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.
“C’mon, campers, it’s time for a sing-along!” Trey shouts as he kicks open the door to my office. “Spell it out, Annette! Who’s the leader of the club that’s made for you and me? T-R-E Y-Y-Y Y-Y-Y-Y-Y!”
“Can’t stop with the Disney references, can you?”
“Not when they’re this good. And, boy, is this Kingdom Magic! Did you see how well that event went over? Already on CNN. Cued up for the nightlies. Nancie’s predicting front page of the Style section. And in less than an hour-live on Dateline. Can I get any better? No! No, sir, I cannot!”
“Trey, I’m thrilled that you and your necromancers were able to brainwash half the nation, but please… ” I stare at my pencil cup and lose my thought. It’s all unimportant.
“Don’t give me that pouty face,” he scolds, taking a seat in front of my desk. “What’s wrong?”
“I just… I don’t know. The whole event left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“It’s supposed to leave a bad taste-that’s how you know it’s good! The more syrup, the better. It’s what America eats for breakfast.”
“It wasn’t just the sappy parts. You saw when she got the present. Nora picked out a beautiful gift for her mother. And what does the First Lady do? She thanks the camera instead of her daughter.”
“I swear, right there, I cried.”
“It’s not funny, Trey. It’s pathetic.”
“Can you please jump off the high horse? We both know the real reason you’re cranky.”
“Stop telling me how to feel! You’re not the master of my thought process!”
Silently sitting back in his seat, he gives me a second to calm down. “Don’t take it out on me, Michael. It’s not my fault you didn’t find Pam.”
“Oh, so you’re not the one who crowded two hundred wannabes behind the vanilla-frosted Pied Piper?”
“It wasn’t frosting; it was icing. There’s a difference.”
“There’s no difference!”
“There could be a difference-we just don’t know it.”
“Stop fucking around, Trey! You’re starting to piss me off!”
Rather than shout back, he gives me the rub. It’s a medium one, done more as a way to restrain himself. A lesser friend would head for the door. Trey stays right where he is.
Eventually, I look across the desk. “I didn’t mean to… ”
He lowers his gaze to his lap and pulls something from his belt. His pager’s going off.
“Anything important?” I ask.
“One hour till Dateline-they want me over there to do the run-through.”
I nod, and he heads for the anteroom.
“When I get back, we’ll sit down and figure it out,” he offers.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be okay.”
Stopping at the door, Trey turns around. “I never said you wouldn’t.”
I give Pam another half-hour to answer two more pages. She doesn’t. At this point, I should call it a night, but instead, I flip on CNN for one last look at today’s news. All day, the lead story’s been the Dateline interview, but as the picture blooms into focus, I’m staring at a clip from today’s Bartlett rally. Wherever it is, the place is going crazy-jumping, shouting, screaming with excitement and home-painted signs. When a graphic comes on that reads MIAMI, FLORIDA