Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  It was no use. Her brain had been irrevocably washed. She might as well give in. It had been months since they had spoken. She called him.

  He was pleasant and polite. He wouldn’t allow himself to seem surprised or happy to hear from her. Only a nervous laugh gave him away. She, on the other hand, was in such a state that her mouth was dry and she felt as if she were talking with a wad of cotton between her teeth.

  She invited him to have a holiday lunch with her. At home. She deliberately said holiday. She invited him to the house because she knew how he hated being stared at when he was out with her, and because she wanted to be alone with him.

  They set a date a week before Christmas, in the middle of Chanukah. He was to come at noon. Their goodbyes were slightly awkward.

  She was so excited she barely slept the night before. She lay awake trying to decide what to wear. Red or green was out. So was blue. Finally she chose white. Neutral. She always seemed to end up in white. This time a simple white skirt and sweater.

  She was drying her hair when the phone rang around 10:00 A.M. It was Maureen, Michael’s secretary. She sounded worried.

  “You haven’t heard from Michael?” she asked.

  “No,” said Sadie. “Is anything wrong?”

  “He usually comes in by seven at least,” she said. “But he hasn’t been in all morning. He has an important meeting here in his office. Everyone’s here and he still hasn’t shown up. I’ve tried beeping him but there’s no answer. Giselle is in France for the holidays with her parents. I know you’re supposed to have lunch with him at noon. Please have him call if he gets there. If he doesn’t, please call me right away. Something may have happened.”

  Sadie was surprised at her reaction. She tried his home number, letting it ring. Her stomach was in knots. Her imagination went wild. She imagined him having been mugged and shot, lying bleeding in his house, unable to reach the phone. She imagined him having been in an automobile accident on the way to work, lying bleeding on the road or in an ambulance somewhere. She imagined him having had a heart attack, lying gasping for his last breath, unable to call for help. She was unable to sit down. She paced back and forth, her heart beating at an alarming rate, as she glanced at the clock every five minutes. She found herself praying over and over in desperation that nothing had happened to him.

  By the time noon came she was beside herself. When he did not ring the bell exactly on the dot of twelve she called Maureen.

  “I’m going to his house,” she said. “I’ve got my Secret Service agents with me in case there’s a problem. I’ll call you from there.”

  It had started to snow and it was coming down quite heavily on Wisconsin Avenue as they headed out to his house in Bethesda. Cars were beginning to skid on the slippery street; yet despite the weather it only took them twenty minutes to get there. Sadie begged them to go as fast as they could without attracting attention.

  The front door was locked. She rang the doorbell. They walked around to the back and found a bedroom window above the porch slightly open, the shades down. One of the agents climbed up on the shoulders of another and pulled himself up to the porch. Once up there he peered through the crack, then called down.

  “There’s a guy in the bed. He’s not moving. He looks like he’s asleep but the phone is ringing and it’s not waking him up.”

  “Climb in and see if he… if he’s all right,” said Sadie, her voice quavering.

  The agent climbed into the window. Sadie stood there shivering in the freezing cold, waiting for an eternity until he came back to the window.

  “He’s alive,” he said. “But he’s very sick. He’s pretty hot, too. He must have a high temperature. He seems kind of delirious. Maybe we should call an ambulance.”

  “Come down and open the front door,” she said.

  Michael was lying on the bed, in an icy-cold room, covered to his waist in only a sheet, his body flushed and hot to the touch. His breathing was shallow and he was shaking slightly.

  “Michael! Michael!” she shouted.

  He opened his eyes, which were glazed.

  “Sadie,” he whispered. “What are you doing here, you dumb shiksa?”

  “Oh God, I don’t believe this,” she said, laughing with relief. “You are hopeless.”

  He couldn’t be that sick if he was able to tease her.

  She turned to the agents.

  “I think we should do what I do with Willie when he gets a fever. Put him in a lukewarm tub and keep squeezing water over his head while I call the White House physician.”

  Michael, it turned out, had a severe virus that had peaked that morning. By the time Dr. Medver had left, having come over in a White House sedan, Michael was propped up in bed with a robe on, in a warm room, sipping some canned broth Sadie had found in the kitchen. He was weak and feverish and stayed awake for short periods.

  Sadie had called Maureen to tell her what had happened and assured her that she had everything under control. She had called her housekeeper, Asuncion, and gotten her to bring over some food and tidy up the house a bit. It looked as if a bachelor had been living there alone for a while. Sadie was curious to look around. She wanted to see if she could discover some things about Giselle and their marriage but she didn’t dare just yet. She wondered what was going on between them.

  She dreaded the phone ringing for fear it might be Giselle. Michael was really too sick to answer the phone. Yet if Giselle called Maureen and found out what had happened, she might just come right home. Sadie didn’t want that. She wanted to take care of him herself. She suspected they might be having some sort of fight. It was odd that she would have left him alone during the holidays. Apparently the kids were in France as well. She would find out all of that soon enough.

