White House Autumn

by Ellen Emerson White

  “Because there isn’t anything you can do here,” their father said. “And I’d feel better knowing that the three of you were all safe at home, and I didn’t have to worry about you.”

  Jesus, he couldn’t be thinking that someone was going to shoot them, could he? Maybe he just meant he’d rather see them sleeping in their own rooms, instead of being cooped up in a hospital waiting room with a bunch of Secret Service agents.

  She wanted to stay behind—because, that way, she could at least keep him company, but if she even brought it up, Steven and Neal would have a fit. She looked from her father, to the agents he was giving terse instructions—at length, to her hands. Maybe she could go home with her brothers, and then come back once they were in bed, or—

  “Aren’t you coming, too?” Neal asked their father.

  He shook his head. “I’ll be spending the night here. You all can come back in the morning, when your mother’s feeling a little better.”

  When her brothers were distracted for a minute, Meg moved closer to her father. “Do I have to go?” she asked.

  “It would be a lot easier,” he said, looking at Steven and Neal.

  She nodded, careful not to seem reluctant.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “I know how you feel. But right now, the most important thing for you to do is to take care of your brothers. That’s what I need right now.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m counting on you,” he said.

  She nodded again.

  THE WHITE HOUSE was somber. Somber and solicitous, everyone looking at them with sad eyes, and waiting on them hand and foot. Meg got her brothers settled in the West Sitting Hall, where the butlers brought them cheeseburgers and French fries and chocolate milkshakes. Meg wasn’t at all hungry, but she pretended to eat, so that her brothers would. After their—mostly full—dinner plates were cleared away, and they were served dessert, Meg decided that the two of them seemed to be pretty well occupied by the ice cream and cake, and took advantage of the chance to go down to her room and be alone for a few minutes. It felt as though it had been about a year and a half since she’d had any privacy—and she needed some, to decompress, a little.

  Or, possibly, cry.

  Vanessa was asleep on the bottom of her bed and Meg picked her up, hugging her to her chest. For once, Vanessa just purred, instead of also scratching her, and Meg held her closer, concentrating on not bursting into tears. Felix had told her that there were dozens and dozens of messages, but she didn’t feel like looking at them—and she wasn’t exactly in the mood to sit down and stare at email, either.

  Vanessa flexed her paws, digging them in Meg’s chamois shirt, and Meg extricated them, looking at the delicate shape of her cat’s leg, soft grey fading into white, with tiny clean claws and barely scarred pads. The white and grey made her think of her mother’s dress, that beautiful pinstriped flannel. She pictured her mother getting out of the car: tall, thin, elegant. Smiling at the crowd—there was always a crowd—and then—then—

  “Meggie?” Steven asked from the door.

  She sat all the way up, releasing Vanessa. “What?”

  He shrugged unhappily. “Will you come watch TV with us?”

  “What’s on?” she asked cautiously.

  “I don’t know, movies and stuff.” He shifted his weight. “Please, Meg?”

  She nodded, and they went up to the solarium, Steven and Neal sitting on either side of her on the couch. Sitting very close to her. The movie turned out to be a police drama that might have violence, so she put on a situation comedy that they hated. There was a news update right before the show started, and she had to flick away from the channel right away, before her brothers could hear anything more than “Tonight President—”

  Since there wasn’t likely to be any news coverage there, she turned on the Cartoon Network, and they watched a few cartoons, none of them laughing—even at the parts which were sort of funny.

  “I’m tired,” Neal said.

  Meg nodded. “Yeah, it’s late. You should get some sleep.”

  “Will you come with me?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She looked at Steven. “Will you be okay up here?”

  “I’m coming, too,” he said.

  So, they went down the small staircase which ended near the Queen’s Bedroom and East Sitting Hall, and Meg sent them into their bedrooms to put on their pajamas. Steven didn’t argue—which had possibly never happened before in his entire life.

  “May we bring you anything?” Felix asked, as she stood in the Center Hall, waiting for them.

