Please!” He took her demands that he not leave her as something more than they were. Bill’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” Stephie said, putting her arms around him. “I’m sorry. I love you. I love you, Dad. What I mean is, we haven’t talked about you. Tell me. About you.” Bill pulled away and shrugged, dabbing at the tears that pooled in her long eyelashes. “I wanta know,” Stephie insisted, “about you.” Bill nodded and smiled. “So who’s this woman I keep reading about. Clarissa Leffler? Do you love her?”
The question shot through Bill like an arrow. He felt its shaft with each throb of his heart. “It’s complicated,” he mumbled, struggling with the words.
“So you love her,” she deciphered, “but something’s wrong.” Bill snorted bitterly but couldn’t form his lips into a smile. “But what could be wrong? I think you two would make a great couple! You’re the president. She’s the daughter of the Speaker of the House. She’s beautiful,” Stephie said, reaching for her own, unkempt hair as if to make the point by exhibiting beauty’s opposite. She slapped the bed with red, chapped hands. “And she’s so well-educated!”
“You will be too, Stephie,” Bill interrupted. “I know how high your grades and college board scores were. You can get into any college that you want.”
“And I’m the president’s daughter,” she said, grinning broadly. Instead of chaffing at the presumed advantage of her birth, she seemed to relish her title—“First Daughter”—because it seemed so new to her.
“And, you’re a war veteran,” Bill added, smiling with his daughter.
“So-o-o,” Stephie said in a girlish, teasing voice, “what’s so wrong with my new mom, Clarissa?”
“She’s a spy for the Chinese,” Bill said almost without thinking. Stephie laughed. The smile drained from his face first, then from hers.
“What?” Stephie exclaimed when she realized that he wasn’t kidding. She sat bolt upright.
There was a volume and an edge to her reply that convinced Bill, once and for all, that Clarissa’s crimes would never be forgiven by the American people. Maybe he could forgive her — rationalize massively — but practically no one else would. And Bill’s defense of Clarissa could not keep her from jail. Only a pardon would do that. But if he pardoned her, it would bring him down with her. He could never again lead the nation in war against China.
“You mean all those ugly attacks in the press,” Stephie asked, “at the beginning…?”
“Were true, as it turns out,” Bill answered. “The sad thing is, Clarissa doesn’t know she’s a Chinese spy. She thinks she’s part of a group of ultrapatriotic Americans, like she is.”