  She stayed with him until about seven that night. She left Asuncion there while she went home to have dinner with Willie, put him to bed, shower and wash her hair, and pack an overnight bag. Then she went back to Michael’s house. He lived in a quiet little cul-de-sac completely protected by evergreen trees and shrubs. He also had a private driveway that went to the side entrance, so she could come and go without having to worry about being spotted.

  Her agents weren’t too thrilled with the idea. She let them stay downstairs in the living room while she pulled the mattress and comforter off his daughter’s bed, dragged them into his room, and slept on the floor next to his bed. He was too weak even to go to the bathroom by himself so she got her agents to come up and help him when he needed to. She bathed his head constantly with lukewarm washcloths, made him sip broth and some freshly squeezed orange juice, and even eat some toast. He didn’t want to eat much. He seemed grateful for her attention. Mostly he just seemed really sick.

  By morning, when he finally woke up, he had turned the corner and was actually somewhat alert. She had gotten up early, put on some black sweats, and had brought him some hot tea and toast and a boiled egg. He was able to get to the bathroom himself, took a shower and shaved while she changed his sheets and made his bed. He barely made it back to the bed, though.

  “You are looking at one sick Jew,” he said, smiling weakly, after he had finished his breakfast.

  “You’re not as sick as you were,” she said.

  “You look great, you look beautiful. I like you with no makeup on, your hair straight, dressed like that.”

  “Oh, this,” she blushed. “I look like an old hag. I just thought it would be more comfortable.”

  “Old hag. You took the words right out of my mouth. That’s what I meant to say.” He paused. “I’d also like to say thank you. You didn’t have to come out here, you know.”

  “I don’t like being stood up for lunch.”

  “It was the only way I could think of to get you to spend the night.”

  He was clearly in a weakened condition. He would never have said anything like that normally. It was the closest thing he had ever come to making a pass or even hinting that he wanted to go to bed with her.

&nbs
p; She chose to smile at him and say nothing. She was afraid anything she might say would scare him off.

  “Speaking of lunch,” she said, “what would you like? I’ll get you anything you want.”

  “You’re so domestic. It’s wonderful. It’s a whole side of you I didn’t know existed. But forget lunch. I just had breakfast. I can’t even think about eating. I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, you’ve got to get your strength back and you’re going to eat lunch so you might as well have what you want.”

  “Fine. I want chicken soup with knaydlach.”

  “Okay, I give up. What are knaydlach?”

  “They’re matza balls.”

  “I’ve often wondered why they never use any other part of the matza.”

  Michael looked at her stunned, then started to howl with laughter. He laughed until there were tears in his eyes. Finally, when he had quit, he looked at her skeptically.

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

  “About what?” But she couldn’t help grinning.

  “I really had you for a minute.”

  “Sadie Grey, I love you. You’re wonderful.”

  He slipped it in so she wouldn’t notice. He hadn’t dared look at her when he said it for fear she would see that he meant it.

  “Where would I find this delicacy?”

  “There are hundreds of delicatessens around here. Of course, if it’s too much trouble I just won’t eat.”

  It was her turn to laugh at the martyred tone and the pitiful expression on his face. Despite his teasing, though, one thing she understood for sure: he was testing her. And she was goddamned well going to find the best chicken soup and matza balls he had ever had in his entire life.

  She found the soup at a deli nearby and had Asuncion pick it up and bring it over. She served it to him in bed, on a nice tray with a clean cloth napkin that she found while inspecting Giselle’s household. She had discovered, to her chagrin, that the house was immaculate. Giselle was obviously a brilliant homemaker.

  Michael made a big ceremony of tasting the chicken soup, which even she had to admit was delicious. The matza balls passed his inspection as well. He didn’t say much, but she could tell he was pleased and touched that she would go to so much trouble for him. He was still quite weak, and just eating and talking to her had tired him out. She took the tray away, took one of his pillows, turned out the light, and pulled the covers over him. He turned over to go to sleep. She stood looking at his back for a moment, then reached over and stroked his head. He pulled his hand out from under the covers and put it over hers and held it for a moment.

  “I’ll be back,” she whispered. Before she had left the room he was sound asleep.

  She wanted to spend some time with Willie if she was coming back to spend the night. The question was, did she really have to spend the night? Was he that sick? She rationalized that he was still weak even though his fever had broken. He might need something in the night or he might have a relapse. Certainly he would need breakfast in the morning. If she didn’t stay she wouldn’t be able to get there until late. In any case, she convinced herself that he needed her. She had Asuncion fix a big pot of minestrone and some Italian bread to take back with her.

  When she got back after putting Willie down at seven, he was awake, lying in a dark room listening to classical music on his radio.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he said.

  “Of course I was coming. I told you I would. Why didn’t you call me?”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and automatically felt his forehead.

  “I never call you, remember?”

  “That’s right, you bastard, so suffer.”

  “I must not have a fever or you wouldn’t be calling me a bastard.” He chuckled.

  “You don’t. You haven’t all day. Are you feeling any better?”

  “Will you be staying tonight?” She had the feeling that he was afraid to admit he was feeling better for fear she might not stay.

  “Yes.”

  “I am feeling a little better… but I’m still pretty weak,” he added hastily.

