“You can say it,” Hail told him. “It’s OK… the last time you saw me at the funeral. That was more than two years ago, but it wasn’t much of a funeral. There were no bodies.”
“Is that why you came here?” Rogers asked.
“Short answer is yes; the long answer is yes because I paid for this memorial. I wanted to make sure they did it right.”
Rogers knew Hail was lying. Not about paying for the memorial, but he was lying about the reason he was there.
“And did they do it right?” Rogers asked. “I mean to me it’s strange that the there are no flight numbers or countries or really nothing is on the stones but names. Shouldn’t there be more information?”
“None of that matters,” Hail said, turning to look back at the monument as if he were seeing it for the first time.
“Only the names matter,” he added. “No one cares about the dates or planes or countries, and at times like this, when there is nobody here, I don’t think they even care about the names anymore.”
Rogers didn’t say anything.
“With no bodies, this is the only place for me to go. You know… to see them,” Hail said, struggling to keep it together.
Hail looked back one last time.
“But I will never come here again. It hurts just too damn much,” he added in a tone as sorrowful as it was resolute.
More silence.
“Do you want to walk?” his friend asked, “Or should Marine Two come back and give you a ride?”
Hail laughed and then coughed. He wiped away moisture from the corners of his eyes with a flick of his finger.
“I think walking would be good for me. Don’t you?” he asked Trevor.
“That’s what they tell me,” Rogers said. He turned and faced Constitution Avenue and took a few steps. Hail fell in next to him.
“Remember in second grade when you tied Barbara Belcher’s hair to the back of her chair and then screamed fire?”
“Yeah, that was funny,” Hail chuckled.
Washington, D.C. ― The White House Rose Garden
The President was dressed in a smart tight suit; a navy-blue skirt and a navy-blue jacket over a peach colored shirt with a narrow collar. She had tiny gold American flag pinned to her jacket pocket. She was not a young woman and allowed the streak of grey to live within her brown hair. She felt it elegantly reflected her age and gave her a unique appearance. Her hair was shoulder length, not long enough where her constituents would consider her to be overly concerned with it, and not short enough to where they would think she was gay. She had been single a long time; divorced years ago after the kids had gone away to college. Being the first woman President of the United States came along with more baggage than her male predecessors had to contend with. Being a woman was one big bag. Being a divorced woman was another load to bear. And being a single divorced woman was yet another suitcase. And being a divorced woman who was quickly approaching that “hell no” age of fifty, completed her luggage collection. Now she had to deal with this very weird, yet intriguing situation with Marshall Hail. Probably never before had a President been confronted with such a state of affairs.
Joanna Weston stuck out her hand to lightly shake the hand of Marshall Hail.
“Thank you for responding so quickly,” she said. But she didn’t mean it. Hail had more or less barged into her schedule, forcing her to cancel a day with the Mayor of Mumbai.
Hail took her tiny hand in his big hand and didn’t know if he should shake it or kiss it. He had no idea what the protocol was for a woman President. The President must have sensed his dilemma. She clutched Hail’s hand and gave it a firm shake.
“It is very nice to meet you, Madam President.” Hail said.
“Please call me Joanna. Madam President makes me sound old.”
Hail saw a sparkle in the woman, a glow that transcended age and appearance. He assumed that this quality must have made a positive impact on other people. Millions to be exact. Specifically, everyone who had voted for her. It was a subtle feature, maybe the way she smiled or the way she held herself. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Her eyes were inquisitive, like radar scanners that assessed people from afar. And then her eyes seemed to scan even deeper when she spoke. It was a quality that projected intellect and superiority.
After their walk from The Five Memorial, Rogers had led Hail up to the security shack, where they had been checked off the list and escorted to the Whitehouse. Rogers told Hail that he would see him later, and then Hail had been shown the way to the Rose Garden where the President had been waiting for him.
“Please sit down, won’t you,” the President motioned with her hand toward the table.
Hail released the President’s hand and waited for her to position herself in behind one of the cast iron chairs. The President made her selection and Hail pulled out the chair for her. He made sure the President was pushed in snugly and then he sat down in the only other chair at the small table. A Whitehouse server appeared from nowhere and poured water into glasses and disappeared back into the rose bushes.
“How was your trip from…” the President waited for Hail to fill in the blank.
“Madagascar,” Hail lied. He saw no advantage in revealing his movements or positions in the world.
“That was a long way to go in such a short time.”
“That’s why God invented jets,” Hail said playfully.
“I must have missed that in the bible,” the President responded with a laugh.
The President was silent for a moment. This was her show and Hail was going to let her run it.
The woman’s smile faded into a more serious expression.
“I was hoping we could discuss a little business while we eat, considering that we won’t have much time together.”
“Certainly,” Hail said.
A waiter appeared, put napkins in laps, put bread on the table and was gone in a flash.
“I have your check right here,” the President said, pointing to an envelope sitting under her three forks. The silverware tinkled as she removed the envelope and handed it to Hail.
Hail accepted it with a thank you.
Without opening it, he slid the envelope into his inside coat pocket.
“You don’t want to check it?” the President asked with a curious expression.
“No, that’s OK. I know where you live,” Hail smiled.
The woman looked a little unnerved at Hail’s comment and she quickly changed the subject.
“I think the question on everyone’s mind is how?”
“Excuse me?” Hail said. He was hungry and wanted a piece of bread, but he wasn’t going to be the first one to grab a piece and start buttering it up.
“How did you kill Chang?”
The President’s bluntness caught Hail off guard.
Hail was quiet for moment as he decided how to respond to the question. He toyed with the old expression; well if I told you I would have to kill you, but thought that was totally inappropriate considering his new pastime.
So he decided on, “I think that’s another conversation for another time.”
The President looked disappointed.
The round lunch table had a simple white linen tablecloth covering its metal and glass frame. Hail noticed that there were no sharp knives on the table. Butter knives, yes. Steak knives, no. Therefore, he assumed that beef was not on the menu or they didn’t make a habit of putting items on the table that could be used to kill the President in short order.
Hail looked at the bread and he found himself salivating.
The President must have sensed his longing, because her next words were.