White House Autumn

by Ellen Emerson White

  Josh just sighed. “Meg.”

  “Yeah, well—” She heard Beth’s voice saying, “You’re doing it right now,” and stopped. “What do you mean?” she asked, more pleasantly.

  “Thank you,” he said. “What I mean, is—well, going out with you is kind of like—I don’t know—running a marathon before you can walk or something.”

  Meg frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Think hard,” he said.

  Josh was rarely snarky—but, he’d probably earned the right during the past week or so. “It’s not my fault,” she said, making an effort to sound less defensive than she felt. “I mean, I’m just normal.”

  He shrugged. “I just sometimes wish I’d started off with someone more my speed.”

  “What,” she said, “you mean, I’m fast?”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s not quite what I meant.”

  She sat back, also grinning. “Do I detect a note of irony there?”

  “Let’s just say ‘fast’ isn’t the word I would have used,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah?” She thought about that, then pushed him down, kissing him. “What word would you have used, Josh?”

  He leaned up to kiss her back. “Out of my league.”

  “That’s four words.” She lifted herself onto her elbow so she could look at him. “It’s also stupid.”

  “Well, maybe.” He took off his glasses, and put them on the end table, blinking to focus. “Reporters bug me a lot. They call my house, even.”

  Meg frowned. “I thought that guy from the Post was the only one.”

  He shook his head. “It happens a lot.”

  And she knew there was all sorts of stuff on the Internet—because she had seen some of it herself. “You should have told me,” she said. “Preston could probably do something.” Not with the paparazzi, probably, but maybe with the mainstream media.

  Josh shrugged. “I just say no comment, mostly, or that they have the wrong number. Anyway, the thing is, they usually ask what someone like me is doing dating someone like you, and it’s not all that dumb a question.”

  The hell it wasn’t. “Yes, it is,” Meg said. “And it’s really rude, too.”

  He just shrugged.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Meg said. “I’ll tell Preston to—”

  “It’s not that big a deal. I only brought it up because—” He paused. “Actually, I kind of forget why I brought it up.”

  “You were failing to make a point,” she said.

  “Oh. Right.” He laughed suddenly. “You just said what I think you said, right?”

  Probably.

  He laughed again. “Mmm,” he said, moving to kiss her neck.

  Which felt good, but they weren’t done yet. She leaned away from him. “I thought we were having a conversation.”

  “Later,” he said, kissing her ear now.

  She moved away again. “The thing is—”

  “I bet you want to do this later,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Okay.” He put his hands behind his head, smiling up at her. “Go ahead.”

  “The thing is, I need you to think that I’m normal,” she said. “I mean, if you feel funny around me, it’s like—I don’t know. I need to know that I can be cranky, or sad—” or yell at him—“without everything falling apart.”

  “I didn’t know what to do.” He sat up, looking worried. “I still don’t.”

  That made two of them. “You know what it is?” she asked. “Part of it—a lot of it, even—is me, not trusting you, but you need to trust me, too. I mean, you need to feel more secure about the whole thing. It’s not like if we have a fight, I’m going to run out and find some other guy.” Even if the tabloids insisted otherwise, constantly. “I mean, you have to trust me. All that matter is what I actually think, not what people try to make you think I think.”

  He nodded.

  “Does that make sense, or is it stupid?” she asked.

  “Both,” he said.

  She smiled. “That’s what I figured.”

  “Mostly, it makes sense,” he said.

  She nodded, and they were quiet for a minute.

  “Well.” He put his arms around you. “Enough conversation.”

  More than enough.

  He left at around twelve-thirty, and once Meg was back on the second floor, she couldn’t hear any noise at all. Was it this quiet when her mother was home? It couldn’t be.

  She assumed her brothers and Trudy were asleep, but where was her father? It was late enough so that he had to be home by now. Maybe he had gone to bed, too, or—but her parents’ bedroom door was open, and he wasn’t in there. Maybe he was spending the night at the hospital again? Something he’d done more than once during the past week or so.

