Rodham

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  I was home by eight o’clock, and when my phone rang, I was shocked that it was James. He said, “My mother-in-law dispatched me to the supermarket to buy whipping cream. I’m at a pay phone, and I have ninety seconds, and I want to use them to say I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “I fully approve of your choice,” I said, and he laughed.

  “I miss you,” he said.

  “I miss you, too.” We had last seen each other on Tuesday afternoon, a day and a half before. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. It sounded like cars were driving by him. “It’s really nice to hear your voice,” I said. “I’m glad you called.”

  * * *

  —

  Student evaluations for the semester were anonymous, but I easily recognized Rob Newcomb’s. This course is a waste of time from start to finish, he had written. Placing the blame for all of society’s ills on men does not achieve anything. Students would be better served if Professor Rodham sharpened her analytical skills and understanding of legal frameworks instead of trying to force-feed us her feminist agenda.

  * * *

  —

  After Meredith’s grade school got out for winter break, she and Maureen came into the city, and, as we did every year, we went out for lunch and visited the Marshall Field’s Christmas windows. Although it was bitterly cold, State Street was crowded, and Meredith excitedly pointed out that one of the elves in the window wore roller skates.

  As we moved on to the next window, Maureen said to me, “My friend Sophia Dyson and her sister Evalyn are having a luncheon fundraiser thing for Carol Moseley Braun in early January, and they want me to be a cohost. Would you be okay with that?”

  Maureen knew, of course, about my short-lived notion of running for Senate.

  “Of course,” I said. “You don’t need my permission.”

  “Will you come?”

  “Tell me when it is, and I’ll look at my calendar.” As a rule, I didn’t like socializing during the day with nonworking women. Even though my schedule was flexible, their relationship to time was different from—less urgent than—mine. But I was surprised and intrigued that Maureen was involved in an event for Carol. That Carol was making inroads among white women in the affluent northern suburbs seemed promising for her.

  “By the way.” Maureen crooked her finger, indicating that I should lean forward, and when I did, I realized it was because she didn’t want Meredith to overhear. “I read an article about what you’re doing,” Maureen whispered. “It’s called an emotional affair.”

  * * *

  —

  Bill wasn’t expected to win the straw poll at the Florida Democratic Convention the week before Christmas—Harkin or Kerrey was—but when he did, I heard from reporters the next day. Whether they’d found me on their own or Bill had decided I wanted to help promote him and referred them to me, I didn’t know. The first to leave a message was a reporter from the L.A. Times, and I didn’t return any of his three calls. The second reporter was from the Arkansas Gazette, and I didn’t return her calls. The third was from The Washington Post, and—this was in the days before caller ID—I happened to pick up. “If you have just a few minutes, I’d love to ask some quick questions about Bill Clinton and your time in law school,” she said.

  “I’m not interested in being interviewed,” I said.

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “It’s not a matter of time. I don’t want to be quoted.”

  “Do you believe Bill Clinton wouldn’t be a good president?”

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “We also could talk on background if that would be more comfortable. That means I wouldn’t include your name.”

  “Please don’t call me again,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  I decided after all to go to the luncheon that Maureen was cohosting for Carol Moseley Braun, for not two but three reasons: Even though it was during the week, I was still on winter break; Maureen was involved; and I wanted to help Carol beat Alan Dixon. The suggested minimum contribution was fifty dollars.

  The event was called for noon, and when I arrived a few minutes after, many cars were already parked along the gravel street where Maureen’s friend Sophia lived. Sophia’s house turned out to be a sprawling white colonial, and the entry hall, living room, and dining room were abuzz with women of various ages in quilted or boiled-wool jackets and pearls. I filled out a name tag, affixed it to my blouse, and went to get a glass of wine from the bartender in the living room. I then found Sophia, whom I’d met before—through Maureen, not through political circles—and thanked her for hosting. I chatted with a few other attendees, three of whom apparently didn’t hold jobs and one of whom was a high school principal, and when they went to get food from the buffet in the dining room, I located Maureen.

  “This is a great turnout,” I said. “There must be close to a hundred people.”

  But Maureen’s expression was grim. “Carol was supposed to arrive forty-five minutes ago, and no one has heard from her or her team since yesterday. We were planning to start the program now.”

  “She’s probably caught in traffic or coming from another meeting,” I said.

  “If you were me, when would you start worrying?”

  I looked at my watch, which read 12:32. “In another twenty minutes,” I said. Carol’s lateness struck me as odd—especially in a setting like this one, every minute that wasn’t spent schmoozing was a missed opportunity to fund her campaign—but Bill had certainly run late during his first congressional run.

  At 12:45, when guests were starting to leave, Carol’s campaign director called Sophia from a gas station pay phone to say they expected to arrive by one o’clock. Maureen summoned me to a hushed conference in the kitchen with Sophia and her sister, Evalyn—around us, catering staff in their black aprons assembled trays of brownies and cookies—and I said, “Do you want me to filibuster until she gets here? I’m happy to.”