  Meg shook her head. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

  “I hope you know how very sorry all of us are,” he said.

  Meg nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like me to have your messages brought to your room?” he asked. “There are—”

  She didn’t want to know how many there were. “No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll look at them in the morning. I’m too tired to think right now.”

  Felix nodded. “Of course. I’ll have them put on your desk. But Mrs. Donovan wanted us to be sure and tell you that she’ll be on the first plane she can get.”

  Meg looked up. “Really? Do you think she’ll be here tonight?”

  “I know she’s going to try,” he said.

  Mrs. Donovan was Trudy, and although Meg was pretty sure her parents had hoped that she might want to accompany them to the White House, she had moved to Florida to live near her son, who had four-year-old twins. Meg hadn’t seen her since July, when she had visited for two weeks, which had been wonderful. Almost like being home again.

  Neal came out of his bedroom, wearing light blue pajamas.

  “Did you brush your teeth?” Meg asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Go brush your teeth,” she said. “Then I’ll come in and keep you company.”

  He nodded, leaving just as Steven appeared, wearing old grey sweatpants and a ratty long underwear shirt.

  “Did you brush your teeth?” Meg asked.

  He made a face, and sat down at the shiny mahogany table where they sometimes had fast, casual meals, and where her parents usually sat, and drank coffee, and read the Times on Sundays.

  “Felix says Trudy called and she’s coming,” Meg said.

  Steven looked eager. “Tonight?”

  Meg shrugged. “I don’t know. If she can. It’s kind of late.”

  “Meg?” Neal called from his bedroom.

  “Be right there.” She glanced at Steven. “I said I’d keep him company for a while.”

  He nodded, following her.

  Neal was on his bed and Meg helped him under the covers, tucking him in and then sitting on the edge of the mattress, as Steven slouched in an armchair across the room. The huge room, since, in most Administrations, it had been part of the Presidential Suite—which meant that Neal had the biggest bathroom of anyone in the family, including the Leader of the Free World.

  About whom she couldn’t bring herself to think right now.

  Seeing how tired Neal’s eyes were, she turned off his light, then took his hand.

  “Will we see Mom tomorrow?” he asked.

  She nodded. “In the morning.”

  “Will she come home then?” he asked.

  Hours after major cardio-thoracic surgery? Presumably not. “I don’t know,” Meg said. “Probably not tomorrow, but soon.”

  He looked worried. “Is she thinking about us?”

  “Of course.” She patted his cheek with her free hand. “And Trudy’s coming tomorrow.”

  He immediately sat up. “Is she here now?”

  “Not yet,” Meg said. “We’ll probably see her in the morning, too.”

  He looked a little tearful for a minute, but she got him to lie back down, retucked him in, and then sat there until she was sure he was asleep. She waited a few extra minutes, just to be sure, then extricated her hand from his and stood up, turning to see what Steven was doing.

/>   He was almost asleep himself, and she very gently shook his shoulder, taking him to his room and doing as much tucking in as his thirteen-year-old pride would allow. Satisfied that he was okay, she went out to the small hallway connecting their bedrooms, so tired herself that she wasn’t sure what to do next.

  She found Kirby asleep by the fireplace in the Yellow Oval Room, patted him, and then brought him into Steven’s room. Kirby wagged his tail, then jumped onto the bed, and settled himself on Steven’s legs.

  Deciding that Neal needed an animal, too, she wandered around until she found Humphrey, their tiger cat, in the Lincoln Sitting Room and carried him down to Neal’s room, depositing him on the bed.

  The house was very quiet. The West Wing was probably full of activity—Vice-President Kruger and all of the senior aides and advisors almost certainly working through the night—but, in the West Sitting Hall, she felt as if she were the only person in the entire building. Lonely, but not tired enough to go to bed yet, she sat down on the couch, rubbing her sleeve across her eyes.

  “Miss Powers?” a voice said.

  She flinched, but then saw that it was only Felix. “Um, yes?”

