“Okay, but be careful,” Meg whispered back. “Don’t hurt her side.”.
Neal nodded impatiently, and she released him.
“Mom!” He ran over. “Hi!”.
“Hello, darling.” Their mother bent awkwardly, and Meg saw her father move closer, his hand on her back.
Her mother kissed Neal, hugging him with one arm, then kissed and hugged Steven. Meg moved in for her turn, hearing cameras all around her, feeling like part of a five-member amoeba clump.
After the stagy reunion, her mother gave a short statement, and then her press secretary, Linda, nodded to indicate that the reporters could ask her mother a few quick questions, most of which focused on her health, her confidence level, and her positions on gun control and the insanity plea. Her mother was light and relaxed—witty, even, except on gun control, where she was very serious—although, actually, her positions had always been strongly in favor of strengthening the current policies and eliminating as many loopholes as possible. Only maybe now, they meant more. Maybe.
She noticed that her mother seemed to be trembling slightly, and Linda must have picked up on that, too, because suddenly, the news conference was over and the President was striding cheerfully inside. There was a wheelchair waiting for her in the Diplomatic Reception Room, along with several members of the White House Medical Unit, but Meg was pretty sure that the press didn’t know that.
She and her brothers took the stairs, meeting their parents outside the elevator on the second floor where Trudy, along with most of the house staff, was welcoming their mother back. Dr. Brooks was quietly steering her towards the bedroom suite, which had been carefully set up to maximize her convalescence.
Her mother was trembling more, even as she smiled and chatted with people.
“Madam President, I think it might be in your best interests to rest for a while,” Dr. Brooks said.
“Yes, I think so, too,” her mother said, and the staff instantly faded away, returning to whatever they had all been doing.
“In fact,” Dr. Brooks said, “why don’t I check your—”.
Her mother’s good hand was gripping the arm of the wheelchair, the skin white. “I think I need to be by myself for a while,” she said, her voice low.
“Okay,” Dr. Brooks said. “First, why don’t we—”.
“I’m sorry, please excuse me.” Her mother pushed out of the wheelchair and walked shakily into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Meg glanced at Steven and Neal, wondering if she looked as scared as they did.
“Your mother’s been under a great deal of stress this morning,” their father said, patting Steven—who was standing right next to him—on the back. “Don’t worry.” He turned to Dr. Brooks. “Give us a while, will you, Bob?”.
Dr. Brooks nodded, sitting on one of the couches, his medical bag on the floor next to him. The few aides who remained walked down the hall as though they had just remembered very important things they had to do, although a nurse stayed behind.
Meg’s father moved to the bedroom door, rapping gently. “It’s only me, Katie,” he said, and went inside, closing the door.
“What’s wrong with her?” Neal asked, anxiously. “Is she crying?”.
“Now, don’t you worry about a thing.” Trudy took his hand. “She just needs a little privacy. Come on.” She led him to the mahogany table. “You sit down with your brother and sister, and I’ll bring you all some hot chocolate.” Trudy’s panacea. That, and Vicks VapoRub.
Trudy returned with hot Danishes and cocoa for the three of them, while Jorge served Dr. Brooks and the military nurse coffee. The cocoa and Danishes were long gone before the bedroom door opened and Meg’s father came out, nodding at Dr. Brooks, who stood up, lifting his bag with him.
“Here, Russell.” Trudy poured him some coffee. “They’re warming some milk for Katharine.”.
He smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”.
“Gross,” Steven said.
Meg elbowed him. “Shut up, you little brat.”.
“It’s all right, Meg,” their father said. “He has a point.”.
“Can we see Mommy?” Neal asked.
Their father pulled out his handkerchief to wipe off his chocolate mustache. “As soon as Bob’s finished.” He slipped the hanky back into his pocket. “But, remember, you still have to be very careful. Especially if you get on the bed.”.
“We know, Dad,” Steven said, sounding irritated.
“It’s just a reminder.” Their father indicated Neal with his eyes. “And watch Kirby.”.
Kirby, lying on the floor, wagged his tail.
Trudy bent to straighten the red Welcome Home ribbon he was wearing on his collar. “You know, I believe I’ll go upstairs for a while.”.
