Maureen said as we hugged, “I can’t even say how good you were on Beverly. You were perfect.”
I grinned. “And the amazing part is that you’re totally impartial. Wait, show me the pictures from Nate’s birthday.”
Maureen was a grandmother of six—though Meredith didn’t have children yet, both her brothers had three—and Maureen saw her children and grandchildren several times a week. They all lived in the area, and on Fridays she took care of the youngest, a two-year-old girl named Harper.
Maureen pulled out her phone, tapped the photo app, and scrolled through images. Nate had just turned five and held a pirate-themed party, though truthfully, the pictures I most wanted to see weren’t of kids but of Maureen herself, in a tricorn hat, eye patch, and billowing blouse. The images exceeded my expectations.
“This is amazing,” I said. “Did you really make the hat?”
“I just followed instructions on a website. But you know I bought the hook, right? It’s plastic.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “I hadn’t even noticed.” I enlarged the image: The part that covered her hand was black, and the hook itself was curving silver.
“By the way,” Maureen said, “have you talked to Meredith lately?”
“Not for a few weeks. Is everything okay?”
“No, things are fine. I was just wondering. You know, if you want, I can make you a pirate hat. You can wear it for a big speech or something.”
I laughed. “Strangely, no one has ever offered that before.”
Maureen and I were having a Pilates lesson with an instructor named Nora who came to my apartment whenever I was back in Chicago. Ebba always pushed the glass table out of the center of the living room, and we did it there, in our bare feet. There had been a few years after my first election to the Senate when Maureen and I had needed to navigate the shifting terms of our friendship. I saw the shifts as purely logistical; yes, I was busier, but our closeness was, if anything, more important to me now that I was in the public eye. To a degree I understood only after an emotional conversation we had by Maureen’s pool in the summer of 1993, she felt hurt by my decreased availability and also threatened by my friendship with Bitsy Sedgeman Corker. At the end of that conversation, during which we both cried, Maureen said, “I wanted to be your rich friend, but now that there’s Bitsy, I guess I have to settle for being your oldest friend.”
“Maureen, you’re my best friend,” I said.
In the twenty-plus years since, Maureen and I had rarely been out of contact, whether by phone, email, or text, for more than a day or two. On this Saturday in early May, after Nora had led us through the exercises and the cooldown, Maureen and I continued to lie on our backs on the cream-colored living room rug, and Maureen said, “Nora, you’ve relaxed me so much I think I’ll stay here all day.”
“That’s a great idea,” Nora said. “I’ll just see myself out.” After she’d collected her resistance bags and balls, I could hear her talking in the hall to Ebba, and I whispered to Maureen, “When we were doing the hundred, I peed a little bit.”
“Oh, please,” Maureen said. “I’ve been peeing in my underwear a little bit since I first gave birth in 1975.”
“Do you do Kegels?”
“I mean to. You know how articles say, ‘Do Kegels anywhere! No one will know’? When Steve and I flew to Oahu, I could swear the woman in front of me in the security line was doing them, or else she was just clenching her bottom.”
I laughed. “Maybe the advice should be ‘Do Kegels anywhere except when eagle-eyed Maureen is standing behind you.’ ”
“Speaking of which, I caught a little of Bill’s rally on CNN yesterday, and whoever is responsible for his nips and tucks deserves a medal. God knows I don’t like him, but he’s had impeccable work done.”
“Bill’s rally was televised?” I said. I knew he’d held a rally in Oakland, and I knew two thousand people had attended it—a higher figure than anticipated—but the fact of it being broadcast had escaped me.
Maureen said, “I only watched a few minutes, so I don’t know if they aired the whole thing.”
I wanted to hold on to the good feeling accrued during Pilates and time with Maureen, but the tense alertness of campaigning had reasserted itself already, even as I lay on my living room floor. Maureen was leaving in a few minutes, and I willed myself to wait until she had—I succeeded, but barely—before texting Theresa, Clyde, and Greg How the hell did BC get his Oakland rally aired on CNN?
* * *
—
Using the phone number Kenya had given me, I texted Misty LaPointe on Saturday afternoon; texting seemed better than calling because I didn’t want to catch her at a bad moment. Misty, this is Hillary Rodham, I wrote. I have been thinking of you since we met and am wondering how your first chemo session went.
A reply came immediately: GTFO who is this really and what do u want
After googling GTFO, I wrote: It’s really me and added a smiley-face emoji, which was the only emoji I ever used.
From Misty: Ok then tell something olny Hillary would know
From me: Well, a lot of information about me is widely available so how about that when we met, your daughters were with you and you told me I’m much prettier in person?
This time, about three minutes passed before Misty’s response: Miss Hillary I am so sorry I hope u will accept my sincere apologies from the bottom of my heart I just couldn’t believe it u
From me: Please don’t worry at all. How did your chemo go?
From her: It was ok
From me: I understand that Leslie in my Washington office told you that the American Cancer Society provides referrals to a financial counselor w/ knowledge about planning for health-related expenses.