  “There’s a call for you,” he said. “Miss Shulman, calling from Boston. Would you like to take it?”

  Beth. “Very much,” Meg said.

  “Should I have it transferred to your room?” he asked.

  “No.” Meg indicated the Presidential Bedroom. “I’ll take it in there. Thanks.”

  The room seemed strange and empty without her parents, and once she was in there, Meg regretted not having gone down to her own room, instead. But, the phone was already ringing, and she would feel stupid asking them to transfer it again. She was going to pick up the phone next to her mother’s side of the bed, but that seemed wrong, so she sat down to use the one at her desk, instead.

  “Hello?” she said automatically.

  “Are you all right?” Beth asked.

  Hearing her voice, Meg relaxed into the chair, coming as close to bursting into tears as she had all day. “Hi.”

  “Are you okay?” Beth asked. “I left a couple of messages on your cell, but—are you okay?”

  Meg pressed her hand across her eyes, so she wouldn’t cry. “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said. “I mean, I’m really sorry.”

  Meg nodded, forgetting that Beth was hundreds of miles away and couldn’t see her.

  “How is she?” Beth asked.

  Meg swallowed. “Pretty bad. I mean, we weren’t allowed to see her or anything. So—I don’t know. I think it’s bad.”

  “Is anyone there with you?” Beth asked.

  “No, Dad’s at the hospital. I mean, Steven and Neal are here, but—” Meg let out her breath, too tired to finish the sentence. “I don’t know.”

  “You sound awful,” Beth said. “You should go sleep for a while.”

  Probably, yeah.

  “I really am sorry, Meg,” Beth said. “I wish—is there anything I can do?”

  Meg shook her head. “No. I mean, thanks, but I’m fine. I’m just—you’re right; I should get some sleep.”

  “Yeah,” Beth said. “But, if you need to talk, just call me. I mean, even later tonight, if you want. I’ll leave my cell on. Okay?”

  Meg nodded sleepily.

  After they had hung up, she stayed at the desk for a few minutes, resting her head on her arms. It was weird—spooky, almost—to have a conversation with Beth during which neither one of them made jokes. Especially Beth, who took great pride in never being serious.

  Except that all of this was pretty god-damn serious.

  She sat up and looked around at her parents’ room. It was large and impressive, but somehow cozy. That is, when her parents were there. Except during the summer, they would almost always have a fire going and the whole family would watch television—mostly movies, or Red Sox games—instead of going to the solarium or to their rooms.

  But, tonight, it didn’t seem cozy at all. It seemed—abandoned. Scary, even.

  Her mother usually sat at the desk, going through paperwork until she was worn out, then moving to the bed, where Neal and Meg’s father would be, Meg’s father reading, as well as half-watching the television. Steven would be in an easy chair or lying on the carpet, and Meg would sit on the couch, holding homework on her lap so that her parents would think she was doing it. Every now and then, she would even complete a physics problem or translate a paragraph of her latest French reading.

  One of the butlers or stewards almost always brought in popcorn, or just-out-of-the-oven cookies, and Steven and Neal would each eat about twice as much as the rest of them put together.

  Of course, lots of nights, her parents would be out making appearances, or there would be dinners and receptions downstairs. There were always foreign dignitaries, soldiers, or movie stars to honor. Astronauts, professional athletes, Nobel Peace Prize winners, famous artists and musicians—at this point, she had met so many celebrities that she was no longer even the slightest bit intimidated or impressed by them. She wasn’t a big fan of evening gowns, but if interesting guests had been invited, she usually went, with Josh as her escort. Sometimes, directors would come to screen their latest movies in the downstairs theater, and Meg always went to those.

  Her parents’ Siamese cats, Adlai and Sidney, were asleep on the bed, and she went over to pat them. There were books and magazines on both bedside tables; her father’s stacked haphazardly, her mother’s organized by height and size, the edges perfectly aligned. Her mother always set aside some time, right before going to sleep, to read fiction for a while, and it was one of the few things she ever did just to relax. She wasn’t very good at lounging around and doing nothing—although Meg had offered to give her lessons—and when she played tennis or exercised in the third floor workout room, she was usually so competitive and self-demanding that it couldn’t really be described as relaxation.

