A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [182]
“From Generations,” Quinn said, “Ralph Waldo Emerson.” He opened the volume to where it was marked, then closed it and recited. “‘Man is a god in ruins,’” he said. “‘When men are innocent, life shall be longer and pass into the immortal as gently as we awake from dreams.’”
Siobhan nodded.
“‘Now, the world would be insane and rabid,’” he went on, “‘if those disorganizations should last for hundreds of years. It is kept in check by…by…’”
“Death,” she said.
“‘It is kept in check by death and infancy. Infancy,’ our Daniel Wong O’Connell, ‘Infancy is the perpetual Messiah when it comes into the arms of fallen men, and pleads with them to return to paradise.’ Mom, I feel great love from the American people and they know I will brook no evil.”
Siobhan’s voice fell so low he had to lay his ear to her lips. “Can I say it, just once?”
“Sure.”
“Mr. President,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
The authors of the Constitution overlooked a January inaugural, too damp and cold for the great American street carnival.
A thousand miles of bunting decorated Washington as icing on a big cake. The National Mall ballooned with science tents and food tents and history tents and technology and discovery and art tents.
And in all the auditoriums came the sounds of America singing, singing gospel and Mormon hymns and rock and samba and, of course, bluegrass. Bagpipes and the horns of Dixieland. There was a dance tent where Irish step dancers followed a Mexican folk dancing group and children’s choruses. There was a gay men’s chorus and drummers from Korea and Hawaii and India.
And in the Kennedy Center the National Symphony played lofty, patriotic music of the great plains and seacoasts and mountains and cities reaching up as fingers to God. On they disgorged from Dulles and Reagan Air-ports and the Union Station until the great statues smiled from their pedestals.
There would be thirty something inaugural balls and the faithful would wait breathlessly for the five minute appearance of the President and First Lady.
As the mood of the great party filtered over the land, a king would grumble with envy of it.
January 19, 2009
Quinn had disciplined himself to be able to sleep anytime, anyplace, for however long he was allowed. Without this, few politicians could survive.
Quinn reached over the bed for Rita. Where am I? Oh, that’s right. Blair House. He flopped back on his pillow, then propped up on an elbow as he caught sight of Rita penning something at the desk. She sat before the window, curtains open, snowflakes falling outside. He watched until she finished.
Rita folded the sheet of paper and wrote Quinn on it. She found the suit she had laid out for him and slipped it in his pocket. She drew the curtains and they cuddled in and lay thus until morning…each now so aware of the moment they could not speak.
By dawn the snow had stopped. Branches swayed and fluffed off their patches of white.
“The sun is trying to break through,” Rita said, as steam rose on the lawn. “Are you sure you don’t want me at the prayer breakfast?”
“It will be understood.”
“I’ll pray here for Siobhan. You pray for the country.” Rita disappeared into the dressing room to begin her countdown.
Rita had commissioned Stetson to make them a pair of matching Western hats, not too cowboy, not too in your face, but a sort of Clark Gable riverboat gambler hat. Quinn felt very Colorado for the moment.
After the prayer breakfast he would meet the congressional leaders and Rita would join him for traditional tea with the outgoing president.
Pucky, at her most gracious, was as gracious as they came. She schooled Rita to take over the enterprise of operating the White House. During these frosty days, Thornton Tomtree scarcely left his study. No songs to cheer him, no ladies to endear him. There was the bittersweet moment Darnell Jefferson returned. They were destined to crash on a Noah’s Rock, together.