White House Autumn

  Meg nodded. “Yeah. I mean, pretty much. I mean, Mom was the Senator and stuff, but it was still like that. Trick-or-treating, and Christmas caroling, and all of that.”

  “You have a very close family, don’t you,” Mrs. Hayes said.

  Meg thought about that. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure we do. I mean, lots of times, we fight and stuff, but—” She looked at her teacher uncertainly. “That’s normal, isn’t it?”.

  “Very normal,” Mrs. Hayes said.

  Meg looked up at the clock. “I bet you have to go pick someone up from ballet.”

  Her teacher also checked the clock. “Soccer, actually.”

  Same difference. Her brothers had always played soccer. And T-ball, and baseball—and now, Steven was on his basketball kick.

  “When Mrs. Hayes was gone, she sat back down, thinking about Massachusetts. Like about the garden they had had. Sort of an ugly garden, in Meg’s opinion, but her father was really into the idea. On weekends, sometimes, he would make the whole family go out and work in it. He always ran the show, drinking Molson and wearing sweatshirts with the sleeves cut off and all. Her mother would tie her hair back, sip iced tea, and talk about “cultivating the rich brown earth,” although mostly, she would just stand around. The President was nothing, if not a city slicker. Meg and Steven would always get in trouble for spraying the hose around, and Neal would get yelled at for weeding biennials. They weren’t exactly peaceful afternoons, but still. In spite of making constant disparaging comments, Meg had always enjoyed them.

  “Hey,” Josh said.

  “Oh, hi.” She stood up, swinging her knapsack onto her shoulder. “How was band?”.

  “Pretty good,” he said, bouncing a little, which meant that he still had a rhythm in his head. “Get any work done?”.

  Oh, yeah. Nothing but.

  They walked out of the library, Josh still bouncing. Kind of annoying, but also endearing.

  “Hey.” She put her arm around his shoulders. “Buy you an ice cream, sailor?”.

  He stopped bouncing. “I’m still waiting to collect on that drink.”

  “I’ll buy you ice cream, instead,” she said.

  “Are you allowed? I mean,” he gestured over his shoulder towards her agents, “don’t you have to ask them?”.

  Meg scowled. Like she cared what her agents thought—about anything Nothing like having a bunch of authoritative little shadows. “You ask them, okay?”.

  He sighed, but nodded, going back to talk to Gary.

  They ended up in a place on Wisconsin Avenue, where they ordered sundaes. People recognized her—the Secret Service cars outside didn’t help—but, Josh had a baseball cap in his gym bag and she put it on, which made things a little better. Even the slightest disguise usually helped discourage people. Lots of times, although she felt sort of arrogant, she would wear sunglasses. Her parents always suggested hats, and Preston had given her a Patrick Henry College sweatshirt, which seemed to work the best of all.

  “Pretty quiet,” Josh said.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

  He glanced over at the table where Wayne and Joe were sitting. “You’re still not speaking to them?”.

  Not any more than absolutely necessary. “They bug me,” she said.

  He nodded, obviously refraining from comment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re supposed to be having a good time.”

  He shrugged. “We can go eat these in the car.”

  She shook her head, not in the mood to sit in the backseat, with her agents in the front. “Here’s better.”

  “Whatever.” He looked around. “They’re probably just staring at you because you’re so beautiful.”

  She relaxed. “I’m not beautiful.” In fact, she rarely even got past raffish.

  “Oh, yeah?” He started to stand up. “You want me to ask them?”.

  “No!” She grabbed the pocket of his hoodie to pull him down. “Don’t be a jerk.”

  He pretended to be crushed. “You think I’m a jerk?”.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  They sat, holding hands, Josh looking so interested in the half a sundae she had left that she gave it to him.

  “I was looking at a book about President Kennedy in the library,” she said.

  He stopped eating. “Not so bright.”

  “Not really, no.” She picked up her cup of water, swallowing some. “I guess things could be a lot worse.”

  “Things could always be worse,” he said.

