The First Councel

by Brad Meltzer

  There’s a long pause after I finish. All I can do is focus on the corn stalks.

  “That’s it?” she asks with a laugh.

  “Nora, it’s a complete abuse of power. I used my position here to-”

  “Yeah, you’re a real monster-you cut the cafeteria line to help your mentally retarded father. Big whoop. Find me one person in America who wouldn’t do the same.”

  “Caroline,” I say flatly.

  “She found out about it?”

  “Of course she found out about it. She saw the letter sitting on my desk!”

  “Calm down,” Nora says. “She didn’t report you, did she?”

  I nervously shake my head. “She called me into her office, asked me a few questions about it, then sent me on my way. Told me to keep it to myself. That’s why she had my file. I swear, that’s the only reason.”

  “Michael, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about-”

  “If the press picks up on it-”

  “They’re not-”

  “All Simon has to do is give Inez my file… that’s all it takes. You know what they’ll do, Nora-he can’t survive in an institu-”

  “Michael… ”

  “You don’t understand… ”

  “Actually, I do.” She leans forward on both elbows and looks me straight in the eye. “If I were in your position, I would’ve done the exact same thing. I don’t care what strings I had to pull, you better bet your ass I’d help my father.”

  “But if… ”

  “No one’ll ever find out. I keep my secrets-and yours.”

  She reaches across the table and motions for my hand. Finger by finger, she pries open my closed fist. It’s the second time today she’s done that. As her nails skate tiny circles inside my palm, the calm settles on my shoulders.

  “How’s that?” she asks.

  Questions don’t come any easier. Behind her, the sun lights the edges of her hair. People wait their whole lives and never get a moment this good. Refusing to let it pass me by, I lean forward and close my eyes.

  “Mickey-Mikey-Moo!” my dad shouts at the top of his lungs.

  Startled, I pull away. Calmly and with far more poise, Nora does the same. Leaning back, she slowly looks over my shoulder. The moment’s lost, and here comes Daddy.

  “Got a surprise!” he yells from behind me.

  “Where’d you get that?” Nora blurts as a smile lifts her cheeks. In seconds, she’s out of her seat.

  On the opposite side of the log fence, my dad’s holding on to a leather strap, which is attached to a gorgeous chocolate brown horse.

  “She’s beautiful,” Nora says, squeezing between the horizontal logs of the fence. “What’s her name?”

  “You were gonna kiss him, weren’t you?” my dad asks, his eyes even wider than usual.

  “Kiss who?” Nora asks as she points at me. “Him?” My dad nods vigorously. “Not a chance,” she says.

  “I think you’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” he says, giggling.

  “You’re very smart.”

  “You maybe gonna get married?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I wouldn’t rule anythin-”

  “Nora,” I interrupt. “He doesn’t-”

  “He’s doing just fine.” Turning back to my dad, she adds, “You raised a good son, Mr. Garrick. He’s the first real friend I’ve had in… in a while.”

  Hanging on her every word, he’s mesmerized. Suddenly, his lips start to quiver. He tucks his thumbs into his fists. I knew this was going to happen. Before it even registers with Nora, his eyes well up with tears and his forehead furrows with anger. “What’s wrong?” she asks, confused.

  His voice is the enraged cry of a little boy. “You’re not gonna have me at the wedding, are you?” he shouts. “You weren’t even gonna tell me!”

  Nora steps back at the outburst, but within seconds, she extends her hand to reach out. “Of course we’d-”

  “Don’t lie!” he yells, slapping her hand away with the edge of the leather strap. His face is bright red. “I hate lies! I hate lies!”

  Nora takes another step toward him. “You don’t have to-”

  “I do what I want! I can do what I want!” he screams, tears streaming down his cheeks. Like a lion-tamer, he swings at her again with the leather strap.

  “Dad, don’t hit her!” I shout, racing for the fence. Nora can’t handle this one. She backs away just as he swings again. From the look on her face, I can tell she’s taken aback, but she’s still determined to break through. Counting to herself, she times it just right. He takes another full swing with the strap, and before he can wind up again, she rushes forward. Just as I hop over the fence, she opens her arms and takes him in. He fights to pull away, but she holds tight.

