Author’s Note
This story, like others I’ve written, is a statement of my belief that the past is present, that it’s a living entity, that we can never leave it behind. More prosaically, it’s a sketch of political ambition and its price. Pete Buttigieg was running for president while I was writing this story, and I filched a little something from him to touch up my protagonist, Edward Boudoin.
“If Two Be Away” is included in my first short story collection, A Cold Day in August: Thirteen Tales of Criminality Most Foul, which is available on Amazon as a Kindle edition and a paperback edition. If you read and enjoy this story, I hope you’ll share it with family and friends, and perhaps even go on to read the other tales that comprise A Cold Day in August.
If Two Be Away
A Short Story by Thomas Gregg
“Well, that was back in the era of don’t-ask, don’t-tell.”
“It must have been difficult for you, though. Keeping such a secret.”
“It was,” Edward Boudoin agreed. “But that was the reality. If you were gay, the Army didn’t want to hear about it.”
The anchor, an attractive if rather abrasive redhead, put on a sympathetic expression.
“And that’s something for which we can all be grateful to President Obama.” Boudoin went on. “Thanks to him, there’s no longer any need for such secrets. But there’s still the need to protect all the gains that have been made over the last eight years. Which is one reason why I’m running for the United States Senate.”
“And speaking of that, Dr. Boudoin, how do you assess your chances in November?”
“I’m confident of victory—of course.” He laughed. “But as Bismarck said, Politics is not an exact science. Anything can happen, Tessa…
The interview proceeded smoothly from there. Boudoin fielded the anchor’s questions with aplomb. He was well aware of the impression he was making: handsome, well spoken, knowledgeable, West Point graduate, decorated former soldier, professor of history, author of a best-selling book on American foreign policy, progressive Democrat. And, of course, gay. He was the very model of a successful blue-state candidate. Boudoin affected to disdain the polls, but he did glance at them from time to time. Currently he held an eighteen-point lead over his Republican opponent.
“I think that went well,” he remarked to his campaign manager in the limo. “A couple of fastballs, but no curves.”
“Yeah, Tessa’s not hard to predict.” But Larry said nothing more; he seemed preoccupied. Well, he had a lot on his plate.
Between them on the plush leather seat was a stack of campaign literature. Idly, Boudoin picked up a flier. The photograph was a good one but then he’d always photographed well. The scar on his cheek was the thing: It lent a touch of character to what would otherwise have been bland, former frat boy good looks. For a moment Boudoin was back in the past, on the Afghanistan battlefield where he’d acquired that scar. They never faded, those images of terror and blood and death. He shuddered and put the flier down.
“There’s a problem,” said Larry tonelessly.
“Such as what?”
“Not here, Eddie. But we really need to talk.”
SERVICE ABOVE SELF: that was the theme of Edward Boudoin’s campaign. He’d come up with it himself, explaining to a skeptical marketing team that it hit all the right notes: selflessness, nobility, a not-too-blatant reference to his military service—and to the Distinguished Service Cross, Bronze Star and Purple Heart with which he’d been decorated. Like Barack Obama, Boudoin tended to think that he knew better than his advisers and staff. Except for Larry. Early on, Boudoin had learned to listen to Larry Hunter. To look at him you’d think that Larry was some inoffensive drudge: a postal worker perhaps, or the manager of a convenience store. He was short, slight, mild, with washed-out blue eyes and thinning blonde hair. Only when he spoke to the point did the mask drop, revealing a consummate professional with an encyclopedic knowledge of the state and its politics, and the ruthless implacability of a great white shark.
“So what’s the problem?” Boudoin asked when they were safely ensconced behind the door of his campaign manager’s office.
“Let me ask you something,” Larry replied.
“You’re answering a question with a question?”
“Does the name Javier Lazaro mean anything to you?”
For a moment it didn’t, and he shook his head but then Boudoin remembered.
“I see that it does,” Larry said quietly. “Well, it should.”
“That was a long time ago,” Boudoin sighed.
“Uh-huh. Two thousand and four, to be exact.”
“Come on, Larry, the kid was eighteen.” Boudoin shrugged. “Age of consent, right?”
The campaign manager leaned back in his chair. “You think that makes a difference? Bullshit, Eddie. You’re smarter than that.”
“Christ.”
“On the plus side, he hasn’t spoken to anybody about this. He reached out directly to me.”
“So do you believe him? That he hasn’t talked to someone else? Some damned reporter?”
“Actually, I do,” Larry said. “So maybe if you give him what he wants, your old flame Javier will keep his fucking mouth shut.”
“And what does he want?” Boudoin asked.
“What they usually want,” said Larry.
