Page 10 of Keep

He dried off with more force than necessary and got dressed: boxers, undershirt, cotton chinos, dress shoes. He left the dress shirt and tie for after breakfast—a minor rebellion against formality that he permitted himself every morning, in his own apartment, where no one could see.

The kitchen was orderly. Always orderly. Hank started the coffee maker—a simple drip machine, because he did not trust the pod contraptions that seemed to require an engineering degree—and pulled eggs and bacon from the refrigerator.

Cooking relaxed him. Always had. His mother had taught him on Saturday mornings in the kitchen of their house outside Cumming, Georgia—country music on the radio, her sure hands showing him how to scramble eggs with a splash of cream and a pat of butter.

Both parents gone now—ripped away by a car accident when he was twenty-six and just starting law school. His father had known—had found a magazine in Hank’s bedroom the summer after freshman year—and they had never spoken of it. Now, there was no one left to speak of it to.

He added the cream. Added the butter. Made the eggs the way she’d taught him.

“Google, play NPR.”

The morning news filled the kitchen. He ate standing at the counter, scanning The Washington Post, which he still had delivered in paper because he was, in certain respects, a stereotype.

His phone buzzed.

Shelby: Good morning, sunshine. How was your night? Anything exciting happen???

Three question marks. Shelby deployed punctuation like artillery.

He typed back: You could say that. I’ll call you later.

Her response was immediate: OMG! You met someone! CALL ME NOW.

Can’t. Work. Later. I promise.

You better. I want DETAILS.

Hank set his phone down and realized he was smiling. Not the practiced smile he wore in committee hearings or at fundraisers—the real one, the one that crinkled his eyes and made him look, according to Shelby, like a Labrador retriever who’d found a tennis ball.

He caught himself. Stopped smiling. Started again.

This is what happy feels like. You’ve read about it.

He finished breakfast, rinsed his dishes, and left them in the sink—his twice-weekly housekeeper would handle them. He left cash on the counter with a note—Thank you for everything. HF—because his mother had raised him right, even if she wouldn’t have approved of everything else.

Back in the bedroom, he put on a crisp white dress shirt and a burgundy tie, then pulled his navy blazer from the closet. Checked himself in the mirror.

Senator Henry Fortner stared back. Respectable. Appropriate. The knot of the tie perfectly centered, the creases of the chinos sharp.

Every morning, the same small transformation. The private man folded away, the public one buttoned into place.

The walk from South Capitol Street to the Hart Senate Office Building was just over a mile. Hank made the trek almost every morning, preferring the exercise and the time to organize his thoughts before the day consumed them.

September in Washington was generous—the brutal humidity of August finally breaking, the air carrying just a suggestion of fall to come. The trees along the Mall hadn’t turned yet, but they would soon.

His route took him past Nationals Park—quiet at this hour, the stadium sleeping off whatever had happened last night—then north along New Jersey Avenue. The Capitol dome rose ahead of him, white against the morning blue, and even after five-plus years, the sight still produced a small, involuntary straightening of his spine.

At the corner of C Street, he saw the familiar figure.

Clyde Dancy sat on the sidewalk outside the CVS, his back against the brick wall, a cardboard sign propped beside him: HOMELESS VET. ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS. He wore the same army-surplus jacket he always wore, despite the warmth, and his weathered face held the patience of a man accustomed to being looked through.

Hank stopped. “Morning, Clyde.”

Clyde looked up, his face breaking into a gap-toothed smile. “Senator Fortner. How are you, sir?”

“I’m good. How about you?”

“Oh, you know.” Clyde shifted against the wall. “Can’t complain. I mean, I could, but who wants to hear it?” His laugh turned into a cough. “Sorry. Bit of a cold.”