Chapter Text
December, 1992
The phone rang on a wintry afternoon not too long before Christmas. Eliza got to it on the second ring, from the wall phone in the kitchen. She had to repeat her "Hello" before the speaker said anything.
"Hello--um. Is--is this the Hamilton residence?" The voice belonged to a girl.
"Yes. Who is calling, please?"
"Um." The next sound was the unmistakable "click" of the connection breaking; the dull dial tone followed.
Eliza frowned at the receiver and hung it back on its cradle. Crank call? she wondered. Then Juan fussed in his crib by the kitchen table and she went to check on him. A minute later, Alejandro came running in. "Mama, Jaime's made a mess all over the bathroom!" he announced. This was not an unusual pronouncement, as Jaime had been having trouble mastering the trick of potty training, so she turned down the flame under their dinner, scooped up Juanito, and went upstairs to deal with the disaster. She promptly forgot about the call.
Until the phone rang again, about fifteen minutes later.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Hamilton?" It was the same voice.
"Yes. Look, who is this?"
"I--you don't know me, ma'am, but--my name's Frankie Manning. Um. I…" she sounded horribly nervous, and very young. Eliza could also hear the faint tinge of a Southern drawl, though it seemed overlaid on a flatter, broader accent.
"What can I do for you, Miss Manning?" Eliza asked, summoning her patience. She hoped it wouldn't take too long; her three children were more than a handful at their relative ages of six, four, and four months.
"Well, actually, I was--I was hoping to speak to Mr. Hamilton about...something."
"I'm afraid he's still at work at this hour. You might call his office, if this is a legal matter?" Please, she thought, let this be merely a legal matter. Her mind had begun to supply all sorts of unsavory alternatives which she fervently hoped were not about to be confirmed.
"Oh--no, it's--I--it's not… I mean, it's a personal issue. You see, ma'am, I think he was a friend of my father's."
"Oh!" Eliza said with relief. Then, "Was?"
"My father died, uh, ten years ago."
"Oh, I see. I'm sorry." In little more than a second, Eliza put together a picture that made sense.
She and Alexander had met while she was working as a nurse at St. Vincent's. In early 1982, she had begun organizing space to hold support meetings for the patients and partners of patients with AIDS. Alex and his partner, and later, just Alex, had been part of the group. He and Eliza continued to see each other long after his own partner succumbed. Alex was comfortable in his bisexuality, though he still had to keep it quiet, but he was something of a rarity. Many victims had been living a more duplicitous double life--lying to themselves as well as everyone else.
They had known a number of men who had been abruptly and indiscriminately "outed" by the disease, to the detriment of their wives and children as well as themselves. (In fact, she knew a number of wives who were still coping with the revelation that the men they had married had been forcing themselves to live in the closet.) Even in Alex's case, he was still semi-closeted. As far as the firm was concerned, his work with the LGBT community was as a straight ally, not as a member of it. A good portion of his portfolio had been spent fighting to help gay and lesbian couples maintain visitation access, and in many cases, claim spousal rights of inheritance. He also had a tendency to take other civil rights cases. But the firm believed it was simply his outsized sense of justice at work.
Eliza knew it wasn't just that.
If Frankie Manning's father had died in 1982, though, he had been one of the early ones. Eliza wondered if she'd had him as a patient. It was possible that the young woman had barely known her father, and if father and mother had split over his orientation…. "May I ask you how old you are, dear?" she asked after only a moment's pause.
"I'm fifteen, ma'am." There was a muffled sound on her end and she said in a rush, "I'm sorry, I have to go. Thank you, sorry to bother y'all." Once again, the connection cut off before Eliza could even tell her to call back in about an hour, when Alex should be home.
She suddenly remembered the frying pan downstairs, and rushed back, Juan in her arms, to manage the busy house. She was quickly overtaken by feeding the boys their dinner and overseeing their baths and bedtimes.
Alex didn't get home until three hours later than usual, and when he did, he barely had time to talk. He went straight to his office, explaining that he had an emergency motion to finish for court in the morning. By the time he came up to bed, she'd fallen asleep. The next day, she'd forgotten all about the mysterious caller.
~*~
October, 1997
It's a little before six-thirty on a rainy night when the doorbell chimes.
"I'll get it!" Alex, Jr., volunteers, and before Eliza or Alexander can stop him, he's running for the front door.
"Supper's almost ready," Eliza cautions.
"Right," Alexander acknowledges. He goes to see who Alejandro might be letting into their home at this hour. Not that he's particularly worried, but the boy's only eleven and there have been reports of home invasions not too many blocks away. New York City is safer compared to the 70's, when Alexander first emigrated, but there's still a ways to go.
The girl looks about twenty. She's wearing tight jeans, a short-waisted moto jacket that might be real leather, but is more likely PVC, with a spaghetti tank and lace blouse layered underneath. She's wearing dark eye makeup, and her hair's wet, plastered to her face, despite the red and white polka dot umbrella she's holding.
"Mr. Hamilton?" she asks over Alex Jr.'s head.
"Yes. Can I help you? It's rather late for an office call," he hedges. The grunge fashion looks like it could be authentic, or it could be a rich girl's version of it, but the rain-soaked look indicates she's walked from the station. She would’ve come by car if she had the funds to afford his hourly fees, let alone a retainer. From the look of her, he bets she's hoping he'll take a pro bono.
"I don't have--I'm not here as a client," she tells him. Her accent sounds southern. "I...I think you knew my father?"
Alexander hesitates. He knows (and knew) a lot of people. But this act reeks of a scam. Still, she does look rather pathetic. "Look, come in out of the rain for a moment," he says, letting her into the foyer. He nudges Alex, Jr. "Go tell your mother I'll be right there, okay?"
"Sure, pops," Alex says. "C'mon, Johnny," he tells another little boy who’s materialized behind Alexander's leg.
"Hey, squirt, get back inside," Alexander adds. The five-year-old can teleport, he swears.
Meanwhile, the young lady has crossed the threshold and is dripping onto the tile, shaking her umbrella. "I'm sorry to bother y'all--I reckon it must be about dinnertime. I got a little lost…. I've never been to New York and I missed a subway transfer. Then I got all turned around when I came up to the street and I went the wrong way…."
"Well, that can happen," Alexander says. He feels caught halfway between wanting to be polite and wanting to find out what her grift is as soon as possible. "You didn't tell me your name…?"
"Oh. Frankie. Well, it's really Frances, but everyone calls me Frankie. Frankie Manning."
"Okay. I'm sorry, I don't remember anyone named Manning, so, you must have the wrong--"
"Oh, no, sir. That was my mother's name. My father's was Laurens. John Laurens?"
The color drains from Alexander's face. "There must--You've been misinformed, I'm afraid. John Laurens never had any children."
"Except that he did, Mr. Hamilton. Me." She bites her lip, taking in his expression. "Guess that's a bit of a shock. Sorry. Look, could I...I don't want to disrupt y'all's dinner but maybe I could...come back in an hour or so?"
Alexander recovers himself. "I don't think so, no. I don't know if you're looking for money for drugs or just what, but you've come to the wrong place. And I think you need to leave now."