Two thousand and four had been Boudoin’s first year as a doctoral candidate. Having earned his master’s degree and completed some additional coursework while still in the Army, he anticipated being able to finish up in two years. Already he had in mind a dissertation topic: a revisionist analysis of the Monroe Doctrine. It would, he judged, go down well with the latte Leninists destined to constitute his dissertation committee.
Javier Lazaro came into Boudoin’s orbit by way of the night class he was teaching in order to earn a little extra money. Javier was a high-school senior who thanks to his school’s honors program was permitted to take some introductory college courses. Boudoin’s unit of United States History 101 was one of these.
Javier’s parents were second-generation Americans of Mexican ancestry. The family was solidly middle class, the father a plumber, the mother a nurse. There were two daughters in addition to Javier; he was the youngest, also the family star. Intelligent, precocious, studious, he was clearly college bound and, in fact, aspired to an academic career. Naturally enough, he was full of questions for Boudoin.
And from the moment he met Javier, Boudoin was mesmerized by the boy’s beauty.
Of necessity, his years at West Point and in the Army had been passed in near celibacy. In those days he’d had his eye on a general’s stars and well understood the need for a spotless service record. Only after being wounded in combat did Boudoin reassess his career plans. Pursuing his master’s, he’d developed a taste for scholarship, and his experiences in Afghanistan sharpened his interest in matters of foreign policy. It occurred to him that a scholar-warrior, a man of action with a doctorate and a successful book on his resume, might be well positioned to run for political office.
That he was gay would scarcely matter; indeed, Boudoin judged that in the country’s evolving social climate his sexual orientation would actually be an asset. Of course, he’d have to run as a Democrat in a blue state. But provided that he placed himself on the right side of the issues—abortion rights, social justice, gun control, immigration, etc.—that wouldn’t be a problem. Thanks to his military background he had no past political blemishes on his record. Ideologically, Boudoin was a blank slate. And he scarcely bothered to ask himself how he felt about the issues. Merely, he found out what he needed to say about them, and said it.
The first step, though, was to obtain his doctorate. He needed that credential, and in the graduate school of a prestigious university there would be opportunities to establish relationships that would further his long-range plans. So Boudoin reasoned, with a soldier’s methodical precision
Thus Javier Lazaro’s appearance ambushed Boudoin…igniting a disorderly, complicating passion… flaring up out of banked embers…burning, burning…
“Money, I suppose,” Boudoin said.
“Right first time,” Larry nodded. “Two hundred and fifty thousand. Cash, of course.”
“Christ.”
“I can find the money,” Larry held up a hand. “Don’t ask me how. But it’s doable.”
Boudoin stirred restlessly in his chair. “Maybe we should tell the little bastard to take a hike,” he said. “It was twelve years ago. And he was eighteen.”
“You sure about that? The kid was a high-school senior.” Larry gave Boudoin a sour look. “And even if he was eighteen, this story’s bad for you. Teacher, student, etcetera. And the gay thing. Yeah, sure, not that there’s anything wrong with it these days. But plenty of people will look at this and…well, you know what they’ll think. What they’ll say.”
“I know,” Boudoin replied, and he thought, pedophilia…
“The kid dropped your class. What happened there, Eddie? Lover’s spat?”
“Watch what you say, Larry.” Boudoin could feel his face heating up. “I’m not going to take—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the campaign manager snapped. “You know what really pisses me off, Eddie? It’s not that you were doing the nasty with some fucking high schooler twelve years ago. Shit happens, I get that. It’s that you didn’t tell me about it.”
Larry was definitely angry. And he was right, Boudoin admitted to himself; he should have been told. But Boudoin hadn’t given it a thought, and that was the truth. Long ago, he’d put Javier out of his mind. The thing had lasted a few weeks. Then came the declaration of love, the tears, the pleas, finally the threats—and when none of that worked, Javier dropped United States History 101, vanishing from Boudoin’s life. For several weeks afterwards he lived on the edge, anticipating the accusation, the investigation, the scandal that would shatter his life and scatter the pieces.
It never happened, though. And realizing that he’d dodged a career-killing bullet, Boudoin placed his sex life back under strict military discipline. After Javier he chose as his lovers men like himself who were focused on their careers, with no time or desire for emotional entanglements. And as the years passed and his plan matured, he honestly and sincerely forgot all about Javier Lazaro.
“You never talk about your medals,” the woman said. She was the well-kept, middle-aged wife of a Democratic member of Congress, a man high in the councils of the state Democratic Party.
“No, I don’t,” Boudoin replied, smiling easily. “But those decorations really aren’t mine to brag of. I feel that I’m merely the representative of dozens of other men and women who did as much as me or more, only when nobody was looking.”
