by Brad Meltzer
Across the narrow room, she leans against the rack of bowling balls and stares directly at me. She knows it’s true. I can see it in her dancing eyes. She’s terrified. “They’re going to try to kill him with it, aren’t they?”
There he is again. Her father. However it plays out, a scandal like this takes a mean toll. Especially with Bartlett nipping at the lead.
“All we need is some time,” she says, vigorously rubbing her nose. “It can still work out okay.”
The more she talks, the more her voice picks up speed. It reminds me of the speech she gave at the party’s national convention when her father was nominated all those years ago. Initially, they asked her brother, Chris, to speak, thinking that America would rally around a young man standing up for his dad. But after a few private run-throughs, where Chris stumbled over words and looked generally panicked, Nora asked if she could step in. The campaign played it as the firstborn child coming to the forefront, while our opponents played it as another bossy Hartson vying for control.
When it was all over, Nora, like any other eighteen-year-old speaking to a group of a hundred and ten million people, was criticized for being jittery and unpolished. That’s what you get for trying to steal the spotlight, a few critics blasted. But as I watch her now, anxiously rocking back and forth at the mere mention of her father’s pain, I think it was less a power play and more a protective one. When she got up there, Chris didn’t have to. And when the beating gets particularly hard, we all take care of our own.
“For all we know—it’s just a heart attack,” she stutters. “Maybe Simon’ll even stay quiet.”
What am I supposed to say? No, your father’s life is definitely going to get wrecked—especially if I scream the truth? In the span of a few unstrung seconds, my options quickly narrow: I open my mouth, her dad takes it in the knees, and since I’m at the epicenter, we all go down. If I keep my mouth shut, I buy some time to sniff around, but I risk going down alone. Once again, I look over at the pins at the end of the alley. I can’t help but feel like the lead pin in the triangle. The one that always gets creamed by the ball.
“Maybe you should talk to him,” I suggest. “Just so he knows who to trust. I mean, even if it was a heart attack, Simon was being blackmailed for something—and unless we figure it out, he’s going to keep hanging the noose around me.”
Nora looks at me, but doesn’t say a word.
“So you’ll talk to him?”
She pauses. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I’m telling you, he can’t be bothered with this stuff. He won’t . . . he won’t understand. He’s not your average dad.” Right there, I stop arguing. I know that frustration in her voice. And I know that world—an orphan with a living parent.
“Is there anyone else you can—?”
“I already told my Uncle Larry.”
“Who?”
“Larry. Larry Lamb.”
“Of course,” I say, trying to be nonchalant. She’s not going to call him Lawrence. She’s known him since birth—I read the People magazine cover story—she and her brother spent summers at his farm in Connecticut. There was a picture of Nora and Christopher in mid-scream on a swing set, and another one of them hiding under the covers of Lamb’s four-poster bed. I sink down in my seat and gather my thoughts. He’s the shadow of the President; she calls him Uncle Larry. It sounds almost silly when you think about it. But that’s who she is. Still acting unimpressed, I eventually ask, “What’d he say?”
“Exactly what you’d expect. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you told me. It was ruled a heart attack, but I’ll look into it.’ He’s got his eyes on reelection—there’s no way he’s pulling the plug now. When everything dies down, they’ll do the official investigation.”
“So where does that leave us?” I ask.
“It leaves us as the only two people who care about protecting your butt. As it is, Simon seems happy to keep it quiet—but that’s not much of a solution.”
I nod. Détente won’t work forever. Sooner or later, the more powerful side realizes its advantage. And the other side dies. “I just wish we had some more information. If Caroline was doing this, it probably wasn’t just to Simon. She had all our secrets—she could’ve been doing this to—”
“Actually, that reminds me . . .” Nora walks over to the scorekeeper’s seat, picks up her black leather purse, and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” I ask as she hands it to me.
“It came in when I was talking to Uncle Larry. They’re the names on two of the FBI files that were found in Caroline’s office.”
