Free The President's Angel by Sophy Burnham

cocoa.
    â€œI’m sending light.”
    â€œLight,” repeated the President, with a laugh. That was more like it … loony.
    â€œSome people call them prayers.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” The hair rose on the back of his neck. The President knew about lasers, and some of the more secret weapons of his military.
    â€œI’m protecting you with light. I‘m sending light.”
    The President’s laugh was a harsh bark. “You surround me with light?” The man seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Or to Matt, who began to tremble suddenly; his hands were shaking again. “And exactly how do you do that?” he asked, forcing himself to stay calm.
    â€œIt can be done, you understand, from a distance. But proximity helps. Why do you think I‘m here?”
    â€œHere?” asked the President like a stunned ox.
    â€œIn this room. I sent you the suggestion to ask me in. You need my help.”
    The President stared at the man, aghast. His face went white. Then he took two steps to the door. “Frank!” It was the bellow of a bull. The door burst open to reveal the valet, and behind him, two secret servicemen and a marine. “Get this man out of here. Take him to the park—shelter. No—to jail. I want him put away.”
    â€œOn what charge?”
    â€œI don’t give a good goddamn. Here!” The President leapt forward to thrust the antique glass paperweight on the desk into the visitor’s jacket pocket. “Stealing. Get him out! Get out!” he shouted. “And keep him away. He’s not to come close, do you hear?”
    But when the door closed on the beggar, on Frank, on the three palace guards, the President inexplicably fell on his knees and pounded the coffee table with his fist, though why—what constituted his frustration—he did not know. He wanted the beggar back again. He had forgotten to ask him about the angel. He wanted no more of the whole business.
    Everything was confusion for Matt Adams: insecurity, doubt, fear.
    â€œOh, God!” he groaned. “Oh help.” He wished he were a little boy again in the warm kitchen of his grandmother’s house, and she, his mother’s mother, would be taking Toll House cookies out of the oven (the warm smell of chocolate), and he would sit, legs dangling, his chair tucked close to the table, eating warm cookies and sipping his cocoa—
    Cocoa!
    He caught his breath. The beggar had drunk hot chocolate.
    He tossed his cognac down his throat, set down the glass, and started out the door to bed, striding fast to run away from the pursuing thoughts. For one terrifying moment he didn’t know if he was the beggar or the President, the child or man.
    He plunged into his bedroom and stopped. His heart was pounding. There. He was the President. Back in his body again. His clothes were laid out on the bed. He could hear Frank in the bathroom turning on his bath. How did the man know when he was coming? Eyes in the back of his head. He was the President, but for one awful moment it had seemed quite reasonable that he was the beggar instead, sitting on a park bench sending vibrations to the White House. Or destitute. Indigent. And dreaming of being President.
    In all his life Matt had never had that sense of not being himself, of being outside himself.
    He was an only child. He’d wanted to be noticed, he remembered. His father had left, and his mother was working—it was one of the depression cycles—first in a retail store, and later in a lawyer’s office, so Matt didn’t see her much.
    He lived in a small town. Sagging brick buildings. Abandoned warehouses. If he hadn’t been an athlete, on scholarship to the university, he’d never have gotten out.
    But he’d always known he wouldn’t stay. He wanted to be loved, yes, and to win; if he couldn’t be loved, at least he could win, and then he’d be admired and respected,