  She walked down the hall towards her own room, but paused by the Yellow Oval Room and peeked inside, even though it was dark.

  Her father was sitting on the couch, staring at the low, banked fire in the fireplace. Embarrassed by the idea of watching someone who didn’t know she was there, she stepped away and sat down in a nineteenth-century chair to think.

  She couldn’t just go to bed and leave him there. But, if he wanted to be by himself, she shouldn’t interfere with that, either. Maybe—she walked down to the West Sitting Hall, then came back again, whistling aimlessly and calling Vanessa in a loudly hushed whisper that he would have to hear. Indeed, a small light went on in the room. She stuck her head through the open doorway.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said. “I’m going to bed now.”

  He turned with a composed expression. Too composed. “Okay. Good-night.”

  “Yeah.” She put her hands in her pockets. “How was Mom?”

  “Tired,” he said.

  Meg nodded.

  “Josh was here tonight?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said.

  It was quiet.

  “Well.” Meg took a couple of steps towards the door. “Um, goodnight.”

  He nodded.

  MEG SPENT MOST of the night before her mother came home in her room. Worrying. The media, and the blogosphere, kept talking about how important it was for a President to be completely strong and unafraid in a first, post-shooting appearance. To give the country confidence and all. But, that meant taking risks—smiling and waving longer than necessary, that sort of thing.

  She and her brothers were going to stay home from school, so they could be there as soon as she got home, but her father wasn’t letting them go to the hospital because, he said, the car would be too crowded. But she knew damned well that it was really because he didn’t want to have to worry about them being exposed to danger, too.

  Around nine, she put her book down, deciding to go see what her brothers were doing. She found them in the solarium with Kirby, looking subdued and sad, only half-watching the television. Trudy—who had brought over several different outfits, so her mother could choose—and her father were still at the hospital.

  “Hi,” she said.

  They nodded.

  Okay, they needed some serious cheering up. “I came to see how my little peasants were doing.” She tilted Neal’s chin, studying his face. “Although I had no idea they were going to be such ugly little peasants.”.

  Neal giggled, pulling his head away.

  “I mean, good Lord.” She patted Kirby. “This is the only decent-looking one in the bunch.”.

  Her brothers laughed.

  “You look just like us, Queenie,” Steven said.

  “Oh, God, no.” She pretended to search for a mirror. “I can’t possibly be that ugly.”.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Steven said.

  “Well.” Meg sat in between them, even though there wasn’t enough room. “I’m the Queen. I can get away with being ugly.”.

  “Lucky for you,” Steven said, and Neal laughed.

  “Are you going to watch TV with us, Meggie?” he asked.

  “If you’re not watching anythi
ng too stupid.” She squinted at the television, recognizing Airplane, which her brothers usually found reliably hilarious. “Looks pretty stupid.”.

  “How come you always laugh when you see it?” Steven asked.

  “Well,” she put a benevolent arm around each of them, “I like to keep my little peasants happy.”.

  Neal laughed and Steven snorted, shrugging her arm off.

  “Ah, yes.” She slung her arm back around him. “Happy peasants. That’s what I like to see. Lots of happy, little—”.

  “If you want to make us happy, how about shutting up, so we can watch the movie?” Steven said, pleasantly.

  “When I can make you happier by sitting here and telling you swell jokes?” Meg asked.

  “You tell dumb jokes,” Neal said.

  Meg narrowed her eyes. “What do you know about it? You’re just a peasant.”.

  “He got some book larnin’, though,” Steven said, staring at the movie.

  Meg laughed, and gave him a quick hug.

  “Do that again, chick, and you eat this.” He showed her his fist.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m real scared,” she said.

  He nodded. “You best be, girl.”.

  “Don’t worry, munchkin,” she said. “I am.”.

  Their father came in. “I should have known you all would be up here,” he said, putting on a parent smile, his eyes very tired.

  “If it ain’t the First Gentleman.” Steven nudged Meg. “He’s got lots of book larnin’. Why don’t you try some of your jokes on him?”.