From the expression on her face, Boudoin could see that his standard answer to that oft-asked question had once again produced the desired effect. It reminded people that he was a decorated veteran, though without making him seem like a braggart. The absence on his lapel of the badge of the DSC was more eloquent than its presence would have been.
The glittering reception room hummed with conversation. The state party’s annual Memorial Day dinner was, of course, a mandatory formation for all candidates, among whom Boudoin was the undoubted star. He stood in the center of the room with a tall glass of club soda, exchanging pleasantries with the numerous people who came up to shake his hand and wish him well on Election Day.
But Boudoin’s mind was far away, grappling with an old cliché: blast from the past. Javier Lazaro. How the memories had come rushing back! How well he now remembered the boy’s smooth good looks, the shapeliness of his limbs, his café au lait coloring, his mesmerizing brown eyes. And he remembered living on the edge in the days and weeks after Javier disappeared, waiting for the crash that never came.
Boudoin drank from his glass of club soda, accepted a peck on the cheek from a woman whose recent book on female sexuality had stirred such controversy, chatted for a couple of minutes with a distinguished professor of political science with decidedly progressive views on the Constitution.
“The problem,” he said, “is that the Constitution as written doesn’t really facilitate democracy. Look that the Senate, for instance.”
“Where I hope to serve,” Boudoin put in.
“Yes, but my point is that every state is equally represented with two senators: tiny Delaware, giant California. Then there’s the Electoral College…”
Never say never, Boudoin was thinking. The career killer had dwindled and disappeared in his rear-view mirror but it hadn’t died. No, as he rushed into the future it plodded steadily after him, gradually gaining ground, year by year, and now here he was, back on the edge…
“How’s it going, Professor?” That was Larry, looking decidedly out of place in a rented tux.
“As well as can be expected,” Boudoin replied. “You?”
“We need to talk, Eddie.”
“Now?”
“That would be best.”
There was a small sitting room adjacent to the reception room; they found it unoccupied. Larry closed the door and locked it as Boudoin settled into an armchair.
The campaign manager remained standing. “It’s worse than I thought,” he said.
“How so?” Despite the sudden sensation of pressure in his chest, Boudoin managed to keep his voice level.
“You have a bad habit of not telling me everything, Eddie.” Larry shook his head. “I can’t deal with this problem if you’re not one-hundred-percent open and honest with me.”
“Do you know,” said Boudoin after a pause, “You’re the only person in the world who calls me Eddie.”
“You didn’t tell me about the medal, Eddie.”
“No. I didn’t tell you about the medal.”
Boudoin hadn’t said anything about the medal because he was ashamed of what he’d done—chagrined, anyway. Remembering how he’d pressed the DSC into Javier’s hand made him cringe inwardly. The boy had gazed from Boudoin to the medal and back again with adoring eyes. And only three weeks later…
“He still has the damned thing,” said Larry. “He showed it to me. Your name’s engraved on the back.”
“All right then, the medal’s part of the deal.” Boudoin shrugged. “He gets the money, I get the medal back.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be that simple,” Larry said, and something in the tone of his voice put Boudoin on alert.
“Here’s the thing,” the campaign manager went on. “This kid—well, he’s almost thirty now—isn’t what you’d call stable. For one thing, he’s HIV positive.”
Boudoin winced.
“For another he’s a recovering drug addict. Heroin” Larry was looking down at his hands. “Supposedly clean and sober now, but you know how that goes.”
“I find all this…hard to believe,” said Boudoin. “He was a star when I knew him. Good family, great student, going places…”
“People’s lives don’t always work out the way they expected,” said Larry and Boudoin nodded, thinking of the general’s stars to which he’d once aspired. “And I’m wondering, Eddie. If we buy him off, will he stay bought?”
“You don’t think so, do you?” Boudoin closed his eyes against a sudden sensation of vertigo. He was out there on the edge, and now he was losing his balance.
“No, I don’t.” Larry looked up. “So I’m thinking that maybe we should consider a more…permanent…solution.”
Boudoin glanced at his watch. “They’ll be announcing dinner in a couple of minutes. I have to get back in there. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Larry nodded. His face was blank.
Boudoin usually allowed himself a single glass of wine at dinner. That night he had three.
“All right, what do you propose?”
The diner was crowded and noisy; Boudoin and his campaign manager were sitting in a back booth. Larry was eating a hearty breakfast. “The French toast here is great,” he said. You should try it.”
“No thanks,” Boudoin replied. He’d ordered coffee and a blueberry muffin.
“Suit yourself.” Larry picked up a strip of crisp bacon and popped it into his mouth. He seemed cheerful this morning. “Always start the day with a good breakfast, my sainted mother used to say.”