  “Shhhhhh,” she whispers, lightly rubbing his back.

  Slowly, he stops struggling, even as his body continues shaking. “How come you… ”

  “It’s okay, it’s all okay,” she continues, still holding him. “Of course you’re invited.”

  “F-For sure?” he sobs.

  She lifts his chin and wipes away the tears. “You’re his father, aren’t you? You’re the one who made him.”

  “I did,” he says proudly as he tries to catch his breath. “He came from me.” With all five fingers erect, he picks at the edge of his nose with his middle one. Growing more confident, he once again wraps his arms around her. He’s still sobbing, but the gleam in his eyes tells the story. They’re tears of joy. He just wanted to be part of it. Not left out.

  In a moment, the whole thing’s over. Still in Nora’s arms, he’s pressing his head against her shoulder, rocking back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She’s got it all taken care of, and for the first time, I realize that’s her gift. Identifying with what’s missing. That’s what she knows. A life that’s half-complete.

  “Is this your horse?” Nora finally asks, noticing my dad hasn’t let go of the leather strap of the chocolate horse.

  “T-This’s Comet,” he whispers. “She belongs next door-to Mrs. Holt. Laura Holt. She’s nice too.”

  “She lets you take care of Comet?”

  “Clean her, groom her, feed her,” my dad says, his voice rising with excitement. “First the curry comb, then the dandy brush, then the hoof pick. That’s my job. I have a job.”

  “Wow-a job and a son. What else do you need?”

  He shrugs and looks away. “Nothing, right?”

  “That’s it,” she says. “Nothing at all.”

  As my car leaves the parking lot and bounces along the path of the dirt road, Nora and I each have a hand out the window. We’re throwing parade-float waves at my father, who’s frantically waving back after us. “Goodbye, Dad!” he shouts at the top of his lungs.

  “Goodbye, son!” I reply. He saw the name reversal in an old movie and immediately fell in love with it. Since then, it’s become our customary way to say goodbye.

  Pulling back onto the rolling roads of Virginia, I check the rearview mirror. Harry and the tan Suburban are right there.

  “Wanna try to lose him again?” Nora asks, following my gaze.

  “Funny,” I say as I turn onto Route 54. Over my shoulder, the sun is finally starting to settle into the sky. Nothing left to do but ask. “So what’d you think?”

  “What’s to think? He’s wonderful, Michael. And so’s his son.”

  She’s not one for compliments, so I take her at her word. “So you’re okay with all of it?”

  “Don’t worry-you have nothing to be ashamed about.”

  “I’m not ashamed. I just… ”

  “You just what?”

  “I’m not ashamed,” I repeat.

  “Who else have you told about him? Trey? Pam? Anyone?”

  “Trey knows-and I told him he could tell Pam, but she and I never had the conversation ourselves.”

  “Ooooooh, she must’ve been plenty mad when she found out.”

  “What makes you
say that?”

  “Are you kidding? The love of her life holding back on her? It must’ve broken her little heart.”

  “The love of her life?”

  “C’mon, handsome, you don’t need X-ray specs to see this one. I saw how she was holding your hand at the funeral. She’s dying to put the smoochie on you.”

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “Let me tell you something-I’ve met her type a hundred times before. Small town predictable. When you walk into her bedroom, she’s already got her clothes picked out for the next day.”

  “First of all, that’s completely wrong. Second, it doesn’t even matter. We’re just friends. And good friends at that, so don’t pick on her.”

  “If you’re such good friends, why weren’t you the one to tell her about your dad?”

