“Maybe that’s when Manning found out about the kid.”
For the second time, Dreidel was silent.
Rogo didn’t say a word. Unloading the second picture from his own box, he propped open the back leg of the black matte picture frame and stood it up on the worktable. Inside was a close-up photo of Boyle and his wife, the apples of their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera. From the bushiness of his mustache and the thickness of his hairline, the photo was an old one. Two people in love.
“What else you got in there besides photos?” Dreidel asked, turning the box slightly and reading the word Misc. on the main label.
“Mostly desk stuff,” Rogo said as he emptied the box, pulling out a hardcover book about the history of genocide, a softcover about the legacy of the Irish, and a rubber-banded preview copy of a highly critical book called The Manning Myth.
“I remember when that came out,” Dreidel said. “Pompous ass never even called us to fact-check.”
“I just can’t believe they keep all this crap,” Rogo said as he pulled out a decade-old parking pass for the Kennedy Center.
“To you, it’s crap — to the library, it’s history.”
“Let me tell you something — even to the library, this crap is crap,” Rogo said, unloading a small stack of taxi receipts, a scrap of paper with handwritten directions to the Arena Stage, a blank RSVP card to someone’s wedding, a finger-paint drawing with the words Uncle Ron neatly printed on top, and a small spiral notebook with the Washington Redskins football logo on the front.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa — what’re you doing?” Dreidel interrupted.
“What, this?” Rogo asked, pointing to the finger-paint drawing.
“That,” Dreidel insisted as he grabbed the spiral notebook with the football logo.
“I don’t get it — whattya need a football schedule for?”
“This isn’t a schedule.” Opening the book, Dreidel turned it toward Rogo, revealing a daily calendar for the first week of January. “It’s Boyle’s datebook.”
Rogo’s eyebrows rose as he palmed the top of his buzzed head. “So we can see all his meetings…”
“Exactly,” Dreidel said, already skimming through it. “Meetings, dinners, everything — and most particularly what he was up to on the night of May 27th.”
80
Mr. President?” I call out as I open the front door.
No one answers.
“Sir, it’s Wes — are you there?” I ask again, even though I know the answer. If he weren’t here, the Secret Service wouldn’t be outside. But after all our years together, I’m always careful to know my place. It’s one thing to walk into his office. It’s quite another to step into his home.
“Back here,” a man’s voice calls out, ricocheting down the long center hallway that leads to the living room. I pause a moment, unable to place the voice — polished, with a hint of British accent — but quickly step inside and shut the door. It was hard enough making the decision to come here. Even if he’s got guests, I’m not turning back now.
Still trying to identify the voice, I head for the hallway and steal a glance at the poster-sized, framed black-and-white photograph that sits above the antique credenza and the vase of fresh flowers on my right. The photo is Manning’s favorite: a panoramic view of his desk in the Oval Office, taken by a photographer who literally put the camera in the President’s chair and hit the shutter.
The result is an exact re-creation of Manning’s old view from behind the most powerful desk in the world: the family photos of his wife, the pen left for him by the previous President, a personal note written by his son, a small gold plaque with the John Lennon quote “A working class hero is something to be,” and a shot of Manning sitting with his mom on the day he arrived at the White House — his first official meeting in the Oval. On the left of the desk, Manning’s phone looms as large as a shoebox, the camera so close you can read the five typed names on his speed diaclass="underline" Lenore (his wife), Arlen (the V.P.), Carl (national security adviser), Warren (chief of staff), and Wes. Me.
With the push of a button, we’d all come running. Eight years later, I haven’t changed. Until now.
Plowing through the hallway, I head into the formal living room, where, at the center of the Tibetan rug, Manning is standing on a small stool while a fair-skinned man with messy blond hair that barely covers his large forehead flits around him like a tailor working on his suit.
“Please, Mr. President, I just need you still,” he pleads in what I now realize is a genteel South African accent.
Just behind Big Forehead, a twenty-something female photographer with short spiky hair lowers her chin and a flashbulb explodes.
It’s not until I see that Forehead is holding measuring calipers — which look like a ruler with an adjustable wrench on the end of it — that I even realize what’s going on. The photographer snaps another picture of Manning. On the sofa, a square box that can easily be mistaken for a Chinese checkers set holds a dozen rows of glass eyeballs, each one a different shade of Manning gray. Manning himself stands perfectly still and the calipers klik-klik around his wrist, a digital readout giving Forehead another measurement. Madame Tussauds Wax Museum prides itself on accuracy. Even for celebrities no longer in the public eye.
“Whattya think — they’re darker now, right?” a petite African-American woman says as she holds out two gunmetal-gray eyeballs that stare directly at me. The odd part is, even held out in the air, they look eerily like Manning’s. “These were from our original White House figure — hand-done, of course — but I feel like he’s gone deeper gray in the past few years.”
“Yeah… sure,” I stutter, already looking at my watch. “Listen, do you know how long this is going t—?”
“Relax, Wes,” Manning interrupts with the last kind of laugh I want to hear. The only time he’s this excited is during the annual meeting where the board of his library gets together. With his old staff reunited, he once again feels like he’s holding the power. It lasts four hours at most. Then he goes back to being yet another former President whose two-car motorcade still has to stop at the red lights. Today, the Tussauds folks bring with them the attention of the glory days. Manning’s not letting it go. “The schedule’s clear,” he tells me. “Where else you got to be?”
“Nowhere, sir. But now that — with Nico out there—”
“Now you sound like Claudia.” But as he turns and takes his first actual look at me, he cuts himself off. I may know how to read him perfectly, but he knows how to read me even better — especially when it comes to Nico. “Wes,” he says, not even needing words.
I’m fine, I reply with nothing more than a nod. He knows it’s a lie, but he also knows why. If I’m having this discussion, it’s not going to be in front of an audience. Determined to get things moving, I head for Forehead, who seems to be the one in charge.
“Declan Reese — from Madame Tussauds. Thanks for having us back,” Forehead says, saluting me with the calipers and extending a handshake. “We try to never call on our portraits twice, but the popularity of President Manning’s figure—”
“They just think I’m getting old and want to make sure they get my wattle right,” Manning says, playfully swatting his own jowls.
All the Tussauds people laugh. Especially because it’s true.
“No problem,” I say, never forgetting the job. “Just remember—”