“She said that?”
“Yes!”
“In Spanish, this is, like, pinche destino, destiny! This is just what we—”
“Madame Funck? Are you in there?” Sally-Ann called from the entrance to the closet.
“Uh…Angel’s helping me select something to wear,” said Natalia.
“Your mother’s on the phone! She says you promised to call!”
“Tell her—”
“She was crying.”
Natalia rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right there!” She grabbed Angel’s hand and they made their way out from among the moving racks of clothes.
“Remember, ‘Moon Kusnetzov,’” he whispered.
“Moon Kusnetzov.”
“I need a pass for Moon Kusnetzov tomorrow, when I come do your hair.”
“You are my Zlatorog, Angel.” She stopped and embraced him, resting her chin on his head.
“I thought Vaclav was your Zlatorog.”
“Vaclav is my Slovak Zlatorog. You are my Mexican Zlatorog.”
“Do I become a good man?”
“You are a good man!”
Chapter 10
The White House
December 17, 1:30 a.m.
Natalia closed the door to Rex’s bedroom behind her and tightened the sash on her antique-silk kimono, a gift from the Japanese Prime Minister. She breathed a sigh of relief. She had managed to survive the second horrid night of make-a-baby sex with Rex, just like Dr. Steinberg ordered. If Angel helps me escape from the White House tomorrow, she thought, it will be my last. Making certain that the Secret Service guard wasn’t watching, she dug in her kimono pocket for the morning-after pill that Angel had given her this morning. She gulped it down.
She peeled off her latex sanitary gloves and dumped them in the wastebasket. She also dumped another germ-avoidance item. Tonight was the first time Rex had made her wear one: an ASTM Level 3, fluid-resistant medical face mask. She wondered if he made his daughter wear one too. Probably not. Sanitary gloves were one thing. Though Rex was growing increasingly germ phobic, when he looked at Gretchen she knew that he saw a reflection of himself. He wouldn’t want that hidden behind a face mask.
The sound of Rex addressing the NRA convention on the TV in his bedroom faded into the distance as Natalia hurried down the back staircase of the White House. She felt moistness on her neck and wiped it away with her kimono sleeve. She put the fabric to her nose and took a whiff of the damp, foul-smelling spot: definitely Rex’s slobber. Before the age of seventy, Rex never drooled on her neck when he climaxed. She snickered. It was almost as if now that he was too old to produce more than a few drops of semen, his oral excretion while having sex made up for it.
The make-a-baby sex had taken longer tonight than last night. She remembered realizing that she would be in for a long haul when she entered his bedroom and found him watching CNN instead of FOX News. On TV, Christian Anderson was interviewing three prominent psychiatrists. They were discussing the “dangerous psychological implications” of the President’s latest cabinet-member-firing-by-hate-filled tweet. “Faggot, I’m not a power-hungry maniac,” Rex shouted at Anderson’s image on TV. “They should make me fucking king! I’ll send you all to fucking Siberia!”
Fuming, Rex had clicked the remote to FOX News and motioned for her to approach his throne/chair. He took a sip of Diet Coke, as if to fortify himself. “Got to show the world I’m a stud,” he muttered. “Got to knock you up.” He raised his hooded eyes and looked her up and down with obvious disgust. “How about it, FLOTUS?”
“How about what?” she said, trying to stay calm.
“How about, for once, you make me want to fuck you?”
She untied her kimono and let it drop to the floor. “This used to do it for you,” she said, forcing herself to sound alluring. She kneeled before him, leaned closer, and placed her hands under her ample breasts. Then she pressed them into his face. He grabbed her right breast, latched onto the nipple, and sucked. When she first dated Rex, sucking boob had been an instant turn-on for him. Not tonight. One slurp, and he shoved her breast away and spit. “Shit! You’re dripping sour fucking milk!” She couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Must be the hormone shots,” she said, wiping off the drop of clear liquid on her breast.
She had then walked over to a cabinet that held porn DVDs. “What’s your pleasure?” He pointed to a DVD on the floor.