Neal looked worried. “Are you sick?”.
“Of course not.” She smoothed his hair with the same motions she had used to fix Kirby’s ribbon. “I just think you all ought to have some time alone together.” She winked at Meg’s father, gave them each a hug, and left.
When Dr. Brooks and Lieutenant Hamlin, the nurse, came out, they went in, Meg feeling very formal. Their mother was propped up by pillows, and even though it was obvious that she had washed her face and reapplied her make-up, Meg could tell that she had been crying. Now, however, she was smiling, and Adlai and Sidney were curled around her legs. Kirby came in, tail wagging furiously, and Steven grabbed him before he could bound onto the bed.
“Hello, Kirby,” their mother said cheerfully. “Steven, don’t worry about him. Come on.” She patted the bedspread, and Kirby climbed up onto the bed, large and clumsy.
“Kate.” Meg’s father was immediately at her side.
“I’m fine. I won’t break.” She smiled at Neal. “Come sit with me. I’m lonely.”.
Neal beamed, scrambling across the blankets to sit next to her, larger than Kirby, and only slightly less clumsy.
Meg looked at Steven, who had his arms across his chest, and one of his unreadable expressions that she was pretty sure meant worry.
Jorge came in with a tray, including some hot milk, and her mother frowned as though confronted by a particularly challenging puzzle, her good arm around Neal, and unavailable to accept the mug.
“Thank you, Jorge,” she said. “Just put it there,” she inclined her head towards her bedside table, “and I’ll have some in a moment.”.
Problem solved. No wonder she was the President. Meg sat on the sofa by the fireplace, wondering why none of them seemed to know how to act. She sure didn’t. It would have been easier if Trudy had stayed. Her father was jittery—sipping coffee, putting the cup down, picking it back up again. Steven was rocking on his heels, not saying anything, and Neal was just smiling and playing with their mother’s hand.
“Well,” their mother said. “This is rather like a wake.”.
Meg jumped, Steven rocked, their father frowned.
It was quiet again.
Meg stared at her hands, twisting her fingers into different contortions. What was everyone else thinking? She had envisioned the President in bed, in her lounging gown, the family gathered around her, everyone being very loving. Instead, silent tension.
“Have we all had breakfast?” her mother asked.
“Twice,” Steven said.
More silence. Meg made her hands into a church with a steeple, then opened them to see all the people. Why didn’t someone make a joke? If only she could think of one.
“Well,” her mother said, “I’m sure all of you would rather—”.
“What, you don’t want us in here?” Meg asked, surprised by the hostility in her own voice.
“Of course I want you in here,” her mother said patiently. “It’s just—well, I don’t know. You all seem so uncomfortable.” She blinked a few times, lifting her arm away from Neal long enough to pick up her mug and drink some milk.
“Are you tired?” Meg’s father asked. “Would you like to rest for a while?”.
“I just
got up, Russ.” Her mother sounded testy, and the waves from this parental exchange moved—unpleasantly—through the room.
“Well, hell.” Steven jammed his hands into his pockets, his voice grumpier than either parent’s. “You wanna play Monopoly or something?”.
Meg laughed, relieved that someone had finally said something funny, and her parents smiled.
“I like Monopoly,” Neal said happily. “Can I be the car?”.
“I’m being the car,” Steven said.
“What if I want to be the car?” their mother asked. “I get tired of being the shoe all the time.”.
“I assume that’s a joke,” their father said, “since I’m the one who’s always the shoe.”.
Their mother nodded, rather tightly. “Yes, Russell, it’s a joke.”.
“Well, good.” He smiled. “Because I’m the biggest, and this time, I’m being the car.”.
Steven shrugged. “I don’t care. I call being the dog.”.
Meg stood up. “Where’s the set? In the solarium, or what?”.
“Meg, don’t bother,” her mother said. “Someone can bring it.”.
Whatever. Meg sat back down.
“What’s Meg, anyway?” Neal asked. “The thimble?”.
Steven nodded. “Yeah. She’s always the thimble.”.
“I’m always the dog, jerkhead,” Meg said from the couch. “You’re lucky I’m giving you a turn.”.
