Pay It Forward (22 page)

W
ell, this is the last I’ll get to write in this diary for a while. ’Cause I am leaving it home. Shoot, I got a president to meet. I won’t have time to write in a silly diary.

But, boy. When I get back. Watch out.

Reuben says I have the rest of my life to write down everything that’s about to happen to me.

I just hope that’s enough time.

T
hey took the train to Santa Barbara, then a shuttle bus to LAX, the only part of the trip to come out of their own pockets.

On the train Trevor wanted to sit by the window, and it only seemed right to seat Arlene beside him. Reuben ended up alone one seat back. He couldn’t read on a moving vehicle, it made him queasy, so he sat quietly, watching the backs of their heads.

He could hear the endless litany of Trevor’s tapping foot. The boy was wired for sound. As Reuben supposed he should be, on his way to the White House.

He couldn’t help but notice that Arlene, by herself, looked like a relative stranger, or at least somewhat estranged, while Arlene and Trevor together still looked like his family. An odd sensation, one that left his discomfort no room to breathe.

In the airport Trevor talked to him. And talked and talked. Endless strings of breathy speculation. What the president would be like, what sights they would get to see. Would they have to go through a metal detector or show ID to get in?

He asked Reuben several times, in several different ways, if Reuben thought his Citizen of the Month interviews had
gone okay. Then he showcased his knowledge of White House history.

“Did you know there was a fire there?”

“I think I might have heard that.”

“That’s why they painted it white.”

Reuben thought Arlene was not listening, but she broke in on that comment. “You’re making that up.”

“No, really. The War of 1812. And in 1929. I think they painted it that first time. Is it okay to call him Bill?”

“Who?” Arlene asked absently.

“The president.”

“Oh, God, no! Oh, my God, Trevor, don’t you dare. Don’t even think about it. You call him Mr. Clinton, or President Clinton, or Mr. President, or just plain ‘sir.’”

“What if I get to meet Chelsea?”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I hope I get to meet Chelsea. She’s a major babe.”

On the plane Trevor opted for the window again, and Arlene sat next to him, which put Reuben on the aisle, beside her. It seemed awkward not to talk, but he didn’t.

Trevor looked out the window and Reuben fingered the little ring box in his pocket and wondered again why he’d brought it. And wondered, if she knew he’d brought it, would she then understand that his silence wasn’t cold, or wasn’t meant to be, but rather a trench he’d dug himself into? A trench that only seemed to deepen with his movements. Maybe at some point in the trip he would tell her, just so she would know that for a moment, while packing, he had missed her, and his thoughts had been kind.

But that was a big bite for a man who couldn’t even seem to discuss the weather or their itinerary.

The flight was a smooth one, so he read his book.

A
T THE AIRPORT, A
very young, fresh-faced man in a suit and tie held a sign that read
McKinney Party.
The man, whose name was Frank, loaded their luggage in the trunk of a black American-made car and asked if they’d like to stop at the hotel to freshen up. Arlene said that sounded good, but Trevor looked so crestfallen, they asked what he’d like to do first.

“See things.”

“Well, that’s my job today,” Frank said. “To show the three of you around, get you safely back to your hotel, and then I’ll be back to get you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp. We’ll take a little tour of the White House until it’s time for your appointment with the president.”

“What do we see first?” Trevor said. He and Frank seemed to have formed an instantaneous bond, cutting Reuben and Arlene out of the loop. Which was as it should be, Reuben felt, because this was Trevor’s day. “What all do you want to see?”

“The Washington Monument, the Library of Congress, the Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, the Smithsonian…”

“We might not get to all those today,” Frank said. “But there’s tomorrow afternoon. What’s first?”

“The Vietnam Memorial.”

Reuben flinched unexpectedly at the mention of the name.

W
ALKING DOWN THE
M
ALL,
approaching the Vietnam Memorial, Frank dropped back and addressed Reuben by name.

“I understand you’re a vet.”

“I am.”

“I’m not going to give the usual tour guide spiel. I’ve noticed that vets don’t always like that. You probably know a lot I don’t. You might want a moment to view this by yourself.”

Reuben swallowed past a tight knot in his throat. Until Frank
reminded him, he’d avoided focusing on the depths of his own discomfort.