He frog-marches her onto the stoop and practically slams the door in her face. That done, he flips the deadbolt and leans heavily against the door for a moment, willing his heart rate to slow.
"Pop?" Jay leans on the foyer doorjamb. "You comin'? Mom says time to eat."
"Yeah, I'm coming," Alexander says forcefully.
"So, who was it?" Eliza asks after they say grace. She begins filling the boys' plates and passing them down the table.
"It was a girl!" Alejandro announces as he hands a plate to Jay.
"Oh? A client? Here?" she arches a teasing eyebrow at her husband, who is already diving into his portion. "And that's young lady, Alex, or young woman. Not a girl."
"A grifter," Alexander insists. "She was trying to scam me." He picks up his fork and spears a bite of pork. "Man, they are getting crazier and bolder every day. Can you believe coming to my home, now? Used to be they'd at least stand on a street corner or pretend to wash your windshield."
"What sort of scam?" Eliza wonders.
"I'll tell you later," Alexander answers around his mouthful. He leans over to help Johnny cut his meat. "Don't just push the carrots around, Juanito. Eat 'em."
"But I don't like'em, Papi."
"Give it a college try, okay?"
"I'll eat them," Phil volunteers.
"Thank you, Philip, but Johnny has to eat his own serving," Eliza says.
"But Aunt Ellie, I don't mind."
"There are plenty of carrots. You can have more if you want, but those are Johnny's."
"How was school today?" Alexander asks loudly, and they go round the table, listening as the four boys report on their studies. He's glad to hear that Phil's getting along well enough in the same school and year as Jaime, though they have been put in different homerooms. His wife's nephew's a recent addition to the household, since the plane crash took out Brad and his wife, but they're doing their best to make Phil feel like a bonafide member of the family.
Later, Eliza goes to their bedroom to feed Will, while Alexander tucks Johnny in (nightlight on, closet door closed, bedroom door open) and then makes sure that Jay and Phil are settled into their bunkbeds with their books ("Lights out in 30 minutes, mijos"). He reminds Alejandro that he can only watch one more hour of TV and only if his homework's done.
"It's done," Alex says breezily. Alexander's not certain he believes his oldest son but he's got no reason to push. "Hey, pop?"
"Yeah."
"Was she really a drug addict?"
"I don't know, mijo." He thinks about it. "She wasn't as strung out as some I've seen, but…yeah, most likely." He shrugs. "If all she wanted was to try to panhandle some money, she didn't get anywhere. Don't worry about it."
"I'm not," Alex assures him. "Only, if she was looking for a quick fix, why make up such a weird story? Pop, who's John Laurens?"
"He was a...friend," Alexander tells him. "From a long time ago. Were you listening to all that?" Alexander walks back toward Alex's bed.
"No. Just...Jay said he heard you."
Now he knows his son's lying. He sits on the mattress edge. "Óralé, mijo, sometimes when people are desperate, they can come up with all kinds of things they think people will believe. This woman, she probably thought she could tell me a hard luck story and we'd invite her in. Feed her dinner. Then maybe later we'd let her spend the night, because we're nice people, right?"
Alex nods. "Sure, we're adopting Phil, right?"
"Sì, but Phil's family, though. We wouldn't let a complete stranger stay the night. So she tells us she's related to someone I used to know and now she's not a stranger, comprende?"
"Oh, I get it," Alex says, and as always, Alexander's both proud and a little intimidated by how quick-witted his son is. That was me, he thinks, and offers a silent prayer of apology to his sainted mother's memory. Alex continues with his newly discovered scenario. "She lies about her identity so we accept her, and then robs us blind? Six Degrees of Separation or some shit?"
"Maybe, yeah, and don't swear," Alexander says without venom. He wants to toe the line between being honest with his eldest, and giving him nightmares. "Or she strings us along for a while. Or she's got a junkie boyfriend she lets into the house, and he's the one who robs us. Or she steals a key and in two weeks, they invade our house. But we're not going to let that happen, are we, chico?"
"Nope," Alex agrees with supreme confidence.
"You and me, we'll keep Mamá and your brothers safe, right?"
"¡Desde luego!" Alex says happily.
"Vale, querido. Don't forget to brush your teeth." He leans over to scrub Alex's hair affectionately.
"I won't. But Pop?"
"Aì, mìjo, what?"
"Who was John Laurens, then?"
Alexander sighs. "He's no one you need to worry about, okay? Bed in forty-five."
"Okay."
"Not too much MTV. And no HBO."
"Okay, okay!" Alex rolls his eyes.
After another hour or so of work in his office, Alexander creeps back upstairs to the master bedroom. He stops on the way to flick off Alex's TV and settle the covers over his sleeping son, as well as to make sure that the two nine-year-olds have also fallen asleep. In their room, Eliza's putting Will down again in his crib. After Juan was diagnosed with asthma as a baby, she won't use a separate nursery anymore, and she always has a monitor whenever she's not in the same room as the baby. She's leaning over the crib now, winding up one of his toys to help him settle into sleep.
"So?" she asks as Alexander shuts the door. "It's way later, now."
"Whoever she was, she did shit research," he says with a shrug. He joins her, bending into the crib to kiss Will's forehead. "Of all people, she claimed to be Jack's daughter."
Eliza stiffens at the name. "No wonder you were a little spooked. Are you okay? Did she have any proof?"
"I didn't ask, I just told her I wasn't buying and she needed to go." Whether he's all right or not, he doesn't say. He turns away to remove his watch and organize his cufflinks and tie tack for tomorrow.
"Hm."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, no, I know that look, Bets. That's the look that says, 'Aì, mi, my husband's such a burro.'" He tugs off his chinos and button-down shirt, exchanging them for a pair of pyjama bottoms. "C'mon, lemme have it. What would you have done?"
"No, you're probably right. Only…. Look, if I were a kid, how would I have any way to know that John Laurens was your former partner? She could just think he was a platonic roommate."
Alex nods. "Right, like I said: shit research. I mean, of course, she'd have no way to know that, but it's a fact that he never had any children. My bet is she just thought I'd be off-balance enough to let her in. Maybe I'd take pity on her, looking like a drowned rat and all. She timed her arrival just as we were sitting down to eat. No way this wasn't planned. It almost worked, too."
Eliza shrugs and one strap of her nursing nightgown falls off her shoulder. "If you say so." Her brow stays furrowed, though.
"What?" he asks again.
"I don't know. I feel like there's something familiar about this, but I can't think what."
"Déja vu, probably. Anyway, we'll never see her again," Alex says on his way into the bathroom.
When he comes out, Eliza's flipping through a catalogue. "Hey, do you think we should get a PowerMac for Alex for his birthday?"
"He wants a Sega," Alexander reminds her. He climbs under the sheets and sidles up to her.
"No way. If we spend that kind of money, I want him to be able to do homework on it, too. Bad enough you let him have his own TV."
"Hey, we made a deal with the kid: if he got straight A's last year, he gets a TV set. So long as he keeps up the grades, he can keep the TV. Anyway. A computer's not a bad idea. Let me ask around the firm; someone's bound to have a recommendation. I bet Aaron's got the latest, greatest for his daughter." Then he's stroking her shoulder where she still hasn't fixed her strap. He pulls the catalogue out of her hands. "Oye, estado pensando en ti todo el día…."