  “Was that a sage observation—or unbridled negativity?.

  “I always figure you should be happy with the problems you have,” he said.

  Meg put her cup down. “Happy?”.

  “Sure,” he said. “Happy that they’re not any worse.”

  Jesus. Meg frowned. “I can’t tell if that’s optimistic or not.”

  “What,” he said, “you never read Candide?“.

  “I read Candide,” she said, offended. In French, even.

  “Okay, then.” He went back to eating what was left of her sundae. “Consider yourself lucky.”

  She watched him eat, imagining worse scenarios. The bullet two inches to the right, or hitting her in the spine, or—or hitting her father, too, or—she shuddered. Enough of exploring the possibilities.

  “Things could be worse,” he said.

  Indeed. She looked at his free hand in hers, feeling the bones and piano-strengthened tendons. “Could I ask you something personal?”.

  He shrugged. “Go for it.”

  “What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you?” she asked.

  He grinned at her. “Other than you not speaking to me for a week?”.

  She nodded, very serious.

  “Oh.” His grin left. “I don’t know. The divorce was pretty bad.”

  She nodded again, having expected that.

  “And, uh,” his hand tightened, “when my mother had the mastectomy.”

  Meg looked up, startled. “She did? You never—I mean—”.

  “Tenth grade,” he said, and she could hear him swallow. “It was—well—pretty bad.”

  “I’m sorry,” Meg said, and then looked at him uneasily. “Is she—okay now?”.

  “Far as we know,” he said, his voice stiff.

  “I’m really sorry.” She lifted his hand to hold it to her lips for a second. “How come you never told me about it?”.

  “I don’t like to think about it,” he said.

  No, she wouldn’t, either. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Well.” He straightened his glasses. “At this point, we just go through a few bad days every time she goes in for her check-up.”

  Which had to be fairly frequently. “And you never mentioned it?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “It just would have made you paranoid about your mother.”

  “No, it—” She stopped. Of course, it would have. Incredibly paranoid.

  “I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he said. “I just—well, even before all of this, you were pretty hung up. I mean, about something bad happening to her.”

  “I always have been,” Meg said quietly.

  He nodded. “Well, yeah, I know. Because of her not being around much, and all.”

  And the fact that her mother’s mother had died young, and—well, lots of things. “I’m still sorry,” she said. “I want you to tell me about things. Especially if I can maybe help.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t had to pry things out of you,” he said.

  She had to grin. “What, I’m not candid?”.

  He laughed. “No, you’re not candid.”

  “I’m trying,” she said. “With you, I mean.”

  “I know.” He smiled at her. “So am I, actually.”

  She nodded, and they held hands more tightly.

  “Things aren’t supposed to happen to parents,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s a lot worse when it’s parents.”

&nbs
p; They didn’t speak, Meg thinking about her mother, back at the White House, trying as hard as she could to get better; Josh presumably thinking about his.

  “Well,” he said. “Enough of this banter. Can I buy you a Coke, scullery maid?”.

  “Scullery maid?” she said.

  “Can I buy you a Coke, wench?” he asked.

  She grinned at him. “Go for it, sailor.”

  “WELL, THIS IS good,” Beth said, on the phone that night. “This is all very good. I like your checking in like this.”

  Meg laughed. “I suppose I can expect a bill for your services.”

  “You bet,” Beth said. “I’ve decided that terribly garish and expensive holiday gifts isn’t enough.”

  “Yeah, well, garish you can count on,” Meg said. “Don’t hold your breath on expensive.”

  “After all these years, I’ve grown to expect that,” Beth said sadly. “Hey, speaking of presents, your mother’s pretty funny—she sent me a thank-you note for the book and everything.”

  Meg nodded. “She really liked it. I heard her laughing when she was reading it, even.”

  “Well, it’s a funny book,” Beth said. “Over your head, of course, but—”.

  “I read it,” Meg said. “I got a couple of the jokes.”

  Beth laughed kindly. “I know, dear. You do try hard.”