Rick Ferguson and Gary Seward. One’s up for a presidential appointment at Treasury, the other just started at Commerce. “I don’t understand,” I say. “Why only two?”
“Apparently, she had tons of files all over her office—and not just for presidential appointments. Some were judicial, some were from the Counsel’s Office . . .”
“She had mine. I saw it.”
“The FBI’s rechecking each one.”
“So they released a full list of the names?”
“Not until they’re done. According to the memo, they don’t want to tip anyone off. Instead, for security purposes, we get them as they clear them—one or two at a time.”
“And how’d you get these?” I ask, holding up the sheet of paper.
“I told you, Uncle Larry.”
“He gave them to you?”
“Actually, he walked out to talk to his secretary, and I copied the names on some scrap paper.”
“You stole them?”
“Do you want them or not?”
“Of course I want them. I just don’t want you stealing them from Lawrence Lamb.”
“He doesn’t care. The man’s my godfather—he took the training wheels off my bike; he’s not gonna care if I sneak a peek at a file. At least this way, we’re not sitting in the dark.”
It’s no consolation. “So that means the FBI’s looking at my file.”
“Relax, Michael. I’m sure they’ll clear you.”
Trying to believe that, I stare down at the list. Nora’s handwriting has a circular bubble-quality to it. Like a third-grade girl who’s just learning to write in cursive. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Two people who’ve been declared innocent by the FBI. I try to remember how many files I saw in Caroline’s office. There were at least five or six under mine—and probably more in the drawers. Looks like the FBI is also thinking blackmail. Turning back to Nora, I ask, “Why’d you wait until now to give these to me?”
“I don’t know. I guess I forgot,” she says with a shrug. “Listen, I gotta run. Some Prime Minister’s bringing his family by for a photo-op.”
“Are you going to see your uncle there?”
“The only person I’m going to see is the Prime Minister’s son. Handsome lad, y’know.”
I’m not sure if she’s trying to change the subject or make me jealous. Either way, it’s worked. “So that’s who you’re dumping me for?”
“Hey, if you get your own country, they’ll try to get me to kiss your ass as well. In the meantime, though, I’m puckering elsewhere—these guys’ll freak if I’m late.”
“I’m sure they will. Foreign markets’ll tumble; honor’ll be lost. It goes hand in hand with tardiness: international incident.”
“You like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”
“Even more than you like photo-ops with foreign strangers. But that’s just another day in the life, huh?”
“Ever since the last hour of sixth grade.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s the day my dad decided. Running for Governor; or at least, that’s the day he told me. I still remember waiting for the last bell to ring—and then tearing out of the classroom and flying toward the bike rack with Melissa Persily. I was supposed to sleep over her house that night. She was one of those cool kids who lived close enough to bike to school—
so the bike rack itself was a big deal. She had her own combination lock and this beat-up black ten-speed that used to be her brother’s . . .” Nora’s voice is racing as she looks up. “Man, it was tomboy heav—” The second our eyes connect, she cuts herself off. Like before, her gaze goes straight to the floor.
“What?” I ask.
“No . . . nothing . . .”
“What d’you mean nothing? What happened? You’re at the bike rack . . . you’re going to the sleepover . . .”
“It’s really nothing,” she insists, stepping backwards. “Listen, I really should go.”
“Nora, it’s just a childhood story. What’re you so scared—”
“I’m not scared,” she insists.
That’s when I see the lie.
For the past two months, Nora’s spent every day in full election mode—from three-hundred-person luncheons with big donors, to sitting next to her mom at satellite-televised rallies, to, if she’s in a real good mood and they can get her to cooperate, giving interviews on why college kids should mobilize and vote—she’s been the youngest and most reluctant master of the grip-and-grin. That’s what she’s known since sixth grade. But today . . . today she got caught up in a real moment; she was even enjoying it. And it scared the hell out of her.
