Rodham

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  “Yes,” I said. “GHM does wonderful work.”

  “Dan’s fabulous. I’ll tell you what, if I were picking a surgeon general, he’d be on my shortlist.”

  “We might be getting ahead of ourselves just slightly,” I said. “But good to know.”

  “When Kira and I are in Haiti, she tells me she and Louise want to have a baby. They’re going back and forth about who should carry it and who the donor will be. If that’s not the quintessential modern problem, huh?”

  “Well, there’ve always been divisions of childcare.” Although I was speaking in what I hoped was a normal tone, my wariness was increasing; I wanted to go back just a minute or two to when he’d said, I get you all to myself.

  “Now, I’ve met Louise by this point,” he continued, “and she’s smart, but a tough customer. Very butch. A few weeks pass, and Kira and Louise invite me over for brunch and say they have something to ask me. They’ve decided Kira will carry the baby, and they want me to be the sperm donor.”

  “What’d you tell them?” Was Bill the biological father of a Bay Area baby? Was a Bill baby, at this very moment, in utero? I tried to do the math—hadn’t he said he’d hired Kira eighteen months ago?

  “I can’t deny I was flattered. It also, though I didn’t put it like this to them, seemed like opening a can of worms. The idea is I’d be like a godparent, with absolutely no expectation of financial support, let alone changing diapers. Now, I’d be a fool not to realize laws can change, and could I get stuck with college tuition or what have you twenty years down the line? Of course. Then again, we’re talking about them becoming parents, about the miracle of life.”

  “Remind me how old your kids are now?” I said.

  “Alexis is twenty-six and Ricky is twenty-nine. That was a consideration, too, absolutely—how would this look to them? Ricky is very relaxed, very accepting, but Alexis can be judgmental. I say to Kira and Louise, ‘Let me take a week to think about it.’ ”

  Why did I so dislike the turn our conversation had taken? Was it jealousy? The reminder of my age? Or the reminder of Bill’s narcissism? As if his sperm—his fifty-nine-year-old sperm—was uniquely worthy.

  “The day after brunch, Kira calls me up sobbing,” he continued. “She’s crying so hard I can scarcely understand what she’s saying, but I make out that Louise has accused her of wanting me to be the donor as a way of creating intimacy with me. Kira says, ‘I felt so angry when Louise said this. I went for a run, just feeling furious, and that’s when I realized she’s right. I’m in love with you.’ Kira offers to resign effective immediately, which I don’t allow.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Where do things stand now?” At least the mystery of why I disliked hearing all this had been solved.

  “We’re taking things slow. Just enjoying being together, not rushing to any decisions.”

  “Wait a second. You’re in a relationship with Kira?”

  “She’s not big on labels. And here she is, this sexually fluid individual. She hasn’t dated a man since she was a teenager. But the energy between us, the connection, it’s truly incredible. Kira’s extraordinary in the way she sees the world, her creativity and compassion. Hopefully, she’ll pop in later tonight and I can introduce the two of you.”

  “She’ll pop in tonight?” I said.

  He looked at his watch. “She has a dinner meeting, so probably not before nine.”

  “And she is or isn’t pregnant?”

  “For now, we’ve hit Pause on that. We’ve got a trip together to Namibia in November, and we’ll discuss it after we get back.”

  One of the most important lessons I’ve learned in life is this: Do not preemptively take no for an answer. Do not decide your request has been rejected before it officially has. As with so many other lessons that involve assertion, this one applies far more to women than men. Thus I took a sip of wine and said, “Surely, you and Kira aren’t monogamous.”

  He squinted.

  “Your tart smells delicious,” I said. “But just to give ourselves time, let’s go to bed now and eat afterward.”

  He blinked, then smiled a little, questioningly.

  “For old times’ sake,” I said. “For fun, with no strings attached. I told you I’d decided purity is overrated.”

  “I’m certainly flattered,” he said. “And surprised.”

  “Are you?”

  “Hillary, you know you’ve always, always held a special place in my heart. Having you in my home now, it’s a true joy. I’ve thought about you so many times over the years.”

