by Sally Quinn
“I told him that my loyalty to him was one hundred percent—which, as you know, it is. He told me he was grateful to me for bringing it up and that he hoped that I would stick with him. He said it hadn’t been the easiest of years for him but that my presence had made it easier than it might have been.”
Sadie was listening with rapt attention. Rosey hardly ever shared his conversations with the President with her. He was leaning toward her in a confidential manner and stopped talking only when the waiter came to bring their venison and pureed chestnuts.
“Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“Mean that you wouldn’t break away and run against him.”
“Of course I meant it. Why would I say it if I didn’t? And what would make you even ask such a question? Have I ever indicated to you that I would do anything like that?”
“No, darlin’, you haven’t; but then you never told me you wanted to be Governor either for the longest time, or Vice President, for that matter. We’ve never discussed it. Would you like to be President someday?”
She didn’t know what answer she wanted to hear. It was odd that they had never discussed it before. Nobody would believe it. She glanced around the restaurant as though they had all heard what she was saying. She wondered with amusement how they would react if they knew what she had just asked her husband, the Vice President, in all seriousness. Her question had the solemnity of a proposal of marriage. It was one of the most intimate things she had ever asked him. She felt embarrassed. So did he. He didn’t answer her for a while. He leaned back against the red leather banquette and took a sip of champagne. Then he sighed.
“You would think that would be an easy question for somebody in my position,” he said finally. “But it isn’t. Of course I’ve thought of it. At times I’ve thought of nothing else. This year, in particular, when I see so many mistakes. There are so many things I would like to do, so many things I would like to change. I have the ideas but not the wherewithal to change things. Roger Kimball respects me and my ideas. I know that. I know he thinks I am bright, and he listens to what I have to say. But he is totally in the power of those idiots on his staff. They have a hold over him I just can’t understand. I can’t imagine he believes that they are the most knowledgeable and the most expert men he could have. Yet they hold the key to his office. They can block anybody and anything from getting to him. They isolate him and cut him off from valuable sources of information and advice. It’s not that I want to run, but I sure as hell don’t want to go down in flames with him either because of a bunch of half-wits that he hasn’t the guts or the will to get rid of. Those people are incompetent, and malevolent, some of them. I believe they are actually dangerous. It is driving the liberals crazy, and I must admit I do enjoy seeing that part of it.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Do you want to be President?”
“Oh, Lord, Sadie, I don’t know. I came out of the White House the other day after talking to the President about various crises. The level of tension and stress in that place was so high you couldn’t jump over it. From the President all the way down to the guards at the gate. The burden hangs heavy over there. And though I see mistakes being made on every score, there are questions I don’t have the answers to. There are situations I don’t know how to handle. There are some things that are just too hard to solve. So I don’t know what to say. In some way, I feel that if I’ve come this far, it is inevitable; I feel that I don’t have the option anymore, that it goes with the territory. I’ve put in for it, in a way. It’s the top of the ladder. What’s the point of going this far and stopping? And yet, for the life of me, I can’t see why any normal, rational human being in this world would want that job. And would want it for four years—or, God forbid, eight years. It just isn’t worth it in terms of what a toll it takes on your life. On the other hand, it is the only game in this town, the only job worth having, the only place where you can really make a difference. And if you are a patriot, if you care about your country, about the world, about your fellowman, then how can you not take the opportunity and run with it? How can you deny yourself this power to change things for the good?”
“And the answer to my question?”
“I may not have any choice.”
“How do you mean?”
Rosey sighed, and his shoulders sagged. Suddenly he looked very tired.
“I went to see Molly Kimball Thursday afternoon. She invited me for tea.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She asked me not to.”
Before she could register her surprise, he continued: “She made me promise I wouldn’t say anything, especially to the President. But she told me…” He hesitated. “She told me Roger has had another stroke.”
“Another?” She was shocked.
He realized he had never told her what Allison had confided to him at the birthday party. He tried to brush over it.
“Apparently years ago he suffered a very mild stroke. Nothing serious. No paralysis or anything. It never came out in the press.”
“My God,” said Sadie. “How did they manage to keep that a secret?”
“Only their family doctor knew. And it’s the same this time. He had a very mild stroke. They’ve got the White House doctor on orders to keep quiet. Nobody on the staff knows. Roger had some numbness and a mild loss of the use of his left arm. They just said he had a lot of reading and paperwork, and he just stayed in his private quarters for a few days. I saw him then. It’s certainly not noticeable unless somebody brings your attention to it. I never would have guessed there was a problem.”
“So how does this affect you?”
“Molly says the doctor says it could be more serious next time around. She would love it if he would resign, but she says there’s no chance of that. I don’t think there’s much I can do except be prepared.”
“For what?”
“To be President.”
She felt as though somebody had knocked the wind out of her.
