by Sally Quinn
“Annie Laurie, sweetheart, do you want to come down and help me with dinner?”
“I don’t think so, Mother, if you don’t mind. I have things to do. I’m going out tonight and I have to wash my hair.”
She hadn’t expected her to, but somehow she felt let down and disappointed. It was cold and gloomy all alone in the kitchen, and it was so big, so uncozy.
She put on an apron and turned on the radio to some station that was playing kitsch Christmas music. She suddenly felt terribly lonely. Here she had what most people would consider a wonderful family—two beautiful, intelligent children, a handsome, loving, successful husband—and it wasn’t enough. Her life seemed empty. After seventeen years of marriage with Rosey she still didn’t even feel as though she knew the man. She knew he loved her, far more than she loved him. That was for sure. But more than that, she knew little. He was an extremely intelligent man, a man of integrity, dignity, honor. A man she was proud of. A good leader, a man who was respected and admired by everyone who knew him well. He was a gentleman, a kind and decent person. He was an exceptionally devoted father and a solid, faithful husband. That was the problem. He was too good. Only bastards had sex appeal for her. Yet she could barely allow herself even a fleeting thought about Des without breaking into a panic attack. She couldn’t even fantasize about him now. It was too dangerous.
So here she was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a white apron around her wrapper and tears rolling down her face as she listened to “O Holy Night” on the radio. How many people in this city, this country, this world envied her, thought she had everything? How many people would be stunned if they could see her now, her hands greasy from stuffing the poor goose, no makeup on, her tousled red hair barely combed, her nose running, her eyes bloodshot as she sobbed, allowing the music to incite her even further? The more the music played the sadder she got. Here it was the end of a year, and what did she have to look forward to? Three more years being the Vice President’s wife, a ceremonial figure.
Planned Parenthood and the National Trust, what little she was really able to do in her ceremonial role, was hardly the answer. She would love to write, to put down her thoughts and ideas on paper and actually have them published. But her pitiful little short stories lay yellowing in her underwear drawer. Des had allowed her to hope something would come of it, but now that was impossible. As the Vice President’s wife she really couldn’t be published, despite what Des had said. Not the kinds of things she would write. It would be a scandal. And the idea of living a sexually unsatisfying life for the next forty years seemed almost intolerable to her if she allowed herself to think about it.
The whole time she was thinking these thoughts she was trying to make dinner. She sniffed and sobbed, blowing her nose intermittently as the Christmas carols encouraged her melancholy mood, chopping the mushrooms for the wild rice casserole, running the Cuisinart to puree the peas. Was it possible that she hadn’t really done her share in their sexual relationship? It had never really occurred to her to actively make love to Rosey, or even initiate sex with him, in all of these years. As she stuck the goose in the oven she made an early New Year’s resolution. She was determined to improve her sex life with her husband.
There was, she had to admit, a certain grimness to her thoughts. If she didn’t do it, if she was unable to improve it, what was she going to do?
* * *
Christmas dinner was a disaster. The goose was dry and overcooked. The wild rice casserole mushy. The pureed peas too thick. Either the stewards had forgotten the lingonberry jam or she couldn’t find it, so that there was no condiment to eat with the goose.
Rosey was sweet. He kept trying to make her feel better.
“Ummmm, very good, darlin’,” he kept saying. “I do love a goose at Christmas.” For some stupid reason she had tried to re-create the Greys’ Christmas dinner instead of having her own. Her mama had always served a turkey at Christmas, with corn-bread dressing and mashed turnips. Why hadn’t she done what she knew how to do? The Greys’ servants had always cooked the dinner in Richmond. Miz G, as far as Sadie knew, had never boiled water.
“A little dry,” Annie Laurie snipped, making a major production out of trying to cut her goose.
“Perhaps you could have done better?” Rosey looked at her. She looked down at her plate.
Outland broke her heart. “Great, Mum,” he said with an encouraging smile. But he hardly touched his food, just pushed it around on his plate.
Dinner was over in about twenty minutes. Both kids got up and announced they were going ice skating at the Chevy Chase Country Club.
Though the Greys were not members—Rosey couldn’t join a restricted club, even though he had belonged to the country club in Richmond—most of the parents of their kids’ friends belonged. They would probably stay out at the club with the other kids and have supper at the Winter Center.
Rosey could see the look of utter disappointment on Sadie’s face. Neither of the children had made any effort at all. Not even Outland, who normally was so solicitous of his mother’s feelings.
“Nobody’s going anywhere until you ask to be excused,” Rosey said fiercely.
“May I please be excused,” they chimed in unison, standing before their places at the table.
“Yes,” he said finally with a resigned sigh.
Sadie went to get coffee, and by the time she had come back upstairs the kids were on their way out of the house, and the door slammed as cold air came blasting across the reception hall and into the dining room.
“Shall we go into the sitting room for coffee?” she suggested. They moved into the sitting room. Rosey stoked the fire. The tree lights were still on. He went over and turned up the radio, which was playing classical Christmas music. For a few minutes they both sat silently, staring at the fire.
Finally Rosey looked up, and to his surprise there were tears rolling down Sadie’s face.
