by Carter Blake
Past presidents would fill front of the space with photos of First Family: First Children, First Pets, First Ladies—none of those are photos in my life. As much as I like a good, clean desk, it can get a bit distracting.
Another habit I didn’t carry over from the past presidents is taking evening hours to go over briefings. That’s something I do during business hours, and fortunately, my staff trusts me to absorb crucial documents like security briefings on my own during the workday.
They usually do, anyway.
“Mr President?”
They usually do, anyway.
Lawrence is standing silently right next to the Resolute desk. I didn’t even hear him come in.
After he tries to get my attention, I simply keep reading. It’s not that I’m intentionally ignoring my chief of staff or trying to send him a message about interrupting me, but it’s just that I don’t want to lose my place in this document.
“Ahem. Excuse me, Henry.”
“Just come right in, Lawrence, please. And were you clearing your throat or just saying ‘ahem’?”
“I was trying to get your attention.”
“You’ve officially succeeded,” I say, looking up from the briefing.
“What’s so urgent this morning, Lawrence?”
“Your schedule, actually.”
“My schedule?”
“So far, you’ve only received the daily security briefing. You haven’t been briefed about today’s schedule.”
Slowly closing the briefing, I regard Lawrence with a measured modesty. I should’ve caught on to that earlier.
“Is this the first day I haven’t been briefed about that?” I ask.
“Not the first, Henry.”
“Seriously?”
“Maybe the third or fourth.”
“Oh, that’s not so bad,” I respond.
“Not at all, considering your track record. Do you mind?” he says with a cheeky grin.
Lawrence takes a seat in one of the decorative chairs flanking the desk. I notice he’s carrying a stapled packet of papers.
“Alright old friend, lay it on me.”
“I’m not that old, you know,” he protests.
“No, but you do look it,” I tease.
“This is why you were elected, Henry. Your ultimate honesty.”
Lawrence slams the stapled pages on top of the Resolute desk.
“What’s that? And why are you angry at it?” I ask.
“I’m not, although I’m annoyed you have to take time out of your schedule to take a look at it.”
I purposely pull the packet closer to take a quick glance at what’s printed on the top page. “That’s okay, it’s just a list of names. And I’m almost done reading them.”
“Good, because you have a thirty-five minute meet and greet coming up.”
“Who and where?” I ask, barely paying attention. I’m more focused on what the hell is going on with the untitled list of names in front of me.
“Everyone, but no one important,” Lawrence answers. “Right here in the Oval.”
“Oh, just great. So, Kitty Kelley, Brenda Maddox, Rick Perlstein. All potential biographers, right?”
“Don’t let anyone tell you any different, Henry, but you’re a smart one sometimes.”
“Hey, Lawrence.” I look up at my grinning chief of staff. “Don’t make me call your wife and have her tell you to play nice.”
“Playing dirty so quickly today, I see.”
“Okay, so obviously I need to choose one?”
“Just select a name at random,” Lawrence suggests.
“Fine,” I look back down at the dozens of names printed on the first page. “Do we have any darts? I could throw one.”
“I’ll go check.” Lawrence rises from his chair and I can’t tell if he’s serious about finding some. “But, seriously, pick a name. Meet and greet in fifteen.”
While looking back up to watch Lawrence leave, I lift my forefinger up high into the air before letting it fall slowly back onto the paper.
The moment the door between the Oval office and the chief of staff’s office closes, I look down at where my finger landed. The tip of my finger ended up perfectly underneath a name that’s on top of the list.
Beatrice Barlow.
No. No, that’s not her.
“Lawrence, get back in here.”
It can’t be—it has to be another writer with the same name.
By the time I’m done staring at the name on the list, making sure I’m reading it correctly, my chief of staff has magically reappeared three feet in front of the desk.
“What do you need?”
A lot happened—some of which is public knowledge—about how I was elected to the U.S. Senate at thirty, and the presidency at age thirty-five.
“There’s one name here I don’t recognize.”
“Which one?”
Some of what happened isn’t public knowledge—or anyone’s, but my own.
“This Beatrice Barlow. Who is she?”
Like how I spent my entire senatorial campaign getting to know and connecting with one of the campaign aides.
“You didn’t read her piece on the Digest last year, Henry?”
Or, how I had to cut off the connection the night of my senatorial win.
Or, how I had to cut off the connection the night of my senatorial win.
Being a thirty-year-old senator—and later a thirty-five-year-old president—were both historic and controversial enough situations without letting any potential scandals get in the damn way.
“I’m afraid not,” I lie, unable to look up from the name on the list.
“It won a Pulitzer.”
“Okay, then. Beatrice Barlow it is.”
I move my hand from the list, and look up at my bewildered chief of staff.
Lawrence gives me a look, a look that tells me he knows more than he’s letting on.
He was there during the campaign. He knows full well who she is, but even he doesn’t know about the more intimate history—or if he does, he’s never said anything.
