At least the stupid reporters were gone. Probably off tormenting Steven and Neal. Sons-of-bitches.
At the White House, she left the car without her usual thankyou, going directly up to her room and putting on a nightgown. Trudy came in with ginger ale and fussed over her for a while—tucking her in, fluffing her pillows, and adjusting the draperies to make the room darker, so that she could maybe get some sleep.
But she was still too upset to even try, so she sat down behind her computer and started looking for film, photos, analysis—anything she could find about the shooting. Except that it was mostly all stuff she had already seen—more than once—and it was exhausting and unpleasant to read the latest conspiracy theories: that the Pentagon was behind it, as a way to remove her from office; that the Trilateral Commission was behind it, for primarily economic reasons; that her father was behind it—and so on. Endless, stupid, paranoid theories, with specious, but detailed, “evidence.” When she started to come across a stream of misogynistic, practically gleeful blogs and comments, she couldn’t bring herself to look any further. Instead, she picked up the phone, calling down to the chief usher’s office and asking him to send up the latest news magazines. US News & World Report, Time, Newsweek—all of the usual suspects. Because, somehow, something she could actually hold in her hand would seem more real. Less easy to scroll past. He was reluctant to do it—her parents had probably asked to have the magazines kept away from the three of them, if possible—but she insisted, and a butler appeared with several issues a few minutes later.
Her mother was on all of the covers, except for one, which had a picture of the Presidential Seal, with a silhouette of a gun in front of it. Two of the covers were close-ups of her mother’s expression as the bullets hit: surprised pain. Eyebrows up and startled, mouth tightening in a wince. The fourth cover was a picture of her seconds before; smiling, arm lifting in a wave, framed by dark-suited agents.
She dropped the magazines in her lap, afraid to look inside. The prevalent message on the covers was “Again?” And again and again and again.
She opened the first magazine and found the predictable five or six stories associated with assassination attempts: the editorial lament, the minute-by-minute account, the biography and personal profile of the gunman, along with a rehash of other assassins from Lee Harvey Oswald on, the requisite article about the challenges faced by the Secret Service in a dangerous world, and finally, the one describing every detail of the doctors’ work. All accompanied by pictures in living color. Terrific. Some enterprising person was always there, taking pictures of leaders crumpling in agony.
There were lots of photographs of the assassin, smirking in most of them, and often dressed in military surplus clothing—or jail-house jumpsuits. He was also quoted more than once, saying things like “Too bad I missed” and “Guess that showed her.” It wasn’t like there was any doubt that he was insane. Insanity was no excuse.
The post-shooting photos of her mother were only staged ones of the “active meetings” in her hospital room. There weren’t any pictures of her walking around, “on the road to recovery,” since she still couldn’t sit up for extended periods of time.
There were shots of the Vice-President, and of senior staff and cabinet members, all working to keep the United States going, without missing a beat. Pictures of her father, very pale, appearing not to have slept in days. There was even one of her, going into the hospital with Neal and Steven the morning after it happened. She had a hand in Neal’s, the other on Steven’s shoulder, and the three of them looked very grim. The President’s children, demonstrating what the caption described was “unsettling gravitas.” Preternatural, even. Would the writer have been happier if they had staggered up the sidewalk, sobbing?
The coverage in all of the magazines was pretty much the same. Some of the pictures were duplicates; some were just different angles. She was in all four: with Steven and Neal, the same picture, in two; then, in the third, she was alone, rushing into the hospital that first afternoon, her eyes dark and huge—which was dubbed “controlled terror.” The one in the fourth magazine was the worst, because she couldn’t remember its being taken, except that she was wearing her black Levi’s, so it must have been Saturday. She was sitting by herself on a bench in a hospital corridor, with her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands. The First Daughter, in a moment of private grief, the caption said. And it was private. It didn’t seem right that they could publish that in a national magazine. She looked small and scared, and as if she were trying as hard as she could to hold herself together. The kind of picture that was going to show up in Year-in-Review issues. Not very fair.
The articles all talked about her mother’s courage. The slim, physically fragile woman, and her incredible inner strength. About her gallantry, her unquenchable sense of humor. About an Administration so well managed that “the wheels of government continued turning without a hitch.” About Vice-President Kruger’s superb clutch leadership, and reactions to the incident from world leaders, all of whom were appalled—her mother was very well-liked.
And the articles talked about the family. “Public composure” was the big phrase. Public composure and private agony. Loving family shattered by gunfire. All of which had apparently led to her mother jumping a good fifteen points in the polls. What a way to do it.
She knocked the magazines onto the floor, sick of reading about it. The thing the magazines ignored was that all of them were real people. The stories were glib, play-by-play analyses, without any emotion. Stories that were, after all, out to sell magazines. Maybe even to entertain.
“That the best you can do for reading material?” Preston asked from the door.
“They’re pretty bad,” she said.
“I know. That’s why the three of you weren’t supposed to see them.” He was wearing dark brown flannel pants with a brown, tan and white argyle V-neck, a white shirt, and skinny brown tie. His loafers were so pristine that it looked as if people carried him around all the time so that his feet wouldn’t touch the floor. “How are you feeling?”