  It was so dark he couldn’t see her smiling.

  She turned on the lights and made him get out of bed and take a shower while she dragged the mattress back into his daughter’s room. She didn’t want to give him a chance to protest. She made his bed, then went downstairs and fixed them both a tray and brought it back. They ate in silence with just the sound of the radio playing softly in the background.

  “Jenny says I shouldn’t convert.”

  “To what?”

  “To Judaism.”

  He laughed, nearly knocking over his soup bowl.

  “I presume,” he said, “that you are joking.”

  “I just wanted to see how you would react.” She was smiling mischievously.

  “To even consider it would be to not understand the very basis of my existence.”

  “What would be so terrible about it?”

  “It would combine the worst of both. It would be the most disastrous combination.”

  “Namely?”

  “A Jewish woman with a shiksa brain.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Actually, I’m reluctant to admit this, but you have a yiddishe kopf.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Jewish head. A Jewish brain.”

  “What does that make me?”

  “The best combination.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You should be.”

  “Do you ever have fantasies about Jewish women?”

  “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not evolved enough.”

  * * *

  He never mentioned that the mattress had been moved.

  She asked him when she brought him a fresh glass of ice water if she could get him anything else before he went to sleep. She was standing by the edge of the bed. He reached up and took her hand in his.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  His eyes were so compelling that she had to pull away. What she really wanted to do was to sit down on the bed and put her arms around him. To kiss him. To make love to him. But she didn’t. All he needed to do was to pull ever so gently on her hand and she would have come to him. But he didn’t. She could tell he wanted to. But he didn’t. Somehow it was important to her that when it happened, if it happened, he had to make the first move.

  She didn’t sleep well that night. All she could think about was making love to him.

  Sometimes it seemed impossible, the idea of it. So forbidden and scary, not only for her, but she knew for him as well. Other times the idea of not making love to him was impossible.

  Sometimes sex seemed so immediate, so natural to her, just another bodily function. She felt she knew him so well that it would only be an extension of what they already had. Everybody did it. All the time. There was really nothing mysterious about it. Other times the notion of making love to Michael was the ultimate in mystery, in intimacy, of belonging. It was something so deep that she couldn’t imagine sharing it with anybody, so frightening that she couldn’t dwell on it. She wondered if he had such conflicting thoughts about her.

  Des always said that everybody fucked. Everybody cheated on their spouses. If you ever suspected people were fucking they were surely fucking. Everybody in the royal family fucked. Everybody in Hollywood fucked. Everybody in New York and Washington fucked. The difference was that in Washington they didn’t think about it or enjoy it. In fact, she was a perfect example. She did it when she was married to Rosey. It wasn’t just an ordinary affair either. She was, after all, the First Lady and she was fucking. That’s why Des found it so astonishing and even unbelievable that she and Michael weren’t.

  Somehow, with Michael, she wasn’t about to reduce it to that. Anything that happened with him would have to be more spiritual than just sex. That sounded corny but it was true. It couldn’t be just an affair.

  She wondere
d what he would be like in bed. Certainly not a seasoned lover. How could he be? But would he be shy and awkward, or assured?

  She had fantasized so much about making love to him, but her fantasies were always based on perfect love and perfect sex and never on what the reality might be. It never even occurred to her that she could be disappointed. She was too much in love.

  Sometimes she was amazed at her own interest in him, the level of her desire and obsession with him. Five years ago, even two years ago, she would never have been ready for him, never even entertained the notion of him, certainly never would have been attracted to him. He had said that to her many times. In high school they would have hated each other, he said. She would have thought him a nerd, a creep, with his nose buried in his books, his slide rule and short white socks, probably playing the clarinet in the school band. He would have thought her a stuck-up shiksa bitch.

  He was right, too. He had her number. She had always gone for the preppy jocks. Des wasn’t preppy but he was a jock and more macho than any man she had ever gone out with. Michael would never qualify for macho. Somehow, now, that all seemed so irrelevant.

  * * *

  He was like a new person the next morning, energetic and playful.

  She had been thumbing through the magazines on his bedside table and found one called A Pictorial Guide to Sexually Transmitted Diseases.

  “God, that’s attractive,” she said.

  “I don’t have AIDS,” he said. He knew what she had been thinking.

  “How do you know?”

  “I got tested.”

  “When?”

  “Recently.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want to know.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  * * *

  She brought him breakfast before she left to see Willie. He gave her several Christmas presents he had gotten for Willie, all obviously wrapped by him in red-and-green Santa Claus paper. He explained to her what they were. They were actually Chanukah presents. One was a draydl, a little top that spun around and miraculously ended up rewarding the spinner with gold-wrapped chocolate coins, of which there were many. The draydl, he explained, was a phony game made up by Jews in the Middle Ages to fool their persecutors into thinking they were playing rather than meeting to study the Torah, which was forbidden. The other gift was a tiny menorah, or candelabrum with nine little candles to light, one on each night of Chanukah. She was touched that he would think of Willie, even more that he would want to include Willie. For that was what he was offering. Up until then Willie had been totally separate from what they had together.