What happened next still galled her. Talk about a new low. The DVD Rex requested was one starring Windy Darling, the porn star who bragged to the press that she had an affair with him during the Presidential campaign. Natalia fought the urge to hurl the DVD at his head. She slipped it into the DVD player instead. Anything to get tonight over with.
Rex had denied his affair with Windy Darling, of course, but his reaction to the tape convinced her that he was lying. His face turned crimson, spittle oozing from the corners of his mouth, as he watched Windy’s size-EEEE breasts swaying like oversized coconuts on the DVD while she was humped from behind. As much as he loves fake news, Natalia thought, he loves fake breasts even more. Then the camera angle widened to reveal who was humping Windy: a jock wearing a Rex Funck Halloween mask. She almost burst out laughing. Not Rex. It pumped him up to pump away faster.
After fifteen minutes, even the Windy Darling DVD hadn’t done it for him. He grabbed the remote and resorted to a visual stimulation guaranteed to make him come: a DVR of himself, in this case addressing the NRA Convention in Dallas.
“Democrats are stupid losers; they’re morons! They want to disarm law-abiding Americans at the same time they release dangerous criminal animals and savage gang members onto our streets! Well, no way! Not on my watch!”
At least I didn’t have to listen to his State of the Union Address again, she thought.
Natalia descended the back staircase to the first floor of the White House and hustled down the hall to the Vermeil Room. In the glare from the lights on the White House lawn that filtered through the curtains, she walked over to the melancholy portrait of Jackie Kennedy. She kneeled in prayer. “You are my patron saint,” she whispered, staring up at the wistful smile on Jackie’s face. “Even though I won’t see you again after tomorrow, I hope and pray, you will be in my heart.” She left the Vermeil Room and took the service elevator down to the White House basement. Now comes the moment of truth, she thought.
A U.D. officer was posted outside the swinging doors to the staff-cafeteria kitchen. He didn’t glance up at her as she walked inside. It was empty except for the petite young Vietnamese cooks cutting onions and peeling potatoes in a far corner. She checked her watch: 1:30 a.m. If she was going to escape from the White House through here tomorrow night, this would be an ideal time.
She looked around for Stella. Usually she found the baker up to her elbows in biscuit dough, but the 50-gallon bowl of the sticky mixture sat on a counter, untouched. She heard giggles from the walk-in refrigerator and noticed the heavy door was ajar. She stepped closer. What she spotted inside surprised her: Stella was leaning against a shelf lined with milk cartons, sticks of butter, and boxes of eggs. Her arms were around a young black female uniformed U.D. officer. They were kissing tenderly.
Natalia backed away, but Stella spotted her.
“Madame First Lady!”
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“No worries,” said Stella. “This is U.D. Officer Tallisha Jones. She works the staff-entrance security checkpoint.”
Tallisha lowered her eyes in embarrassment. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
Stella squeezed her hand, as if to reassure her that she was among friends. “Tallisha and me met at the staff party last Christmas. We’ve been together almost a year. In fact, I just asked her to marry me!”
“How nice!” Natalia smiled at Tallisha. “Stella’s the best! I hope you said yes.”
She laughed, relaxing. “I did!”
Stella reached behind the milk bottles and grabbed a magnum of Veuve Clicquot that was stash
ed there. A White House napkin was stuffed into the open top. “I saved this champagne from the last state dinner. There oughta be enough left for three glasses. Can’t promise it’s still bubbly, but wanna join us in a toast?”
Natalia stepped over to the women. “It will be my pleasure!”
Ladies, I have a good feeling you are going to be my Zlatorogs too, she thought. My good African-American Zlatorogs.
Chapter 11
The White House
December 17, 8:00 a.m.
“What the fuck?”
U.D. Officer James Conner gaped out the window at the tall figure towering over Angel. The two were waiting their turn to enter the security checkpoint.
Spotting them, Tallisha waved a White House usher in line ahead of them through the metal detector. “Say, what?” she whispered under her breath.
“Yo, Tallisha,” Angel said with a smile as he walked in. He threw his red Gucci satchel, jacket, and cowboy boots into the X-ray bin, and then motioned for the person behind him to do the same with her metal-studded motorcycle boots and bulging black garment bag. He turned to Conner and his smile faded. “Dude, you got an ID badge for my friend here, Moon Kusnetzov?” He handed his keys and cell phone to the officer, along with Moon’s.
