Still, Davey was a pragmatic child, and he knew that his relationship with the secretary could not continue in this manner. Shortly after taking office, he decided to conquer his disgust and fear (even if he was unwilling to acknowledge the latter) and visit Vaughn at home. He knew that Vaughn spent the entire day buried in documents and books, speaking only if absolutely necessary, and had no friends. He stayed in his office reading until very late at night, so it was after ten when Davey paid him a call at home.
Vaughn’s residence was in Shepherd Park on Sixteenth Street NW, in an area in the northernmost part of the city known as the “Gold Coast.” It had once been a Jewish neighborhood, and later a home for predominantly black middle-class government and legal professionals. On the side closer to downtown was a large stretch of unrestored apartment buildings, one of the District’s neglected corners which, while not as crumbling as Anacostia in the southeast, was an area with a fairly high crime rate and drug trade during the adults’ time. Vaughn lived in one of those buildings.
Davey’s knock at the door drew a chilly “It’s unlocked.” He carefully opened the door to reveal a book storeroom. Books were everywhere beneath the light of a dim incandescent lamp, but there were no shelves, or anything else for that matter—not even a desk or chair. Books were stacked in piles, covering the floor. There wasn’t even a bed, just a blanket spread over some of the more evenly stacked piles, and there was no space for Davey to find a foothold.
Since he couldn’t enter, he just looked at the books from a distance. Apart from the English-language books, he could make out books in French and German, and even a few tattered Latin works. He was standing on a copy of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; just ahead was The Prince, whose author was obscured by another volume, William Manchester’s The Glory and the Dream. There was also Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber’s Le Défi mondial, Trevor N. Dupuy’s The Evolution of Weapons and Warfare, Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.,’s History of U.S. Political Parties, Immanuel Kant’s A Critique of Pure Reason, K. Spidchenko’s Economic Geography of the World, Henry A. Kissinger’s The Necessity for Choice…
Vaughn, who had been sitting on a pile of books, stood up when Davey opened the door and came over, and Davey saw him withdraw a clear object from his left arm, a small syringe. Vaughn stood in front of him holding the syringe in his right hand, and didn’t appear to mind that the president had seen him.
“You do drugs?” Davey asked.
Vaughn didn’t answer, but just looked at him, and again those incorporeal claws reached out toward him. He was a little scared, and looked around him in the hope that someone else was there, but the building was empty. Once the adults left, there were lots of empty buildings like this one.
“I know you don’t like me, but you’ve got to tolerate me,” Vaughn said.
“Tolerate a druggie secretary of state?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“For America.”
Davey was forced to submit under Vaughn’s intense, Darth Vader–like stare. He sighed and broke his gaze away from Vaughn’s.
“I’m inviting you to dinner.”
“At the White House?”
“Yes.”
Vaughn nodded, and motioned out the door, and then the two of them went out toward the stairs. As Vaughn was closing the apartment door, Davey took one last look and noticed that in addition to the books and blanket, the room also held an unusually large globe. It stood in one corner, which was why he hadn’t seen it at first, and it was taller than Vaughn himself. It was on a stand formed from two intricately carved Greek figures—Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom, and Cassandra, empowered with the gift of prophecy. Together they supported the enormous globe.
The president and secretary of state dined in the Red Room, one of the four state reception rooms in the White House, and formerly the drawing room where the First Lady held receptions. The muted light illuminating the garnet-red twill satin fabric edged in gold scroll designs on the walls, the two eighteenth-century candelabras on the mantel, and the French Empire mahogany cabinets gave the room an ancient, mysterious aura.
The two children ate opposite the fireplace at the small round marble table, one of the finest pieces of furniture in the White House collection. It was made of mahogany and other hard woods, and on the inlaid marble surface supported by gilded bronze busts of women sat a bottle of Scotch. Vaughn ate little, but he was a drinker and quickly polished off a number of glasses in succession. Within the space of ten minutes the bottle was practically empty, and Davey had to get two more. Vaughn continued to drink, but the alcohol seemed to have no effect on him.
“Can you tell me about your mom and dad?” Davey ventured.
“I never met them,” Vaughn said coldly.
“So… where are you from?”
“Hart Island.”
They said no more, but ate in silence. Then the implication of what Vaughn had said hit Davey, and he shuddered. Hart Island was a small island outside Manhattan, the site of a baby cemetery where the unwanted children of drug addicts were buried in mass graves.
“Does that mean you’re…”
“That’s right.”
“You mean, you were put in a fruit basket and left there?”
“I wasn’t big enough for that. I was left in a shoebox. They said that eight were left that day, and I was the only one who survived.” Vaughn’s voice was as calm as could be.
“Who picked you up?”
“I know him by a dozen names, but none of them are his real one. He trafficked in heroin using a variety of his own unique methods.”
“I… I imagined you grew up in a library.”
“That’s true, too, only it was a big library and the pages were made of money and blood.”
“Benes!” Davey shouted.
The White House chief of staff, the blond-haired girl with doll-like features, entered the room.
“Turn on some lights.”
“But… the First Lady used to keep it this dark when receiving guests. For the nobles, she’d have to light candles,” she protested.
“I’m the president, not the First Lady, and neither are you. I hate these dim lights!” Davey said angrily.
In a fit of pique Benes turned on all the lights in the room, including the floodlights only used during photographs, and the walls and carpets of the Red Room glared blinding red. Davey felt much better, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at Vaughn. Now all he wanted was for the dinner to be over.
The gilded bronze clock on the mantel, a gift from French president Vincent Auriol in 1952, played a pleasing pastoral melody, informing the two children it was getting late. Vaughn got up and made a farewell, and Davey offered him a ride home, since he didn’t want the little freak spending the night.
The presidential Lincoln limousine drove along a quiet avenue. Davey was in the driver’s seat; he had stopped the boy who served as driver and Secret Service special agent from coming along with him. He and Vaughn remained silent on the road, but when they reached the Lincoln Memorial, Vaughn gestured and Davey brought the car to a stop. Immediately he regretted doing so: I’m the president, he thought. Why should I follow his signals? But he had to admit that the boy possessed a power beyond him.
Lincoln’s pale seated form loomed indistinctly above them in the night, and the young president looked up at the sculpture’s head, wishing that Lincoln could see him, too, but the great man did not move his gaze from the low horizon, where the Washington Monument pierced the night sky in the Reflecting Pool, and beyond it the Capitol at the end of the Mall.