  Meg hung her head shyly. “Well, if you really think so.” She adjusted her position with some theatricality. “See, like, this funny thing happened to me on the way upstairs, right? I was like, walking by the Lincoln Bedroom, right? And this man comes out and says, ‘Hey.’ So I says, ‘Hey what?’”.

  “Real quick of you,” Steven said.

  She nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Anyway, so he says to me, ‘Meg,’ he says—” She stopped, looking at her father. “What’s the matter, don’t you like my joke?”.

  “I love your joke,” he said, his smile genuine. “Go on.”.

  “Actually.” She frowned. “I don’t really know any jokes.” Tragically enough.

  “At least you tried, Queenie,” Steven said.

  Their father looked both confused and amused. “You all seem pretty cheerful.”.

  “Happy little peasants,” Meg said. “How’s Mom?”.

  Her father nodded, instead of answering—which didn’t seem encouraging. “We’ll be leaving the hospital at ten.” He bent to be at Neal’s level. “It’s getting kind of late, pal. Why don’t you come down and have a snack with me and Trudy, and then we’ll see about some bedtime, okay?”.

  “But, the movie!” Neal pointed at the television. “Can’t I watch the movie?”.

  “The sooner you go to bed, the sooner you’ll wake up and your mother will be here,” their father said.

  Neal thought about that, then yawned.

  “Thought so.” Their father stood up. “Do you want to give your brother and sister a kiss?”.

  Steven held out his fist. “Kiss me, and you eat this.”.

  Neal giggled. “Night, ugly Queen,” he said to Meg.

  “Good-night, ugly worm,” she said.

  It wasn’t until later—much later—when she was in bed, that she let herself worry again. She had two extra quilts on the bed and Vanessa was asleep on her chest, but Meg was still cold. She kept picturing the scene: her mother leaving the hospital, arm strapped up in the sling, smiling bravely and confidently at the crowd—and there would be a crowd. There was always a crowd. A huge crowd that the stupid Secret Service wouldn’t be able to handle. And in that crowd, there might be a person who—the phone rang, and she flinched, but since it was the direct line and not the switchboard, she knew it was her mother, so she picked up.

  “Hi,” her mother said. “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”.

  Not by a long shot. “No,” Meg said, “I couldn’t—I mean, I was awake. Is anything wrong?”.

  “No, I just—” Her mother paused. “Not right now, please, okay?” she said, to someone who must have just walked into her room. “Anyway,” she came back on, “Steven called me a little while ago.”.

  Not surprising. “Yeah, he’s kind of uptight about tomorrow,” Meg said.

  “Well,” her mother said. “I guess we all are.”.

  Could Superwoman’s armor have just cracked ever so slightly? “You are?” Meg said.

  “My God, Meg, what do you think?” her mother asked.

  “I don’t know, I—” Meg swallowed. “You aren’t going to do anything—risky, are you?”.

  “Kiddo, I’m going to smile, wave, and dive into the car,” her mother said.

  “Dive?” Meg asked, the image almost amusing.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Her mother let out her breath. “Nothing’s going to happen, Meg. We’re all on edge because this is my first time back out there, that’s all.”.

  “We’re all on edge because you’re important to us,” Meg said through her teeth.

  “I know,” her mother said quickly. “I’m sorry.”.

  “Sorry you’re important to us?” Meg asked.

  “No, I just—it really will be okay.” Her tone changed abruptly. “So, what are we going to eat tomorrow night? Pizza? Chinese food? Mexican, maybe?”.

  In other words, things that would make her brothers happy. “Are you allowed to have stuff like that?” Meg asked.

  “I’m the President,” her mother said. “I can do anything I want.”.

  Meg smiled. A line her mother always enjoyed using—although, sometimes, she wasn’t kidding. “I’m serious. Wouldn’t it be better for us to have custard and scrambled eggs and stuff like that?” She laughed at the gagging sound her mother made. “I’m only being helpful.”.

  “Let me put it this way,” her mother said. “I’m not eating any more meals that don’t require teeth.”.