“Never mind your sainted mother.” Boudoin broke his muffin in two but didn’t eat any of it. “What’s the game plan, Larry?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell. Isn’t what they used to say in the Army?” Larry chuckled. “Good advice for this little situation.”
Boudoin was tempted to agree. He didn’t really want to know what Larry had in mind. A phrase—plausible deniability—crossed his mind. But that felt wrong, and as an infantry platoon leader in combat Boudoin had learned to heed such feelings. So he shook his head. “Tell me.”
“You sure?” Larry was looking out the window. It was raining and the passing cars threw up clouds of moisture from the pavement. “Okay, then. The kid’s a heroin addict. Need I say more?”
“I suppose not.”
“Just leave it to me.” Larry leaned over the table, speaking in a low, insistent voice. “There are certain people who’ll do the job for a hell of a lot less than a quarter mil. And they’re pros. You follow?”
“I do.” And Boudoin was surprised by the lightness of his tone, and by the fact that a smile had touched his lips.
“No way to trace it back to you,” Larry said. “My oath on that.”
“That’s fine, then.” Boudoin glanced down at the fragments of his muffin. “And you know, that French toast looks good. Maybe I’ll order some breakfast after all.”
Nothing more was said about Javier Lazaro, then or later, but one morning about a week after their meeting at the diner, Larry came into the candidate’s private office at campaign headquarters, tossed a manila envelope on the desk, and left without a word. In the envelope was Boudoin’s long-lost Distinguished Service Cross.
Election Day proved to be a hot mess for the Democratic Party, but not for Edward Boudoin.
“Can you fucking believe it?” Larry asked rhetorically. They were watching the late returns in Boudoin’s office. It was after midnight and though the presidential race still hadn’t been called, it seemed increasingly probable that Donald Trump would upset Hillary Clinton. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“Never saw that one coming, did you?” Boudoin laughed at Larry’s stricken expression. “But hey, you did the job you were hired to do.” He toasted his campaign manager with his bottle of mineral water. “Kudos.”
Boudoin’s race had been called minutes after the polls closed. He’d coasted to victory by a comfortable eleven-point margin.
“But Donald fucking Trump.” Larry shook his head.
“Let’s look on the bright side,” Boudoin said. “This means the end of the Clintons, right?”
“Probably.”
“Out with the old, in with the new. And that may be no bad thing.”
“Yeah,” Larry agreed. “It may be no bad thing for a guy who aspires to be the first gay President of the United States.”
“Well,” said Boudoin, “the first one people would be sure about, anyhow.”
They both laughed.
“And you know, Larry, it occurs to me that the 2020 vice-presidential nomination might just be worth pursuing.” Boudoin gestured toward the TV, which showed an excited crowd waiting for Donald Trump to come on stage and claim his victory. “I’m thinking that the deplorables have just elected themselves a one-term president.”
“You want a drink?” asked Larry. “There’s a bottle of Crown.”
“As usual, you think of everything.” Boudoin stretched out comfortably in his chair. “Why not? We’ve got plenty to celebrate.”
Larry produced the bottle and a pair of glasses, and poured out an inch for them both. Boudoin took his glass with a nod of thanks and sipped.
“Ah,” he sighed.
“So what now?” Larry asked. “By which I mean, what’s in this great victory for me?”
“You mean besides the kudos?”
“Yeah.” Larry hadn’t tasted his drink and now he put it down. “You’re going places, Eddie, and I’d like to come along. I think I’ve earned your consideration on that point.”
“You have indeed,” Boudoin said easily.
“What we’ve done together…” Larry cleared his throat. “All I’ve done for you, Eddie…I hope you know that I wouldn’t have done it for just anybody.”
“I do know that,” said Boudoin.
“I just thought I’d mention it, Eddie.”
“We’ll talk more.” Boudoin tossed back the rest of his Crown. “But not tonight, Larry. Tonight let’s just savor the taste of victory.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” And with an enigmatic smile, Larry Hunter knocked back his own Crown.
They had one more, sardonically toasting the next President of the United States when Donald Trump appeared on TV to inform his supporters that he’d just received a call from Secretary Clinton.
“You know, said Boudoin, “I’m reminded of something that Henry VIII once said.”
“You and your fucking quotations.” Larry shrugged. “So okay, what did he say?”
“Never mind.” Boudoin swirled the remaining whiskey in his glass. “Listen, would you mind finding Jillian and David for me? I want to talk to them about tomorrow’s schedule.”
“Sure, no problem.” Larry stood and, smiling, made twin v-for-victory signs. “Man, winning feels good.”
“Yes, it does.” But Boudoin was thinking of something else and when the door closed behind his campaign manager, he spoke the King’s words aloud: Three may keep a secret, if two be away…
Have you considered expanding your short story into a novel?