She shrugged.
“Too shiny?” he asked.
She looked up. “What?”
“My shoes,” he said.
“Oh.” She nodded. “Well, yeah. They look too new.”
“They are new,” he said.
Oh. She frowned.
“I really wonder what goes on in your head, kid,” he said.
She shrugged.
“What’s going on in it right now?” he asked.
She shrugged again. “Nothing much.”
“You’ve been reading those,” he indicated the magazines, “and nothing’s going on in your head?”
“Not really,” she said stiffly.
“Been all over the Internet, too?” he asked.
Which, the last she’d heard, wasn’t against the law.
“Well, I envy you,” he said. “I think I’d be going crazy.”
Was this the part where she was supposed to dissolve in tears? She didn’t say anything.
“Not that it’s not upsetting, anyway. Your family is very important to me.” He looked right at her, and she nodded self-consciously. “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice gentle.
Christ, how many people were going to ask her that?
“Public composure,” he said.
Something like that, yeah. She shrugged.
“Have you had lunch?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I am,” he said. “And I missed breakfast, too.”
“Why don’t you just go down to the Mess,” she said. Most White House staffers ate in a special dining room on the ground floor of the West Wing. “Or you could have someone in the kitchen make you something.”
“I thought we could cook,” he said.
She looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean, we?”
“Get cleaned up,” he said, “and I’ll go tell Carl we’re taking ov
er.”
Jesus. Couldn’t he figure out that she just wanted to be alone? Why was everyone so god-damn dense?
“Hurry it up, okay?” he said, closing the door behind him as he left.
Not sure what else to do, Meg changed into sweatpants, a blue Lacoste shirt, and her Topsiders. She always wore her Topsiders around the house, because slippers looked stupid. Once, someone had given her a pair of slippers that looked like pink fuzzy rabbits, and she had had to wear them to be polite, in spite of the fact that she felt like an idiot. Slippers were not cool.
Preston was alone in the upstairs kitchen, wearing a white Presidential Food Services apron—and was, she assumed, devastated that it wasn’t color-coordinated.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
“I gave them a break.” He handed her a glass of dark liquid. “Want a Coke?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.” She sipped some, watching him rummage through the cupboards and refrigerator. Preston wasn’t a person she thought of as being an industrious little chef.
“Do you cook?” she asked.
He laughed. “What do you think—I go home, open cans of ravioli, and eat them cold?”
Probably, yeah—on the rare evenings when he didn’t exist on take-out, since she had seen him grabbing a slice of pizza or eating out of take-out containers more times than she could count. She frowned. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”
“Well, think about it,” he said, turning on the coffeemaker.
“What’s your apartment like?” she asked.
He grinned. “Immaculate. What do you want to make?”
“Um, sandwiches?” she said.
He shook his head. “I was thinking more along the lines of a glutinous pasta concoction.”
“Okay,” Meg said, suddenly feeling hungry.
“Great.” He started wiping off mushrooms with a damp paper towel—which made her suspect that he really did know his way around kitchens. “Your job is to create something absolutely wonderful for dessert.”
“Wait, she had to work, too? “Dessert?” she said.
“You have no idea how hungry I am.” He opened the cupboard where the baking supplies were kept. “Here. Use your imagination.”
At first, the whole thing seemed kind of dumb, but Preston’s enthusiasm was contagious and the cooking started being fun. He was sautéing the mushrooms, along with onions and peppers, which he assured her were an integral part of his pasta plan. End quote. She was whipping cream, and when he asked her why, she said that it was an imperative component of her dessert plan—which was a lie. Actually, she had no plans whatsoever, but whipping cream might give her time to think of one. Not that she wouldn’t be happy slopping the cream onto graham crackers and eating them without further adornment. But, Preston probably had a more discerning palate. Most people probably did.
They ate at the table in the West Sitting Hall. Preston had combined his sautéed vegetables with noodles, fresh dill, cracked pepper, and lots of buffalo mozzarella cheese and butter, and it was one of the better pasta concoctions she had ever eaten. He had also made a salad: spinach, romaine and Boston lettuce, cucumber slivers, purple onions, shaved carrots, and Heirloom tomatoes. She drank Coke, and he had coffee, and they didn’t talk about anything difficult—just football, and skiing, and their favorite paintings in the White House, and Great Meals They Had Known. She felt better than she had in days.
“Well.” He sat back. “Let’s see this dessert of yours.”
“Okay, but you have to wait here.” She carried their plates towards the kitchen. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She scraped and rinsed the plates, trying to think. Maybe she would have to go with graham crackers, after all. She took down two nice hefty bowls and broke graham crackers into them. The freezer had homemade chocolate and chocolate-chip ice cream, and she filled the bowls with alternating spoonfuls of the two flavors. Then, she melted chocolate chips in the microwave, with a dash of vanilla, to make a sauce, which she poured over the ice cream, before adding more-than-generous spoonfuls of the whipped cream. But she needed one final—elle ne savait quoi—there were some Oreos and she crushed a few, covering the whipped cream with the pieces. Finally, she stuck a spoon in each bowl and carried them out to the table.