Trevor said, “We’ll wait back here for you a minute, Reuben, and Frank can give
me
the tour guide spiel. I wasn’t there.”

Frank’s polite laughter echoed in his ears as he walked toward the Wall. The sound of his own footsteps seemed to reverberate, bigger than life. Seven weeks in Vietnam. Then a week to stabilize in a medical installation and a quick flight to a stateside hospital. The men with names carved into this black granite had known something about the war. Reuben knew only what he saw in the mirror every morning. Maybe, he thought, that was enough.

He studied the index for a time, looking for a specific name. Then he moved along the wall until he found the correct panel, reflecting a time late in the war, and ran his fingers across the names until he found Artie. It jolted him slightly to see it, the reality of it, a recurrent nightmare suddenly become provably real. He reached up and traced the letters with his fingers.

A minute or an hour later he felt Trevor at his right side. In that sudden moment of the child’s presence Reuben knew that his wounded pride was harming Trevor as much as or more than Arlene, and causing Reuben to sacrifice far too much in its name.

“Reuben, did you know how many names there are here?”

“About fifty-eight thousand, I think.” It felt strange to talk, and he realized he hadn’t for quite a while.

“Fifty-eight thousand, one hundred and eighty-three. Who’s Arthur B. Levin?”

“An old buddy of mine.”

Arlene’s voice startled him from behind. “Trevor, maybe Reuben wants to be by himself.”

“No, it’s okay Arlene, really.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about Arthur Levin.”

“No, it’s okay. He was just someone I got to know in basic training. Artie was the guy voted most likely to screw something up.” He wasn’t sure if he was telling this to Trevor, or Arlene, or
both. “First time Artie pulled the pin on a grenade his hands were shaking so much he dropped the grenade. Into high grass. Stood there digging around like he could find it to throw it. I knew he’d never get it in time. He was going to blow himself away. So I ran in and grabbed him, tried to get him to clear the area. Too late, though.”

“He died?” The quiet voice of Trevor.

“Yes.”

“Did you get hurt, Reuben?”

“Can’t you tell?” A silence. “I didn’t even know him that well. Just better than anyone else there. He was the only person on the continent who wasn’t a total stranger.” He felt Arlene’s arms circle his waist from behind. “Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, What if I had just run? Just saved myself. Artie would be just as dead. And I’d still look like the man in the picture. Just a little older.” But looking at the Wall, he had to wonder. What if it hadn’t happened and he hadn’t been sent home? Would he be a name carved in granite now?

Arlene’s breath tickled his ear. “That’s not the kind of guy you are. Besides, you’d always wonder. If you could’ve helped.”

“Whereas this way I know I couldn’t. Trevor? Go talk to Frank for a minute.”

“Okay, Reuben.”

Reuben turned and held Arlene. Neither said anything for a few minutes.

He took a big breath. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Arlene. I’m the kind of person, when I finally let myself love someone, it just goes so deep. You know what I mean? I know you do. I know because you’re the same way. So I was thinking. Maybe I can understand that loyalty you felt.”

“What do you mean?” From the sound of her voice he figured she knew but couldn’t quite believe he meant it.

“What happened with Ricky. Maybe I should feel lucky to have a woman like that. Because, years from now, when we have
that same kind of history, I know I’d get the same level of loyalty from you.”

“You saying what I think you’re saying?”

He placed the little velvet box in her hand. “Look what I just happen to have here.”

She sucked in a breath, shaky with tears that would show in a minute. “You never took it back for a refund.”

“Funny, isn’t it, how I never did that?”

B
Y THE TIME THEY ARRIVED
back at the hotel, Trevor was so fast asleep that Reuben had to haul him in a fireman’s carry up to their room. That is, to Trevor and Arlene’s room. His own room was just across the hall. He wanted to ask her across the hall with him, but it didn’t seem right to leave Trevor alone.

They kissed good night for a long time, and Reuben said they’d have plenty of time, the rest of their lives, to be together. Arlene smiled and said nothing, seeming nervous or sad or both.

In the morning, Trevor came over and said she was sick and throwing up over there, but when Reuben expressed concern, Trevor said it happened all the time.

“It’s just stress,” he said. “She just gets nervous.”

Reuben could certainly relate to nervousness.