Even though rationally she had always known that a Vice President was only “a heartbeat away,” she had never dealt with the possibility in any real sense. Now it was upon her and the only thing she felt was overwhelming terror. But she didn’t want Rosey to know that. And so she took her time, gathered herself together before she responded. She reached over for her champagne glass and took a long sip. Somehow the icy bubbles soothed her and she was able to speak without losing her control.
“Do you want to be?”
“Have you ever thought of being a reporter? You’re awfully persistent.”
“Well?” She smiled.
“Oh, God, Sadie. I guess the answer is yes. Yes, I would like to be President.”
* * *
The kids weren’t home yet. They said good night to their agents and went upstairs to the bedroom. Sadie was feeling warm and cozy about the evening, even a little excited. She had had a good time with Rosey that night. Her husband had even been flirtatious with her. She could tell that he wanted to make love. They were both slightly tipsy from all the champagne. She went into the bathroom and got ready for bed, putting on a long-sleeved white satin nightgown that she knew he liked. When she came out of the bathroom he was carefully getting undressed, as usual putting his shoes on the shoe trees, hanging up each piece of clothing.
What would the shrinks say about that? she wondered. But then, one would sleep better at night knowing that somebody like Rosey was Vice President. Or President. That was one she would have to start getting used to. It was something she didn’t much want to think about at the moment, though. There was enough pressure on her now that she didn’t need that. Besides, she was feeling rather sexy.
Rosey took off all his clothes except for his shorts and disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
When he came out, she was still sitting propped up in bed. She smiled at him. He smiled shyly at her. He climbed into bed next to her and reached over to turn off his light
.
“Turn off your light too, will you, sugar?”
There was no getting around it. He would simply never make love to her in the light. She turned off her lamp, then took a deep breath and plunged into the conversation she had been wanting to have with him all evening.
“Do you ever think about our relationship?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean do you ever think about us, about how we get along, how we communicate, about our sex life.”
“Well, to be honest, honey, I don’t think about it much. I mean, after you’ve been married as long as we have, what’s there to think about? I do think about how lovely you are sometimes—like tonight, for instance. You looked beautiful tonight.”
He had moved closer to her in the darkness and had put one hand on her breast. There was always something tentative about the way he did it, as though he were never quite sure she wanted him to. He had always been that way. Maybe it was because she was never quite sure.
“No, but do you ever wish we could be more frank about things?”
“What things?”
He was caressing her breasts now in a soft, sweeping motion.
“Like what pleases us in bed. Things like that.”
“Everything you do pleases me in bed,” he said, moving his body over so that it was halfway on top of hers. He reached his hand for her chin, turned her face toward his, and began to kiss her softly on the mouth.
“But sometimes, do you wish we could be more adventurous?” she tried again, in between kisses. She felt slightly aroused, and yet she could almost feel her ardor dampen at the thought of another routine session.
“I like things just the way they are,” he said.
He had moved on top of her now. He was still kissing her, and he had begun to move his hands down her sides. She had felt him tense just the slightest bit when she brought up the subject. She had tried so many times before and he couldn’t deal with it. She had thought about every conceivable way she could broach the subject without making him feel defensive or inadequate. Lovemaking was not the area where he felt most secure anyway. It was terribly hard for him to let out his feelings, to talk about any emotions, and sex was even more taboo. It was difficult for him to discuss sex, and it always ended unhappily for both of them. He considered himself a very private person, whatever that meant, and a very special person in some ways. He was an interesting contradiction in that respect. He felt superior to most people, no doubt because of his upbringing and his background, yet there were doubts about his own adequacy as well. His way of hiding those doubts was to prevent people from getting to know him well. Including his wife.
She thought he felt deep down inside that if she really knew his fears and his anxieties she wouldn’t love him anymore, and he felt it not without reason. Sadie required his sense of confidence, control, and superiority for her own sense of self-worth. Though she asked him to reveal himself, she really didn’t want him to. She knew that to some he seemed arrogant, and to those who didn’t read his superiority, which was really reticence, as arrogance, he just seemed very self-confident.
Bed was the only place where he didn’t. She wished, just once, he would take her. Push her up against the wall, say, “Come here, woman,” push her down on the bed, and thrust himself at her. Just once she wished he would seem really hungry for her; just once she longed for him to lose control. But he was incapable, she thought. So why did she still try to arouse that in him? Sometimes she thought of those women championed by the feminists who were taking their husbands to court for raping them, and she couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be to have Rosey so inspired.
Rosey thought his sex life was terrific. He always enjoyed making love to Sadie, even if it was usually every two weeks or not even that often. Twice a month and he thought he had died and gone to heaven. He didn’t see any reason why he should try anything fancy as long as they both were satisfied, and he was. It never occurred to him that she wasn’t. He thought the business of oral sex was unappealing. He had told her long ago that before they were married he had once had a girl perform oral sex on him and he had to admit that it had felt pretty good. But she was a cheap woman, not the kind of woman he would have married, the kind of woman he could love. That kind of thing, he told her, he could do without in his marriage.
