Approaching her desk, I take a quick look over my shoulder and recheck the anteroom, just to be safe. I’m still alone.
I turn back to the desk and feel my heart pound against my rib cage. The silence is overwhelming. I hear the ebb and flow of my own labored breathing. It’s a steady ocean tide. In… and always out. Just like that first night watching Simon. Across the hall, my phone starts ringing. I spin around in a panic, thinking it’s someone at the door. It’s okay, I tell myself as it continues to ring. Just stay on course.
Trying to be systematic, I ignore the pile of files on her desk. She’s too smart to leave anything in the open. Luckily, there’re some things you can’t hide. Heading straight for her phone, I hit the Call Log button and keep my eyes on the digital screen. In an instant, I have the names and phone numbers of the last twenty-two people who called her.
Scrolling through the list, the first thing that jumps out is how many Outside Calls she has. She’s either getting called from a lot of pay phones or a lot of bigshots. Neither one is good. When I’m done with the list, there’re at least five people I can’t identify. I search around for a pad and pen to jot them down. But before I can even get near her “Ask Me About My Grandchildren” pencil cup, I hear a key in the main door of the anteroom. Someone’s there.
I race out of Pam’s office as fast as I can, bounding into the anteroom just as the main door swings open.
“What the hell’s going on?” Julian asks. “Why’d you lock the door?”
“Nuh… Nothing,” I say, out of breath. “Just straightening the anteroom.”
“I get it,” he says with a laugh. “Straightening the anteroom.”
I refuse to acknowledge what’s got to be Julian’s oldest joke. Adding an “-ing” to create euphemisms for masturbation. Straightening the anteroom. Faxing the document. Filing my memo. It really does work, but I’ll never give him the pleasure of knowing it.
“Have you seen Pam?” I ask, in no mood to play around.
“Yeah, she was headed over to the First Lady’s party.”
I move toward the door without another word.
“Where you going?” Julian asks.
“To check out the Rose Garden-I have to speak to her.”
“I’m sure you do, Garrick,” he says with a wink. “You do what you have to.”
“Huh?”
“Checking out the Rose Garden.”
It’s a five-minute walk from my office to the Rose Garden. Or a two-minute run. Cutting through the West Wing and looking at my watch, I’m already twenty minutes late. Accounting for the First Family’s guaranteed lag time, that should put me there right on time. As I push open the doors to the West Colonnade, I expect to see a crowd. I find a mob.
There must be at least a couple hundred people-all of them angling toward the podium at the far end of the Rose Garden. Instinctively, I start glancing at ID badges. Most people have orange backgrounds-limited to the OEOB. A few have blue. And the ones who’re hiding their badges in their shirt pockets-those’re the interns. That’s why the garden’s so full. Everyone’s invited. The odd part is, even young staffers don’t usually get this excited by an event.
Behind me, I hear a man’s voice say, “I been standing in lines like this my entire life.”
I stand on my tiptoes and crane my neck to see over the crowd. That’s when I realize this isn’t your standard event. With the President’s lead shrinking, they need the next few hours to be back-to-back grand slams. First the family party; then the live interview. They’re putting on the ultimate pretty face for America-and sparing no expense to pull it off.
Next to the podium is the object of everyone’s attention: an enormous vanilla-frosted sheet cake with an uncanny likeness of the First Lady drawn in different colored icings. To the right of the cake, behind a long velvet rope, is the Dateline team, collecting footage for tonight’s intro. In front of them are two men with cameras. White House photographers. Damn, Trey’s ruthless. Get a slice of cake; have your picture taken with Mickey and Minnie. In the final months before the election, they want us all to look like family. Family first.
Ignoring the photo-op, I step deeper into the crowd. I need to find Pam. I elbow my way through the sea of fellow staffers, searching for her blond hair.
Without warning, the mob begins to rumble. The cheers start up front and work their way to the back. In one sudden rush, the whole group presses forward. Clapping. Shouting. Whistling. The First Family’s here.
With the President on her right and Nora and Christopher on her left, Susan Hartson greets the crowd as if she’s surprised by the two hundred people on her lawn. As always, there’s a velvet rope that separates them from the staff, but the President shakes every hand that’s extended over it. Wearing a red-striped tie and a light blue shirt under his standard navy suit, he looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Behind him, the First Lady is beaming with requisite joy, followed by Christopher, who’s wearing the same color shirt as his dad but without the tie. Nice touch. Finally, bringing up the rear, in a tasteful black skirt, is Nora. She’s carrying a birthday present with red, white, and blue wrapping paper. As they move toward the podium, three TV crews, including the Dateline team, capture the moment. It’s a brilliant event. Everyone-the staff, the Hartsons, all of us-we’re one big happy family. As long as we stay on our side of the rope.
Truly, the definition of “tone deaf” is a herd of White House staffers singing “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs. By the time we’re done with the song, I’m about a quarter way through the crowd. Still no Pam.
“Time for presents,” the President announces. On cue, Christopher and Nora step up to the podium. For this, I stop.
She stands in front of us with a convincing smile. A month ago, I would’ve believed it. Today, I’m not even close to fooled. She’s miserable up there.
Brushing his dark hair from his eyes and approaching the microphone with adolescent pride, Christopher lowers it to his height. “Mom, if you’d join us… ” he says. As the First Lady steps forward, Nora leans awkwardly into the mike. “This is a present from me, Chris, and Dad,” she begins. “And since we didn’t want you to return it, we decided that I’d be the one to pick it out.” The crowd fills in the sitcom laugh track. “Anyway, this is from us to you.”
Nora picks up the red, white, and blue box that I know she didn’t wrap and hands it over. But as the First Lady peels off the wrapping paper, something happens. There’s a new expression on Nora’s face. Her eyes dance with nervous excitement. This isn’t part of the script. It’s no longer Nora and the First Lady. It’s just a daughter giving her mom a birthday present. The way Nora’s bouncing on her heels, she’s dying for Mom to like it.
The moment the box is opened, the crowd oooohs and ahhhhs. The TV crews pull in for the close-up. Inside is a handmade gold bracelet studded with tiny sapphires. Taking it out, Mrs. Hartson’s first reaction-the first thing she does-is pure instinct. In slow motion, she turns to Dateline’s camera with a radiant look and says, “Thank you, Nora and Chris. I love you.”
Almost an hour and a half later, I’m back in my office, attempting to sort through the nightly pile of mail. I beeped Pam two more times. She hasn’t answered. Trying to squash the migraine that’s ricocheting through my skull, I open my top drawer and finger through my collection of medicines: Maalox, Sudafed, cetirizine… always prepared. I grab a plastic bottle of Tylenol and fight with the childproof lid. In no mood to get water, I tilt my head back and swallow them on the spot. They don’t go down easily.