  What a putz. “Just can’t quite measure up, right?” Meg asked.

  “No,” Beth said, sounding regretful now. “I’m sorry.” Then, her voice changed back to normal. “Hey, want to hear the Scoop of the Month? Guess who asked me out.”

  “Oh—Rick Hamilton,” Meg said. From fourth grade on, when Rick had moved to Chestnut Hill, just about every girl in their grade had had a crush on him. Too cocky for his own damn good, but still la crème de la crème.

  “Yeah, actually,” Beth said, sounding slightly disappointed that she’d gotten it right on her first try.

  Meg couldn’t help being impressed. “My God, really? He’s never gone out with anyone who has brown hair before.”

  “I know.” Beth sighed extra-deeply. “I guess it’s my lot in life to be successful.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Meg said. “Absolutely.”

  Beth laughed. “Well—maybe. What do you think I should wear?”.

  “A hat,” Meg said. “Definitely a hat.”

  ALTHOUGH MEG STILL had a lot of makeup work to do, she managed to make time to hang out with Josh on Thursday night, play tennis on the White House court with Alison after school on Friday, and go to the movies with everyone on Saturday night. She didn’t exactly feel normal yet—but it was definitely an improvement.

  Late Sunday afternoon, as she worked on calculus, her mother came into her room, walking slowly. She looked very tired, and because she wasn’t being the President, was hunched over her side, favoring her injuries.

  “My goodness,” she said. “I thought I was a workaholic.”

  Meg glanced up at her, feeling cross-eyed. Let s equals f(t) be the position versus time curve for a particle moving in the positive direction along—.

  “Why don’t you take a break,” her mother said.

  —a coordinate line. Solve for—Meg shook her head. “I have to finish.”

  “Take a break,” her mother said, more firmly.

  Bow to the authority figure. Meg put her pen down. Relative extremum be damned.

  “What are you doing?” her mother asked.

  Meg shook her head, waving the question away. The Mean Value Theorem, Rolle’s Theorem, exponential and logarithmic functions—it was all just too awful to discuss.

  Her mother lowered herself carefully into the rocking chair. “One thing I’d suggest. When you’re doing a lot of close work, you should look up every twenty minutes or so, and focus on something far away. Exercise your eyes a bit. That way, you won’t tire as quickly.”

  Professional advice. Hmmm. Meg got up to focus out the window.

  “See anything interesting?” her mother asked.

  It depended upon one’s definition. Meg shrugged. “Lafayette Park.”

  Her mother nodded, rocking in the chair.

  “Gets dark early these days,” Meg said.

  Her mother nodded again. “Winter.”

  Meg listened to the rockers squeaking softly against the carpet, a sad little sound. What an odd sight they must be: Meg, standing by the window, staring out at the city in the dusk, her mother rocking. The President and the First Daughter audition for a Berman movie.

  “Quiet without Trudy,” her mother said.

  No question about that.

  “What do you think about Camp David for Thanksgiving?” her mother asked.

  Meg turned away from the window. “Will you be well enough?”.

  “Yes,” her mother said, sounding very determined. “We need to get away from here for a while.”

  Christ, did they ever.

  “No reporters, no one cooking for us—with luck, no anything,” her mother said.

  It sounded great—but, implausible. “Are we allowed?” Meg asked.

  Her mother laughed. “I’m going to be extremely assertive.”

  Camp David was always nice and quiet and peaceful. Rustic. As close as they ever got to having something resembling privacy. Trees, and grass, and lots of hiking trails. An outdoor heated pool, a tennis court, and a huge game-room where she and Steven and Neal usually wasted hours goofing off. Of course, it would be a major production—the Secret Service and Marines all over the place, Dr. Brooks and other medical people, aides and advisors galore—but, even so. “Sounds really good,” she said.

  Her mother nodded. “I think so, too.”

  “Uh, Mom?” Steven said, at the door.

  She smiled at him. “What?”.

  “Dad wants to know if you’re ready for dinner now, or want to wait, or what,” he said.