For some reason she had not given up hope. She kept thinking that at some point he would feel so close to her that he would want to do it to her.
She had felt so close to him this Christmas night that something about the way he talked to her and flirted with her at dinner had made her think maybe he would try, or at least let her try.
His hand was moving up and down on her thigh now, and she softly took it and gently guided it down between her legs. He let her move his hand up and down the way she wanted, but when she stopped he probed around awkwardly, then moved his hand back up where it was safe—around her breasts.
She pulled slightly away from him, then whispered as softly as she could, in a reassuring way, “Rosey, I love you.” She began to kiss his chest, making soft biting motions as she worked her way down his body, occasionally licking him and kissing him alternately. But as she got to his abdomen, her head buried beneath the covers, he grabbed her hair and pulled her back up.
He pulled his body on top of hers and slowly entered her. She closed her eyes. This was where she usually fantasized.
Rosey was breathing heavily, and she knew that if she wanted to be satisfied herself before he came she would have to quickly come up with a fantasy that would turn her on. She closed her eyes as tightly as she could and made her mind a blank for a moment. Then his face appeared before her. His black curly hair was touching her forehead. His eyes were dancing, his mouth bent in a smile.
“Oh, God, how I want you. How I’ve wanted you since that day in the car,” he was saying. He had her hands pressed back against the sheets so that she was pinned against the bed. “I’m going to take you now.”
“Oh, no, please, we can’t, we must not. Not again. It isn’t right,” she was saying; breathless from passion, she could barely get the words out.
“I’ve got you here at last. I’ll never let you out of my grasp again,” he said, and his mouth was over her body, caressing her everywhere, until she thought she would faint. Yet still she had to struggle, to cry out against what they were doing. It was wrong, she was married, he had to stop. But he wouldn’t let her go, and now he thrust himself into her mouth and she took him gratefully, lovingly. Finally he embraced her and took her, and she felt herself lose control.
She was trying to call to him, to tell him to stop. “Oh, please…” But her voice faded into a deep moan and she whispered to herself, “Please, oh, yes, please, Des, take me again, please.”
* * *
The phone rang. It was after 10 P.M., late for the phone unless it was a crisis. Rosey answered it.
“This is the Vice President speaking.” He paused. His face darkened.
“Damn,” he said. He glanced over at her. She was curled up in front of the fire on the sofa in their upstairs sitting room, doing her needlepoint. He was reading a stack of foreign-policy briefing papers which the White House had sent over earlier that evening, in preparation for the first meeting of the National Security Council after the holidays. Normally Rosey did not sit in on NSC meetings, but in this case the President had asked him to because of the nature of the crisis—North Vietnamese incursions into Thailand—and because he wanted Rosey to watch John T. Hooker. John T. suspected that the President didn’t exactly trust him, but Rosey had cleverly mitigated any hard feelings that might have arisen between the two of them by having that Christmas party, at the President’s suggestion, in honor of John T.
In fact, he had been thinking how well he had been handling things and how well everything was going until this phone call.
It was Everett Dubois, his personal Chief of Staff, aide-de-camp, right-hand man, confidant, troubleshooter. Rosey
had brought Everett with him from Richmond.
Everett was an uncouth slob and someone totally opposite to Rosey. He was a self-made man and a consummate politician. He had been the mastermind of many a conservative Democratic campaign ever since he’d left the PR business in Louisiana and gone to Oklahoma. There he had fallen upon hard times after his candidate for Governor had to drop out of the race because of a scandal. Sadie despised Everett. She thought he was an unscrupulous and loathsome man. The feeling was mutual. Sadie had every right to hate Everett.
It was Everett who had discovered her affair with Stuart Cortwright in Richmond. It was also Everett who had covered it up. Nobody except Rosey had ever found out about it. It pleased Everett no end to have something over her. And particularly in the months after he found out, Rosey was much closer to Everett than he was to his own wife.
Now Rosey could hear the pleasure in Everett’s voice as he called to tell him the bad news.
The first edition of The Daily had come off the presses, and Everett, as was his habit, had had a copy brought to his house. The Feature section led with a story on Sadie with a picture of her standing in the downstairs reception hall by the Christmas tree. The headline read, “SARA ADABELLE GREY: PLANNED PARENTHOOD AND PRESERVATION. A Prochoice Vice President’s Wife Speaks Frankly.”
“As the snow fell outside in the dusk, a serious Sara Adabelle Grey stood up to walk a reporter to the door. The interview was over but there was still something on her mind. She brushed her hand back through her auburn hair in a thoughtful gesture. The subject was amniocentesis, a test procedure for pregnant women over 35 which determines Down’s syndrome and other birth defects. Would she have it if she were pregnant today at the age of 39?