Conner stored them under the counter, then hitched up his pants, put his hand on his crotch, and hastily rearranged his balls, a gesture Angel had seen him do whenever he was about to play macho-asshole cop. “You got passports?”
“Sure thing.” Angel flashed his passport.
Ignoring it, Conner grabbed Moon’s passport out of her hand it and studied it. “Says here Moon Kusnetzov is a twenty-eight-year-old man, but your friend don’t exactly look like one, Angel.” He took in Moon’s pink-streaked, bob-and-bangs black wig; garish makeup; “wife-beater” T-shirt that revealed substantial cleavage; and bulge at Moon’s crotch. “Not unless you call a person with tits and a dick a man.”
Moon grabbed her crotch. “Dude,” she said in a low, but definitely feminine voice, “you call a person with tits and a dick a trans woman.”
Angel glared at Conner. “And you call a person who gives a trans woman shit a motherfucking, sexist, pig-ignorant redneck asswipe!”
“Is that right?” Conner turned to Moon. “I need you to remove your wig and throw it in the bin. Gotta make sure you’re not hiding nothing.”
Stone-faced, she removed her wig, revealing her shaved head.
He grimaced. “Sorry I asked.”
Suddenly, Tallisha was in Conner’s face. “Give Moon Whatever her ID badge, fool, or I’ll call HR on you!” She waved Angel and Moon through the metal detector.
Conner punched a button on his computer. An ID with “Moon Kusnetsov” spit out of the printer. Tallisha tucked it into a plastic holder attached to a necklace cord. As Moon repositioned her wig, Tallisha handed her the ID. “Welcome to the White House.”
Conner eyed the X-ray screen as Moon’s garment bag glided along the X-ray machine belt. “Looks like you got a bunch of dresses in there.”
“They’re for FLOTUS,” said Angel.
“I bet,” said Conner. He winked at Moon. “Ask nicely, maybe she’ll let you wear one!”
Chapter 12
The White House
December 17, 8:30 a.m.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!”
Natalia looked up from the daily schedule that Sally-Ann was reviewing with her on her iPad to see who was squealing excitedly at the bedroom door. Sally-Ann looked too. “Oh my God is right,” she murmured.
Angel nudged Moon into the room, but she wavered, seemingly spellbound by the posh surroundings.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!”
“Natalia, Sally-Ann, meet Moon, my intern,” said Angel. “Moon’s, like, helping me out today.”
Moon gazed at Natalia, who was still in her bathrobe, her hair askew; she had just climbed out of bed. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, even without makeup, Madame FLOTUS, you are so stunning!”
Natalia wasn’t sure what Angel was up to, but she knew it wouldn’t include nosy Sally-Ann, or maid/spy Hilda, who was clipping the stems of white roses in a service alcove. “Sally-Ann, Hilda, you may go.”
Sally-Ann balked: “I don’t know what you’re wearing for the—”
“Angel will help me decide. OUT!”
Sally-Ann grabbed her tote bag from a chair, stuffed in her iPad, and headed for the door. Oblivious, Hilda continued clipping the rose stems.
“Odložte nožnice a choďte,” Natalia shouted.
In the service alcove, Hilda dropped the clippers on the counter and scurried out after Sally-Ann, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Natalia led Angel and Moon into the salon and flicked on a noisy hair dryer. She then opened the closet door wide and clicked the garment carousel into deafening high gear.
Moon knelt down on one knee and bowed her head. “Madame FLOTUS, I am so, so, SO honored and excited to meet you! Like, ohmygod, ohmygod, this is my dream come true!” She grabbed Natalia’s hand and kissed it, tears streaming down her face.
Natalia turned to Angel. “Who is this person?”
“Moon’s transitioning from male to female, so please refer to her as ‘she,’ not ‘he.’ She’s been on HRT for, like, a year. Y’know, estrogen. Makes her super emotional.”
“Forgive me.” Moon sniffled.
“It’s okay, Moon, I know all about estrogen.” She helped her up, then pulled a Kleenex from a box on the makeup counter and handed it to her. Moon wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
Angel motioned to Moon. “Yo, show her.”
