Pressley took a walk down the street and peered inside the headquarters of Sandy Allen, Barry's vanquished opponent. There wasn't a soul in sight. With papers strewn about, it was as if everyone had simply stopped what they were doing, got up and walked out the door.
At 11 p.m. Tuesday, Barry rose from his chair. "When you claim victory, God gives it to you," he said.
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Then he strolled outside to a throng. Darrell Poston, his driver and security guard, parted bodies. He needed help. There had to be nearly 200 well-wishers.
Standing beneath the tent, near a light bulb, Barry made a boisterous challenge to the status quo: "Tell 'em at City Hall we coming," he said, citing a list of grievances he vowed to take to the downtown power brokers. He talked about a need for better housing, safety in schools, jobs.
"Barrytown!" someone screamed.
Barry's son, Christopher, stood next to him. Effi was leaning on a tree, four yards away, holding some child's teddy bear. The breakup of their marriage had once played before the public like a sad soap opera.
"So what if he dies in office," someone said testily. "At least he'll be happy." It was hard to imagine Effi didn't hear.
"Someone," Marion Barry said, still talking, "once asked Helen Keller what's it like to not have vision. And she said, 'It's worse to be sighted, and not give vision.' "
He thanked more campaign workers. Then he said, "Where Effi? Effi. Effi. Where Effi?" She inched her way toward him, and when Marion and Christopher and Effi Barry all hugged, there were many who looked at them wistfully. The time tunnel. The way they were.
Yesterday, Marion Barry, less than 24 hours removed from his political comeback, saw none of it as miraculous. Divine, maybe, but not miraculous. "God gave me this kind of gift," he said softly. "How good God is."