~*~
A couple of (very pleasurable) hours later, although they should both be asleep, neither one is. When Will makes his first small-hour noises, the ones that they know mean hunger, Eliza's up in a flash. "I'll get him."
"It's my turn…"
"No, I've got it," she assures him. "I was already awake. Go back to sleep."
"I…. No, I'm up, too. I think I'll just go--get some work done." He clicks the light on to find slippers and a bathrobe, and he's heading downstairs before she can ask questions he doesn't want to answer.
John Laurens. Just hearing the name still stabbed him in the gut and the heart, every time. It rarely came up, but there were a few acquaintances from back then--men who, like Alex, had somehow escaped the "Gay Plague"--and some who had not, but who were coping with the cocktail as well as they could. The Laurens family was in the news now and then, and there might be a passing mention of Jack, though less now than when his father Henry had still been alive.
He has always found it much easier to bury the memories, along with all his other traumas, but that means that when John's name resurfaces somehow, it hits him like a bullet wound. That this girl had chosen to invoke John Laurens, of all people, shakes him to the core.
When he fires up the computer, the clock on the screen confirms that it's 2:14 AM. He only makes a half-hearted attempt at a paragraph before turning on the modem to connect to the Internet. In a few slow clicks, he opens Netscape and logs in to AOL. Even at this hour, there are a few users he recognizes in his usual chat rooms, but not the one he's eager to talk to. Leaving his status visible, he clicks on the email icon and creates a new message.
He's just about to hit the "Send" button when a notification pops open on his screen. Speak of the devil, Alexander thinks, and switches to the messenger window.
[Bonjour! Que fait-tu réveillé? Non, ne me dit pas: travails, toujours.]
[Bonjour yourself. No, I'm not working. Shows what you know. How's Paris? How are the Lafayette women?]
[My girls are all fine, last I checked. Lire ta postes éléctroniques, Alexandre. Je suis en San Francisco cette semaine. Did you forget to mark your calendar?]
His calendar is on a cork board behind him, still on the month before. Sure enough, when he flips the page, Gil's visit to the U.S. is there in bold red marker.
[Didn't forget to mark it. Just forgot that it's already October. You're still coming to NYC in two weeks?]
[Oui. I was, in fact, hoping you would check in tonight. I've the all-clear from Adrienne if you're still free. Gramercy Park, Friday&Saturday nights, n'est-ce pas?]
[Absolument! Bets says it's okay by her. Usual precautions, of course.]
[Mais bien sûr. Je me réjouis de te voir, cher.]
[Moi aussi. Actually, I'm really glad you showed up when you did… I was in the middle of writing you an e-mail.]
[Oh?]
[Yeah.]
He pauses, trying to decide how to bring up his question.
[Alex? Et-tu la-bàs?]
[Yes, I'm still here, I just…
[Something happened this evening and--I really miss Jack.]
[Je sais. It's okay, Alex. What happened? Dit-moi tout.]
Alexander quickly copies everything from his email concerning the girl on his doorstep. He types out a few more sentences, besides. When he's finished, he realizes that he's been a lot more upset than he'd been admitting. Frankie's bringing up a ton of grief he thought he had put to bed years ago.
[Mierda, sorry.]
[De rien. Alex, he never said anything about a daughter. You know if he had ever mentioned it, I would have insisted he tell you.]
[Yeah, it's not that--I can't think she's on the level. But it's not even the scam that--it's…. God, am I some sort of terrible person because part of me was relieved that she had no idea Jack couldn't have had a kid? I mean, if he had, Jack would have-- well, obviously, he would have wanted to help. To be involved, you know?]
[I do.]
[And here I'm just thinking about how well I've covered my tracks. It feels like I'm dishonoring his memory or something.]
[Alex, if you wish it to remain privée, elle est l'affaire de personne, non? If you wish it to be known, then you ought not have to conceal your histoire--ou ta préférences. Mais, notre monde, n'est pas parfait. You do not dishonor him if you
[Comment ce dire
[ensevelit]
[Veil? Obscure? Hide? Shroud?]
[shroud! Exact!
[You do not dishonor him if you shroud your past to protect your famille. Would the firm object?]
[Yo no se, and I don't plan to find out. I guess it doesn't matter, considering I've packed her off.] He glances at the toolbar and notes the time. [Mira, it's really late. I should go but we'll talk next week? And I'll see you in two.]
[Bon. Go if you must go. My love to Elizabeth. Dormes bien, cher. Je t'aime.]
[Te amo, Gil. Tell Adrienne when you talk to her that we miss her. Adieu, a bientôt.]
The conversation leaves him, if possible, more anxious than before. Gilbert duMotier Lafayette was perhaps the only person left in the world with whom Alexander could speak entirely candidly on the subject of Jack.
Gil had come to the States when he was 16, only two years younger than Alexander himself. They had both qualified for the same university program, though Gil was paying his own way and Alexander had earned a full ride through a combination of scholarships and loans. But where Alexander was already tri-lingual and then some, Gil spoke a bare minimum of English. Alexander had tutored him. They had bonded over their mutual loneliness in a strange country, their orphaned status, and...their interest in both men and women.
Throughout their university education, they had been each other's clubbing partner, wing man, and friend-with-benefits...until Alexander had met Jack. Gil had seen, understood, and far from being jealous, graciously first made room, then later, allowed their relationship to revert to close friendship, clearing the way for Alex and Jack. Shortly afterward, Gil moved back to France to take over his family company, and within a year he had started popping out kids with his adorable school sweetheart, Adrienne…. And when Jack died, only two things had saved Alex. First, Gil dropped everything to come be with him for a few weeks. Second, Alexander had already met Eliza.
As he goes upstairs, he thinks about Gil's advice. He's right--it's no one's business who his lovers are or have been. And though he shouldn't have to hide it, hiding it for strategic reasons doesn't mean he's closeted...much. It's not like it was in the '80s. Maybe he's being a bit paranoid. But he knows his partnership was contentious, and it'll still be a few more years before he's an Equity Partner. They could manufacture a cause and cancel his contract if they really want. Moreover, Burr, Madison, and a bunch of other counsellors are sniffing at his heels. The very last thing he needs is for someone to make an accusation...especially when there's any basis in it.
They can't necessarily prove anything, he tells himself, but then again, this is one court in which they don't really need to prove it for the damage to take hold. Besides, how did the saying go? Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you. Or as Alexander likes to think of it, you're not really paranoid if they really are out to get you.
He's still wrapped in his thoughts when he returns to the bedroom in the attempt to snooze a couple more hours before it'll be time to start rousing the children for school. He expects Eliza to already be back in Dreamland, herself, but instead, she's sitting up with the bedside light on.
"Alex, I remembered what I wanted to tell you," she says.
"About what?" he mutters. He climbs back into bed.
"About that young woman. How old did you say she was?"
"Uh...I dunno, late teens? Early 20s?"
Eliza pulls herself up higher against the headboard. "Did she tell you her name?"
"Manning. I never knew anyone named--"
"I think maybe you should listen to her."
"What?" Alexander sputters.
"No, listen, about five years ago, I got two really strange phone calls from a girl named Frankie Manning, who was looking for you because she thought you knew her father."
