Rodham

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  “When you look at Bill Clinton,” Danny said, “are you like, Dude, that guy boned me? And if so, how does that distinguish you from most other American women?”

  Coming on the show had been a mistake; he was simply too obnoxious. I thought of removing my headphones and walking out of the studio. In thousands of interviews, I’d never done this. And I didn’t in this moment, though I did look over one shoulder at Theresa, whose lips were rolled in so far they weren’t visible. Then I said, “I realize that you’re a comedian, and I guess that’s your idea of humor. But are you sure you don’t have any questions about my policies on healthcare or small businesses? I suspect that you’re an independent contractor, and perhaps your show is an LLC.”

  “Nice try.” Danny smirked. “You and Bill Clinton met in law school. Did women have orgasms in the seventies?”

  I looked him in the eye and said, “I find that incredibly inappropriate.”

  “That’s a no?”

  “I was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1992,” I said. “At the time I took office, I was one of six female senators. I’ve spent my entire career trying to improve the lives of women, children, and really all Americans. I’ve always cared passionately about making our country better for everyone. That’s what I’ll keep doing as president. I’ll establish job training programs, I’ll make college affordable, I’ll end tax cuts for the rich. I’ll fight for cleaner air and water and safety from terrorism.” I was glaring at him, and I didn’t care. “And you know what? You’re not parodying sexism. You’re just sexist. I know we live in ironic times, but if you think elections don’t matter and there’s no difference between me and anyone else who might become president, the person you’re kidding is yourself.”

  There was, of course, a tiny part of me that thought I’d persuade him. But I should have known better. “Damnnn,” he said. “Snap. Are the men you work with scared of you? ’Cause I kind of am.”

  The reason I gave myself permission to yank off my headphones and walk out is that if I stayed any longer, I truly thought I might tell him to go fuck himself. But I wasn’t yelling as I stood. “This might not be a waste of your time,” I said. “But it’s certainly a waste of mine.”

  I was shaking as I turned—Theresa had also stood—and pushed open the door of the studio. In the hall, Clyde, Diwata, Ellie, Kenya, and my agents were all waiting, and I said, “Get me out of here.”

  “Wait, seriously?” I heard Danny say.

  “I’ll deal with him,” Clyde said. He entered the studio (this meant he’d make a cameo in the YouTube recording), and the rest of us, joined by the producer, walked toward the bank of elevators.

  “Senator Rodham, what if we take a break and go back for another”—the producer began; he also looked to be in his thirties—and Diwata turned to speak with him, pausing so that he had to pause, too, while I continued walking. When the elevator doors closed on Theresa, Ellie, me, and the agents, Theresa and I looked at each other and I said, “I certainly hope I didn’t just create another New Hampshire primary moment. But I just couldn’t—sitting across from him—”

  Theresa reached out and squeezed my hand. “Danny Danielson sucks,” she said.

  I said, “Find a way for me to meet with Donald Trump.”

  * * *

  —

  Among the online headlines in the hours after we left the studio: “Hillary’s Meltdown”; “Hillary’s Tantrum”; “Hillary’s Tirade”; “Hillary’s Worst Week Ever?”; “Shrillary Yells at Comedian.” And from The New York Times: “For Some, Hillary Can Do No Right.” Often, it was the pseudo-impartiality of the Times that rankled me the most, its veneer of elegance and restraint as it led readers to disapprove (for some!). I loved reading Times articles that weren’t about me, which only made its negative portrayal sting more.

  But also: Particularly on Twitter and Facebook, women were celebrating my response to Danny. Within twenty-four hours, two videos sampling my longest remarks had gone viral. In one, a bald black man in Atlanta sang a gospel version of my words while wearing a pink three-piece suit, and in the other, a lithe young white woman from Dallas, outfitted in a blond wig and a pantsuit, writhed, gyrated on a beige carpet, and lip-synched my words over a techno beat.