  I wondered if I ought to stand and walk around the granite island.

  Then he said, “For anything physical to happen between us, that’s just not where I am.”

  So now my request had been officially rejected. There were other things I thought, in this moment and later, but the main one was what a giant fucking waste of time and energy it had been to worry over the acquisition of condoms and lubricant. This was the man for whom, not five minutes earlier, I’d pondered chucking my presidential aspirations, my entire career? Setting aside what was wrong with him, what was wrong with me?

  Yet even, or maybe especially, in disequilibrium, I experienced an impulse toward fact-gathering. I heard myself ask, “What is it about that story of you and Kira that made you think I’d particularly appreciate it?”

  His tone was wary but cheerful—he couldn’t discern if we were moving away from or deeper into a fraught topic—as he said, “The feminist angle, for one thing. Sisters are doing it for themselves. And her directness, her lack of gamesmanship. Do I mean gameswomanship?” He smiled. “I remember how frustrated you felt by the narrow expectations for women when we were in law school.”

  “And what did you want from tonight? Why am I here?”

  He bit his lower lip, and I could see that my opinion mattered to him, that he sincerely wanted my approval or at least feared my opprobrium. But hadn’t this been Bill’s genius as a politician, that he was this way with everyone? And it was always sincere. He said, “When two old friends have the chance to catch up, that’s something I value more and more as the years pass. And I thought we were having a nice time.” Old friends—it was hard to know which word was more insulting. Then he added, “I also wanted to float the idea of you joining my foundation’s board. As we’ve discussed, there can be a shortage of female leadership, the female perspective, in these parts. But God knows I didn’t mean to be confusing.”

  I said, “Just out of curiosity, how old is the oldest woman you’ve slept with?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Forty-five?” I said. “Forty?”

  “Evangeline was forty-four when we separated last year.” He bowed his head. “If I gave you the impression this dinner was romantic, I’m sorry.”

  “In the last few days, did it cross your mind we’d have sex tonight?” Given the inherently loaded nature of the question, I asked as neutrally as possible.

  “I just— I wasn’t thinking in those terms. What with being in a brand-new relationship.”

  The oven timer beeped then, and we didn’t speak as he slid on an oven mitt, opened the glass door, and removed the crust. He set the crust on a stove burner. We still didn’t speak as he began spooning the ratatouille into the crust, and finally, when he was finished, he said, “That doesn’t look half-bad, does it?”

  But I didn’t want to eat his food. I didn’t want to join his board. I didn’t want to be in his penthouse, and I didn’t want to be in his presence. It wouldn’t, I thought, be difficult to remain on good terms with him; salvaging this moment would require little effort. Perhaps in the future he’d even feel a guilt he wouldn’t want to name and be more generous in donating to my campaign or more helpful in soliciting others. But backpedaling, restoring the goodwill between us, would be difficult for m
e. Putting up with Bill Clinton’s bullshit—hadn’t I earned the right never to do it again? Sometimes speaking your mind is expensive, which doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.

  “There’s nothing you did wrong tonight that’s provable in a court of law,” I said. “Which is your specialty. But I do think you led me on. It’s funny because all those years ago, when you proposed, I remember thinking, On the one hand, he’ll never be faithful, but on the other hand, he’ll never not be attracted to me. He just loves women and sex. But now I think I was wrong. If we’d gotten married, you eventually would have traded me in for a new model.”

  His face flushed as he said, “What our marriage would have looked like is immaterial, and you’re the one who made it immaterial. I was prepared to do my best as your husband. Was my best, is my best, perfect? No. Was it enough for you? Also no. Therefore the subject of whom I’ve chosen to be involved with since is none of your business.”

  “Except,” I said, “for your decision to invite me over for an intimate dinner.” I swept my arm through the air, taking in the tart, the music, the view. “Is it that you wanted to leave your options open, but now that I’m here, I look too wrinkly to you? Is my skin not milky white enough?”