Preston grinned. “Way to go, Meg.”
“Old family recipe,” she said.
He nodded and picked up his spoon. “I could tell at once.”
They talked about the best ice cream places in the city—about which they strongly disagreed, Woody Allen movies—before he got weird, and their favorite Robert Parker mysteries, Meg feeling so relaxed that she finished her entire dish of ice cream.
“What a little piglet,” Preston said.
She grunted cooperatively. “How come you’re not over at the hospital or anything?” Propping up the First Gentleman, presumably.
“Because I wanted to have lunch with you,” he said.
She moved her jaw. “Summoned to try and cheer up the fraying-at-the-edges First Daughter?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
Good to know that no one was talking about her behind her back, or anything.
“Steven’s pretty upset with his agents,” Preston said.
She looked up sharply. Was that meant for her? “Oh. Did they do something to bother him?”
“I guess he’s blaming them for your mother being shot,” he said.
Meg flinched at the word “shot.” How could he come right out and say it? “Sounds pretty immature,” she said, calmly.
He shrugged again. “People do funny things when they’re upset.”
Meg let out her breath, annoyed. Preston didn’t usually play games. “What, did my agents fink on me, or something?”
“They didn’t ‘fink,’” he said. “They’re worried about you, Meg.”
She nodded. “They should be, if they have that much trouble protecting people.”
“Is that really fair?” he asked.
Like she cared, one way or the other? She played with the sauce and melted ice cream left in her dish. “What difference does it make?”
“I don’t know.” He drank some coffee. “Bert Travis’s family is probably feeling pretty lousy about the whole thing.”
“He’s not even on crutches,” Meg said, irritated.
“He could have been killed,” Preston said.
“Yeah, well, so could—” She stopped. “Forget it, I don’t want to talk about it.”
He nodded, and it was quiet for a minute.
“You know,” he said, “sometimes things like this make families even closer.”
“What do you do in your free time,” she asked, “read Hallmark cards?”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” he said.
She frowned, not amused.
“Okay.” He finished his coffee. “It’s just something to think about. Want another Coke?”
She shook her head.
He made a tennis swing with his arm. “Feel like hitting a few?”
Oh, yeah, right. “Why?” she asked. “I’m not allowed to play anymore.”
“You might feel better if you got some exercise,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, nodding, “so now I’m fat?”
“No. Just thought it might make you feel better.” He reached across the table to pat her shoulder, then collected the dishes, carrying them out to the kitchen.
“Are you mad?” Meg asked, when he returned.
He tilted his head. “Should I be?”
“Well,” she didn’t look at him, “I guess I was pretty rude.”
“So, you were rude,” he said, shrugging. “No problem. Just be selective. You want to be rude, come find me.”
Meg frowned uncertainly. “I don’t get it.”
“You don’t want to take things out on the wrong people, that’s all,” he said. “Your agents. Your friends. Anyone who isn’t directly involved.”
Meg folded her arms. Was he bugging
her about Josh now? Nothing like having a private life.
“Can’t keep these things inside, Meg,” he said. “You do, and they come out at all the wrong times, you know?”
She didn’t say anything.
“You have to find someone to talk to. It doesn’t have to be me, but—” He paused. “If you don’t talk about it, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”
Meg looked at her hands.
“Well,” he said. “I guess I’ve annoyed you enough.”
She nodded.
“Then, maybe I’ll head back over,” he said. “Unless you feel like hitting a few, or checking out ESPN, or something.”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Whatever.” He stood up. “You know where to find me.”
She nodded.
“Good.” He bent to kiss the top of her head. “Thanks for letting me have lunch with you.”
“Letting you?” she said.
He looked sad. “You didn’t have a nice time?”
She had to grin. “It was swell.”
When he was gone, she sat at the table for a long time, thinking. He was right—she had to talk to someone. But, this wasn’t exactly a great time to seek Josh out. And if she couldn’t talk to Josh, who—she glanced at her watch. Going on to four. That meant that school had been out for—she picked up the nearest telephone.
Beth answered on the third ring.
“Um, hi,” Meg said.
“Hi,” Beth said. “Everything okay? What’s up?”
“Nothing. I mean, things are—I don’t know. Pretty bad.” She swallowed. “I was wondering, um—do you think you can maybe still come here?”
“Sure,” Beth said. “When?”
BETH TOOK AN evening shuttle down, the White House sending a car to the airport to pick her up. Meg was just as happy to stay at home, and avoid her agents. She waited downstairs in the Diplomatic Reception Room, slouching on a yellow sofa. Since she wasn’t in the family quarters, her agents were around, but at least they weren’t making themselves obvious.
“Miss Shulman is arriving, Miss Powers,” a Marine guard told her from the door.
“Thank you.” She went through the vestibule and outside to the edge of the South Drive.
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