  So some people thought it had been a catastrophic self-immolation and others a moment of transcendent greatness. Mostly, the admirers had admired me already—women old enough to have eaten shit in their own careers, which was to say women of any possible age—though apparently I’d won some new female (but not male) millennial admirers. Really feeling this new IDGAF Hillary, a Twitter user named @PictureofWhorianGray had written, and the surprising part was not just that I recognized this assortment of letters as a sentence but that I actually understood what it meant. Though, at the risk of parsing its sentiment too finely, @PictureofWhorianGray was wrong. If I didn’t give a fuck, I wouldn’t have been running for president.

  * * *

  —

  When Maureen came over for Pilates, she handed me a large yellow paper bag with pale-blue tissue paper sticking out the top.

  “What is it?” I asked, and she grinned.

  “You have to open it.”

  I nudged apart the tissue paper and saw dark, soft material that I thought might be a shirt. When I pulled it out, I was holding a tricorn pirate hat, complete with a skull and crossbones affixed to the brim. I laughed very hard, and Maureen said, “Aye, matey! Put it on.” When I did, she said, “Beautiful. Now say, ‘Arrgh!’ ”

  “Arrgh!” I said. “But what if you need it?”

  “I made you your own. It took about fifteen minutes.”

  “You’re so impressive.”

  This time, she laughed. “I know,” she said. “But thank you.”

  We were in my living room, waiting for our instructor, Nora, to arrive momentarily. As Maureen sat to unlace her shoes, she said, “That little turd on the podcast—you handled him so well.” Though Hey FMMB wasn’t actually a podcast, I knew she meant Danny Danielson.

  “Did you watch the whole thing?” I asked.

  “Every second of it, and I cheered when you walked out.” After she’d removed her shoes, Maureen said, “I was thinking about when you had dinner at Bill’s place in San Francisco. What year was that?”

  I made a face and said, “2005.” Maureen was the only person, including Theresa, who knew everything that had happened that night.

  “Is that why he’s running? Because he’s mad at you?”

  “Oh.” I paused. “I don’t think so. If anything—well, obviously, it’s not why I’m running, but it does make me more motivated to try to beat him.”

  “You don’t think he’s trying to get revenge?”

  It was surreal that Bill was my Democratic opponent, almost inconceivable. But if I thought about it, it was surreal that I was running for president. For the third time! I said, “I honestly don’t think I loom large enough in Bill’s life for him to want revenge against me.”

  * * *

  —

  The plan was that I would run into Donald Trump in the greenroom of the morning show I’d been watching when the idea to enlist him had occurred to me. The show filmed in New York, in a Midtown studio.

  “I know you perceive him as not completely normal,” Greg said as we rode the elevator up to the studio, accompanied by only Theresa and my agents. “But think of how not normal you imagine him to be, then multiply it by ten. He’s a walking ego.”

  “I’ve met him,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “He’s obsessed with his TV ratings, so if there’s any trouble, revert to that.” Musingly, Greg added, “I wonder if this is the part in the movie where the scientist spills the teensiest bit of radioactive slime on the floor of the lab.”

  As the elevator doors opened, I said, “Thank you for the resounding vote of confidence.”


  I had rehearsed in my head the first words I’d say to Donald, which was something I’d trained myself to do for professional interactions with men, as a way of not slipping by default into a dynamic in which they controlled the situation. I planned to firmly shake his hand and say, “Donald, what a pleasant coincidence. Congratulations on everything you’ve been up to, especially this season of The Apprentice.” In preparation for the moment, I’d watched an episode and found it both bombastic and silly.

  But I realized quickly that my concerns about the dynamic had been misplaced. He burst into the greenroom with two assistants in tow, and it was immediately clear, in a way that had been obscured by the size of the crowd at the magazine gala ten years earlier, that he himself was a force field. This happens with some famous people, that their entrance into a room is like a sailboat tilting sideways—the mood of the room is now their mood, the very conversation is an exercise in deference. This could, in fact, happen with me, but it had started happening only after ’08, when I’d won the Iowa caucuses, and certainly I still had both the willingness and the ability to revert to being the beta dog.

