"No, Michael, I love being judged by the whole damn country. I love when ten thousand letters flood in telling me I don't wear enough makeup and that my lipstick sucks. And the fact it's live? Ain't that the rotten cherry on top--one bad answer away from my very own Saturday Night Live sketch. I mean, my parents asked for this crap--I was just born into it."
She stops to catch her breath and I don't say a word.
"You have to understand," she adds. "I mean . . . I can live with all the other bullshit--I just don't like being the issue."
"Who says you're the--"
"Please, Michael, they send me the poll numbers too. There's a reason they want the whole family there."
"Nora, that doesn't mean you--"
"Whatever you're about to say, Romeo, I got a hundred million voters who disagree with you. And every vote counts."
"It may count, but it doesn't matter. There's a difference."
She looks up and stops. "You really think that, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Yeah, well, that's you." With one last glance at her watch, she pushes herself away from my desk and heads for the door. "Torturous or not, I gotta be there. Press Office asked me to wear a dress; they're lucky they're getting underwear."
In a blur, Hurricane Nora blows out of the office and leaves me alone in the wake of silence. Still, I know where I am. I've been here plenty of times before. The roar of absolute quiet. The calm before the storm.
* * *
"Anyone here?" I call out as I step into the anteroom. No one answers. I tap a loud knuckle on Julian's door. "Julian, you in there?" Still nothing. At Pam's door, I knock even louder. "Pam, you there?" No response.
Convinced I'm alone, I move toward the main door that leads to the hallway. With a flick of my wrist, I twist the lock above the doorknob. A loud deadbolt thunks into place. All three of us have the key, but it should buy me at least a few seconds of warning time.
As I head toward Pam's office, I tell myself this isn't a violation of trust; it's just a necessary precaution. It's not a great rationalization, but it's all I've got. "Pam, are you there?" I call out one last time. Again, no one answers. I press my sweaty palm against the cold doorknob and slowly push open her office door. "Pam? Hello?" The door swings into the wall with a dull thud. The scent of her apricot shampoo still lingers in the air.
All I have to do is step in. The thing is . . . I can't. It's not right. Pam deserves better than that. She'd never do anything to hurt me. Of course, if she did . . . if she was being blackmailed and then realized my Nora stuff gave her an alibi and an easy out . . . I'd be in trouble. End-of-my-life kind of trouble. In truth, that's the best reason to get in there. I mean, it's not like I'm going to take anything. I just want to look around. For Caroline to have her file, Pam must've had something big to hide. Leaving hesitation at the door, I step into her office. My eyes go right to the red, white, and blue flag over her desk. Saving my own ass. It's the American way.
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.