Balance of Power

Kerry had begun to fear for Lara's sister the previous November.

    Until then, he had not met her family. Returning to California to thank supporters for his narrow victory, Kerry asked Lara to invite them for dinner at his favorite San Francisco steakhouse, Alfred's—Lara's mother, Inez; her youngest sister, Mary; and Joan, her husband, John, and their six-year-old daughter, Marie. But the dinner, while a great success with Inez and Mary, was marred for Lara by the absence of the Bowden family. Joan had food poisoning, she had told Lara that morning—they would all meet Kerry on his next trip out.

    At dinner's end, Kerry and Lara dropped off Inez and Mary, and the black limousine, shepherded by Kerry's Secret Service detail, headed for their hotel. "I liked them," Kerry told her. "Very much. Your mother's a lot like mine was, but feistier and less reserved."

    Lara was quiet. "Mom was embarrassed," she said at length. "All that chattering about Joan—she thinks Joan's lying."

    In the darkness of the limousine, Kerry could not read her face. "Why?"

    "Aside from being too 'sick' to meet my future husband, the President-elect, or see me for the first time in almost a year? So sick that John and Marie didn't come without her?" Lara turned to him. "This wasn't about bad fish. In the ladies' room, Mary admitted that they hardly see her now."

    This touched a nerve in Kerry. "Is it the husband?" he asked.

    Lara did not answer. "I'm going to see her, Kerry. Before we leave."

* * *

Joan and her family lived in a bungalow in the Crocker-Amazon district, houses snug together along the rise and fall of urban hillocks sectioned by the grid of city blocks. Though modest in size, the house was freshly painted, the drawn curtains frilly and neatly pressed, and the front porch brightened by pots of multihued geraniums. The door bore the label of a security service; rather than a doorbell, the button Lara pressed was for an intercom.

    Lara waited for some minutes. When her sister's voice came through the intercom, it sounded disembodied. "Who is it?"

    "Lara."

    Once more there was silence. "I'm sorry, Lara." The delayed response, wan and uninviting, made Lara edgy. "I really don't feel well."

    "Food poisoning's not contagious." To her chagrin, Lara recognized her own tone as that of the oldest sister, prodding the others to rise and shine. "Please," she implored, "I've missed you. I can't leave without at least seeing you."

    Joan did not answer. Then, at length, the door cracked open. For a moment, Lara saw only half of her sister's face.

    "I'm so glad you're home," Lara said.

    Joan hesitated, then opened the door wider.

    Her right eye was swollen shut. The neatly applied eyeliner and curled lashes of Joan's unblemished eye only deepened her sister's horror.

    "Oh, Joanie." The words issued from Lara's throat in a low rush. "My God . . ."

    "It's not what you're thinking," Joan protested. "I fell in the shower. I got faint from the food poisoning, and slipped."

    Pushing the door open, Lara stepped inside, then closed it behind them. She placed both hands on Joan's shoulders.

    "I'm not a fool, Joanie. I've seen this before, remember?"

    Her sister seemed to flinch at Lara's touch. "So you say. I was three when he left."

    Lara stepped back, arms falling to her sides.

    Her sister's face was plumper, Lara saw, but its stubborn defensive cast was the same. The well-kept living room, too, was much as Lara recalled—the polished wooden floor; a spotless oriental rug; immaculate white furniture; a shelf of neatly spaced family photographs. Spotting a formal portrait of Marie, dark and pretty, Lara paused to study it. More calmly, she asked, "Does Mom know?"

    "She doesn't want to know." Brief resentment crossed Joan's face—at whom, Lara was not sure. "She likes John. You're the only one who thinks it's great for children not to have a father. That's what I remember—not having one."

    "Then I envy you, Joanie. I remember him quite well."

    "Don't patronize me, dammit." Joan's speech became staccato. "Everything worked out for you: great looks, perfect grades, famous friends, a multimillion-dollar contract—oh, don't think for a minute Mom didn't tell us about that. And now you're marrying the goddammed President-elect of the United States."

    "All I need do for you to resent me," Lara shot back, "is exist." Fighting her own anger, she finished, "I'm marrying a man who treats me with respect. You deserve that, too."

    Joan stood straighter. "We have a good life," she insisted. "He's good to Marie. It's not that often, or that bad."

    "How often does it have to be, Joanie? How bad does it have to get?"

    Joan's voice rose. "That's so easy for you to say. What does your life have to do with mine?"

    "I'm your sister, and I care about you. We're not competing." Lara paused, speaking more quietly, "Don't take a beating on my account. Or Marie's."

    Abruptly, Joan turned from her. "Please leave, Lara. This is my home. I didn't invite you here."