How It Ended

by Jay McInerney

  I read about the Great Man theory, which is basically the idea that individuals can change history. But I have my own theory, call it the Little Man theory, which just basically says that if you want to understand any Big Swinging Dick, you just have to figure out who he was when he was a ten-year-old boy. Tom seems pretty honest about how his childhood made him who he is. In his mind, he's still wearing hand-me-down overalls. And I love that about him. But sometimes I worry that he needs constant reassurance as to his lovability and general wonderfulness, and what happens if I'm not there to give it to him?

  Practically the first thing we did was jump into bed, and we've been jumping ever since. When I walked in the door of his hotel room, he said, “You're so hot,” and I said, “You're so hot,” and the next thing I know, we're ripping each other's clothes off. And God, it was good. It was even better the second time, an hour later, because we weren't in such a rush.

  Afterward he looked in my eyes and said, “You're amazing,” and I said, “You're amazing.” I told him he was awake, and he said, “I feel like I'm dreaming, actually,” and I said, “No, I mean you're awake in the Buddhist sense. You're aware and you see yourself reflected in other people. You see beauty and the goodness in other people because you have it within yourself. I felt that about you the minute I looked across the restaurant. I could see you were awake. And it was like everybody else in the place wasn't.”

  It wasn't really like I taught him anything he didn't already know: I just made him more aware of his own powers. Officially, I was listed as a media consultant, but really I was more like his spiritual adviser. Not in any formal sense, and of course he still goes to the Methodist church when he's home, the same one he grew up going to with his parents. But, like, the other day, I quoted him the sutra that says a person who doesn't aim for enlightenment is like a spoiled child who plays obsessively with a toy while the house is burning down around him. And that night he was on CNN, and the sound bite is Tom saying the president is like a child playing with his toys while the house is burning down around him.

  I was on staff for almost three months, mostly on the road, before I met his wife, three months before the Iowa primary. She took one look at me and didn't like what she saw. Even though she doesn't really love him, that doesn't mean she wants to look like a fool. And there are the kids to consider. So that was it; I was off the bus. I understood, of course. I didn't like it, but I couldn't really see that he had much choice. If he hadn't loved me, that would have been the end of it; he would have had the perfect excuse to just dump me.

  They haven't had a real marriage in years, and even in its heyday they weren't exactly setting the sheets on fire. I mean, this is the kind of southern girl who wore a surgical glove when she finally gave him a hand job. The last time they had sex was during the Clinton administration.

  Twenty years ago it wouldn't have been possible to run for president under these circumstances, but I guess we've come a long way since Bill Clinton creamed on Monica's dress. Not that Tom or anybody on his staff thinks that we've come far enough to elect a president who's getting divorced and fucking a younger woman with—well, let's just say a colorful past. We're not living in France, dude. Which is why I'm here, in the cabin on the pond. Well, actually, I'm here because rumors started to spread, and reporters started coming around to my house. There was a story in the Star about Tom and an unnamed former female staffer. Lots of innuendo and a claim by an unnamed source—true, actually—that we'd been caught in the shower together. Basically it was decided that I better just drop out of sight for a while.

  I try not to get attached to any particular outcome, but it's a struggle to stifle my desire. Once Tom's in office, I can come out of hiding and he can get a divorce. If he doesn't get elected, then everything's that much easier, really. Not that we allow ourselves to consider that possibility. Tom wants to be president more than he wants anything in the world, except for maybe me. That's what he said one night, and you won't hear me contradicting him. But it's hard being this far away and knowing that it will be months before we can really be together. Sometimes I get frustrated. Just now I tried to call him, but he's not picking up, so I call Rob, his right-hand guy, who's also not picking up, which is pretty weird.

  The cabin belongs to a buddy of his, a big supporter. I don't know why they call it a cabin, because for all its down-home rustic pretensions, it's pretty damn luxe, the kind of place you see on a hillside in Aspen or Telluride, with that sort of Daniel Boone meets Frank Lloyd Wright look. A kind of contempo mission theme inside, with big leather club chairs, Navajo rugs, and lamps made out of antlers, paintings of English setters and ducks in flight on the walls. Très macho, but everything a girl could need is here, except for male companionship—a six-burner professional Viking range to boil water, fully equipped gym, spa and sauna, plasma screens in every room. The views are pretty great, taking in a ten-acre pond and, beyond that, a pasture spreading out to the base of a wooded ridge. I've been out walking every day, but yesterday Tom called and told me not to go in the woods 'cause it's deer season. And to wear orange if I take out the garbage or whatever, which I thought was sweet. When I told him I didn't look good in orange, he got all Big Daddy on me. “Alison, this is for your own protection,” he said in that voice he sometimes uses to lecture journalists. Any minute I expected to hear him say, What the American people want is for Alison Poole to start wearing protective orange clothing during deer season. “I'm kidding,” I said. “Joke.” Poor Tom was working on about two hours of sleep a night, plus yesterday this fucking political blog called Below the Beltway printed my name: Who, exactly, is Alison Poole? And why doesn't the Phipps campaign want to talk about her? Jerk-offs.