“Are you sure, Henry?”
“You know we me well enough that once I’ve made up my mind, that’s it.”
“Very good. We’ll contact her shortly.”
I take a deep, slow breath.
“Are you okay, Henry?”
“Meet and greet is in what, ten minutes by now?”
“We can push it back. You’re the president, after all.”
“There’s no reason that’s necessary.”
“Whatever you say. Ten minutes, and after that will be your meeting with the Hereditary Prince of Lichtenstein in the Rose Garden.”
“Right, the photo op. I’ll make sure to look my prettiest.” I fight the urge to look down at where my finger is still resting on the list.
“I know how hard that is for you.”
Lawrence disappears as quickly back into his office as he appeared in mine.
I flip the list over so I don’t have to look at it any more right now.
Napoleon once said that, “There is no such thing as an accident; it is fate misnamed.”
Oh, how true it was.
Beatrice
“Good night, princesses and princes.”
Sometimes, Monty isn’t so bad. Like when he shouts some weird goodbye when most of us are just trying to leave.
It seems like I’m leaving ahead of everybody, almost like I’m trying to win a race out of the office. The reality of the situation is the same as it’s been since this morning—I simply don’t feel like I have as full a grasp of reality as I usually do.
“Bye, everybody!” I shout to the empty air in front of me.
Even if I weren’t already outside, I doubt anyone would’ve heard me.
And I’m usually better at saying goodbye than that, regardless. I’m supposedly known for my way with words. Although I tend to do better in writing, even when I’m not in a day-long shock over crazy news from the freaki
ng White House.
I stop where I am—in the middle of the empty sidewalk—for a second.
There’s no reason I should be conflicted about this. Okay, maybe there’s a couple, but nothing that should override how fucking amazing this is.
I’m just in shock. I should be celebrating. That’ll put me in the proper mindset.
So, how do I go about doing that?
I decide that this means stopping at the liquor store I always pass on my way home. It’s an easy walk from my apartment, but it’s not a business I frequent.
I keep meaning to try that writer thing of having a glass of wine or scotch next to me while I work, but not having anything stronger than coffee on my desk has worked pretty damn well—so far.
Maybe when I’m an established biographer, I can turn into a Bukowski-style souse, or just go full-on fucking gonzo like Hunter S. Thompson or something.
But for now I’ll stick with a mid-level bottle of champagne tonight, and that’ll be as crazy as I get.
I resist the urge to stop at the small farmers’ market that’s starting to close in front of the liquor store—they have the best Red Delicious apples in the city. Instead, I walk into the liquor store like I’ve done it a million times and grab the closest thing that resembles a champagne bottle.
There’s no price tag on the bottle, and I’m still feeling too distracted and dazed to ask or care.
There’s one person in front of me when I get to the register—it’s a woman around my age, paying for several boxes of red wine.
She also has a large gray pit bull with her on a leash. Some stores in D.C. can be lax with those pesky ‘no pets in the store’ laws.
“Thanks, Don,” the woman says in a raspy voice to the older guy at the register.
“Don’t leave yet,” Don the cashier tells her.
He then tosses what I recognize as an expensive-ass dog treat in the dog’s direction. The dog has no trouble catching the treat in his mouth, and soon after that, he and his human are out the door.
“Are those dried liver treats you have there?” I ask while setting my champagne on the counter.
“Yeah, for dogs…usually.” Don the cashier smiles at his own joke. “That’ll be forty for the champagne.”
“Oh, thank Christ, I thought it was gonna be like three hundred or something.”
“The prices are under the bottles, you know,” he tells me, and for a second, I almost look at the bottom of the bottle before I realize he means on the shelves.
Fuck, I’m not at my sharpest. It’s time to celebrate, though, and that doesn’t just mean me.
“Can I buy some of those treats you have by the register?” I ask.
“We sell those in actual, honest-to-goodness packaging, if you prefer.”
I end up buying a couple of those honest-to-goodness packages of expensive-ass dog treats, which end up being more expensive than the champagne.
When I get home a few minutes later and hear my apartment door rattling just before stepping inside, I know it was money well-spent.
“Duke,” I say, unlocking the door and stepping carefully. “I know you’re excited to see me, but I wish you wouldn’t bang against the door like that.”
The lovable golden retriever looks up at me quietly, wagging his tail.
“Oh, who am I kidding? I love it. Here, have all the treats in the world.”
Duke is an older pup from a rescue organization. I still get a little misty-eyed thinking of the way he was left abandoned on the side of the highway.
Duke slobbers a pair of treats from the palm of my hand.
“Time to celebrate!” I tell Duke. “Don’t you feel like celebrating me getting hired by the White House for one of the most prestigious writing gigs in the country?”
Duke continues to be sweet and quiet, his tail starting to slow down as confusion creeps into his adoring gaze.
“Let me guess, you don’t really feel like celebrating? You just feel hungry. Well, fuck it, I’m hungry, too.”