  She looked at Meg. “What do you think?”.

  “I’m kind of hungry,” Meg said. Starving, in fact.

  “Well, then, my goodness.” Her mother stood, surreptitiously cautious with her side. “Let’s go.”

  “Are we having anything gross and soft tonight?” Steven asked.

  “Well, I don’t know,” their mother said. “We’ve certainly been eating our share of dull food lately, haven’t we?” She put her good arm around him. “I did request that we be given some nice hard rocks and minerals tonight, but we’ll have to see what happens.”

  “Nuts and bolts,” Meg said.

  Steven grinned, and moved closer to their mother, allowing himself to be somewhat less cool than usual. “How come everyone’s in, like, such a good mood?”.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Their mother fixed his collar, tucking it into his sweatshirt. “Because we’re happy to see you.”

  “No way,” he said, but looked very pleased.

  Meg smiled at no one and nothing in particular—well, Vanessa, maybe, feeling an unexpected goodness in the air as she followed them down to the West Sitting Hall, where her father was sitting on the couch, reading the Book Reviews, while Neal was bent over a notebook, drawing something with intense concentration. He usually spent a fair amount of time making surprisingly good, and very detailed, diagrams of things like helicopters and military vehicles—although her parents had a pretty strict policy that he not draw pictures of weapons and, most of the time, Neal followed that rule.

  Meg’s father looked worried, seeing how slowly her mother was walking, but she winked at him and his expression relaxed. A little.

  The good feeling continued through dinner, everyone careful not to destroy it, although Steven made cracks about the baked macaroni and cheese which was, indeed, pretty soft. Her mother requested that all non-essential calls be held—which meant that they only got interrupted three times. After dinner, they went to her parents’ room to watch one of her mother’s favorite movies, The Philadelphia Story. Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, really funny. Felix brought in popcorn, and warm cookies, and milk a
nd juice—and even her mother seemed to eat a normal, and healthy, amount.

  After the movie, her brothers went to bed, and Meg hung out to watch a cable news show with her parents. It was sort of silly to watch the news with the President of the United States—especially during stories when a small grin would cross her mother’s face, and Meg would know that the media had gotten more than a few of the details wrong, or possibly even missed something major entirely.

  She cheerfully ate popcorn and drank Coke, while her mother skimmed papers and made calls, and her father read. Then, a report came on about Sampson, the would-be assassin, because the mental hospital was about to release a psychiatric evaluation, probably the next day. Meg gulped her mouthful of soda, almost choking, and her parents both stiffened. The story was mostly speculative, although it included a clip from some pundit psychiatrist who opined that the suspect was psychotic and narcissistic, with possible schizophrenia, manifesting itself in violent criminal—Meg closed her eyes, trying not to listen. Why hadn’t they just put on another movie? Should she change the channel? Or just wait for it to end, or—the anchorperson moved on to a different subject, and Meg held her breath, afraid to see her parents’ expressions. Finally, she glanced over and saw her father looking at her mother, who was looking at her sling.

  “Well,” her mother said, very quietly. “I hope he gets help.”

  SCHOOL WENT WELL on Monday. In fact, she knew things were better, because she was having a terrible time paying attention, but now, it was for normal reasons. Like, because it was more fun to draw pictures of Vanessa, or pass notes to people, or stare at Josh. She loved to stare at him when he didn’t know she wasn’t doing it. Particularly in their French class. French was his favorite subject, so he usually concentrated and volunteered answers and everything. She could watch him all period long, and he would wouldn’t even notice. Sometimes Mr. Thénardier did, but Josh would remain oblivious.

  He was cute to watch. He would frown when he was listening, and adjust his glasses about every five seconds. He also drummed his pen in soft, staccato rhythms—which kind of made her wonder what unconscious, idiotic habits she had, other than the fact that lots of times, she pretended that she had ski boots on, which completely changed the way she walked and stood. No one ever commented on it. Obviously, one didn’t question the President’s daughter’s motor coordination.