From her: Yah maybe
From me: And that a nonprofit in Cedar Rapids offers free dinner delivery service 3 times/week for people with illnesses.
From her: Yah but my girls like my cooking
Was she telling me to back off?
From her: I saw you on Beverly, LOL
From her: Is she as funny in real life
From me: Yes, Beverly is very funny.
From me: I’m afraid your girls would not be at all impressed by my cooking.
From me: If you think of it, please text me in a few weeks and let me know how you are.
From her: Ha ha if I think of it yah I have a feeling I remember
From her: For real I can’t believe u texted me it’s amazing Miss Hillary and then there were several emojis—a face with heart eyes, a birthday hat, an American flag, a flexing biceps.
From me: Please just call me Hillary.
* * *
—
My campaign headquarters was on the eleventh floor of Prudential Plaza, a large open space with my logo painted on the wall visitors saw when they stepped off the elevator. A few senior staff members worked in offices with windows, and many junior staff members sat at cubicle desks or on beanbags, laptops open in front of them. There was usually a dog or three on the premises and both mass-produced and handmade signs from rallies adorning the walls, along with other paraphernalia featuring my name or face—pins, masks affixed to Popsicle sticks—and sometimes there was music playing from one of the departments.
In other words, the headquarters was a vibrant, buzzing place, and I was almost never there, unless I went specifically to boost morale. Otherwise, I kept a small, nondescript private office in the same high-rise on Dearborn Street where Greg Rheinfrank had for years rented his office. This was also not where we held the oppo meeting. Instead, a small group of us gathered Sunday morning at my apartment, in the dining room: Theresa; Greg, who was acting as my chief strategist and media adviser; my campaign manager, Denise; Aaron Villarini, who was my communications director; and Gigi, who was my director of research. The meeting had been call
ed to discuss Bill.
“I’ll go least incendiary to most,” Gigi said. “There’s the obvious. He’s been married twice. He’s on good terms with both ex-wives and his two kids, who are from the first marriage. He’s now dating a woman named Kristin Bowen, a forty-year-old software engineer. This is where things start to get interesting. At least until recently, they’ve had an open relationship, and they’ve also been quote-unquote experimental, including participating in threesomes with other women.”
There was a brief silence, the silence of not just my colleagues but my employees digesting this bit of information about a man they knew to be both my political opponent and my ex-boyfriend. Calmly I said, “I’m impressed he has the energy.”
Gigi continued in a level tone. “The rumors about the so-called orgies or sex parties in Silicon Valley are also true. Sometimes the parties last a few hours, sometimes a few days, but essentially, it’s high-profile, superwealthy men, both married and unmarried, then there are couples, then there are young women. The parties happen in fancy, very private locations, everyone takes ecstasy, sometimes along with other drugs, and a lot of sex occurs. It often culminates in something called a cuddle puddle.”
Several of us yelped simultaneously, and Denise said, “I need a barf bag.”
“But the problem,” Greg said, “is that he’s living the dream of a lot of American men.” He glanced around the dining room table. “Isn’t he? Not that I’m an expert in the ways of heterosexuals.”
“Gigi, please continue,” I said.
“There’s a strict code of confidentiality,” Gigi said, “but it isn’t because people are ashamed. If anything, as Greg is alluding to, they’re proud. The men perceive themselves as disrupting sexuality and monogamous marriage just like they’ve disrupted the taxi and hotel industries.”
Around the table, there was scoffing and laughter, and Aaron said, “I just want to make sure I understand. These people are tripping, they’re having group sex, then they all see each other again a few days later in a boardroom?”
“Apparently so,” Gigi said. “And experimentation takes other forms, like bondage.”
“Are the young women prostitutes?” I asked.
“Not in most cases. They might be there to make professional connections, but they’re not usually paid outright.”
“Call me a prude,” Aaron said, “but I don’t think disrupting monogamy will play in Iowa and New Hampshire. Plus, this is consistent with what made things unravel for Clinton in ’92.”
Greg said, “But haven’t mores shifted a lot since then?”
“Can we back up for a second?” I asked. “Ecstasy is MDMA, correct?” When Gigi nodded, I said, “What’s the penalty for MDMA possession in the state of California?”
“Possession is a misdemeanor that comes with a fine of up to a thousand dollars and a year in jail,” Gigi said. “It rarely happens, though.”
“Is ecstasy now like what pot used to be?” I asked.
“Obviously, it depends who you’re talking to,” Denise said. “But once Obama admitted to cocaine use, things did kind of change.”
I said, “But Barack’s use was long before he was running.”