  “You really don’t mind?” Evalyn said.

  There wasn’t a microphone, but I was accustomed to projecting my voice, from teaching. Sophia and I stood in the entry hall, which was between the living room and the dining room, and I introduced myself by saying that I was a law professor at Northwestern, a longtime member of the League of Women Voters, and an Election Day monitor. I looked alternately at either side of the entry hall as I said, “If my name sounds familiar, it’s probably because I was very involved in fighting against voter suppression and intimidation during Harold Washington’s first mayoral campaign.” Spontaneous applause broke out, and I was surprised by how good it felt. I continued, “Today I want to talk about why electing Carol Moseley Braun, who will be here in a minute, is not only a historic opportunity but also will send the message to all Illinois officeholders that they need to take the concerns of women seriously.” It was as I was declaring that economic issues and healthcare issues were women’s issues because all issues were women’s issues that the door behind me opened, and, along with a burst of cold air, Carol and her three-person retinue appeared.

  “And here she is!” I exclaimed. “Our guest of honor!”

  “Oh my goodness, I am sorry,” Carol said loudly. “The highway out of the city was beastly. But I’m just thrilled to be here with such a beautiful bunch of women.” Everyone applauded again with great enthusiasm, and Carol applauded, too, saying when the cheering quieted down, “No, I’m clapping for you.” She hugged both Sophia and me then immediately launched into her stump speech: why she’d decided to run, how she was tired of the gridlock in Washington when the officials there were supposed to work for the American people and not the other way around. She spoke about growing up on the South Side, about the importance of education in her life and for all children, about her eventual graduation from the University of Chicago Law School and her beloved brother’s fatal drug
overdose in 1983 and her teenage son. The audience was rapt as she described how, as a state representative in Springfield, she’d been known as the conscience of the House. “Speaking truth to power is always important,” she said. “Right now, it’s more important than ever.”

  I’d recognized within seconds that she had the same charisma Bill did. Right away, the crowd had forgiven her tardiness and they nodded and smiled and frowned and cheered at exactly the moments they were intended to nod and smile and frown and cheer. And it was extra impressive how effortlessly she connected with them given the differences of race and upbringing. I saw a few women pulling out checkbooks even before Carol finished speaking.

  And yet, standing a couple feet from her, I had a thought I couldn’t suppress: I’d never have shown up more than an hour late to my own fundraiser. Yes, Bill had done this sort of thing, and maybe he still did. But didn’t Carol know—shouldn’t she—how careful women had to be?

  * * *

  —

  On the weekend before the semester started, my brother Tony and I went to a movie—we saw Bugsy, starring Warren Beatty—and afterward, over cheeseburgers, Tony said, “Did you hear Dad got in a fender bender in the parking lot of Menards?”

  “I thought he wasn’t driving anymore.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Tony scoffed. “At night maybe, but he still drives during the day.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I don’t think he could pass the driving test if he had to take it,” I said. “Do you?”

  “There’s no way in hell.” Tony bit into his cheeseburger and said with his mouth full, “When we’re all at Hughie’s, want me to steal his license out of his wallet?” Our brother and sister-in-law hosted an annual Super Bowl party, which would occur the following weekend.

  “Like that would do anything,” I said, and Tony laughed, then so did I. Not because it was funny—learning that our father was still driving was distressing—but because it was true. And also because it was nice to be out with my brother, eating cheeseburgers.

  * * *

  —

  Bitsy Sedgeman Corker called me at the office. “I just had lunch with Ivo Burgmund, and he told me you’re considering running in the Senate primary. What can I do to convince you?”

  The Democratic state party chair had told one of the leading Democratic donors in the state that I might run for Senate? “I was considering it, before Carol decided to run,” I said. “I’m not at this point.”

  “I like Carol,” Bitsy said. “But her campaign is an absolute disaster. They’re incredibly disorganized, and the campaign manager is a very weird South African man she’s rumored to be involved with.”

  “I went to a fundraiser for her in Skokie,” I said. “She was an hour late, but once she got there, she was terrific.”

  “She’s late to everything. Listen. I’m not racist. Carol’s a sweet person, and if I thought she could win, I’d support her. I don’t think she can win.”

  “It’s interesting to hear you say that.”

  “And I want a woman in that seat. Whether it’s Alan Dixon or Joe Biden or George Bush, I’m so tired of these idiot men getting to make up the rules for the rest of us. They’re not smarter. They’re not nicer. They don’t have better judgment. They’re just men.”

  * * *

  —

  As soon as Bitsy and I hung up, I called Greg. “Have you heard that Carol’s campaign is having problems?”

  “Yes, and I was about to tell you.”

  I said, “If the primary is four months from now, it’s too late to jump into the race. Isn’t it?”

  “Could you take a leave from teaching this semester?”

  “Not at this point.”

  “How much time do you actually spend in the classroom?”

  “Eight hours a week.”

  “Man, I want to be a law professor.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said. “I want to be a political strategist.”