  He was as tall as I remembered, nearly as tall as Bill, and his skin was a strange peach shade. This wasn’t shocking given that he’d just been on the air, but he was definitely wearing more makeup than I was. His teeth were large, and his hair was, in its style, odd but (I have mentioned this to a few friends since, and no one has believed me) in its texture and shade, it was rather lovely, a rich and Rapunzelish blond; I didn’t doubt that it was as expensively colored as my own. Just as some people emanate serenity, he emanated a smug, acrid jitteriness. As he approached me, he said loudly, “Hillary Rodham. I hear you’re planning to be the first woman president.”

  I’d stood when he entered the room, and he took my hand, gripped it tightly, and shook it vigorously.

  I said, “I certainly hope so.”

  “A lot of people want me to run for president,” he said. “I’d definitely win, I’d be the greatest president ever.”

  How boyish he was! He reminded me of a boy in my elementary school class named Roger Hobson, who in third grade, on a field trip to the Museum of Science and Industry, had told me that if he really concentrated, he could knock down one of the massive columns at the museum’s entrance with just his pinkie.

  Donald still was gripping my hand tightly, still shaking it, looming above me, as he said, “I’m too busy, though. I’ve got a TV show that’s breaking records with high ratings. I’ve got hotels and golf courses being built all over the world. Did you hear about my new hotel in Vancouver?”

  “Congratulations on all of it,” I said. “Especially on this season of The Apprentice.”

  A palpable softening occurred within or around him; whether consciously or not, he’d been waiting to see if I was a friend or adversary. At last he dropped my hand.

  “Season fourteen was amazing, wasn’t it?” he said. “Such high ratings. NBC was thrilled, they think it’s the best show ever. People love it. It’s huge.”

  “I know,” I said, again with enthusiasm. “It really is. But do you ever really think of running for president? Maybe you should.” I didn’t dare make eye contact with Theresa or Greg for fear of bursting into laughter.

  Donald looked suspicious. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “You don’t want to win?”

  “Oh, I absolutely want to win,” I said. “But voters deserve a choice. And you bring something to the table that none of the other Republican candidates do—the way you really say what you think, your passion and candor.” He was still glaring as I added, “I wouldn’t be running if I didn’t believe I’m the right person for the job. But let’s say I’m not elected. I don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on it, but if I’m not, I don’t want the person who is elected to be one of those—” I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it, but I did. I said, “One of those losers. I look at some of the Republicans, and I don’t know if they’re strong enough. Do they really have the courage, the smarts?”

  “You and Bill Clinton,” Donald said. “You used to date, didn’t you?”

  I laughed. “Years ago.”

  A PA opened the door of the greenroom and said, “Senator Rodham, you’re on in two.” Theresa stood.

  Donald said, “You still have a thing for Clinton?”

  I ignored the question and said, “Frankly, I don’t see him as a legitimate threat in this race. He’s got that early spike now, but I suspect it’ll fizzle in a couple weeks. He’s not someone the American people really connect with in that visceral way. Now, you—” My propensity for bullshit was appalling and impressive, even to me. And then I did something that I still don’t know if I’m proud or ashamed of: I brought my right hand to my forehead and, as if I were a private and he were a sergeant, I saluted him. I said, “I know, as a business leader and a celebrity, you have so many demands on your time. But promise me you’ll give it some thought.”

  I don’t usually find it difficult to focus on the person in front of me on or off the air, but during the television interview that followed, I did; adrenaline was coursing through me. When we left the studio, in the elevator, I said, “Did I lose my moral compass?”

  Theresa said, “You want to win.”

  “That was beyond weird,” Greg said. “But I don’t think anyone who’s lost their moral compass wonders if they’ve lost their moral compass.”

  * * *

  —

  The town hall in Bettendorf, Iowa, was at a synagogue, and when I entered the greenroom, Misty LaPointe exclaimed, “Hillary!” and hurled herself into my arms before drawing back, grabbing a lock of her dark hair and saying, “Can you tell this is a wig?”