"You never told me that," he says, partway between accusation and amazement.
"I know--it didn’t seem important, so I forgot all about it until tonight. I've been trying to recall what was so familiar about this evening, and...well, there it is. She called twice. The first time, I think, she was just too nervous to say anything and she hung up right away. The second time...I think she was interrupted. We didn't get very far at all. But she sounded vaguely Southern and she said she was fifteen and that her father died in 1982."
"Jack died in 1982."
"Yes. And he was from South Carolina. And Alex...if she was fifteen in 1992, then she was born--"
"In 1977. Which means she was conceived around '76. Before I met Jack. Shit. Jesus…."
"He might not have even known about it. It was the '70s, after all."
"I mean. Fuck. He did say he'd tried to have sex with women, but I just figured he meant he couldn't get it up."
"Nice."
"Sorry." He twists his mouth into a wry half-smile, his usual response when his defensive humor misses its aim.
"It's okay." Eliza puts her arms around him. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah."
He settles into her, resting his head on her shoulder.
"You're spending the weekend with Gil in two weeks, remember?" She offers it like a prescription for depression.
He laughs, a brief snort of acknowledgement. "Yeah, he just reminded me."
"Oh? Oh."
He squeezes her reassuringly. "He happened to be online."
She sighs. "I hate those chat rooms--"
"They're just a convenience. It's safe, I promise. Anyway, it was on Messenger."
"If you say so. I wondered why you were down there so long. So. Did you have 'the cyber sex'?" She "air-quotes" the phrase with her fingers but it's clear she's teasing. "Or were you more sensible? Did you admit to him this whole thing has you missing Jack?"
He smiles up at her sadly. He doesn't deserve anyone so understanding and insightful, and certainly not finding two such in one lifetime. Three, really. "Te amo, cara. I love you so much, you know that?"
"You better." She leans in and kisses him, to which he responds enthusiastically. Before they break apart, however, he knows she can taste tears that aren't hers. He shouldn't still feel so much grief, amid all the happiness they share, but he can't help it. "Baby, it's okay," she whispers, and instead of pushing further, she holds him until he falls asleep.
~*~
The next day at the office, when Maria, his administrative assistant, brings him his third coffee, she says, "There's a young woman here asking to see you. No appointment."
Alexander's stomach flips. "Let me guess. About 20 years old?"
"Yes, in fact. Rather pretty."
"Blonde, medium build, Southern accent, dark eyeliner?"
"Yes, but--"
"Jesus, she's got cojones." Despite Eliza's bombshell last night about her previous calls, Alex has had time to think this morning. This Manning girl could still be completely off-base or outright lying. But it's probably best to find out. "What have I got today?"
"Settlement meeting for Brown v. Wunther in an hour; the Livingston appeal is due at the end of the week; there's a partners' meeting after lunch; and the White House call at three."
"Okay, I can't see her today, then, but I don't want a scene. Tell her...tell her I've got a lot going on today. Ask if she can make an appointment next week."
"Ham, I really think you should see her," his secretary (administrative assistant, he reminds himself) says with a strangely maternal tone.
"Listen, this isn't anything for the firm. It's….she showed up at my home last night. With supper on the table. And then she claimed--" his throat caught.
"To be related to the Laurens family?" Maria fills in for him.
"How...did you know that?" he asks.
Maria picks up the newspaper sections B through G, which had been sitting unread on his desk. She pulls out the Lifestyle section. The above-the-fold picture features Martha Laurens Ramsay, in town for the launch of her new book. Jack's sister. And in the background, Alex clearly recognizes the young woman from his doorstep last night.
"World-famous author and activist, Martha Laurens Ramsay, daughter of the late Congressman Henry Laurens, and her niece Frances Manning, arriving at Park Avenue Books," Maria reads the caption. "This says they'll only be in town for another couple days. I've been talking to Frankie, Ham, and she's a good kid. And I'll tell you something else. I don't think she wants her aunt to know she's here, either."
"Shit," Alexander says. She still might not be legit, he reasons, but his objections sound hollow, even in his head.
"Well, adoption cases can be like that," Maria agrees. "So…?"
Alexander sighs. "Okay. Gimme a minute?"
"For you, handsome, anything." She winks at him and, dropping the paper on the cluttered desk, saunters away. Her vamp act produces the desired chuckle, but it doesn't ease his tension.
He steps over to his bar for half a shot. It's only 9:30 but he feels the need for a little Dutch courage. He straightens his cuffs, pulling the heavy links free of his blazer sleeves, then adjusts the knot in his tie. He's the only Latino in a senior position at the firm; this isn’t Miami or even LA. She is a complication he does not need. He buzzes Maria to let her know he's ready to face his visitor.
Unlike last night, Frankie Manning dressed today in a professional-looking suit: tailored, one-button jacket, paired with a pencil skirt, and pumps. She's coiffed and styled perfectly, too, apart from her fashion-forward dark nail polish, and the dark lines that frame her eyes more appropriately for a nightclub than an uptown law firm.
"Miss Manning," Alexander stands as Maria conducts her into the office. "Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?"
"No, thanks. Mr. Hamilton, I'm sorry I barged in last night--"
"That's...quite all right, Miss Manning," he says pointedly, crossing to the door as Maria passes through it, and shutting it behind her. As soon as the door's shut, he drops the phony smile. "And if you're sorry about barging in, then why are you doing it again?"
Her purse slips off her shoulder. "Excuse me?" she asks. She decides to hold the purse instead of hook it back on her arm again. "Mr. Hamilton, please, let me explain." She fiddles with the catches on the bag. "My mother's name was Martha Manning. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No, I told you before, I never knew anyone named Manning. And if you've somehow convinced the Laurens family that--"
"Mr. Hamilton. Please. It was hard enough last night, and then this morning to convince myself to try again, just...please. Hear me out?"
He can tell she's close to crying, and that's the one thing that would make this drama, if possible, even more awkward. "Fine," he says, running a hand through his hair. He checks his watch. "I'll give you five minutes."
He drops into his chair behind the desk and gestures to her to sit as well. She takes her seat daintily, and he has to admit that she doesn't carry herself like a junkie. Not even a white-collar one. She reaches into her purse and draws out an old letter.
"Like I said, my mother's name was Martha Manning. She...she died when I was four. Um...heroin, they said. But she left this letter for me, for when I was old enough. In it, she told me that she'd had a one-night stand in 1976 with a man named John Laurens, and that she would never have told me about him at all if she hadn't been sick. She didn't know much about him except that his father was some sort of Congressman from Georgia or North Carolina or something. One of those red states, you know?"
"South Carolina," Alexander says absently. "Where were you born?"
"New Jersey. It's where my mom grew up. My grandmother lived there still, so my mother moved back in with her when she found out she was pregnant."
"Then how did your mother and John meet?"
"She was living in the Village, an artist. She said she met him on a blind date. They went to the movies and then they got a couple drinks after and…. Well, here. It's probably easier if…." she holds the letter out for him to read.
He accepts it, scans the lines quickly, and hands it back. "This says she wasn't sure your father's last name was Laurens. Why are you so certain?"