“Oh, yeah,” Steven said. “Real lucky.”.
“Will you all stop bickering?” their father asked, already on the phone.
“So speaketh the proverbial pot,” their mother said.
“Look, if being the car means that much to you, I’ll—” He returned to the telephone. “Thank you. Just bring it to our bedroom, please.” He hung up, smiling at all of them. “Okay. Who’s going to be banker?”.
MEG GOT TO be banker. She was always the banker. They played for about two hours, everyone being much better sports than usual, and the game didn’t break up until lunch was served—which, Meg noticed, was vegetable soup and easily digestible pasta. So much for pizza and Chinese food.
Politically speaking, it was amusing to watch her mother play. Her technique was to buy up all of the low-income land, like Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues, cover them with expensive housing, and make a killing. Kind of like what they did in Boston some years back, and Meg remembered the Senator regularly speaking out against this practice. Luckily, her mother never played Monopoly in public.
Neal was annoying to play with—he would buy St. James Place and Ventnor Avenue, and then refuse to give up the pretty colored cards, spoiling anyone else’s chances for monopoly. In her family, whenever anyone landed on the income tax square, they would automatically give up the two hundred dollars without bothering to figure out their assets, since her father got such gleeful joy out of totaling them up and assigning debts. Once a tax attorney, always a tax attorney. Steven spent his time trying to get the dice to fall just right so he would land on Free Parking, and get to take all the money from the middle of the board.
Meg, on the other hand, was a very subdued player. She would buy every single piece of land that she could, and then, hoard them, waiting for someone to say, “Hey, who has Kentucky Avenue?” As banker, she was able to keep mental track of how much money everyone else had, and she would ask incredibly high prices for the esired property, which the greedy land buyer—often her mother—would pay, and then be too bankrupt to put any housing on it. Her mother was always having to cash in hotels and spread her wealth more sensibly. Meg would take half of whatever she earned from sales and collecting two hundred dollars as she passed Go, and put it under the board where she wouldn’t spend it. Then, at key moments of the game, when a member of her family was about to go under financially, she would pull out some of the hoard and offer outrageous sums for the person’s property. Little knowing how much money she still had hidden, the person would accept the overwhelmingly generous offer; Meg would acquire another monopoly, and by investing more of her savings in housing, win back the fortune she had paid for the land in no time.
She liked playing Monopoly.
“Well, let’s see,” their father said, figuring out their scores as the rest of the family finished lunch. “It looks as if Meg has just nudged you out, Katharine.”.
Her mother frowned. “How much?”.
“Four thousand, six hundred, and eighty-six dollars,” he said.
“It’s because of the damn money she hides under the board,” Steven said, his mouth full of garlic bread.
“It’s ‘cause she steals from the bank,” Neal said. “I see her do it.”.
Meg put down her fork, offended. “I don’t steal. I just plan ahead more carefully.”.
He shook his head. “You just cheat more carefully.”.
“What’s this you’re saying?” Meg lowered an eyebrow at him. “You cheat?”.
“I do not!” Neal said.
“Well, wait.” Meg pretended to be perplexed. “If I cheat more carefully, the only conclusion I can make is that you cheat less—”.
“Meg, leave him alone,” their mother said. “I’m sure that neither one of you cheats.” She frowned. “Although that money trick of yours is a little sneaky.”
“Don’t knock it,” Meg’s father said. “Every Administration needs a fiscal wizard.”
“Yeah,” Meg’s mother said wryly, “and I’m stuck with one who’s underage.”
Meg grinned. Winning was nice. Winning was fun.
Her mother glanced at her watch. “Well, if you’ll all excuse me, I think it’s time for me to get some work done.”
“You’re not going downstairs,” Meg’s father said quickly.
“Not today,” her mother said. “That, however, does not preclude work.” She reached awkwardly onto her bedside table, moving the phone onto the bed.
As she spoke to members of her staff, setting up afternoon meetings, Meg watched her turn into the President, a change she hadn’t seen very often lately—and was now aware that she hadn’t missed.
Her mother paused, glancing at Meg’s father, who didn’t look very happy, either. “I have to. You know that.”