  * * *

  —

  If Carol Moseley Braun’s campaign was unstable, she wasn’t alone. The day after I heard from Bitsy, a tabloid published an article about a Little Rock cabaret singer who claimed she’d had an affair with Bill for twelve years. She also claimed to have recordings of their recent phone conversations, including ones in which he urged her to deny their involvement. In a statement to the media, Bill’s campaign press secretary said Bill and Sarah Grace did indeed know the woman but that her allegations were false and she’d been paid by the tabloid.

  Listening to this news on NPR, I didn’t feel glee, or even vindication. I felt sad, and I felt uneasy. Was this because, for the first time in my life, I understood not only how organically an affair could happen but also how special and sweet—how not sordid—it could seem to the two people involved?

  And yet: twelve years? I wanted to imagine I’d never have put up with such a thing. Then again, I had, in the end, agreed to marry Bill, and I’d done so knowing of his predilections. He was the one who had spared me.

  * * *

  —

  “I have something to tell you that might sound strange,” I said to James. We were in our chairs in his office, holding hands. “You know Bill Clinton?”

  “Not personally.”

  “Funny you should put it that way,” I said. “When I was in law school and for a few years afterward, he was my boyfriend.”

  “The governor of Arkansas who’s running for president and is involved in a sex scandal—that was your boyfriend?”

  “Well, he wasn’t the governor then, and he certainly wasn’t running for president. But the first law school where I taught was the University of Arkansas.”

  James seemed nonplussed. “And to think that you denied leading a glamorous life.”

  “I can assure you that Fayetteville, Arkansas, in the midseventies was far from glamorous.”

  “Do you think the call girl’s accusations are true?”

  “She’s a cabaret singer, not a call girl, but yes. The reason I didn’t marry him is that he was chronically unfaithful.”

  “You would have married him otherwise?” There was a tinge of jealousy in James’s voice.

  I didn’t want to upset him, but I also didn’t want to lie. I said, “It was a very long time ago.”

  * * *

  —

  “Also hypothetically,” I said to Greg over the phone, “if I do decide to jump into the Senate race, how damning is it if I have a co-worker, another law professor who’s married and has a child, and he and I hold hands and hug in our offices? But we don’t have sex, and we’ve never kissed.”

  After a beat, Greg said, “How many people know?”

  “Besides us, I think only my friend Maureen.”

  “Ask him if he’s told anyone, and make sure Maureen can keep her mouth shut.”

  “She can.”

  “Confirm it. How long has it been going on?”

  “Three and a half months.”

  “You just, what, feel each other up?”

  “Not even that. We really only hug and hold hands, and only in our offices with the doors closed.”

  “I’ve heard of a lot,” Greg said, “but I didn’t know kinks could be G rated. Stop immediately. The public can barely wrap its head around a female senator, and they’re sure as shit not going to put up with a female senator who’s boning someone else’s husband.”

  “I’m not remotely close to boning him.”

  “The nuances of this will fall on deaf ears. Stop.”

  “By the way,” I said, “the reason Bill Clinton and I broke up back in 1975 is that he kept cheating on me.”

  “How ironic. Are you looking forward to 60 Minutes?” The furor around the cabaret singer’s charges wasn’t dissipat
ing, and Bill and Sarah Grace were going to address the controversy on an episode of 60 Minutes airing after the Super Bowl.

  “I’m not sure I’ll watch,” I said. “My whole family will be at my brother’s, and there’s no way I’m watching Bill’s interview with my parents there.”

  “Then come to my place, and we’ll order Szechuan Wok’s finest.”

  “I don’t know if I want to watch.”

  “Hillary, I’m not even going to waste time pretending this is a real discussion. I hate football, so come over in the last inning or whatever they’re called.”

  When I told my parents I wouldn’t be at Hughie’s, my father said with evident pleasure, “It looks like your communist boyfriend really got his tit caught in a wringer this time, huh?”

  * * *

  —

  Sarah Grace and Bill sat on a pale love seat in a hotel suite in New Hampshire, and the interviewer faced them from an armchair; over the interviewer’s shoulder, a fire crackled in a fireplace. Sarah Grace wore the same style of dress she’d worn for Bill’s announcement, this one light pink and puffy sleeved, with a Peter Pan collar. She looked extraordinarily nervous.

  As the interviewer began asking Bill questions about the cabaret singer—“How do you know her? How would you describe your relationship?”—Sarah Grace was unblinking and unsmiling.

  “Her outfit is way too Little House on the Prairie,” Greg said. “She should be wearing a suit.”

  “And they’re sitting too far apart,” I said. There were probably three inches of space between them. “They need to present a united front.”

  The singer had been a friendly acquaintance, Bill was saying, but her allegations of a twelve-year affair were false. He said Sarah Grace knew her, too, and that when the media started hounding the singer, Sarah Grace had been worried for her, thinking how frightened she must be by the lies and exposure. Sarah Grace’s gaze shifted grimly between the interviewer and Bill.