  “It’s just the way I deal with it. Whenever I bring it up, people get self-conscious and they suddenly have to prove they’re sensitive.” Keeping my gaze locked on the power lines along the road, I add, “It’s hard to explain, but there’re times you just want to let it go. Or maybe grab them by the face and shout, ‘Back off, Barnum, it’s not a sideshow.’ I mean, yes, it’s my life, but that doesn’t mean it’s out there for public consumption. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but… ”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I get a quick look at Nora. Sometimes I can be such a dumb bastard. I actually forgot who I was talking to. She’s Nora Hartson. Just reading USA Today, you’d know who she was named after, her college major, and the fact that she spent her last birthday climbing Mount Rainier with the Secret Service. Turning my way, she raises a single, trust-me-on-this-one eyebrow. To Nora, it makes perfect sense.

  “Hiya, Vance,” Nora says to the guard at the Southeast Gate of the White House.

  “Good evening, Ms. Hartson.”

  “Nora,” she demands. “Nora, Nora, Nora.”

  With a loud click, the black metal gate swings open. He doesn’t need to see my blue pass or my parking permit. He just needs to see Nora. “Thanks, Vance,” she calls out, her voice sounding lighter, more open than I’ve ever heard her.

  Pulling up to the South Portico at the base of the mansion, I’m having a hard time containing myself. It’s so different than last time. No panic, no hiding, no posturing. No fear. For a few hours, Simon, Caroline, the money-the whole nightmare lowered its voice from a scream to a momentary whisper. All that’s left is us.

  When we reach the awning that covers the South Portico, I hit the brakes.

  “What’re you doing?” she asks.

  “Aren’t I dropping you off?”

  “I guess,” she says, suddenly losing the confidence in her voice. She’s about to get out of the car, but pauses. “Or, if you want, you can come upstairs.”

  I look up at the shining white facade of the world’s most famous mansion. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m always serious,” she says as the confidence floods back. “You up for it?”

  I was wrong before. Questions don’t come any easier than this. “Where do I park?”

  She motions to the expansive South Lawn of the White House. “Anywhere you want.”

  CHAPTER 18

  You ever been in this way?” Nora asks, heading for the south entrance under the awning. We follow the red carpet into the oval-shaped Diplomatic Reception Room, where FDR used to hold his fireside chats.

  “I’m not sure-I keep confusing it with my apartment and the red carpet that leads to my futon.”

  “That’s cute. Never heard that one before.”

  “Before? How many guys’ve you taken on this tour?”

  “What tour’re you talking about?”

  “Y’know, this tour. The inside-my-Beltway tour.”

  She laughs. “Oh, is that what you think you’re on?”

  “You telling me I’m mistaken?”

  “No, I’m telling you you’re in full delusion. I’m giving you a cup of coffee and kicking you out on your bee-hind.”

  “You do what you want, but idle threats aren’t the way to get lovin’ outta me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Oh, we’ll definitely see.” I do everything in my power to make sure I get the last word. It’s the only time she’s excited-when the outcome’s out of her control.

  Passing through the Dip Room, I’m swinging my shoulders with a strut that tells her she doesn’t have a chance. It’s such a bad lie, it’s pathetic. As we leave the room, we make a sharp left into the Ground Floor Corridor. Across the pale red carpet, there’s a guard on the left side of the hallway. I freeze. Nora smiles.

  “And you were doing so well there, weren’t you?” she teases. “You had the strut going and everything.”

  “It’s not funny,” I whisper. “Last time I was here, these guys… ”

  “Forget about last time,” she whispers in my ear. “As long as you’re with me, you’re a guest.” Up close, she blows me a taunting kiss.

  It’s amazing how she can pick the worst moments to turn me on.

  As we pass the guard, he barely looks up. He simply whispers three words into his walkie-talkie: “Shadow plus one.”

  Once we’re through the doorway, we can get upstairs by taking either the elevator or the stairs. Knowing that there’re guards waiting at the next landing, I head for the elevator. Nora darts for the stairs. She’s gone in an instant. I’m left alone with no choice. Shaking my head, I take off after her.

  As we reach the next landing, two uniformed officers are waiting. Last time, they stopped me. This time, as I turn the corner of the stairway, they step back to give me more room.