  “Hmm,” Meg said. “What an interesting way to describe it.”.

  “Let’s just say I refuse.” Her mother paused. “I really miss you. All of you.”.

  That kind of went without saying, didn’t it? But, wow, there had been a lot of open expressions of emotion and affection in her family lately—which was not exactly their norm. “Um yeah,” Meg said. “We do, too.”.

  “Well.” Her mother coughed. “I have some people I need to talk to, but—I’ll see you in the morning?”.

  Christ, she hoped so.

  THE PLAN WAS for her parents to arrive at the South Grounds, where the press would be waiting to “capture” the reunion. So, in order to look like proper Presidential children, Meg wore a red plaid kilt with a V-neck sweater and white shirt, and her brothers put on ties, khakis, and their tweed jackets.

  Preston came upstairs to inspect them.

  “Very nice,” he said. “How about some smiles? You all look like you’ve forgotten how.”.

  They smiled obediently.

  “You’ve definitely forgotten how.” He glanced around with exaggerated caution. “Okay.” He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “If you all promise not to laugh, I’ll show you something.” He hesitated. “Do you promise?”.

  “We promise,” Meg said, already grinning.

  “How about you two?” He looked at Steven and Neal. “I mean, if this leaks, it could be very embarrassing. Can you keep a secret?”.

  Steven shrugged. “For a price.”.

  “How about I catch bounce passes for a whole half-hour?” Preston said. “And we’ll work on your spin dribble.”.

  “Sold,” Steven said.

  “Will you play pool with me?” Neal asked.

  Preston nodded. “Half an hour.”.

  “Okay, I promise,” Neal said.

  “Remember,” Preston said, “you are the only three people in “Washington, except for my optometrist, who know about this.”.

  Meg
laughed. “Optometrist, hunh?”.

  Preston nodded, very grim. “Optometrist.” He sat on a yellow couch, taking an eyeglass case out of his pocket. “I went in for my check-up a couple of weeks ago, and look what I ended up with.” He put on the stylish, dark brown framed glasses, looking very sad.

  “Talk about wimpy,” Steven said.

  Preston nodded. “I guess it’s the end of my swinging bachelor days.”.

  Although much to Beth’s—and, for that matter, Meg’s—dismay, he actually had a girlfriend who was an assistant undersecretary in the State Department.

  “Can I try them on?” Neal asked.

  Steven decided that he wanted to wear them, too, and Preston let them, standing up and smiling at Meg. “What do you think?” he asked.

  She watched Neal strut around, the glasses slipping off his nose. “Do you need them for reading?”.

  Preston nodded. “And it isn’t bad enough for me to get contacts, or go for laser surgery or anything.”.

  “I bet Dad’ll fire you,” Steven said, taking the glasses from Neal and putting them on. “He doesn’t want any lame four-eyes working for him.”.

  “Can’t have any eggheads,” Preston agreed. His cell phone rang and he picked it up, listening for a minute, then nodding. “Great, thank you.” He hung up. “Let’s get ready to head downstairs—they’ve just left the hospital.”.

  “Um, without incident?” Meg asked, slipping into an automatic media cliché.

  Preston smiled. “Without incident.”.

  There was a very large and telegenic “Welcome Home, Madam President!” banner hanging from the Truman Balcony, and about a hundred aides and staffers had gathered to greet Their Leader.

  When the motorcade pulled up, agents jumped out, surrounding her mother’s car. Her mother stepped out with a wide smile, her cheeks flushed with healthy color. Flushed with rouge, more likely, but she still looked good. She was wearing a sweeping grey cape—to minimize the sling, Meg figured—and the press and staff broke into what seemed to be spontaneous applause.

  “Thank you,” her mother said, her voice sounding effortlessly powerful—so, all of those hours she’d spent using the breathing and lung expansion tube the respiratory therapists had provided her must have helped. “It’s great to be home.”.

  “Can we go hug her now?” Neal whispered, trying to twist away from the hand Meg had on his arm. “Come on, Meg, let go.”.