"Well, the thing is, NJ DYFS was trying to find out anything they could about my birth father, based on this letter and some information my mother gave the social workers when she was in the hospital. Her side of the family's gone--I mean, her mother died when I was a baby, and they couldn't find her father. They located Congressman Henry Laurens, though, and eventually he had them do DNA testing." She produces another piece of paper: a lab report. "I'm a match. There's a 98.67% probability that John Laurens was my father."
"Okay, let's say that's true," he says slowly. He's wondering how come he never heard anything about the long-lost granddaughter of a Congressman, but even as he thinks to ask, he knows why. Laurens might have been able to keep it out of the news cycle, depending on how he'd handled it. "That still doesn't explain why you came to see me."
"Mr. Hamilton, my grandfather died five years ago."
"I know." He pointedly does not offer condolences. It surprises her, but she recovers and goes on.
"Uh…. Well, sir, I'm sure you'll understand that I always wanted to know more about my father. My Aunt Patsy adopted me officially, back in 1985 once Grandpa was sure that my mother's story was real, but...Grandpa would never talk to me about my dad. It was a forbidden topic. My aunts didn't really know him well enough to tell me much. I mean, they were pretty young compared to my father. And all my grandfather would say is that he turned his back on the family in 1975," she pauses and Alexander realizes that he has scoffed at this notion, aloud, unconsciously. But she quickly goes on, "...and that I wasn't to ask questions about him. Shortly after Grandpa died, I even went through his things and found an old letter my father wrote to him. The letter indicated that you and he were roommates, and that was around the time I was born. I even tried to call y'all, when I found that. I mean, I called Information and found out you were still in New York, and I got your number and I called. I talked to your wife, really briefly. Only I--I couldn't go through with it then. I've tried to live with not knowing. But I just... I need to understand. About my father. So, when Aunt Patsy said we were going to New York, I thought I'd just slip out while she was busy and, and find y'all. I thought.... maybe y'all know what happened to him?"
"He died, Miss Manning." Alexander fights to keep his voice hard and steady saying it. He stands up. "If that's all you came to ask, then--"
"Mr. Hamilton, I know he died. In 1982. I know he died. Pneumonia's what I've been able to find out, but I can't get anything more from the hospital." She watches him for a reaction but he's schooled his face to show nothing. "What I want to know is… Was it also drugs--like my mother?"
"No," Alexander said softly, "It wasn't drugs. He wanted to be a doctor, he wasn't interested in drugs. And I can't talk about this here." He stands up, grabs his overcoat. "Are you hungry?"
"It's not even ten o'clock," she says, confused.
"Yeah. C'mon, there's a little place across the street." As he passes Maria, he says, "I'll be back in a bit."
"Wunther and Brown," she reminds him.
"I know. I'm going to get Miss Manning an ice cream float," he jabs with ill-timed, vicious humor, ignoring the young woman's blush.
He conducts her out, stone-faced in the bullpen and all the way down the elevator. When they hit the street, it's still crowded, but no longer the levels of rush-hour busy it was earlier. As soon as they're outside, she continues.
"Well, what else can you tell me about him? My grandfather never told me why my father left. Why were you so sure that my dad never had kids? He was gay, wasn't he?"
"Keep your voice down," Alexander mutters. He doesn't answer until he's brought her into the coffee shop across the square, purchased two cups and two pastries, and they're sitting across a formica table from one another. "Yes. He was gay. That's also why your grandfather kicked him out in '75. 'Turned his back on the family,' that's a laugh. Your grandfather cut him off when he wouldn't go to law school, and then kicked him out when he found out Jack liked men. I hadn't met him yet. In fact, if he and your mother hooked up in '76, I hadn't even met him then yet, either."
"So you have no way to know whether I'm telling the truth," she said, eyes widening. She adds so much cream to her coffee that it's almost as fair as her skin.
"Well…." Alexander leans back in his chair. He begins to systematically and inattentively destroy his pastry, not eating it at all, tearing it instead into fragments of crust. "I've been thinking about it since you showed up last night. I believe that back around that time, Jack was probably desperate to cure himself. He knew how Henry felt about gays. If Henry had threatened to disown him or was withholding funds at that point already, then John knew how hard it was going to be to afford to keep going to school on his own." In fact, Jack had never complained about being hard up for cash, but Alexander knew there had been times when his sudden change of status had chafed.
"Knowing your father, he probably made some sort of deal with Henry to get back in your grandfather's good graces--if he could pass for straight. Maybe he thought sleeping with your mother would...would fix him." He takes a sip of coffee to force down the lump in his throat. "And you do...resemble him, a bit. Around the nose, the jawline. The eyes, under all that eyeliner. Yeah," he admits finally, "I believe you."
She lets out a breath in relief. "Oh, thank you. I wasn't sure what else I could bring to convince you."
He grunts by way of apology. "Well, anyway. Yeah. Your dad was my...roommate. And he was gay and he was in med school, trying to pay for it on his own because your grandfather had cut him off. And it wasn't pneumonia that killed him. Or rather, he wouldn't have had pneumonia if he--" he cuts off his tangent, tearing what's left of his croissant in half. "Miss Manning. He was susceptible to the pneumonia because he contracted AIDS in May, 1982, and was dead by September." He swallows hard, and pushes the plate away.
"Oh." Her look of pleased edification melds into one of surprise, sadness, and fear. "I'm sorry, if it hurts to talk about it. I thought, when they said pneumonia, it might be that, but I didn't--"
"You understand why I did not want to discuss this at my workplace. Or in front of my family."
"Yes. Yes, of course, I--I'm really sorry. I wouldn't have...only Aunt Patsy really was wigging out about my dredging up the past, and--God. AIDS." She stirs her coffee and adds more sugar. "That was...really early, wasn't it?"
Alexander nods. "There were about 450 deaths that year, mostly in California, but some here, too. Your father was one of them. That was well before we really knew what was even happening, much less how to treat it or protect against it."
She absorbs this information behind bitten lips. "Please, if y'all don't mind…. What else can you tell me about him?"
He checks his watch. "I've got a settlement meeting in less than an hour and a full calendar this afternoon. Tell you what. Can you come over tonight? For dinner. I'll call my wife."
"I think so. Aunt Patsy's got an interview or something, and they want us both for a cable access appearance tonight... but I can tell her I don't feel like going."
"You don't have to lie about it. I could call her if you like." He's a little surprised that at 20, she still acts like a child. Then again, at her age, he was already leading rallies to advocate for civil rights and he'd been mostly on his own for six years.
"It's not really a lie. I mean, I love my aunt, really, but, she can be sort of a strong personality. But anyway…. You'd better not. My grandfather may be gone, but the family's still pretty...sensitive about...things."
"Meaning race? or meaning sexuality?" he asks, eyes narrowing.
"Both. Either. Take your pick."
"Well, look, I may have been born in the Virgin Islands, but I've been a partner at Putnam, Knox, and Greene for two years, and I write speeches for the President, so...I don't think you have to worry about your aunt doubting my...credentials." He amends what he was going to say just in time.
"No, just your connection to my father."
"We were room--"
"Uh-huh. So y'all said. Look, Mr. Hamilton, I appreciate the offer to help, but don't, okay? I'll be available for dinner, I'd love to come. Just let me be the one to handle my aunt."