He sighed, but nodded. “Come on, guys,” he said. “Let’s go do something athletic.”
“Don’t you have to be the First Gentleman?” Steven asked, checking before he got excited.
“Not today, I don’t,” their father said firmly, and Meg wondered if that was meant to be a criticism of her mother. Probably not a conscious one. “Let’s go shoot some baskets, and Brannigan can get some nice pictures out of it.”
Mike Brannigan was one of the primary White House photographers, who was supposed to follow them around and take informal pictures of the First Family. Once, he caught Meg leaving her bedroom on her way to get the book she had left in the West Sitting Hall, her face covered with Noxzema. He had also taken pictures of her swimming at Camp David, and trying to find a place to sunbathe on the White House roof in early March, during an unexpected heat wave. Meg had complained to her parents, who decided that rather than having evil intentions, Brannigan was simply in the habit of taking photos of everything the First Family did. Her mother had given him the firm suggestion that he exercise a little more decorum, particularly in the presence of adolescent women.
It was Meg’s opinion that he was a closet lecher, given to constant secret fantasies. When she broached this to Steven, he said, “Yeah, you only wish,” and since then, Meg had kept this opinion to herself. She also spent a few months checking around corners and behind doors, much to the amusement of the staff. But, after her mother’s warning, Brannigan had confined himself to appropriately chaste shots of her walking Kirby on the South Lawn, studying at the black walnut table in the Treaty Room, and making popcorn with Steven and Neal. Meg still didn’t trust him, and if her father coerced her to play basketball, would be certain to wear something shapeless like one of her most ill-fitting Red Sox t-shirts, old grey sweatp
ants, and—in all probability—an ancient terry-cloth hat. The hat was the epitome of tacky, and by no means flattering, but it practically covered her eyes, and she would far rather be frumpy than self-conscious.
“You going to play with us?” Steven asked.
“Why don’t you,” her mother said, before Meg could answer. “Get some color in your cheeks.”
Meg was going to sigh long-sufferingly and say, “All right, if I have to,” the way she normally would, but rather than start trouble, she smiled brightly and said that she would be delighted. Enchanted. Overjoyed.
She played for almost an hour at the small court—it only extended a few feet past the top of the key—down near the Lyndon Johnson Children’s Garden. Another narrow and secluded section of the South Grounds had been converted to a baseball pitching area,where Steven had convinced the gardeners to make him a regular mound and home plate. Probably not a permanent addition to the White House grounds. The Camp David staff had gone all-out, making him a perfect place to practice, including a batting cage—and Meg was pretty sure that the Marines and Navy people stationed up there used it regularly themselves when no one was visiting. Which made perfect sense to her—she thought it was pretty damn fun to goof around in the batting cage herself, even though her skills were such that Mendoza seemed like the Splendid Splinter in comparison.
Outdoor activity felt good, but Meg found that she got tired pretty quickly. Frightening how easy it was to get out of shape—and how little time it took. She was going to have to start playing tennis again, even if she could only do it here on the White House court.
And no, it didn’t bother her that Melissa Kramer had somehow managed to upset Kimberly Tseng in the ISL finals, and gone home with the No. 1 singles championship. It didn’t necessarily mean that, if things had been different, she would be the current title holder.
Maybe.
Steven and her father gave every indication that they were going to play all afternoon, as they scrimmaged against a few off-duty Secret Service agents, a White House electrician with an amazing jump shot, and an uncoordinated, but very tall guy who was on her mother’s speechwriting staff—and Neal was doing his stubborn best to keep up with all of them. Meg, tired of playing—and being elbowed by scrambling opponents—and having her picture taken, moved to a picnic table on the sidelines and sat down to drink some of the fresh lemonade a steward had brought out for everyone. The steward was a pretty fair player in his own right, and—at her father’s behest—had joined in for a few minutes, until he fouled one of the Secret Service agents so hard that the guy swore at him, and if she and her brothers hadn’t been there, Meg had a feeling that a fist-fight might have broken out. In any case, the steward quickly returned to the Residence, and a National Park Service guy took his place, until he twisted his knee trying to block the electrician, and also had to retire from the game.
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