Moon he laid the garment bag on the counter and unzipped it, then reached under a sea-blue sequined evening gown and pulled out a folder. She opened it gingerly, as if it were filled with rare manuscripts, then spread out its dozen 8x10 glossy color photos on the counter.
Natalia couldn’t believe her eyes as she gazed at the photos: There she was, the First Lady, in the sea-blue sequined gown from the garment bag; in a purple sheath she didn’t recognize; and in a pink-tulle ball gown fit for Cinderella that she had never worn. In each photo, she was wearing a tight neck bandana of a matching color, an item of clothing that she also had never worn.
She looked at Moon suspiciously. “How is this possible? Photoshop?”
Angel chuckled. “Mi amor, these photos aren’t you, they’re Moon! On weekends, Moon is you!”
“Me?”
“Moon stars as FLOTUS in a show at Cross Queen, a female impersonator club in South Beach.”
Natalia looked up from the photos to study the “she” with breasts and a bulging crotch. “Wow! But…how do you do it?”
Moon put her hand over her heart. “You can’t imagine how much this means to me, Madame FLOTUS. Ohmygod, I try so hard to impersonate you faithfully in every way, like with my makeup, my hair—”
“I styled Moon’s ‘Natalia wig’ and gave her makeup tips back in Miami,” said Angel. “That’s how we met.”
“I can even talk like you,” said Moon in a voice that was suddenly higher and dripping with Natalia’s Slovak accent. “Like, ohmygod, you’re my idol, Madame FLOTUS!” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I will do anything for you. Anything! Just tell me how I can help you escape from that vulgar, foulmouthed beast you’re shackled to!”
“Escape?” Natalia turned to Angel. “I thought you wanted me to go to the staff kitchen tonight and that Stella and her friend, Tallisha—”
“Stella’s friends with Tallisha?”
“They’re getting married.”
“No shit!” Angel grinned. “I knew Tallisha was lesbiana! Bravo!”
“Stella said they would sneak me out. It will make the ghost happy.”
“What ghost?”
“President Lincoln! I told you, Lincoln’s ghost haunts the White House because it hates Rex. Stella hates Rex too. That’s why she’ll help. Like in the movies. She and Tallisha will hide me in a laundry bin full of dirty towels and load me into the lau
ndry truck that comes at 5 a.m. The truck driver is a Somali immigrant; he’s Muslim. ICE won’t let his wife and kids into the country. The Muslim truck driver hates Rex most of all.”
“So great, everyone hates Rex,” said Angel. “Only it’s not you your pals in the kitchen are gonna smuggle outta there tonight. It’s Moon, acting and looking like you!”
“Where will I be?”
“Long gone.”
“What?”
“Escaping from the staff kitchen’s too risky. You can only try it in the middle of the night. That means in the morning, when Sally-Ann walks into your bedroom to wake you up and finds you’ve split, President Asshole will send the Secret Service after you. He’s such a drama queen, he could call out the National Guard, or the army. By tomorrow morning, you already gotta be, like, halfway across the country.”
“What about Moon? What if they catch her?”
“I’ll tell the truth,” Moon said. “I’ve got no clue where you went. Angel isn’t paying me for this. It’s my privilege to help you, my idol, the muse for my art, escape a monster!”
Natalia turned to Angel. “Where am I going? Where am I meeting Vaclav?”
“No names! You didn’t hear that name, Moon!”
She put her fingers in her ears. “It’s scrubbed from my memory forever.”
“I’ll tell you the plan when we’re outta here,” Angel said to Natalia. “What time’s the family Christmas card photo shoot today?”
“11 a.m.”
He checked his watch. “We’ve got, like, ninety minutes to prep! Let’s pinche do this!”
Chapter 13
The White House
December 17, 9:00 a.m.
Natalia sat nervously in the styling chair, her back to the mirror, the whine of the electric razor in her ears. Ten minutes ago, Angel had said, “I’m not letting you watch. If you see what I’m doing, you’ll totally lose it.” Now he clicked off the razor. “Muy bien!”
The First Lady Escapes Page 7