Suppressing a flash of anger on her behalf, Alexander nods. "Okay. I'll call Bets after my meeting and tell her we'll be eight for tonight."
~*~
"So, you do believe her now?" Eliza's voice, even over the phone, sounds doubtful.
"Yeah, I do. Mira, cariño, I gotta go, but I'll be home early today, around 5:30? And we can talk about it then."
"What do you want to tell the boys?" she asks.
"Only what they need to know," Alexander says after a moment.
"Alex--"
"I know, I know, but...if they start talking at school, their friends tell their parents...before you know it it gets back to one of the senior partners and suddenly…."
"Suddenly?"
"Suddenly they start to wonder about the motivations behind my portfolio."
"That's never bothered you before," she points out.
"Well, it's been...a little tense around here lately. Plus I think I'm about to be asked to help with the State of the Union address. We can save the deeper conversation for after dinner, when the boys'll be distracted. At the table, all they need to know is that Jack and I were friends."
Eliza doesn't say anything for so long that Alexander's worried the connection may have dropped. "Bets?"
"All right," she says, in a tone that means anything but acquiescence.
"We'll talk when I get home, cara. Te amo," he says hurriedly, and hangs up, barely letting her return the sentiment. Then he lets forth a stream of Spanish he's been holding in most of the morning.
There's a distinct advantage to being able to swear in a language hardly anyone else in the office can understand.
~*~
As it turns out, it's not Alex, Jr., like he expected, but Jay who has the most anxiety about his news that they'll have a dinner guest. "Alex said you thought she was pulling a Six Degrees on us," Jay says, full of suspicion, while they help tidy up and set the table and prepare for their visitor.
"Yeah, but that was before she proved to me that she is who she says she is," Alexander explains.
"How?" asks Alex.
"Unimportant," Alexander replies. "There's a dozen things she's proven, son. But really, all that matters is I'm satisfied by her evidence."
"Pop?"
"Yes, Jaime," Alexander says to Jay.
His second son takes a moment to assemble his cross-examination. "Alex said you said John Laurens was a friend of yours, que no?"
"Sì, that's true," Alexander answers with a nod.
"And this woman, she says she's your friend's daughter."
"Sì, mijo," Alexander replies, expecting the next question almost before his offspring can form it.
"So...why didn't you already know she was telling the truth last night?"
"¡Bueno!" Alexander says. "You'll make a trial lawyer yet."
"Papì…"
"Yes?" Alexander blinks innocently, goading Jay.
"Answer the question, counsel!" Jay orders with a child's imperiousness.
Laughing, Alexander says, "All right, all right, chico." He clears his throat and darts a glance toward the kitchen door, where Eliza is leaning on the jamb and listening. "The truth is...her father died a long time ago, and he never even knew he had a daughter." Probably, he thinks ruefully. He probably never knew. If Jack had known, he surely would have wanted to help her and her mother. If Jack had known, he surely would have told me, too….
"Sorry, Phil, what was that?" he asks, realizing that his nephew is trying to get his attention.
"I asked if her parents were like Thea Burr's--you know, her mom was married to someone else, so she made like the baby was her real husband's?"
"...No, that's not the Burrs' situation," Alexander says. "Thea's mother was married to someone else when she and Mr. Burr met, but they didn't have Thea until she could get a divorce."
"Wash Parke says Thea's why they got divorced, though," Jay points out.
"Okay, we're not discussing that," Eliza says quietly, but firmly. "It's none of our business, is it?"
"No, Mom, sorry," Jay mumbles. He gives Phil a look that is part conspiracy, part good-natured blame. Phil shrugs back.
"It's still a different situation," Alexander says, shooting Eliza a grateful smile, "but your Mama's right: the circumstances of anyone's birth are no one else's business."
"You're only saying that because your parents weren't married, either, though, were they?" Phil blurts out.
The fork Alexander's placing falls out of his hand, bounces off the plate, and plops onto the floor. The other boys all freeze in their tracks. "What?" Alexander asks, going very still.
Phil looks around at them all. "Well, I--" he shrinks back behind a chair-- "just meant…."
"Philip," Eliza says kindly, "why don't you go to the kitchen, please, and help with the marinade for the stir-fry. I'll be there in a minute."
Phil's all too happy to retreat from Alexander's stormy expression. He almost runs out of the dining room. Johnny's lip trembles from the overflowing tension.
"I'll talk to him--" Eliza offers.
"No, I'll do it," Alexander says sharply. Johnny sniffles. Alex, Jr. hands him a napkin from the little plastic holder on the table.
"Pop, he didn't mean anything bad," Jay says. He ducks down to pick up the dropped fork.
Alexander gazes into his son's open, trusting face, and calms down. He smiles. "No, mijo, I know he didn't. I'm not mad," he says, louder, to everyone. "It's not about that. It's about good manners." He smiles at Johnny. "Vale, Juanito; it's okay, little man. I'm not ashamed of my parents and you shouldn't be, either. Your cousin just wasn't thinking."
"I'm glad you see it that way," Eliza says, though the set of her mouth tells him she agrees with what he's not saying, that Phil's statement is some kind of spillover from things her brother must have said about Alexander. Or possibly she's trying to get him to open up more about his childhood.
She says no more, however, and they move on. Eliza goes to the kitchen. Alexander follows a moment later.
"Uncle Alexander, I'm sorry."
"I know. Philip, you know that there are loads of kids whose parents aren't married, right?"
"Yeah."
"And that it doesn't necessarily mean their parents don't or didn't love each other?"
"But sometimes it does," he protests weakly.
"Yes, sometimes. There are thousands of kids who are very, very unfortunate. But in this family, we have respect for everyone, no matter what. Understood?"
Philip nods. He's trying not to cry and not doing a great job of holding back.
"We're very glad that we're in a position to take care of you, Phil. Do you think we think less of you because your parents passed away?"
"No," he says.
"Right, we don't. It's not your fault and it's not right to judge anyone else based on something they can't control. Okay?" Philip nods. If he makes any verbal reply, Alexander can barely hear it. But he doesn't insist. That was one of Brad's methods, he knows. "Cool. Got any homework?"
"Diditatschool," he mumbles.
"Guay. Why don't you and Jay go watch some TV before she gets here."
"Really?"
"Yeah, vamos," he says indulgently, with a light tap on Philip's arm.
Phil starts to go, then rushes Alexander to press a quick hug around his hips. "'M really sorry," he insists, though the sound is muffled by his face pressing into Alex's shirt.
"Lo sé, mijo." He pats Phil's back paternally and locks eyes with Eliza. Then he detaches the nine-year-old from his legs and sends him gently toward the stairs and the family room.
"You're doing better and better with him," Eliza says, coming in for her own hug.
"Aì, chingando cogerme, this day…." he sighs and wraps his arms around her gratefully. "Your brother was a real cabròn, you know that?"
It's a moment before she can say, "Don't speak ill of the dead. But...yeah, he could be." She remains in the circle of his arms, enjoying the momentary lull, before she says softly, "So, are you going to tell her everything about you and Jack?"