  Taking two stairs at a time, I close in on Nora. She leaves the stairs at the next landing and, following her lead, I head into the Residence’s main corridor. Like the Ground Floor Corridor, it’s a wide, spacious hallway with doors running along every wall. The difference is all in the decor. Painted a warm, pale yellow, and lined with built-in bookcases, half a dozen oil paintings, and plenty of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century antiques, this isn’t a tourist trap. This is a home.

  Wandering down the hallway, I scan the paintings. The first one I see is a still-life of apples and pears. “Cézanne rip-off,” I almost blurt. Then I notice the signature at the bottom. Cézanne.

  “Got it at a flea market,” Nora says.

  I nod. Across from the Cézanne, I notice an abstract de Kooning. Time to slow down. Taking a deep breath, I get back in my zone.

  “You want a quick tour?” she asks.

  I pause, pretending to think about it. “If you want,” I say with a shrug.

  She knows I’m bluffing, but her smile tells me she appreciates the effort. Midway down the hallway, we stop in front of a bright yellow, oval-shaped room.

  “Yellow Oval Room,” I blurt.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Years of Crayola.” Pointing inside, I ask, “Now what do you do in a room like this? Is it just for show, or what?”

  “This whole floor’s mostly for entertaining-after a state dinner, cocktail parties, sucking up to senators, nonsense like that. People always wind up in here because they love the Truman Balcony-makes them feel important when they stand outside and touch the pillars.”

  “Can we go out there?”

  “If you want to be a tourist.”

  She lets the challenge hang in the air. Man, she knows my buttons. Still, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

  “That’s Chelsea’s old bedroom,” she says, pointing to the door opposite the Yellow Oval. “We turned it into a gym.”

  “So where’s your room?”

  “Why? Feeling frisky?”

  Again, I’m not giving it to her. I point to the door at the end of the hallway. “What’s behind there?”

  “My parents’ bedroom.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” she says, studying my reaction. “Really.”

  Damn. She’s counting that one against me. I should’ve known better. Her parents a
re always off limits.

  Down the hall, she turns a corner and stops at the wall on her immediate left. Passing her, I’m standing across the hall from the Lincoln Bedroom. “So when’re we going to get this coffee?” I ask.

  “Right now.” She’s fidgeting with something on the wall, but I can’t tell what it is. “The kitchenette’s upstairs.”

  I assume we’ll head back to the staircase, but we don’t.

  Stepping closer, I see that she’s wedging her fingers into a thin crack in the wall. With a sharp pull, the wall swings toward us, revealing an otherwise hidden staircase. Nora looks up and smiles. “We can take the stairs on this side of the house.”

  “Pay attention,” Nora says, “because this’s the best part.” She heads up a steep carpeted ramp and leads us toward the room directly above the Yellow Oval. “Voilà,” she says with a bow. “The Solarium.”

  Resembling a small greenhouse on top of the mansion, the Solarium’s outside walls are made entirely of green-tinted glass. Inside, wicker furniture and a glass-top card table give it the feel of a Palm Beach den. On the left is a kitchenette, on the right, an overstuffed white sofa and large-screen TV. Scattered around the room are dozens of family photos.

  On my far right is a short bookcase filled with what looks like homemade arts-and-crafts projects. There’s a purple and blue birdhouse that looks like it was made by a seventh-grader-on the side of it are the initials “N.H.” in peeling orange paint. There’s also a papier-mâché duck or swan-it’s too warped to tell which-a ceramic ashtray or cupholder, and a flat piece of brown-painted wood with fifty or so protruding nails that’re set up to spell the initials “N.H.” To make sure the letters stand out, all the nailheads are painted yellow. On the bottom of the shelf, I even spot a few trophies-one for soccer, one for field hockey. In all, you can trace the quality of the projects from first grade all the way up to about seventh or eighth. After that, there’s nothing new.

  Nora Hartson was twelve years old when her father first announced he was running for Governor. Sixth grade. If I had to date it, I’d say that’s the same year she made the swan-duck. After that, I’d bet the birdhouse came next. And that’s where her childhood ends.