  He bit his lip—he actually had two bitten-lip modes, one pensive and one angry, and this was the angry version—and said, “You’ve never understood that you can’t litigate the human heart.”

  “Spare me.” I slid forward on the barstool. “I know we didn’t get through a typical day for you, but I hope that on a regular basis, seeing a therapist is part of your schedule because without question, you’re a narcissist. And I mean that in the clinical sense.”

  “What diagnosis would you give to a woman who tries unsuccessfully to seduce a narcissist?” If he wasn’t shouting by this point, he was close.

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “I believe I made it clear I’d rather not.”

  “You know,” I said, “if you’re trying to humiliate me, I am ashamed of myself. But not for thinking you’d find me attractive. I’m ashamed because you’ve given me so much evidence for so many years about what a piece of shit you are, and once again, I ignored it.” I stood. “Goodbye, Bill.” I didn’t wait for him to respond before I turned and strode toward the elevator.

  “You think that’s how it works?” he yelled. “I welcome you into my home, and when things don’t go exactly how you imagined, you get to impugn my character?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “I don’t impugn your character,” I said. “You do that all by yourself.”

  If we’d been on the ground floor, my dramatic exit could have been more efficient. As it was, after reaching the elevator, grabbing my purse off the table, and pressing the call button, I didn’t need to wait longer than a few seconds, but any delay, as I stood there with my back to him and those enormous windows, imbued the situation with a certain absurdity. Behind me, I heard him say, “You’ve always gotten off on making me feel bad about myself. Holding me to your impossible standards then scolding me when I don’t meet them. You know what you are? You’re a self-righteous cunt.”

  I looked over my shoulder and said, “And you’re a spoiled, selfish child.”

  This is when he threw the serving spoon. Was he throwing it at me? I’d never known him to be violent, though I’d also never seen him this enraged. He hit the red porcelain lamp on the table, knocking it to the floor and shattering it. I was shocked, and when I looked at him, it seemed he was, too.

  The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside then turned around. I held the doors open as I spoke. “Did you say your housekeeper’s name is Elena? You’re so good at getting other people to clean up your messes.”

  * * *

  —

  The male host of the morning show whose greenroom I’d been in a week prior said to Donald Trump, “Are you officially endorsing Hillary Rodham?”

  “What you have to understand about me,” Trump said, “is that I’ve always been a feminist. Whether it’s my beautiful daughter, Ivanka; the girls in my pageants; or the ladies who work for me at my hotels, no one supports women more than I do. As a mentor, as a boss—no one. I can’t even count the number of girls and women who say to me, ‘Mr. Trump, nobody in my life has ever given me opportunities like you.’ They say this, and there’s literally tears running down their face.”

  “Wow,” I said. “We are down the fucking rabbit hole.”

  Diwata said, “The way he pronounces feminist makes me feel like I need to take a shower.”

  We were back on the plane, flying to Greenville, South Carolina, and watching on an iPad.

  “But you are or aren’t endorsing Hillary?” the female host said.

  “No, no.” Donald smirked. “If she wants that, she has to work for it, you know what I mean? But we’ve been very close for some time. I’m one of her most trusted advisers.” I waited for them to remind him that in an earlier appearance on their show, he’d claimed never to have met me. Instead, the screen cut to the photo taken at the magazine gala in 2005 of me standing between Bill and Donald, all three of us with our arms around one another, wearing fancy clothes and beaming.

  “Oh, dear God,” I said.

  “ ‘Very close,’ what does that mean?” the male host said. “Does that mean private dinners? Golfing together at Mar-a-Lago?”

  “All of it,” Donald said.

  “When the two of you are together, what do you discuss?” the woman asked with faux earnestness. “Healthcare? Foreign policy?”

  “Exactly.” Donald nodded emphatically. “She says to me, ‘What should I do about business, what should I do about the economy?’ And I say, ‘Don’t worry about it. You do what I say, I can get you into the White House.’ ”

  It was impossible to hear what anyone onscreen said next because Diwata, Theresa, Clyde, Kenya, and I all simultaneously groaned.