“Nora,” I call out as she heads for the door. “Just so you know, I’d never tell anyone.”
She stops where she is and slowly turns around. “I know,” she says, nodding me a thank-you. “But I really have to go—you know the game—sitting Presidents have to look strong on foreign policy.”
I think back to Bartlett in the front photo.
Nora’s almost out the door. Then, just as she’s about to leave, she turns my way and takes a deep breath. Her voice is a hushed reluctance. “When we got to the bike rack, my mom was sitting there, waiting for me. She took me home, my dad told me he was running for Governor, and that was it. No sleepover at Melissa Persily’s—I’m the only one who missed it. The next year, Melissa started calling me ‘It.’ As in, ‘There It is,’ and ‘Don’t let It come near me.’ It was stupid, but the class sided with her. That was junior high.” Without another word, Nora regrabs the doorknob. The Prime Minister’s son awaits.
“Don’t you ever get sick of it?” I ask.
Once again, it’s a chance to open up. She offers a weak smile. “No.”
It doesn’t take much to see through her answer. But instinct still made her say no. On some level, she doesn’t trust me with everything just yet. I’ll get there eventually. She said it herself. Whatever else is going on, I’m dating the First Daughter of the United States.
• • •
I walk into Trey’s office sporting a Cheshire cat grin. Ten minutes later, he’s yelling at me.
“Stupid, Michael. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
“Why’re you getting so nuts?”
“Who else have you told about this? How many?”
“Just you,” I answer.
“Don’t lie to me.”
He knows me too well. “I told Pam. Just you and Pam. That’s it. I swear.”
Trey runs the palm of his hand from the light brown skin of his forehead to the back of his shortly buzzed afro. His small hand moves slowly across his head—I’ve seen it before—he calls it “the rub.” A quick rub is like an embarrassed little laugh or snicker, used when a dignitary trips or falls in the middle of a photo-op. The speed slows down as the consequences grow, and the slower the rub, the more he’s upset. When Time ran an unflattering profile of the First Lady, the rub was slow. When the President was rumored to have cancer, it was even slower. Five minutes ago, I told him what happened with Nora and Caroline. I check his hand to clock the speed. Molasses.
“It’s only two people. Why’re you making such a big deal?”
“Let me make this as clear as possible: I love the fact that you’re moving up in the world, and I love the fact that you trust me with all your secrets. I even love the fact Nora wants to climb in your pants—believe me, we’re going to be getting back to that one—but when it comes to something this big, you should keep your mouth shut.”
“So I shouldn’t have told you?”
“You shouldn’t have told me and you shouldn’t have told Pam.” He pauses a moment. “Okay, you should’ve told me. But that’s it.”
“Pam would never say anything.”
“How do you know that? Has she trusted you with any of her stuff?”
I know what he’s driving at when he asks that question. He may only be a twenty-six-year-old staffer, but when it comes to figuring out where to step, Trey knows where all the land mines are.
“I’m telling you,” he says, “if Pam doesn’t share it with you, you shouldn’t share it with her.”
“See, now you’re being too political. Not everything in life is tit for tat.”
“This is the White House, Michael. It’s always tit for tat.”
“I don’t care. You’re wrong about Pam. She doesn’t have anything to gain.”
“Please, boychick, you know she loves you.”
“So? I love her too.”
“No, not like that, Magoo. She doesn’t just love you.” He puts his hand over his heart like he’s doing the Pledge of Allegiance, then quickly starts drumming against his chest. “She wuuuvs you,” he croons, rolling his eyes. “I’m talking the pretty pink dreams: teddy bears . . . ice-cream shakes . . . happy floating rainbows . . .”
“Get over yourself, Trey. You couldn’t be further from reality.”
“Don’t mock me, boy. It’s just like what the President does with Lawrence Lamb.”
“What do you mean?”