“What is it, sugar? What’s the matter?” he asked, a worried tone in his voice. She rarely cried in front of him.
“Do you think we could go out to eat tonight?” she asked in a barely audible voice. “I mean, it’s so depressing just sitting here in this great big house all alone.”
“Sure we can, darlin’. But what’s open on Christmas night?”
“I know.” She brightened. “We can go to the Jockey Club. I’m sure it’s open because of the hotel. It’s their only dining room. Let’s do that—okay?”
“I wonder if I could get Marlene at home to make the reservation for us,” Rosey mused. He picked up the phone and asked the White House operator to get him his scheduler. The phone rang a number of times and there was no answer.
“Hell’s bells,” he said, finally putting down the receiver. “Now what are we going to do?”
“We could call ourselves,” suggested Sadie.
“Oh, I’d hate to do that,” he said. “I would feel like an ass saying, ‘This is the Vice President of the United States. Could I please have a table?’ They’ll never believe me. Some wise guy will say, ‘Yeah, sure, and I’m the Pope.’ ”
“I know,” said Sadie. “I’ll call. I’ll pretend that I’m your secretary. Then when the Secret Service calls to advance it they’ll know it’s for real.”
Rosey laughed. He was clearly amused by the complication over something so silly as getting a dinner reservation.
“People will think the Vice President and his wife ought to have something better to do on Christmas night than go out to a restaurant to eat,” he said. “But go ahead. Just be prepared to read about it in the gossip columns.”
“Hello. May I have the Jockey Club?” Sadie asked in her most officious voice. “Yes, how are you today? Fine. That’s good. This is Marlene Johnson, from Vice President Grey’s office. I’m calling to see if you have a table for the Vice President and Mrs. Grey for eight P.M. tonight. If you do, we will have the Secret Service call to confirm and arrange to advance the restaurant. And we will, of c
ourse, as you know, need an extra table for them. Yes, that’s right: Vice President Grey. Of the United States. Right. Tonight at eight. For two. Yes. The Secret Service will be calling shortly. You can? How marvelous. You’re so kind. They’ll be very pleased. You’re very welcome. Thank you. Goodbye.”
They both collapsed in giggles. Sadie was very proud of herself. Then she looked worried. “Oh, God, what if they try to reach Marlene to make sure it’s not a hoax? I’ll be caught impersonating a White House staffer and go to jail.”
“I better get the Service on the phone right away,” agreed Rosey, still chuckling.
He rang the Secret Service post. Toby Waselewski, Sadie’s favorite, was on duty that day.
“Waselewski,” said Rosey in a firm voice, “Mrs. Grey and I have made reservations for dinner tonight at the Jockey Club. We have a table for eight o’clock. Will you boys take care of it. Righto.”
He hung up. “Done, madame,” he said. “And now I have a small stocking present for you which I was saving to give you a little later. I think I’ll give it to you now. You won’t feel bad when you see what it is,” he said with a smile.
He went over behind the bar and pulled out a small wrapped box. The tape was badly stuck on and the ribbon wasn’t properly curled. He had obviously done it himself.
“Here,” he said. “There is no doubt in my mind that you will like it. I have never been so supremely confident about any present in my entire life.”
She tore the package open and found, to her delight, a videotape of Gone with the Wind to fit the VCR.
“I was pretty sure of what you were going to give me,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, Rosey,” she said.
“Let’s not have any more tears. It’s only three o’clock. The movie is four hours. Why don’t you go upstairs and watch it? I hooked up the VCR in the upstairs sitting room while you were fixing dinner. I bet that will improve your mood.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” she said. “I haven’t seen Gone with the Wind in almost two years. If I don’t watch it again soon I’ll forget all my lines.”
“All right, Miz Scarlett, honey. But you best get on upstairs and watch it so we don’t miss our supper.”
She grabbed the tapes and started upstairs, only to turn around and come back, put her arms around his neck, and kiss him lightly on the lips. “I love you,” she said. She meant it.
* * *
There was nothing that put Sadie in a better mood than Gone with the Wind. It set her up for weeks. She always got over her depressions after seeing that movie. “Tomorrow” was, after all, another day. Naturally she identified with Scarlett. She was Scarlett. No question. She knew every line, every word, by heart. She could start to cry in the sad parts before they even happened. She was, of course, deeply in love with Rhett. How could Scarlett ever have been in love with Ashley Wilkes, or even have thought she was? That was the only thing that never made sense to her. And yet, she herself had not married Rhett Butler. Rosey was more like Ashley. He wasn’t weak like Ashley, but he certainly was not the dashing, masculine, debonair lover that Rhett was. Maybe she was more like Scarlett than she knew.
* * *
She chose his favorite green silk dress with the long sleeves and put on the pearls he had given her and a lovely small emerald-and-diamond pin which had been in his family. She would please him tonight.
The Secret Service had checked out the Jockey Club, and the four of them took their places at the table next to the Greys. The front room, with its red-and-white-checked tablecloths, was a little more than half-filled; still, there were more people than they had expected. All eyes were on them as they walked in. People were stunned to see them there on Christmas night, but their entrance immediately picked up the place, and Sadie could feel the electricity shoot through the room. Nothing like a little glimpse of power to give the old town a shot in the arm.