  “You look lovely,” I said. “Thank you for being part of today’s event.”

  “I’m so nervous I might pass out. I practiced a million times, but I still might pass out.”

  “You’ll be fabulous,” I said. “Just be yourself.” In the six weeks since our first meeting, Misty had lost a significant amount of weight. She had previously been plump, and she was now thin. Her wig was long, straight, and almost black, with heavy bangs. She wore a blue-and-white-striped dress, and in her left hand, she held the rolled-up papers that I assumed were the introduction. Though I hadn’t read it, I knew it had been vetted—and probably edited—by two members of my speechwriting team. Diwata had just told me that about three hundred people were in the audience; my media team’s efforts to get any network to air the event in its entirety had been unsuccessful, and it was plausible that no one outside the synagogue would ever see Misty’s introduction, but I didn’t mention this to her because it seemed that it might be more deflating than reassuring. Instead, I said, “Are your daughters here today?”

  “They’re in the front row with my sister. Lauren was supposed to work, but I said, ‘Tell your boss when your mom is introducing freaking Hillary Rodham, you need the day off.’ ”

  I smiled. “How are you feeling?”

  An expression of trepidation passed over her face, a trepidation that seemed separate from her public-speaking anxiety. But she said, “I feel good right now.”

  Theresa, Clyde, and Diwata walked with us from the greenroom to the wings of the stage in the synagogue’s sanctuary, where a podium waited in the bimah. After the upbeat introductory video about my campaign, which was a variation on my original campaign announcement, my Midwest regional director introduced Misty, and as the director spoke, I reached out, clasped Misty’s right hand, and squeezed it; I could feel that she was shaking. Then, as I had done so many times, she walked alone onto a stage.

  The applause wasn’t exactly fervent—no one knew yet who she was—but she still hesitated for a few seconds before speaking into the microphone. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “Thank you for coming today. My name is Misty LaPointe. I was born and raised in Cedar Rapids, Iowa,
and I work as a bank teller. I never thought I would find myself in the position I am in right now. I am forty-three years old, and I am fighting for my life.” Again, she paused unnecessarily before continuing. “I’m the proud single mom of Lauren, who is sixteen, and Olivia, who will turn twelve on Thursday. They are both here today.” She paused again and gave a shaky smile, and this time the audience clapped. Misty continued, “Olivia does gymnastics, and Lauren works at Cinnabon, and they both get straight A’s. We are a small but close family. My goal is for my daughters to graduate from college, and I used to think paying for that would be my biggest challenge. But on Christmas day 2014, everything changed. That’s when I first felt a lump in my right breast.

  “Two weeks later, after a biopsy, a doctor told me I needed to have a double mastectomy as soon as possible. This happened in February, and I began chemotherapy infusions at the end of April. Because I had to take five weeks off of work after my surgery and my employer gives eighty hours of sick leave for the whole year, I had already used up my sick leave before I ever returned to work, and I had to go on disability. Even though I will continue chemo for up to seven more months, I can’t afford to take more leave. I schedule my chemo infusions for Friday afternoons so that I will have the weekend to recover. My doctor recommends that I should take eight milligrams of the medicine Ondansetron three times a day for three days after chemo, but my health insurance will only pay for seven four-milligram pills per month. That means I am getting half the antinausea medicine I need.” By this point, the synagogue had become very quiet. “Unlike the Republicans, who want to repeal the Affordable Care Act, Hillary Rodham wants to strengthen it. Under her plan, I will receive a tax refund to pay for out-of-pocket medical expenses. I will pay less for my prescription medicine, less for copays, and less for deductibles. I will know there is someone in the White House who cares about people like me.” Again, there was applause, and when it settled, Misty said, “I do not want handouts. I do not expect a free ride. But getting sick isn’t something anyone can control. Over 1.5 million Americans a year are diagnosed with cancer. We need leaders who will fight for all of us, and that is why I am supporting Hillary Rodham for president of the United States of America.”