“Yugoslavian politics, yes. American politics, no. The body count was so much lower in America, it was hard for him to stay interested.”
“Come on. Under Tito there was no politics.”
“No national politics. Local got very intense. Anyway, we’re not talking about my late husband the Serbian atheist, God bless him. Remember, you weren’t the first in the family to marry a Serb.”
“We were talking about how you think I’m supposed to do something instead of sitting here nursing an ulcer.”
“That’s not a nice thing to call your little boy John Paul.”
“I don’t work in government anymore, Auntie M.”
“And all the people that you used to know, they died? They emigrated to Ireland or Morocco?”
“Nobody that I knew could possibly have had anything to do with this.”
“But they could have something to do with helping you find out things that will help your husband. For instance, there was a Congressman you once worked for who just got a sudden job promotion.”
“And if I call him right now—assuming I could even get through—he’d assume I’m asking for a job.”
“So you tell him that you’re not, you just want some help, you know your husband did nothing wrong.”
“He knows my husband did nothing wrong.”
“Does he? I didn’t remember you were even married when you worked for him.”
Aunt Margaret was right. In fact, the idea of trying to get Congressman Nielson—no, President Nielson—to help protect Reuben had already occurred to her, in a vague sort of way, but she always pushed the thought out of her mind because she didn’t want to be the kind of person who suddenly calls somebody the minute he becomes President. Office seekers. Hire me, make me important, put me in the White House.
Besides, there was that White House switchboard to deal with. She’d be routed… somewhere.
Not that LaMonte was in the White House yet. He had officially said that the First Lady could take all the time she needed to vacate the White House. In fact, the rumored quote was, “I like the house I live in, and I can commute.” But everyone knew that was a ludicrous idea—it put too much of a burden on the Secret Service, which was already humiliated by having failed to protect the last President.
So where was he? What happened to his staff? No way would he go anywhere without Sandy, the battleaxe who ran his office—and his staff, especially the young wet-behind-the-ears aides like she had been—as if they were prisoners who had just been brought back from an escape attempt. And Sandy might even remember her.
What was Sandy’s last name? She’d always just been… Sandy.
“Where’s the phone?” asked Cecily.
“Long distance? On my telephone? What, is your cellphone out of batteries?”
“You’re the one who wanted me to get involved.”
“Right, you involved, me not paying for anything except the vast quantities of food your children eat.”
“They don’t eat vast quantities, you just cook vast quantities.”
“I want them not to die of starvation like fashion models.”
Cecily got her cellphone out of her purse and then dialed LaMonte’s office number from memory. After all these years.
Except in the meantime he had become Speaker. So the number got her somebody else. That was fine. “I’m such an idiot,” she said. “Can you give me the phone number of the Speaker’s office?”
“Oh, I can give it to you, honey, but it ain’t gonna do you much good,” said the southern woman on the phone. “The Speaker isn’t the Speaker anymore, sweety.”
“But I’m not looking to talk to President Nielson,” she said. “It’s Sandy Woodruff that I want to talk to.”
“Well, she’s with him, of course.”
“But somebody in their old office can get a message to her.”
“By smoke signal maybe, but here’s the number, I was looking it up the whole time I was talking to you, in case you thought I wasn’t.”
“Since when do you have to look up the number of the Speaker of the House?”
“My Congressman is in the other party, sweety. We don’t call the Speaker much.”
“You should have,” said Cecily, imitating her southern drawl. “He’s always been such a dear.”
The woman laughed heartily. “Well, you’re a caution. Good luck on getting your call returned.”
Cecily got through to the Speaker’s office. It was answered by a flustered aide—or perhaps an intern. Somebody who was not deemed important enough to take along to the White House.
“Sandy isn’t available,” said the kid. “But I’d be glad to take a message.”
“Cecily Malich,” said Cecily. “Only when Sandy knew me I was Cessy Grmek. I will definitely have to spell that for you.”
“Oh, no need,” said the kid. Definitely an intern.
“That means you aren’t writing it down, because I assure you, you cannot spell it.”
A faint sigh. A scruffing among papers. Finally: “All right, I have a pencil.”
