by Layne Harper
Fortunately, he doesn’t make me wait long to find out. “You know what today is?” he asks as he sips his drink.
I nod. Of course I know what today is. The reason I’m still the White House Chief of Staff is because I’m paid to know everything. “First Monday in November, sir.”
“Ah … Drop the sir crap, Rachael. Tonight, I’m not the President of the United States. I’m just a guy without a job in a year.” He looks so forlorn. His usually styled salt-and-pepper colored hair is a mess, as if he’s been dragging his fingers through the waves. The lines on his face, which give him a distinguished air, look deeper tonight. His five o’clock shadow is also dotted with more grey. These seven years have not been kind to his features.
I toe off my running sneakers and tug my legs under me. This is going to be a long evening. Fortunately, I’ve changed into yoga pants and my Wharton sweatshirt, anticipating a night run after our meeting. Not going to happen tonight. I settle into the plush cushions of the chair, making myself comfortable.
“I understand that a year from now, a new president will be elected, but we still have a year to get much of our agenda accomplished. In fact …”
“That’s not what I mean, Rachael,” he says cutting me off. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do after this gig is up? I know that Shelby brought it up on Saturday, but have you actually given it some thought?”
Have I thought about it? Only every night at around three in the morning when I wake up in a panic, unable to catch my breath. Dropping my eyes to the rug, I begin to play with the hem of my sweatshirt. “I’ve thought about it,” I reply hoping my voice doesn’t betray my angst. “Apparently, Shelby is worried about me also. You know the invite to Coach Jackson on fight night was her setting me up.”
He ignores my remarks about his wife. “I can get you on at any university that you want. Just name the school.” He says with a determination that I didn’t expect to hear. I can read this man like a book. He’s obviously been worrying about my future. That’s so Langford Jones of him. “You know, I’ve really done you a disservice. At some point, since you’ve worked for me, I should have fired you and made you get experience doing something else.”
A smile crosses my lips. “But you and I both know that you can’t function without me.”
His genuine laugh lightens the somber mood in the office. “Isn’t that the truth?”
We both sip our whiskey in silence. I contemplate his offer. Do I want to be a professor after his term is over? Frankly, I’m not sure, and that’s what scares me. I’ve always known what I wanted out of life. And I’ve achieved it. Graduated Summa Cum Laude from Texas A&M University, and then I graduated with honors from Wharton School of Business. At twenty-four, the world was my oyster. Instead of packing my apartment and heading for the Big Apple like so many of my peers were doing, I drove right past New York and got a job working for Senator Jones in Washington D.C. As they say, the rest is history. I prided myself on never turning down an assignment, and earning the trust and admiration of the future President of the United States. I ran his campaign, and he offered me arguably the most powerful job in our nation’s capital, White House Chief of Staff. He made history. Not only am I the first female to hold this title, but I’m also the youngest, and the only person who’s never worked outside of politics.
Now, I’m staring at the end of this amazing run, and I don’t have a clue what I want to do with the rest of my life. When I look towards the future, all I see is blackness dotted with yellow question marks. At thirty-eight years old, I’m a has-been. There will never be another opportunity for me to hold the kind of power that I have right now. I don’t think that I want to go into politics, and being a professor sounds so drab. Yup! Blackness with question marks.
“So, what about you?” I ask breaking our mutual silence and hoping to turn the conversation away from me. “Write a book, give ten-thousand-dollar a pop keynote speeches, start a non-profit, paint portraits of world leaders?”
“The going rate is now one-hundred thousand, Rachael. You’ve sold me short.” He gives me a wink. “Shelby and I are going to scout some places when we’re home for Christmas. She’s thinking she wants to go back to Baton Rouge.” His voice is smooth, like the color of his amber whiskey, but I’ve known him long enough to detect the hint of sadness. President Jones loves his home state of Louisiana. I think the angst comes from being forced to say goodbye to Washington and politics. Term limits suck.
“Baton Rouge is a lovely place. I’m sure you both will be very happy there.” My voice is a touch too saccharine, and he jumps on my statement just as I would expect him to.
He stands up and walks to the fireplace across the room. Staring into the dancing flames, he replies, “At fifty-five, I’ll be a has-been being put out to pasture.”
Those same sentiments have raced through my mind on more than one occasion. Where does one go when they’ve reached the pinnacle of their career?
He continues, “Have you thought about maybe getting married, starting a family? You know you’re still young enough, Rachael. Shelby seems determined to watch you walk down the aisle wearing white and spoil your babies.”
I bristle. “Why is everyone wanting me to get married? Damn. I’m very happy with my personal life, thank you very much.” Without realizing that I’d moved, my toes are curling into the carpet through my athletic socks, and my arms are crossed over my chest. God, Rachael. Defensive much?
“Down, girl.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ve just witnessed how good you’ve been with my boys, and how much you love your best friend’s kids. Plus,” he says cutting his eyes to the side, “I hate to think that you gave up a family for me. Because above all of this, my family is everything to me.”
This is my relationship with the President Jones. It can be described in two ways: very fatherly, and bitingly professional.