  Early one Saturday morning, Meg had walked into her parents’ room and found her mother sitting on the couch in a black skirt and silk shirt, her hands folded in her lap. “What are you doing?” Meg had asked, and her mother frowned and said, “Nothing.” Meg had looked around at the crowded desk, the morning newspapers and briefing reports everywhere, and the untouched coffee. “Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” she asked, very hungry. “I don’t really feel like it,” her mother said, then frowned again. “I don’t really feel like doing anything.” “So, don’t,” Meg said, but her mother reached for her glasses—which meant that she hadn’t even bothered to put in her contacts yet, picked up a briefing report, and started reading. Meg wondered if people knew that sometimes her mother wasn’t in the mood to be President. Were all Presidents like that? All world leaders? Surely, everyone woke up sometimes and felt like being anything but in charge.

  Seeing how unhappy her mother looked, Meg sat down and started an inane conversation. Her mother seemed annoyed, then amused, putting her papers down, taking off the glasses, and they sat for about fifteen minutes, talking about nothing in particular, her mother slowly relaxing. Then, a butler arrived with a tray of breakfast—more coffee, juice, hot scones, butter, jams, fresh fruit. Frank began delivering the latest messages and stacks of freshly-generated paperwork, the phone started ringing off the hook with requests from aides, questions from the press staff, and about nine thousand other things—and Meg watched her turn back into the President again. She remembered finding the whole incident depressing, wondering whether her mother enjoyed her life—or just put up with it. There were definitely days when the latter seemed to be true.

  Today must be a day that she hated the. Presidency. Meg sure did. In fact, she kind of hated the entire country. It was impossible not to despise a country where Presidents who were only trying to do good things were shot just for getting out of a car.

  She turned the lights out and was going to leave the room, then stared at the blank television screen across the room, a translucent grey. She hadn
’t seen any coverage at all yet, but it had to be extensive. Christ, various stations had probably already composed theme music to accompany it. She didn’t want to turn the television on, but which was worse—imagining what had happened, or actually seeing it? The shots, the shouts, the blood—maybe imagining was worse.

  So, she took a deep breath, and put on the news.

  “—doesn’t appear to be a terrorist attack,” a grim-faced pundit was telling the camera, “but it’s always possible that—”

  She didn’t want to hear—or think—about that, so she switched over to CNN.

  “—yet another in a long series of violent—” an anchorperson was saying.

  Meg closed her eyes. She shouldn’t be watching this. Talk about masochistic. She had seen most of the tragedies of the last decade—natural disasters, tragic accidents, shootings, bombings, and, worst of all, terrorist attacks—on instant replay. Sometimes, the endless bad news made it too easy to shrug and say, “Oh, again?” There were probably people all over the country watching this, clicking their tongues, then switching over to see what was on ESPN or HBO. Hell, she had probably done it herself, violence often seeming both distant, and commonplace. Far away from her life.

  The reporter was describing the scene at the downtown Washington hotel and Meg frowned. When these things happened, it almost always seemed to be a hotel. Why had the Secret Service let her mother go to a damn hotel? They had probably wanted her to go in through an underground parking garage or a loading dock or something, but her mother liked to avoid that whenever possible, because she thought it made America look like a furtive, third-world dictatorship, and that it lacked dignity for the President of the United States to sneak in and out of buildings through back entrances and so forth.

  An anchorperson was gesturing towards some film footage of the scene. “At the top left corner of your screen is the window where Bruce Sampson was waiting—”

  Meg stared at the harmless, Venetian-blinded window, open about four inches.

  “The thirty-six year old unemployed Sampson has a history of—” the anchorperson went on.

  Meg flinched as a photograph of a surly, thick-necked, unshaven man came onto the screen.