“Cessy. C-e-s-s-y. Grmek. G-r-m-e-k. Can you say it back to me?”
“Did you leave something out? What I have here looks like a bad Scrabble turn.”
“Say ‘Grrrr’ like a bear. And then ‘mek’ rhymes with ‘check.’ ”
The girl said it twice.
It had the desired effect. She could hear Sandy’s voice in the background. “Cessy Grmek? I thought she was dead or got married.” In a moment, Sandy was on the line. “What are you bothering us for, you office-seeking hanger-on?”
“I saw LaMonte on TV,” said Cessy. “I think he’s handling himself splendidly.”
“Of course he is. I tell him every word to say.”
“Listen, Sandy, my call is selfish, but I don’t want a job.”
“Too bad. Just the other day he said, ‘Whatever happened to that girl with no vowels? How can this office run without her?’ ”
“He did not.”
“But he would have, if I’d remembered to tell him to say it. Get on with your request, my dear. Remember that the President of the United States is not the Wizard of Oz. Chances are very good that you will not get your wish.”
“I did get married, Sandy. And my husband is Major Reuben Malich.”
It took a beat for Sandy to realize why she knew that name. “You’re saying you’re married to the Hero of the Tidal Basin?”
“The hero who is getting set up to take the fall for the assassination plot.”
“You know what, Cessy? I think LaMonte will want to talk to you himself.”
“No, I don’t want to bother him.”
“Your husband is the real thing, Cessy. Not that you aren’t, of course. But he’s a hero. Not just yesterday, but before. He’s the kind of soldier they make movies about.”
“I just don’t want the movie to be The Dreyfus Affair.”
“I don’t get to see any of the new movies.”
“It’s an old one. Jose Ferrer.”
“You’re thinking of I Accuse! From Zola’s famous article ‘J’Accuse.’ Jose Ferrer directed it, too. 1958.”
“Sandy, your memory astonishes me.”
“It’s not the memory, it’s the superb retrieval system. And I don’t think President Nielson wants your husband to spend years of his life fighting a false charge of treason, either. What number are you at?”
Cecily gave it to her.
Then the conversation was over. She flipped her phone closed.
“Just as I thought,” said Aunt Margaret. “The President himself is going to call back.”
“She thinks he might,” said Cecily. “But I think he won’t.”
“Then turn your phone off.”
“Okay, I think he might.”
“Are you going to tell him you switched parties?”
“I didn’t switch parties,” said Cecily. “I was a Democrat the whole time I worked for him.”
“But not much o
f a Democrat.”
“Moynihan worked for the Nixon White House and he was a Democrat.”
“A Democrat with a dark, dark stain on his tie.”
“I did a lot of good things with LaMonte. We got things done. Because he’s a practical politician. And I knew how to talk to liberals without sounding like a doctrinaire Republican so I could make friends with key aides on the other side of the aisle.”
“And then you gave it all up to have these beautiful babies,” said Margaret. “Including the one who currently has nothing on from the waist down.”
“I hope it’s J. P. you’re talking about.”
“Short? Smeary face and butt and hands?”
“That would be the one.” Cecily was out of her chair and in hot pursuit.
Aunt Margaret called after her. “Don’t let him sit down anywhere!”
“Too late!” Cecily called back.
By the time J. P. was bathed and dressed and the carpet more or less cleaned up from the fudgesicle that he had set down and sat upon, it had been forty-five minutes. Her cellphone chimed.
“Don’t you have a special ringtone for calls from the President?” asked Aunt Margaret.
“Hold please for the President,” said a voice on the line.
And then: “Cessy, I didn’t know that was your husband. I’ve watched that footage a half-dozen times and I think he and the other boy were splendid. Bartholomew Coleman, right? A captain. And your husband’s a major. Brilliant record in the war. They’re starting to tear at him already, aren’t they?”
So Sandy had briefed him.
“I really called just to tell you—oh, this is silly, I’m just wasting your time—Mr. President, he’s the—”
“LaMonte. Please. I’m not on Rushmore yet. There are forty guys ahead of me in line.”