“We want this to be a very special occasion,” said Rosey to the maître d’hôtel. “We would like a bottle of Roederer Cristal to begin with. We may even have another.” He smiled.
She could tell he was as determined as she was to make this a nice evening. He probably didn’t have the same thing in mind as she did. Well, maybe he did. He was looking at her with real appreciation, something he sometimes forgot to do, particularly since they had come to Washington. He just never had time and he always seemed to be preoccupied with his work.
The waiter brought two glasses and poured the champagne. Rosey had ordered caviar—a real extravagance for him. Rich as he was, he had a thrifty puritan side that was baffling to Sadie. He knew she loved caviar more than life, though, and he had obviously struggled with this grand gesture. She adored him for it. He was being so gallant.
When the waiter had left, he lifted his glass to her.
“To a wonderful year in Washington,” he said.
She lifted her glass to his without saying a word and took a sip. It felt good going down. It put her in an even more buoyant mood, if that was possible, than she had reached by watching Gone with the Wind.
“And to us,” said Rosey.
She looked into his eyes. He lowered his. He was so shy with her, even after all these years, about anything sentimental or romantic. He was almost blushing.
“To us, angel,” she said softly. Impulsively she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
Immediately he pulled away. “Not here in front of all these people,” he whispered. She had forgotten his aversion to what he called PDA. Public Display of Affection. He found it tacky and crude. He had opposed it even when they were first married and completely unknown. Now he was adamant about it. He shunned the usual First Couple’s public displays for political reasons even more. He felt it was hypocritical and in poor taste. She actually agreed with him, and generally it didn’t bother her much, since she rarely felt like making a display anyway. But tonight was different. Tonight it had been spontaneous. He could see the hurt on her face even as he recoiled from her affectionate gesture.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “You know how I am.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry too.”
She could have gone into a pout, but she decided she was simply not going to ruin this Christmas night. It was too important to her.
“Tell me about the reaction to the piece in The Daily,” she said, changing the subject. “Have you heard from the President about it?”
Rosey brightened. He should have. The Daily had run a year-end piece about the Vice President’s first year in office and how he was doing. It was by one of the paper’s biggest hitters, an assessment by the press and members of the White House staff as to how effective Rosey had been. It had run the day before Christmas—a wonderful Christmas present for Rosey, and probably the reason he had been in such a good mood despite their depressing Christmas celebrations. She had read the piece and commented on it briefly, but there had been so many last-minute things to do for the holidays, and with the staff let off they really hadn’t had a chance to discuss it.
There was also another element. Though Sadie was genuinely proud of her husband, there was a certain resentment too at his seemingly easy success at whatever he did, in contrast to what she saw as her hopeless inefficacy. Nothing she ever did seemed to be a grand success, and as she approached middle age she felt more and more useless. Sometimes she wished privately that Rosey would just fail a little at something. That she might just once have a feeling of being superior instead of inferior. Even equal would do. If it weren’t for the fact that she knew he loved her more than she loved him—which gave her whatever power she had—she didn’t think she could bear it.
It wasn’t that she wished him ill. In fact, she felt horribly guilty even admitting to herself that she would like to see him falter. But she felt he needed some kind of equalizer. Her own image and self-confidence were completely wrapped up in him. She was measured by the world by how well her husband did because she had nothing of her own. The proje
cts were not enough. Her writing was not enough. Her taste and style, her charm, her attractiveness as a woman were nothing. Everything she was she owed to this man. That kind of power over one’s life was so complete that it couldn’t help creating a certain resentment in any woman with any brains. So she couldn’t wish him to fail. His failure would be her failure. She wondered if he understood any of this. She guessed he did not.
“What a Christmas card that article was!” he said. “The staff was ecstatic over it. Randy said that in all the years he had been press secretary he couldn’t remember a more favorable piece. I was a little amused at how he was vaguely trying to take a little credit for it. He kept mentioning how he had been taking Riley, the reporter, to lunch and how he had been softening Riley up for the last year, and how it had really worked. Well, hell, if the news is good let’s spread the credit around.”
“But what about the President? Surely he saw it. Did he say anything about it? I must admit I was a little worried about the part where it said you would be a formidable candidate for the next election if Roger Kimball decides not to run again because of his lack of popularity in the country.”
“I know. That worried me too. But I talked to him about it.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, you know Roger. He’s a big man. He’s not a petty or small person. Still, it must have stung a little bit. And I was worried about creating any tension at all. It’s not that he would take it out on me. It’s those S.O.B.’s on his staff I worry about. They’re all so busy jockeying for position and trying to figure out who’s on first that they don’t pay any attention to running the country. That’s one of his big problems to begin with. He seems not to be able to control them. I just can’t figure it out. So I got a few digs, going into the Oval Office, about how I was going to really like it there in a few more years, and that kind of thing. But Roger was all class. He just said he’d seen the piece and that he was proud of me for outfoxing those press bastards, not letting myself get chewed up by them. Then he nodded toward his door and said something like ‘Unlike others on my staff I could mention who seem to have a penchant for bad publicity.’ ”