Alexander stiffens but doesn't let go. "I don't know. She already knows he had AIDS. She knows we were roommates. She knows Henry Laurens disowned him--I don't know how much more she needs to know."
Eliza pulls out of the embrace. Her hands grip his arms a little more tightly. "Alex. She wants to know who her father was. You can tell her that."
Alex sets his jaw, shakes his head. "I don't know if I can. Losing him…. Meeting you in that hospital support group was about the only thing that got me through that. I don't know if I can stand to talk it all through with a stranger. I mean, I barely talk about it with Gil, and he was part of it. Or the beginning of it, anyway. And if anything got back to the partners…."
"Don't worry about the partners. It's 1997, not 1984--literally or metaphorically. Besides, you're not HIV positive. And you aren't going to be, right?"
"Right," he assures her. On another occasion, he might have gotten irritated that she chose this moment to verify that he's still being safe. This time it just reminds him of the guilt he always felt that it was Jack, and not him, who had taken the bullet. "You do realize that if they find out we're not completely 100% monogamous, that I go in chat rooms and meet up with certain old friends for weekend specials, my HIV status won't be what matters?"
"I said, I'm not worried about that. And if you believe this woman is Jack's daughter, then you shouldn't worry about it, either. You're thinking way too far down the road, bǎobǎo." She sighs. "You don't need to explain that you were lovers, if you don't want to, Alex. But, I think if you put yourself in her place, you might want to know." She kisses the tip of his nose. "I'm also thinking about our boys. They should know who their father really is, too."
"When they're older--if they have questions of their own--"
"You'll have already shown them that non-heterosexual orientation is something they should hide, that being different is something shameful. Alex, I know who I married. I know how we've managed to balance things out. And I know what Jack meant to you. Don't you think they should hear how important he was to you, too?"
He doesn't answer, merely buries his face against her shoulder for a long time.
~*~
Frankie arrives for dinner at quarter to seven. She's ditched the suit and looks more comfortable now in skinny jeans, slouchy boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt. Jay lets her in, takes her coat, and offers her a beverage, playing the perfect host. They introduce the other boys. Johnny's enthusiasm comes across as extreme, until Alexander explains that his bedtime has been extended in deference to their visitor.
"Oh, well, compared to staying up an extra hour, honey, I'm nothing special," she assures the five-year-old.
It starts off well enough--Eliza's there in a tick and smoothes through the niceties with practiced, polished manners. "I hope you like stir-fry," she says.
"Love it," Frankie replies.
"Well, come in and sit down, then." They recite a brief grace and Eliza dishes up rice and mixed veggies and meat from the wok in front of her. Plates are passed until everyone has a portion.
And then....no one speaks for a while. Frankie covers the awkward silence by complimenting Eliza's cooking.
"Family recipe," Eliza answers, smiling. "I'm glad you like it."
"Carrots, again," Johnny, sitting across from Frankie on Alexander's other side, mutters.
"Life sucks, son," Alexander says without rancor. "Eat up."
"Thank you again for having me," Frankie continues, ignoring the minor drama over the carrots. "So, how...how did you and my father meet?"
There's a ripple of excitement around the table as each of the boys waits to see how Alexander will react. His smile is tight. "We can talk about that after supper," he says. But the boys are vocal in their disappointment.
"Oh, c'mon, Pop," Alex, Jr. says, clearly the appointed representative of the young mutineers. "You never talk about when you were younger."
Alexander shoots a glance down the table to Eliza, who, as he fears, is no help. Her innocent face blinks at him with unspoken challenge.
"Well, we were both in our first year of grad school at NYU, in 1977." He approaches the story tentatively, picking and choosing the parts he wants to discuss in front of the boys, the parts he can trust himself to talk about without anger and sorrow and loss bubbling up again. It's not that he wants to conceal the fact that he's bisexual, he tells himself. It's that...they won't understand how things work between him and their mother if he discloses his complicated history. "He had taken a year off after finishing college, supporting himself as an illustrator. Once he'd been able to prove he wasn't getting assistance from Henry anymore, he qualified for loans and he could attempt his first year of medical school. I was still tutoring up at Columbia. Money was tight for both of us. We answered the same ad for roommates in an apartment building in the Village."
"What's it like to be in the family of a Congressman?" Alex, Jr. asks suddenly. "Have you ever been to the White House? Our dad's been loads of times but he never takes us with him."
"Alex," Eliza starts to chide, but Alexander has never been more proud of his son for shifting the focus. Hell, he's rarely been more pleased to not be the focus.
"It's all right," he assures all of them. "That's really all there was to it."
Thanks to the boys, and the human tendency to talk about oneself if given the chance, they get through the meal learning more about Frankie than about Alexander and John. She's a Senior at Mercer University, majoring in Psychology with a minor in Art. She thinks she might want to be an art therapist. She and Eliza talk about health care. Eliza decided not to go back after Will was born, but she'd been part-time between Jay and Johnny, and again briefly before Johnny's health scare, and she still keeps up with journals. She pointedly mentions Columbia's medical school, and NYU's, with a strong implication that Frankie'd be welcome to stay with them if she came to interview. Frankie's grateful and interested, but isn't sure she'd make a Columbia cut. She doesn't have a boyfriend, isn't even sure she wants one. "They're sort of a bother, really," she says, and both Alexander and Eliza applaud her perceptiveness. She prefers Frankie instead of Fran or Frannie because when she was little, her favorite band was "Frankie Goes to Hollywood," not because she's a tomboy or anything. Right now, she loves Alannis Morrisette and hates Celine Dion, but she's been listening to a lot of Tupac and Smashing Pumpkins, which elicits an impassioned plea from Alex, Jr., for the CDs he'd put on his Christmas list ("See, they're not too bad!" he insists, while Eliza points out that the language advisory is on the labels for a reason). She's been to the White House, with her grandfather and her aunt, but she didn't meet the President. Yes, she has a car, though not here in the city, it's back home. Home is Monck's Corner, South Carolina, where she's lived since she was eight. She attended a boarding school outside of Atlanta since the sixth grade, but it was coed, not just for girls. And so on.
At first, Alexander thinks Alex and Jay's questions are leveled out of curiosity. It takes three or four of them to realize they are probing Frankie for any sign that she's not who she says she is. Protecting the family. Alexander once again wonders what sort of lawyers his boys will make. Or what sorts of statesmen.
But before too long (and too many reminders to Johnny to eat all the vegetables), they've finished their plates. "There's ice cream for dessert, but if you like, we can wait a few minutes," Eliza says. "Frankie, do you take tea or coffee?"
"Oh, another Coke would be plenty, ma'am, thanks," she replies.
Before Alexander can confirm his customary request, Eliza reminds him: "Eddie says you're supposed to switch to decaf after six."
He rolls his eyes. "I'll have a Scotch, then," he says, rising. "Frankie, why don't you come into my office for a bit? We can talk in there."
"Okay."
"Alex," Eliza suggests, "take your brothers up for some TV." The boy groans, possibly as a comment on his brothers' viewing tastes, or maybe at being excluded from the grownup after-dinner conversation. Ignoring his protest, Eliza continues, "Or you can help me load the dishwasher."
"TV's fine!" he says quickly. Frankie and Alexander share a laugh as he leads her into his study.