It starts to feel like any other evening after work as I go through the ritual of taking Duke out for a quick relief walk before feeding him and thinking about what to feed myself.
Instead of opening the champagne, I open the fridge to assess the situation.
“I should’ve stopped at the damn farmers market, after all,” I say to the sad collection of produce I see.
There’s still enough to make some sort of dinner, but seriously, how am I still not going fucking crazy celebrating?
Maybe I should invite some friends over. Or, just maybe, I could start by telling someone about what happened.
I stick with the routine, gathering ingredients, getting the cutting board ready, moving around my kitchen as if my whole world wasn’t thrown into a crazy, exciting, unforeseen turn into an unforeseeable future.
A future which just might be fucking amazing.
Although…I remember the last time I let myself have that attitude. I can’t forget that lesson.
“Too much apprehension, not enough celebration,” I say aloud to a sleeping Duke.
Stepping over him, I decide that someone else’s excitement might help put those worries to rest.
But who would be more excited than I am about my own good news? After I start chopping vegetables, the answer seems obvious.
I unlock my phone, sift through my contacts, and hit dial. I switch it over to speaker and go back to my chopping.
I eye the champagne as the phone rings, but I decide to break out some supermarket wine instead.
“Bea! How long has it been?”
My mother’s voice is so loud through the speaker that Duke wakes up.
“I don’t know, a week?” I say while looking for a corkscrew. “Hold on, I’m trying to open some wine.”
“You’re cooking dinner, aren’t you?” she asks. “It’s around dinner time there, right?”
“You know it’s only an hour difference, Mom. Wait...how did you know I was cooking?”
“Usually that’s when you call, Bea, after pouring a glass of wine, and then you say you can use some of it for cooking, too.”
I pour a generous helping of Pinot Noir into a mug.
“I guess I do say that.” I take a healthy gulp of wine—now it’s time to celebrate. “So, there’s something that happened.”
“Is it something good, but you’re confused about it?” my mother asks.
I lay out a few celery sticks and get to work chopping.
“I guess…”
A loud pounding on my door makes me drop my knife so it’s sticking into the wooden chopping board.
“Fuck, hold on, Mom. Who the hell would be…”
After another robust swig of wine, I walk over to the door quietly to look through the peephole.
Getting closer to the door, I hear a muttered sentence on the other side. Something like “The outside is clear.”
Finally looking through the peephole, I actually gasp.
“What is it, Bea?”
I realize I’m still holding my phone.
“I said hold on,” I tell my mother.
What I see through the peephole is something I did not predict and probably wouldn’t have in a million years.
Matching lapel pins.
Black suits.
Earpieces.
I know the getup, and I can tell from where I am it’s no costume. These two are Secret Service agents.
Before that even registers, I find myself yelling through the door.
“May I help you?”
“Miss Barlow?”
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“We’re Secret Service agents, ma’am?”
“Do you have a badge or some credentials?”
The agent wordlessly flashes his badge in front of the peephole, but I’m already convinced he’s for real.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Miss Barlow, we have the President of the United States here to see you. May we come in, plea
se?”
I nod to myself like it’s what I expected to hear.
But it’s not what I expected to hear.
Not at all.
“Mom, I got to go. The president is here to see me.”
She gets half a word out before I hang up on her—I’ll apologize later.
I’m sure she’ll understand.
Beatrice
I can’t believe what I just heard. There’s no way on Earth they said what I think they just said.
The President, here? In my apartment? How much wine have I drunk while cooking?
“Miss Barlow?”
The firm voice booms in through the door, confirming the fact that yes, indeed, the President of the United States of America is just about to walk into my apartment.
I look around and cringe at the sight, heart thudding in my chest. My one-bedroom D.C. apartment looks as though whoever decorated it has no social life, is obsessed with politics, and lives for their work.
I mean, it’s not an incorrect evaluation.
“Umm, alright, just a moment!”
I mutter a hasty goodbye to my mother on the phone, promising to call her back shortly and hang up.
I frantically dart around my tiny apartment and pick up what stray pieces of clothing, newspapers, magazines, and wine glasses I can find, and I shove them into a nearby closet.
I must remember to get those later.
There’s another impatient knock at the door, and I fight the urge to tell them to hold their horses, given that the Secret Service is the one doing the knocking.
Of course, what am I doing, making the fucking President wait for me?
Good Lord, Beatrice, get a grip on reality here.
I trot over to the door and fumble with the deadbolt while I unlock it, swinging the door open to reveal some very large and intimidating-looking men.
The man in front brushes past me and into my apartment without a single word and starts looking around.
“Right.”
He walks around, searching for what, I don’t know, but I feel like I’m under a microscope while I silently stand there.
He opens my closet—the one where I had just hastily stuck all my mess into—and chuckles softly, gives me an amused glance, and nods before he shuts it again. He moves to my kitchen area, looking in and around my plants.