T
HEY STOOD ANXIOUSLY
on the red carpet of the main hall. The Cross Hall, Trevor called it, staring up at the presidential seal. Reuben thought they faced the front of the building and Pennsylvania Avenue, but Trevor was quick to point out that Reuben was indicating the south portico, facing the Washington Monument. Reuben had given up on getting his bearings. At one end
of the hall, the East Room buzzed with press setting up cameras, and Secret Service, and White House staff. Frank asked Trevor if he was nervous, and Trevor said no, an obvious lie.

The president walked in almost unnoticed, surrounded by Secret Service agents and his press secretary. They just seemed like any other group on first glance. Reuben wondered why he had expected some kind of fanfare.

A moment later the man himself spun off from the group and walked directly to Trevor, looking natural and friendly and unintimidating somehow. He shook Trevor’s hand.

“You must be Trevor. Frank treating you okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Trevor said, seemingly unfazed. “Sir. I mean, Mr. President Clinton, sir.”

Mr. President Clinton smiled and said Trevor could call him Bill. Trevor turned and shot a look at his mother.

“The press is still setting up, so this’ll take a minute. Everybody wants to get this on the news, Trevor.”

“Okay by me, Bill, sir.”

“So, what have you gotten to see?”

“Everything.”

“What did you like best?”

“The cherry blossoms. No, wait. The Vietnam Memorial. That was the best because my mom and Reuben got engaged.”

“Really?” he said, his smiling eyes coming up to take them in. Reuben felt tongue-tied and wished he could handle himself as smoothly and easily as Trevor did. “Well, congratulations.”

“Tomorrow’s my birthday,” Trevor added. “Boy, is it ever gonna be a good one.”

“Well, you’ve just got all kinds of things to celebrate.”

“No kidding.”

A man arrived at Clinton’s elbow. “Mr. President, we’re ready to get under way.”

C
AMERAS ROLLED, FILLING THE
E
AST
R
OOM
and filming them with the Cross Hall as backdrop. The president stood beside them, behind a podium, and shook Trevor’s hand.

Reuben tried to look natural, but the lights made him want to squint and blink, and between that and his nerves, the whole scene looked and felt surrealistic.

“I’m honored to meet you, Trevor,” the president said.

“Yeah, me too,” Trevor said. “I mean, I’m honored, too. I was so happy when you won the election.”

“Why, thank you, Trevor.”

“I didn’t think you had a prayer.”

Reuben’s jaw tightened. In his peripheral vision he saw Arlene’s face go suddenly white.

The president threw his head back and laughed, a big, friendly, genuine laugh. Little lines around his eyes crinkled with amusement. A light stir passed through the press corps.

“Well, Trevor, I guess we’re both a good example of what happens when you don’t give up on your dreams.”

“Yes, sir, Bill, sir. I guess so.”

Trevor was presented with a small plaque. Reuben couldn’t read it from where he stood. He felt himself sweating profusely but didn’t want to wipe his forehead on camera. Sweat ran into his eye and stung. He heard about one out of every three of the president’s words. Something about one person being able to make a difference, and a reference to a child’s ability to lead us.

Reuben felt shocked and unprepared when the attention turned to him. He shook Clinton’s hand, knowing his palm felt clammy. He nodded humbly when the president said that children were the future and teachers like him shaped that future. He remembered using the word “sir” a lot and didn’t remember much else.

Trevor beamed up at Reuben like this was a birthday party, all fun and no tension, and though it was hardly the moment for the thought, Reuben realized he hadn’t known that tomorrow was
Trevor’s birthday. Why hadn’t he known? He would have to buy the boy something.

B
Y THE TIME
R
EUBEN HAD RELAXED
enough to be fully pressent, the visit was over and Frank was driving them back to their hotel.

“That was so incredibly cool,” Trevor said.

Reuben felt sorry to have missed it. He consoled himself to know that it would be on the news and his mother would tape it. Maybe he could slow it down and get a better view.

“This has been the best, most incredible day,” Trevor said. “Do you think there’ll ever be a day this good again, Reuben? Or do you just get one of these? I mean, my birthday tomorrow, and meeting the president, and you and Mom getting married. You think I’ll ever have another day like this one, Reuben?”

Reuben couldn’t answer, because in truth, it seemed unlikely. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Trevor he might have hit the peak day of his life just before his fourteenth birthday.