Instinctively, Trey leans back in his chair and cranes his neck to check the rest of the reception area. He shares an office with two other people. Both of his officemates’ desks are by a window, sectioned off by a few filing cabinets. Trey’s is by the door. He likes to see who’s coming and going. Neither of his co-workers is in today, but Trey can’t help himself. It’s the first rule of politics. Know who’s listening. When he’s satisfied we’re alone, he says, “Look at their relationship. Lamb sits in on all your meetings, he’s in on all the final decisions, his title’s even Deputy Counsel, but when it comes to actual legal work, he’s nowhere to be found. Now why do you think that is?”
“He’s a lazy, toothless bastard?”
“I’m serious. Lamb’s there to keep an eye on you and the rest of your office.”
“That’s not—”
“C’mon, Michael, if you were President, who would you rather have watching your back: a group of strangers from your staff, or a friend you’ve had for thirty years? Lamb knows all the personal stuff—that’s why he’s trusted. The same goes for us; it’s been almost four years since I first spoke to you on the campaign, but this place moves in dog years. Yet with Pam . . .”
“I appreciate the concern, but she’d never say anything. She’s from Ohio.”
“Ulysses S. Grant was from Ohio and he had the most corrupt administration in history. It’s all an act—those Midwesterners are ruthless.”
“I’m from Michigan, Trey.”
“Except for the ones from Michigan. Love those people.”
Shaking my head, I say, “You’re just mad because I told Pam first.”
He can’t help but leak a smile. “I want you to know, I’m the one who kept your name out of the papers. I didn’t tell anyone you found the body.”
“And I appreciate that. But right now, I want to talk about Nora. Tell me what you know.”
“What’s to know? She’s the First Daughter. She’s got her own fan club. She doesn’t answer her own mail. And she’s severely yummy. She’s also a little bit of a headcase, but, now that I think about it, that actually turns me on.”
He’s making too many jokes. Something’s wrong. “Say what you’re thinking, Trey.”
He runs his hands down the length of his cheap maroon-striped tie. With his scuffed tasseled loafers, kn
ockoff John Lennon glasses, and his stiff navy jacket with the gold button covertly safety-pinned in place, he’s a few dollars short of the model young prep. It’s amazing, really. He’s got less money than anyone on staff, and he’s still the only one wearing a suit on Saturday.
“I told you before, Michael: You’re in trouble. These people aren’t lightweights.”
“But what do you think about Nora?”
“I think you better be careful. I don’t know her personally, but I see her when she comes in to find her mom. In and out: always quick; sometimes upset; and never a word to anyone.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I’m not talking about courtesy—I’m talking about the underneath. She may let you touch her cookies, and she may be a braggable girlfriend, but you know the rumors—X, Special K, maybe some cocaine . . .”
“Who said she’s doing coke?”
“No one. At least not yet. That’s why we call it a rumor, my friend. It’s too big to print without a source.”
I stay silent.
“You don’t know her, Michael. You may’ve watched her throw Frisbees with her dog on the South Lawn, and you may’ve seen her go off to her first sociology class at college, but that’s not her life. Those’re just press clippings and fluff for the nightlies. The rest of the picture is hidden. And the picture’s huge.”
“So you’re saying I should just abandon her?”
“Abandon her?” he laughs. “After all you’ve done . . . no one could accuse you of that. Not even Nora.”
He’s right. But it doesn’t make it any easier. When I don’t respond, he adds, “It’s really starting to get to you, isn’t it?”
“I just don’t like how everyone automatically paints the target on her.”
“On her? What abou—” He catches himself. And sees the look on my face. “Oh, jeez, Michael, don’t tell me you’re . . . Oh, you are, aren’t you? This isn’t just about protecting her . . . you’re actually starting to like her now, aren’t you?”
“No,” I shoot back. “Now you’re reading too much into it.”
“Really?” he challenges. “Then answer me this: Sexually speaking, when you went out that first night, what actually happened?”