I slam the rest of my whiskey and reply, “No one has held a gun to my head and forced me to spend my life focused on serving my country. Every choice I’ve made has been mine.” I walk towards him, staring up into his eyes. “The fifteen years that I’ve worked for you have been a dream come true. Now,” I say, changing the subject, “let’s go over what we want to achieve during your last year in office, Mr. President.”
Like the politician that he is, he knows when to pick a fight and when to keep his mouth shut. “Yes. Final-year-in-office agenda. I’ve read your proposal, and I agree with everything. I just have a few details to add.”
Our professional masks slide into place as I attempt to forget the conversation that we just had. It’s my defense mechanism. Enjoy the time while I have the privilege of serving the White House, because the countdown clock is ticking, and with each day it gets louder and louder. Or, as Graham Jackson told me, “Take it one day at a time.”
Towards the end of our meeting, I mention the Sons of Liberty radio show, and that they knew we had been brainstorming about immigration reform. The President is unfazed and says that it could have been a lucky guess, but in my gut I know that we have a mole. And my gut has never led me astray. I’m pretty sure that it’s Roan. It would make sense to leak the information to bolster his all-powerful position.
I also fill the President in on the popularity of the show. He believes, like I do, that they’re just another flash in the pan even if they may bother us a little this year.
I don’t arrive home until after midnight. This is my norm; not an exception. I toss my briefcase and purse on a chair by the front door and head straight up the stairs to my bedroom. Briefly, I contemplate taking a shower, but my bed is screaming my name way too loudly.
Consulting the clock on my phone, I ponder what I should do about Graham’s phone call. We never made it official if I was to call him or him to call me. Is midnight too late to call? Growing up, my parents said the rule was eight o’clock. Does that still apply when you’re almost forty?
After a long internal debate, I decide to send a
text.
Me: Just walked in the door. Call if you’re still awake.
My phone barely hits the quilt on my bed before it’s ringing. A huge smile breaks across my face as I scoop it up.
“Hi.” My voice sounds dreamy. I’m hopeless.
“Rachael.” God, the way he says my name takes my breath away. It’s not Rachael, one syllable, like most people say it. It turns it into a prayer; “Ray-ch-ellll.” Just a hint of Texas twang.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Boring. Then gaudy flowers arrived, and it was great.”
He chuckles. “Glad to hear it.” His voice is as smooth as the bourbon I drank earlier in the evening.
“What are you still doing awake?” I ask. “Don’t you have to be at work in, like, six hours?”
“I do. But I could ask the same question of you.”
I’m still in workout clothes but I crawl under my quilt, turning off my lights, and snuggle into my pillow. “I don’t sleep much.”
“Me either,” he says as if he’s excited that he’s found another thing that we have in common. “Hold a second,” he instructs.
He must be speaking to the dog because he says, “Go get on your bed, boy. Good night.”
I’m not a huge fan of pets, especially in the house, but the level of endearment in his voice for his dog does funny things to my heart.
“Sorry about that. George gets all testy if he doesn’t get his night pets.”
“I’ve heard that it’s very important for dogs to get at least twelve hours of sleep a day.”
“Ha! If that’s the case then George will live forever. Sometimes I bring him to lacrosse practice so he can get more exercise. He’s pretty useless.” As he talks about George, and school, and coaching lacrosse, I find myself envious of his life. He sounds happy and passionate about what he does. He doesn’t have a countdown clock to when his career is over.
“So did you broker world peace today?” he asks.
“Hmm … Not world peace, per se. But the President and I did spend a good part of the evening discussing his priorities for his final year in office.” The words “final year” are hard to choke out.
I snuggle deeper into my thick mattress and pull my quilt up around my ears.
“I’ve heard that immigration reform might be a part of the agenda,” he says.
I give a rueful laugh. “You and all of Washington have heard that. Apparently, it’s the worst-kept secret in this town.”
“Want my opinion?” He sounds tentative.
I’m bone tired, but I can always discuss politics. “Sure.”
“I think the White House is going to have to address the issue. If it’s not President Jones, then it’s the next administration.” His words are like a knife in my heart. “Our country can’t afford to keep providing social services to illegal immigrants. Naturalize them so we can start collecting the revenue.”
“Graham, that argument doesn’t make sense.” I sit up straighter in bed and prepare to defend my position. “The amount of taxes that we would collect from the new citizens does not come close to equaling what we pay out in social services. Plus, you’re giving the green light to millions of people that it’s okay to enter our country illegally.”
“Rach—”
“Forget the economics. The financial models support my argument.” I swallow hard. “What this is really about is the safety and security of our citizens. There are health issues, like vaccinations, that must be addressed. And don’t get me started on border security and the smuggling of drugs and weapons into this country.”
His voice is strong. “So you agree with splitting up families when we send one or two illegal residents back to their home country, leaving the rest of the members here?”
“Wow. Don’t you sound like a bleeding heart liberal? They shouldn’t have entered the country here illegally in the first place.” I wrap one arm around my chest defiantly.