  After two days of deer season, even yoga can't quite quell the restlessness. I'm getting a little stir-crazy, and I'm down to my last cup of yogurt, so I decide to go into town for groceries. It's almost a mile from the cabin out to the paved road. I have to stop short of the gate, get out, open the padlock and unchain the gate, get back in the car, drive through and lock it all up again. On the front of the gate is a big PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING sign. A really determined snoop could just climb over the fence and walk down to the cabin, but he'd be trespassing and I could call the local sheriff, who's been instructed by Skeet Jackson, the owner of the property, to keep an eye on me. From the gate, I drive the three miles into town, if that's the word for a grocery store, a post office, a firehouse and a BP station.

  I wave to Cassie, the checkout lady at the Piggly Wiggly, who's my new best friend since last week. “Your boyfriend come by looking for you this morning,” she says, causing me to crash my shopping cart into a stack of rock-salt bags. For just a second I'm all excited, and then I think, Wait a minute. How does she know who my boyfriend is? If she does, she shouldn't. And why would he be looking for me, when he knows exactly where I am?

  “Boyfriend? I don't have a boyfriend,” I say, trying to sound non chalant.

  “Pretty girl like you? This fella was awful cute.”

  “What'd he say?” I ask. “What makes you think he was looking for me?”

  “Showed me your picture.”

  I'm like, “What'd you tell him?”

  “I didn't say nothing,” she says. “I figured if you wanted him to know where you was, you would of told him. Whatever's going on between you-all, it ain't none of my business.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  She shook her head. “Said you was friends. Asked me how to get to the Jackson place.”

  I say, “You didn't tell him, did you?”

  “Like I said,” she says, “I don't stick my nose in other people's business. I said I wasn't rightly sure where it was. But I saw him talking to Pete over to the BP. I don't know, like I said, it ain't none of my business, but he seemed awful nice. Whatever he done, I'm sure he's sorry.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” I say. “I appreciate you covering for me.”

  “You don't have any reason to be scared
of him, do you?”

  “No, I don't think so,” I say. “Not physically anyway.”

  “Tell you what. You take my mobile number,” she says, scrawling it on an old receipt. “You can call me anytime. If he gives you any trouble, my husband'll straighten him right out. Jake's already got his buck, so now he's just sitting around on his big ol' butt waiting for turkey season.”

  So I give her a hug and pick up a few groceries and think about who could have followed me here. Back by the freezer case I call Tom, but he's not picking up. Then I call Rob, who says Tom's speaking to a Rotary Club. I fill him in on the situation here. He thinks it might be somebody from one of the other campaigns. If it were one of the tabloids, he says, they would have offered her cash right up front.

  “So what am I supposed to do now?” I say.

  “Just go back to the cabin,” he says. “If you see anybody, call the sheriff. Then call me.”

  There's nobody waiting at the gate and no cars visible at the cabin when I pull up. I'm putting the groceries away when I look out the kitchen window and see a man in a camel-hair coat standing on the back porch. He jerks his head in my direction after the jar of Ragú smashes on the kitchen tiles. The only thing that saves me from a full-scale myocardial infarction is the fact that I recognize him. He's standing out there, not sure what to do, probably wondering what I'm going to do.

  When I catch my breath, I walk over and pull open the sliding glass door. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I say. “This is private property, and if you don't get your ass out of here, I'm calling the sheriff.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

  “What did you mean to do?”

  “I just wanted to talk.”

  “I already told you. I've got nothing more to say.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Okay, here I am. Get a good look, and then I'm calling the sheriff.”

  “Please,” he says, with this pathetic look on his face. “Can I come in?”

  “Hell no,” I say.

  “Well, you come out, then. Just give me five minutes.”

  “It's freezing,” I say. “Just come in.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  I walk out to the great room and plunk myself down in one of the big club chairs with my arms folded across my chest. “What are you doing here?”

  “My job?” He shrugs.

  “Harassing me is a job?”

  “Actually, I'm not entirely sure why I'm here.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I wanted to see you again. You wouldn't return my calls.”

  “How'd you find me?”

  “I can't tell you that.”

  “Protecting your sources?”

  “We all have our secrets.”

  “Not me. My life's an open book.”

  “Which is why you're hiding out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Not hiding. I just needed some time by myself.”

  “Must get a little lonely down here.”

  “I was enjoying the solitude. Builds character. You should try it sometime.”

  “I don't think I'd like it. I'm a people person.”

  “I can't believe you just said that.”

  “It was supposed to be funny.”

  “It was, trust me.”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “This is the part where I ask you if Skeet Jackson's a good friend of yours.”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because according to county records, he owns the place.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Skeet's an old friend of the family.”

  “So he just lent you his house? Help me out here. Why did he lend you his house?”

  “I told you. I just needed to get away. Do some thinking. A little writing. Skeet offered.”

  “Awfully generous of him.”

  “Skeet's a generous guy.”

  “He's been very generous to Senator Phipps.”