"Sorry to have started to ask you questions," she says when he's closed the door.
"It's all right. Here's that soda," he says, reaching into a small fridge under his credenza. He pours himself the stronger drink and brings it to his desk. "I've been thinking about...what to tell you. I wish I could say your father knew about you, but I don't think he had any idea."
"I don't think he did, either. I'm pretty sure my mother didn't expect to--to involve him. I mean, I think she didn't want to complicate things for him." She pops the tab and takes a swig direct from the can.
"He wouldn't have seen you as a complication--" Alexander begins to say. It's not a hundred percent true, but he's confident that John would never have abandoned her if he'd known, and he wouldn't have complained about participating in her life, any more than he'd ever complained about poverty or pain.
"I get what you're saying, but honestly, you know it would have been complicated." She sets down the soda can and leans forward. "Mr. Hamilton, I don't--I'm not looking for you to make my father into some sort of saint. Believe me, I heard enough growing up about all the ways he disappointed my grandfather. I just want to--to understand what he was like without the bullshit Grandpa liked to dish out."
Alexander snorts into his Scotch. "Fair enough. Your father was... he was very important. To me. To all our friends. He believed in equal rights and nationalized healthcare and--and he wanted to make the world a better place. If he'd ever finished med school, he had this plan to work for Doctors without Borders in sub-Saharan Africa. He was kind, and he could be a hothead, but mostly it was because he was fiercely protective. He's a big reason I have a specialty in underrepresented populations, populations at risk, and he's one of the reasons I've continued to work with queer partners whose rights might be infringed by biological family members."
"And you loved him," she says gently. She sounds older now, wiser, than the kid who showed up at the door just yesterday.
He can't meet her eye. But the way she says it, it's pointless to protest, and he finds, he doesn't want to deny it. Not to this girl with Jack's eyes. "Yes. God, yeah." Impulsively, before he can change his mind, he reaches into the desk and pulls out a letter. "John wrote this when...when we knew it wasn't going to be long. He gave it to Eliza, to give to me after. I...I've only ever shown this to two other people."
"I...I understand. And I appreciate it, really."
He hands over the letter. It's still crisply folded, but he doesn't need to look at it to know everything it says:
Alex, you're the writer, not me, so this will have to do. I trust Eliza to know when to give you this.
I don't know why this is happening--has happened. I love that you still want to believe I'm going to get better, go back to NYU and finish med school, and cure this plague. I hate to disappoint you, darling, but we can't all be Alexander Hamilton, unstoppable genius. If you're reading this, you know that it's not to be. You're going to have to fix it, love--not with medicine (even if you can memorize all my textbooks, you ass), but with the law. I don't know when or how we're going to lick this disease. I have to believe that eventually, we will, but meanwhile if we're all going to die like this, then you have to protect our rights. You of all people know how it feels to have unloved, unwanted relations surface out of nowhere to claim an inheritance that shouldn't be theirs for the taking. Make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else. If anyone can do it, it's you.
I'm sorry, love. So sorry. Sorry for going out and having fun and getting sick. Sorry for whatever choice it was that brought us to this point. Sorry to be leaving you when it feels like we only just found each other. Sorry we won't grow old together. The only thing that could make me more sorry is if I'd somehow passed this stupid, horrible death on to you. I think there has to be some providence in that. You've cheated death so many times before. Here you are again, you keep living anyway. But I'm glad for whatever strange luck or patron god looks after you, and keeps you alive. I'm not sorry, Alex, that if one of us has to go, it's me. Between the two of us, you're the one who can change the world for the better. God knows you work hard enough for ten men.
I talked with one of your co-counsels at Schulte, Roth, and Zabel: Oliver Wolcott. He's got my will. There's not much--I'm sorry it's not more--but he says it will hold up.
My fatherHenry won't be able to touch it. Check with Harrison, too, because the check from my last batch of illustrations should have been signed over to you. It'll probably have to go to pay the bills, but at least it's something.Last thing. Well, no, two last things. First: Thank you, dear, dear boy. You gave me courage every day. And second: Be good to yourself. Please. Remember that you're not all on your own. You've got other people who love you. Gil, for one, even if he's an ocean away, and don't think I haven't noticed Nurse Schuyler sitting closer to you than necessary! (It's okay to want her, you'd be crazy not to.) Anyway, they'll make sure you take care of yourself, but you have to let them help you. Don't follow me too early. Remember that you've got more to do here before we see each other again. As you say, "Adios", my dear Ham, and all my affection and love.
Yours ever,
Jacky
She looks up with tears in her eyes, and it's only then that he realizes he's been reciting the letter aloud. "Thank you." She hands the page back. "I…. I should be going. I don't want to impose on y'all's time any more, and my Aunt will be getting back to the hotel soon, I expect."
"Stay for dessert, at least," Alexander offers. "And I'll drive you back to your hotel. I don't want you traveling through Harlem alone at night."
"Oh, I'm sure I'll--" she breaks off at the paternal look on his face. "Well, all right. Thanks."
"Is there...anything else you want to know?" He folds the letter again and sticks it back in its envelope, then the drawer.
"I--" she sniffs. "It's a lot to absorb. I mean, I'd already half-figured--but it's good to know that someone loved him. And that he loved someone that much. I guess I'm sad it wasn't my mom, but…. I don't know, right now it just feels...abstract, you know? I'm sure it'll all hit me and I'll want to know more, but maybe it'll be like this...not something I can take in all at once. But, maybe I could...I could call you? Now and then?"
Alexander takes a deep breath. "Um. That would be…. yeah. Sure. You can call me. Or...do you have email?"
She nods. "I've got a student account at Mercer. At least, until I graduate in May."
"I'll give you my private address."
He scribbles it down on a pad, adding both his private line at the office and, after a moment's pause, the cellular phone he carries. "These are all direct, but only use the last one if it's an emergency," he explains as he tears off the sheet of personalized stationery.
"Okay." She puts the page in her purse. They stand.
For a moment, Alexander's terrified that she'll want to come in for a hug, but she maintains the distance between them. It's enough that they have reached this much intimacy. He smiles, and for the first time all day, he doesn't feel like pounding his fists into a wall.
"Let's tell Betsey we're ready for that ice cream."
~*~
"Can I come with you?" Alejandro asks when Alexander tells them he'll be taking Frankie back to her hotel.
"School night," Alexander says.
As if in payback for letting Alex get away with rudeness at dinner, Eliza offers, "As long as you go to bed as soon as you get home, no TV."
"All right, all right!" Alex crows. "That's what I'm talkin' about."
Alexander shrugs. "And you say I spoil him," he observes.
"Well, just don't take too long," Eliza replies. Except that he can see in her eyes that she's hoping he'll use the opportunity to tell both of them more about Frankie's father. To tell Alex about himself and Frankie's father. Maybe he will.
"We'll be back in time for NYPD Blue," he promises.
"If you're not, I'm leaving you for Jimmy Smits," she reminds him. It's a familiar threat.
"Oye, you're already married to him," he points out, spreading his hands at his sides to display the resemblance.
She laughs at his routine joke, rolls her eyes as always, and hugs Frankie. "I'm so glad we finally met," she says, "and that you got to meet my Hamilton."