Gigi said, “Believe me, we’re doing all we can to find a witness to say they saw Clinton doing ecstasy, or having group sex. We have a couple leads, one being a young woman and one being a caterer working one of the parties. But no one has committed yet. Let me pivot a little. In 1993, Clinton settled a case for sexual harassment brought against him by a former Arkansas state employee named Sharalee Mitchell. The alleged encounter took place in 1990, when Mitchell was twenty-five, and it involved members of his security detail taking her to his hotel room, where she says they chatted for a few minutes before he exposed his genitals to her. His supposed quote was, ‘Kiss it.’ ”
Again, a few people in the room groaned or winced. I was grateful that Gigi continued speaking matter-of-factly. “This is different from the cabaret singer who came forward in ’92 to say she and Clinton had had a twelve-year affair. To this day, Mitchell is the only woman to seek damages. Ultimately, Clinton settled for $850,000. Both of these women have granted interviews in the past, in some cases paid interviews.”
Would Bill really have said “Kiss it,” just like that, as a command unaccompanied by flattery or self-deprecation? I could more easily imagine his saying, with some blend of feigned and sincere sheepishness, “Will you kiss it?” He was a confident man, yes, but didn’t you have to be a brute to simply issue such a decree? And yet they’d known each other for a few minutes, and then he’d unfastened his pants and shown her his presumably erect penis. Had he not understood or not cared that she didn’t want to see it? I thought how I had kissed Bill Clinton’s penis, and far more than once, and usually without his asking. Was the lesson to draw that he’d probably treated me with more respect than he had the state employee? That she was more discerning or less lucky than I had been?
Denise was saying, “Granting that men running for office get far more leeway than women, isn’t the combination of this stuff going to bring him down? Known adultery plus settling in a sexual harassment case plus sex parties plus drugs? Unless he’s Teflon.”
Greg said, “You know two thousand people just showed up at his rally in Oakland, right?”
To Gigi, I said, “You’re sure he doesn’t have any children besides Alexis and Ricky? I don’t mean with his second wife but with anyone.”
“There are persistent rumors, including that he fathered a black child in Arkansas years ago, but there’s no proof.”
“At one point, I heard he might be a sperm donor for a lesbian couple or just a single woman,” I said. “He may have been the woman’s sperm donor or her boyfriend.”
“You say tomato, I say tomahto,” Greg said in a singsong.
“I’ll look into that,” Gigi said. “The final lead we’re pursuing is the rumor that in the seventies, he raped a woman in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Her name is Vivian Tobin, she’s now seventy-six, and at the time, she was a volunteer for his congressional campaign.”
I gasped, as did Denise, but I think she was gasping about the rape part; I was gasping because after all this time, I knew the woman’s name.
“She never pressed charges,” Gigi said, “and I have the impression she has no desire to talk to the media, but she told a few friends right after it happened. And frankly, someone who’s sexually assaulted one person has usually sexually assaulted others, so if this woman won’t cooperate, it’s possible we’ll find others.”
It was shocking to hear Gigi’s words, their dispassionate tone, their optimism even. It’s possible we’ll find others. The woman’s claim—Vivian Tobin’s claim—had been the secret of my adulthood, the thing I’d told no one except Lyle Metcalf, Bill’s campaign manager at the time. Forty years earlier, I had wanted desperately for her to be lying, or at least exaggerating; did I now want her to have been telling the truth? It was all so sordid, so sad. And I actually believed that Bill believed what he’d said the night he’d urged me to leave Arkansas—that he’d never forced himself on anyone. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t.
* * *
—
Theresa lingered as the others left the oppo meeting. When my apartment was empty except for Ebba in the kitchen, Theresa said, “How are you doing?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t rank that as my favorite meeting ever.”
“Yeah, understandably.”
“The rape rumor,” I said. “It wasn’t the first time I’ve heard it. She never told me her name, but the woman Gigi mentioned, Vivian Tobin, came up to me in a parking lot, when I was by myself, right before Election Day in Bill’s first congressional run. She said she’d been one of his campaign volunteers and that he’d quote-unquote forced himself on her. It must be the same woman, right? Jesus Christ.” I shook my head.
/> “That was when you still lived in Fayetteville?”
“A few months after I’d moved there.” I laughed bleakly. “Remember when I told you there were warning signs about the one person I thought I’d marry? And I didn’t even know in the seventies how rare false sexual assault accusations are.” In fact, rather belatedly, some of my education had come in the last few years when two of my fellow female senators had introduced a bill to address the problem of sexual assault in the military. I added, “But I admit that I still wonder if some of this can be chalked up to it being a different time. Or did Bill do it but he only did something like this once?”
“I wish I knew the answers to any of that.”
“Do you think I should tell Gigi I spoke to the woman forty years ago? And I told Bill’s campaign manager about her. Should I give Gigi his name?”
Theresa was rolling her lips in and out. Finally, she said, “The only reason that I can see for involving yourself is if the woman makes a statement that mentions you and you’re vulnerable to people saying you sat on the story all this time, until it served your purposes, and didn’t care about the woman. I wouldn’t say anything for now, though, even to Gigi. It’s all so explosive, but if the woman doesn’t want to talk to reporters, maybe it’s moot.”
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