  “Let's cut the shit,” I say. “Why don't you just come out and say what it is you want?”

  “I wanted to see you again.”

  “Right. And I'm here for the deer hunting.”

  Of course, as soon as I say that, I realize I'm sort of dropping the pretense. We both know why I'm here. I first met Frank about six months ago, when I was working on the campaign, at a party in D.C., although I didn't know he was from Below the Beltway at first; some fucking media consultant I turn out to be. I'd had a couple of cocktails and he asked me where I worked and I'm telling him about the senator, and when he finally gets around to telling me he writes a political blog, I'm worrying that maybe I've said a little too much—that I was a little too free and easy about my closeness to Tom, partly because he was cute and I wanted to impress him at the same time that I wanted to keep him at a distance and remind myself that I was totally taken. All of a sudden he asks flat out if I'm dating Tom, and I say, of course not, so he says, “Well, then, will you come to dinner with me tomorrow night?” So I end up having dinner with him just to throw him off the scent, although it's not like it's such a chore, since he's about as hot as a habanero and Tom's been at the lake house with his family the last four days.

  I realize if I'm not careful, I could get into a sticky situation, so I have the genius idea of telling him that as much as I like him, I'm seeing someone else. When he asks again if it's Tom, I say, “No, it's another staffer, but I can't talk about it.” He dropped me off that night at the condo I was borrowing and gave me a semi-innocent kiss good night. The next day he posted something sweet about me being the best-looking girl on any campaign staff, and that was that. Except that he calls me every couple of weeks to chat, and then again last month when the Star printed this nasty piece insinuating that Tom was having an affair with an unnamed former staffer whose description fit me like a pair of True Religion jeans. Of course I denied everything, and of course he didn't believe me, and then he asked me if we could get together for a drink. I said I didn't think that would be such a great idea, and after that I stopped taking his calls.

  “You drove all the way down here?” I say.

  “Except for the last mile or so, which I walked.”

  “I didn't see your car up at the gate.”

  “I parked up the road a little, out of sight.”

  “You're lucky you didn't get shot.”

  “Folks around here seem friendly enough.”

  “If I were you, I'd think about hitting the road before it gets dark.”

  “How about a glass of wine before I go?” he says, taking a bottle out of his backpack. “This is the one you liked so much when we had dinner that night.”

  It's true, we had an amazingly delicious bottle of wine that night. He hands me the bottle, a 2001 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “I remember,” I say. “The wine of the Popes.”

  “Also reputed to have aphrodisiac qualities,” he says.

  “That didn't really pan out for you, did it?”

  “Hope springs eternal,” he says.

  “Although I guess it worked for those old guys. From what I hear, Popes were like the rock stars of their era in terms of pussy. Oh my God, you're actually blushing. That's so sweet.”

  “Well, I'm a Catholic. I mean, I used to be.”

  Part of me knows I should get him out of here as soon as possible, but another part of me's dying for company. So we open the wine and I put out a rock-hard wedge of Brie and Carr's water biscuits—it's actually kind of amazing what you can buy these days at the Piggly Wiggly in East Jesus—and he tells me about what's going on with the various campaigns. I mean, who knew what a hound that Bill Richardson was, but then again, who knew fucking anything about Bill Richardson? He tells about his last girlfriend, who scarred him for life by sleeping not only with his best friend but also with his best friend's wife; then he asks me about my life. I'm telling him about my year at the ashram, pursuing enlightenment and trying not
to lust after my guru, when I suddenly think, Wait a minute. He's getting background for his story. I can, like, visualize the blog post: The former party girl then sought enlightenment at an ashram run by controversial guru Darpak Lalit. … “Are you going to write about this?” I say.

  “I don't know,” he says. “You do realize it looks kind of incriminating, you staying in a big house owned by one of Phipps's best friends and biggest donors. Are you having an affair with Phipps?”

  “Why don't you ask me if I'm having an affair with Jackson?”

  “Sounds like a nondenial to me.”

  I hear what sounds like a gunshot somewhere in the distance and then my text tone sounds, the first three bars of Gnarls Barkley's “Crazy.” I flip open my phone, to find a text from Tom: Whassup Sugar Plum?

  I don't know why, I'll probably always wonder, but I can't decide whether or not to tell him what's going on. I don't want to worry him. I feel like I could go either way. I can see reasons for both. I stare at the screen until Frank finally says, “Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine,” I tell him.

  I text back: Blogger found me. Here now.

  Call Sheriff.

  That will b big drama/story.

  Dont say anything.

  I wasnt born yesterday.

  It bothers me, him telling me not to say anything. As if I haven't been the soul of discretion for the last year. Frank is looking at me, puzzled. He glances down at his watch.

  Get rid of him.

  Dont worry.

  I decide to turn my phone off. His tone really bugs me.

  “I should probably be heading back,” Frank says, downing the last of his wine.

  “I guess you should,” I say. “I can give you a ride out to the gate.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  When I let him off up by the main road he says, “Don't worry, I'm not going to write about this.”