  “Did I have a psychotic break?” Clyde asked.

  “Ask him the most rudimentary question about the economy!” I said. “Ask him to define the budget reconciliation process.”

  “You know what, though?” Theresa said. “If he can’t speak for more than one sentence about anything but himself, he can’t really put words in your mouth.”

  Onscreen, the male host was asking, “Donald, have you left the door open even a crack to running yourself?”

  “Listen,” Donald said, and his pleasure in having the question posed to him was palpable. “I’d be so good at it. I’d be better than Hillary if I’m being honest. But I have other things to do, so many things, such good business.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, as if this whole exchange were not being broadcast on television. “Bill Clinton, he’s such a dog. He’s a dog and you know how I know? Because I’m like that, too. Men like us, we love women, and that’s great. But you can’t have threesomes with models when you’re president.”

  I said, “I could swear I heard him defend Bill’s womanizing a few weeks ago.”

  Diwata said, “Oh, he’s totally inconsistent. Whatever comes out of his mouth is whatever comes out of his mouth.”

  “No pervs allowed in the Oval Office,” Donald said. “I didn’t make the rules.”

  “Needless to say,” Clyde said, “we’ll come up with a strategy of intense verbal jujitsu to signal to your supporters that you’re using him.”

  “Who’s the blues musician who supposedly sold his soul to the devil?” I said.

  Diwata laughed. “Robert Johnson, but have you ever listened to his stuff? It was totally worth it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  2015

  OVER THE SUMMER, MY TEAM had held several strategy sessions for the first Democratic debate, but we didn’t hold a mock debate until Thursday, October 8—five days before Bill Clinton, Martin O’Malley, Jim Webb, and I would appear together on a stage at the Wynn Las Vegas resort
. So that I could be as focused as possible, my schedule had been cleared until the debate, and, as in 2008, we’d rented a two-hundred-seat amphitheater, in addition to a few conference rooms, in a suburban Chicago hotel. At 8:30 A.M., the person running debate prep—my policy aide, Clarissa Jovicich—gave me and three dozen staffers an overview of the logistics and format. By a few minutes after nine, I and the men playing my opponents were backstage preparing to walk out one by one: An aide named Clay was acting as Martin O’Malley, who was currently polling among Iowa voters at 4 percent; an aide named Bob was acting as Jim Webb, who was currently polling among Iowa voters at 1 percent; and Nick Chess, my long-ago Yale classmate, was playing Bill, who was currently polling among Iowa voters at 40 percent. I was playing myself, and I was currently polling among Iowa voters at 43 percent; that is, I had regained my slight lead over Bill in Iowa and also New Hampshire. For the real debate, four CNN correspondents would moderate. To Greg’s delight, he was playing Anderson Cooper.

  I actually liked debates; they tended to feel like tests I’d studied hard for. And because there was so much free-floating criticism of me, because the Americans who had a low opinion of me had such a low opinion, postdebate polls usually showed that I’d won over some viewers simply by not behaving like a schoolmarm or dragon lady.

  Clarissa wanted us to go through one timed debate without stopping, no matter how many gaffes occurred: from the entrance onto the stage to the intracandidate handshakes to assuming our positions behind the lecterns to making opening statements to the barrage of questions.

  In the interest of verisimilitude, Clay, Bob, and Nick had been kept out of my sight up to the point when we all met backstage, when they were in character. But it was hard not to laugh when I saw Nick, who in real life had a thin, hippie-ish ponytail but on this morning wore a white wig meant to resemble Bill’s hair, and also a red tie with the image of a Razorback, tusks and all. I appreciated the effort, and in fact I was wearing a silk pantsuit. I walked onto the stage third, and the staffers applauded wildly—the sound of about forty people cheering in a two-hundred-person auditorium is a specific one—and I waved and beamed and pointed at imaginary audience members. As in a real debate, there was a box-like clock at the front of the stage, facing away from the audience, that would count down the seconds for our answers in digital red numbers.