* * *
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, I almost fall over. Hartson's home state. That's a ballsy move by Bartlett, but it looks like it's paying off. Not only is he getting press for the confrontation, but compared to last week, his music's louder, his crowd's bigger, and, as the anchorwoman says, "When it was all over, he stayed and shook hands for almost a full hour." Now I know we're in trouble. Candidates only stay when the getting's good.
Flicking off the TV, I decide to head over to the Dip Room, where Trey's Dateline opus is getting ready to roll. Whatever else Bartlett's up to, tonight's interview is still the biggest game in town. So why watch it on TV when Trey can clear me in to see it in person? Besides, after what Nora said earlier, she can use the support.
From the west end of the Ground Floor Corridor, I see that, as usual, I'm not the only one who had the idea--a small crowd of staffers is already gathering. Going live in the White House is no small task, and the way everyone's running around, it's got its usual circus feel. Peering over the shoulder of the guy in front of me, I get my first look at the set.
With the room's wallpaper--nineteenth-century landscapes of North America--as the warm-fuzzy backdrop, the whole thing's set up around two sofas and an antique chair. But instead of the cold, wood-back sofa that's usually in the Dip Room, they've replaced it with two plush, comfy sofas that, if memory serves, are from the second floor of the Residence. It's gotta look like a real family. No one--not the parents, not the kids--sits alone.
Surrounding the makeshift living room are five separate cameras that're set up in a wide semicircle--the twenty-first-century firing squad. Beyond the cameras, on the other side of the reams of black wiring that zigzag across the floor, the President and Mrs. Hartson are schmoozing with Samantha Stulberg and a stylish, late-thirties woman dressed all in black and wearing a headset. The producer. Hartson lets out a hearty laugh--he's putting in his final bid to keep the interview on soft focus. I look at my watch and realize they have a full ten minutes to go. This is big for him. If it weren't, he'd never be down here this early.