by Gage Grayson
I take a step back away from my door.
“So, anyway, I’m getting the feeling I shouldn’t go in there now,” I say.
“Oh, no, Bea…I mean, yes, actually. Yes, you should. But with me—hey, I’m twisting my own words, now.”
“Are you nervous about something?” I ask.
“Why don’t we take a step inside your office?”
Resisting the urge to take an anxious look around to see if anyone overheard that ominous question, I keep my eyes focused on Fiona’s. As she twists the doorknob behind her, she gives me a smile that’s almost as awkward and fake as Monty’s a few moments ago.
Fiona gracefully moves backwards with the door as it opens into my office, getting another chuckle from both of us. Mine sounds nervous though.
Fiona moves and the door closes itself. It’s finally time for me to speak.
“So…what the, uh, fuck?” I note that Fiona does not look bothered as she sits down at my desk. “And why are you smiling?”
“Oh, nothing,” she says blankly.
“About the smiling?” My heart’s slowing down from its dead sprint while I sit down across the desk.
“About the smiling, about me waiting by your door and surely scaring you half to death by leading you into your goddamn office…”
“Sounds like you’re just realizing all this now,” I comment.
“You’ve zeroed right in on the human element as always. That’s why you’re still the toast of this fucking town.”
“So, it’s not nothing,” I say.
Fiona points at me, smiling, looking just a little more giddy than nervous. “Oh, like I said, nothing. Just a call for you, not long past seven, when I had to answer the phone my goddamn self.”
“You still get in that early?”
“That early? I haven’t been home in over twenty-four, my dear,” Fiona informs me.
All my nervousness, curiosity, and growing impatience are undercut by a creeping sense of guilt.
“You should’ve gotten your own goddamn Pulitzer,” I tell her.
Fiona throws her head back and lets out a loud laugh at the Art Deco ceiling tiles. “You mean in addition to yours?”
“Hey, I earned mine.”
Fiona shakes her head, laughter still in her eyes. “They don’t give out Pulitzers for hard work, my dear sweet Bea.”
“No?”
“We could spend all morning tearing into a semantic debate, or I could just tell you who called.”
“Okay, fine. Just tell me who fucking called already. Then we can have a larger philosophical debate about how I won that medal and a few months’ rent.”
I’m enjoying the view out the window behind my desk—I never really stopped to look at it. I’m also enjoying the weirdness and mystery of this morning, to the point I almost don’t want to know what the hell’s going on.
“It was…I guess you could say it was a building that called you,” Fiona allows.
“Of course it was. What else would it be? Are you okay? How long have you been in the office, again?” I ask.
“A mansion, specifically.”
My heart’s starting to pick up the pace again—not quite back into a sprint, but a nice jog turning into a bit of a run.
“What architectural style was this mansion?” I’m trying to play along and not let my nervousness get the best of me.
“It was…it is mostly neoclassical, with a bit of”
“Palladian?”
“Bingo,” declares Fiona.
My heart’s off again like it’s starring in fucking “Chariots of Fire.”
This is not just any mansion she’s talking about. This is maybe the most famous mansion in the country. And it’s where he lives.
Suddenly, I’m not really noticing the view anymore, and the room’s starting to feel smaller. I slightly lean over my desk, and Fiona comically leans towards me as well.
“The White House?” It comes out as a whisper.
I know it’s the fucking White House, but I’m still hoping I’m wrong, somehow.
“The very same.” Fiona whispers back.
Fuck.
The most famous mansion in the country and its most famous resident are both reminders of a part of my life I’m still trying to forget about years later.
“But who would be calling me from there?”
Maybe it has nothing to do with him. Lots of people work in the White House.
“Olivier’s office, supposedly.” Fiona answers, whispering even more quietly.
I sit straight back up in my chair and start talking loudly and clearly. That’s the Communications Director.
“Communications? What do they want with me?”
“Uh, I don’t know, but I don’t think they’re watching now, so you can relax.”
Yeah, my mind is on the president again, and not because he’s the president. It’s because I still haven’t forgotten the way he treated me when I last knew him—well, before he was a president of anything.
Trying to get out of my own mind, I focus on what Fiona might be thinking.
“Are you nervous?” The question just escapes me, and I’m not even sure what it means.
Luckily, Fiona looks less confused by it. She even gives another little laugh up at the ceiling.
“I’m not afraid of anyone pinching you from the Digest. You know, no one else is gonna run a piece like that one last year, the one that got you that medal and that few months’ rent.” Fiona’s getting into serious mode now, standing up at my desk. “You won’t get that impact—that impact you deserve, anywhere else.”
I stand up to match my editor in chief’s energy.