“Look. I don’t see that this issue has a one-size-fits-all approach to fixing it, and for the record, I’m not a liberal. What I do see as a solution is that if someone can prove that they’ve been working here in the U.S. for a defined period of time, and are in good standing with the law why not naturalize them. I mean, isn’t that how most of our ancestors started out here?” His voice rises as he finishes.
This is fun. I’m really enjoying our verbal sparring match, but it’s late. “Well, Coach Jackson. I see you can take the man out of politics, but not the politics out of the man. I say we table this discussion for tonight.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough.” Then, he changes the subject. “When can I see you again?””
“During the week is really hard for me. You see what time I get home. I don’t know. Let me check my calendar tomorrow, and I’ll text you.”
“You know I didn’t get much sleep last night because every time I closed my eyes I saw how gorgeous you were when you got lost in me.” Graham drops that little grenade out there.
At just the reminder of our heated make-out session, my body flushes. “It was a nice kiss …”
“Oh, Rachael, there wasn’t anything nice about it. It was dirty in the best kind of way.” When he delivers this line, albeit a very good line, his voice drops a couple of octaves. I want to climb through the airwaves and kiss him again. I have to remind myself that we just met, and I am getting more comfortable with the idea that this may be more than sexual. But right now, as turned on as I am, my body is not very pleased with this waiting-and-getting-to-know-each-other nonsense.
“Are you in bed?”
“Yes. Are you in bed also?”
“I am.”
“What are you wearing?” he asks, and then quickly corrects himself. “No. Don’t tell me. I’ll just spend another night not sleeping.” After a pause, he adds, “I think we’re going to need to speed up this getting-to-know-each-other business.”
I giggle—yes! Giggle. “First thing in the morning, I’ll check my calendar.”
“You do that. Now, let’s watch something on TV that’s very PG.”
We opt for House Hunters International. Graham and I spend a couple of episodes debating the house choices and talking to the couples that can’t hear us. I find myself laughing a lot. He’s so easy to talk to, and I wonder if this is what couples do at night. Besides having lots of sex, do married people lie together in bed and watch reality television, and laugh and talk about their day? I decide to ask Caroline next time I see her.
As we’re hanging up, Graham asks, “Can we do this again tomorrow?”
I yawn and look at the clock. “It is tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you later.”
***
Five hours later, I wake up fully dressed in my yoga pants and sweatshirt from last night. “Shit,” I mumble as I turn off my alarm clock. “I didn’t even bother to remove my sneakers.”
Dragging myself to my rowing machine in what’s supposed to be the dining room or breakfast room, I turn on the radio to listen to this morning’s edition of the Sons of Liberty.
“President’s last year in office begins today,” the voice of Revere announces.
I mumble, “No shit,” under my breath and pick up my rowing speed.
“He made some big promises on the campaign trail. Shall we review them, McDougall?” Revere asks.
“I just happen to have a list right here,” he replies, sounding like a game show announcer. “Here are a few the biggies.” He clears his throat. “Education reform. Less standardized testing, more funding for inner-city schools, and teachers paid based on parent and principal-review, instead of how well their students perform on a test.”
“And what has this administration done to improve our school system?” Revere asks.
“Well, if he was paid based on performance, he’d receive a check for…” There’s a drum roll sound effect. “Zero dollars.”
Then, some horrible sound effect is played that sounds like a toilet flushing.
I find myself rowing with such effort that sweat drips into where my cleavage would be, if I had any. They’ve left out that President Jones has tried to send numerous education reform bills to congress, but they keep dying in the House of Representatives.
“What about immigration reform?” Revere asks.
My ears perk up. This is what the president wants to focus on during his final year in office. I’m not sure why I care what the Sons of Liberty think about it, but I do.
“Roan Perez …” McDougall starts, but Revere cuts him off.
“We need to give this guy a nickname,” Revere says. “I have a feeling that we’re going to be talking about him a lot over the next fourteen months.”
“Anything in mind?” McDougall asks.
I find myself talking to the radio. “Was there a cartoon character who was a walking Venereal Disease poster? That’s Roan.”
“I just happen to have the perfect cartoon character …” Revere pauses adding a level of suspense to what he’ll choose.
Solomon says, “Don’t keep us waiting, ass-wipe.”
“Drum roll, please … Captain Caveman,” Revere announces.
“So Captain Caveman is banging Tinker Bell … Interesting,” McDougall ponders.
I scream at the radio. “What?”
Is that what people think of me? Just because Roan and I have been photographed together at events that we’re screwing? I throw up a little in my mouth as I run to turn the radio off. The Sons of Liberty disgust me.
Then, because my curiosity gets the better of me, I turn the radio back on. I reason that this is part of my job. I’m working while getting in my morning cardio.
Solomon’s voice booms through my home. “Captain Caveman is quite the man about town. Not only is he frequently seen visiting the White House, but one of our Betsy Ross girls says that he’s a regular at Pink Pussy Cat and likes the Latino ladies.”
It doesn’t surprise me one bit the he’s in to strip clubs.