“It’s not about what I deserve. I’m just another tiny piece of the giant puzzle. And maybe I don’t fit. But maybe nobody really does, but I need to keep shouting at myself as much as anybody to remember to hold onto humanity and compassion as tightly as I can. Because as we keep witnessing time and again, the one thing that…”
I notice my editor-in-chief, standing, looking at me, smiling affectionately, waiting patiently.
“I didn’t just pound on the desk, did I?” I ask.
“No, but I think you were about to.”
“Fuck it. Did the old mansion leave a message?”
“The White House left a number, yes.” Now that she’s finished delivering the news, Fiona’s on her way out the door. “You can get it from Belle.”
“You handed the call off to her?”
“Of course not. I texted you that shit. Come on.”
“Oh…funny joke.”
“I’ve had better,” Fiona says as she turns the doorknob. “But I know how delicate these things can be.”
Collapsing back as I got the chair, I claw my phone out of my purse. The text is there, right on my screen—a phone number and nothing else.
He probably has nothing to do with this, and besides, I don’t give a damn that he’s reached the highest office in the land.
On the other hand, I do give a damn that we haven’t spoken since that night he was first elected senator. And I wasn’t even invited to the fucking victory party.
“Fiona?”
And I wasn’t even invited to the fucking victory party.
“Sure,” Fiona sighs, almost ready to open the door for real. “I can do one more question before getting back to the grind of this hugely important publica—”
“What do you think this is about?”
“If I had any idea, I would tell you. Whatever happens though…well, I trust you.”
“Trust me?” I ask.
“If there’s anyone in the universe as we know it that will make the right decision and do the right thing, it’s you.”
My editor-in-chief is out the door before I can respond. And before I can think about it any longer, I tap the phone number, prompting my phone to call it.
And it rings.
“Fuck.”
And it rings again.
“Yeah?”
That’s how my call is answered, with an impatient male voice, which makes me feel like I have the wrong number.
“Good morning. This is Beatrice Barlow from the DC Digest.”
“Oh, right. Okay, this won’t take long because it can’t—sorry if I seem curt. We’re just on a tight schedule as always.”
“Who is this, may I ask? Or what capacity…”
“I’m on the White House staff. Everyone here is a huge fan of your work, Miss Barlow, specifically your piece about the connection between famine and conflict.”
“Oh. I remember that one.”
“You should, it won you the Pulitzer,” the anonymous staffer responds.
“That was supposed to be a joke, sorry.”
“Oh, right.”
“But, yes, I did get a few months’ rent and a nice medal from that.”
“You also drew parallels in a frank way that put a long, long overdue human face on issues of hunger, of impoverished farmers, of the short lives that are marked by endless war, of the connections between famine and conflict and stability and power…”
“I remember, I wrote—”
“Please allow me to continue gushing for a moment, Miss Barlow. It wasn’t a book you wrote. It was an article—a compelling, accessible article that brought so many issues so clearly to the forefront, issues that can be easy to ignore or deny, but which are ignored at the peril of every living thing. Well, as you said, you wrote the thing, Miss Barlow.”
This mysterious staffer likes to talk more than he lets on, but at least he hasn’t mentioned the one subject I’ve been hoping to avoid.
“I appreciate it. And at least he hasn’t mentioned the one subjuct…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch…”
“Okay, this call is getting behind schedule. You made it to the top of this list.”
“What? Oh…”
The list this mystery staffer is referring to is the short list of the official White House biographer-to-be. After the Pulitzer win, my life was flooded with seemingly meaningless letters and phone calls from all sorts of organizations.
The biographer thing just got lost in the flood. I never thought it would lead to anything. I didn’t want it to, either.
“In actuality, at this point, Miss Barlow. Congratulations.”
Fuck, he’s just assuming that I would want the job.
“Just to be clear, you’re offering me the White House biographer position.”
“The Official Biographer position, Miss Barlow. Not only have you worked in politics before…”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Hmm, let’s see. The blurb after your article in the Digest, also the internet—we do try to vet people, like any employer—and I also work for the president, remember. Although you might know him better as a senator.”
“Senatorial candidate,” I correct the mystery staffer.
He’s right, though. It’s no secret that I worked on Thatcher’s senatorial campaign.
“Before I jump off this call, Miss Barlow, I must speculate that you enjoyed working on a winning campaign, did you not? Especially with an idealistic young candidate who seems to share so many of your passions.”
“Political passions, maybe. I don’t really know how he felt…”
The Mystery Staffer’s confusion can be heard loud and clear through the silence on the other end.
Yeah, I fell for him. Before he was president, or senator.
And he fell for me, too.
Before, for whatever fucking ready, he fell back.
Far away from me.
The fanboy mystery staffer hangs up, leaving me with a lot to digest indeed.
Chapter 3
Henry
The Resolute desk isn’t the favorite desk that I’ve ever had, but it’s close.
The size is a bit much for my taste. There’s too much empty space—space that’s supposed to either remain empty-looking and powerful, or be filled with family photos.
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.”