“LaMonte, Reuben Malich is the real thing. A true patriot. Unlike me, he really is a Republican. He loved the President. This is tearing him apart.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m not just a loyal wife talking here. I just wanted to make ure you knew that whatever they say about him, whatever evidence got planted to incriminate him, he did not do anything nrong. He fulfilled a legitimate assignment. He did not pass those plans on.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure of that,” said LaMonte.
“What I’m asking is—stand by him, sir. Please.”
“Let me tell you my dilemma,” said LaMonte. “I’m walking into a White House filled with people chosen by the late President. They’re used to regarding me as an obstacle to getting things done ecause they never understood that the Speaker isn’t boss of the house the way the President is boss of the White House. But these people have been part of the administration. And one of them—at least one of them—pinpointed the President so that somebody could kill him.”
“You’ve got trust issues. But my husband—”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Cessy. I don’t have trust issues, I have a major world-class investigation going on around me here while I’m trying to transition into being President. Plus everybody’s crying, which is understandable but doesn’t help much. I need you here. I need somebody I can trust.”
“I’m a Democrat, remember?”
“I know, and I need someone who knows that language, it’s foreign to me.”
“LaMonte, I’m flattered, I’m honored, but I have a family.”
“I’ll pay you a huge salary. We raised all the White House salaries last session and I promise you, you can afford to live in Georgetown if you want to.”
“LaMonte. My parents already own a house in Georgetown, if I needed one. You can’t lure me with money. You can’t lure me at all. But as I said, I’m honored.”
“Money can’t seduce you? What about pleading? I can whimper and beg if you want. I learned how to do that in conference committees.”
“You can’t use me in the White House. My husband will be testifying before the congressional committee investigating the assassinations. And it won’t be pretty. The last thing you need is, ‘Major Malich, whose wife is an aide to President Nielson.’ There is such a thing as bad publicity.”
“Well, just for you, I’ll wave my wand and make that all go away.”
“If only,” said Cecily.
“You’ll see. We’re going to have a very harmonious administration.”
“Don’t count on much of a honeymoon.”
“Work for me, Cessy. Your husband won’t hurt us, he’ll help. He’s a hero. You’re the wife of a hero. Plus Sandy assures me you’re the only aide she ever liked.”
“She did not like me,” said Cecily. “Not till I left.”
She felt herself getting sucked into the vortex. She really did miss it. And to think of a White House in transition, under internal investigation, in desperate need of people who could concentrate, who could get things done—she knew she could do it. She had a knack for getting along with people. For isolating differences and making them seem small. She was good at the minutiae of making things happen in Washington. She wanted to say yes.
But she wanted even more to say no. The last thing Reuben needed right now was a wife with a sixteen-hour-a-day job. It had been her decision to stay home with the kids and she had made the right choice—for her and Reuben, anyway. With Reuben often gone for weeks and months at a time, the kids needed somebody who was an island of stability in their lives.
“We’ve got five kids, Mr. President. You know better than to try to take me away from them.”
“Patriotic pep talk won’t do it?”
“No, sir,” she said.
“Well, I’ll tell you what. The offer’s open for a month. Change your mind before August, and you’re in. Meanwhile, don’t fret about your husband. Major Malich is going to have the full support of the White House and the Army. I guarantee that nothing bad will happen to him.”
That was all she could ask for. And he had a lot to do. No time for mall talk. She thanked him, said good-bye, and hung up.
“He tried to hire you,” said Aunt Margaret.
“You heard my answer.”
“I heard you considering it,” said Aunt Margaret. “Hard thing to turn down, isn’t it? In the White House, when the President knows you and trusts you, you get real power, yes?”
“Yes, I suppose,” said Cecily. “Good thing I get all the power I want from bullying my children.”
“He promised to help your husband, but you still look worried.”
“I am worried,” she said. “Why am I worried?”
“You’re a Croat,” said Margaret. “Nothing’s ever so good but what it can all come crashing down, and Croats never forget that.”
“Yes, what was your toast at our wedding? ‘Every day that ends vith you two still speaking to each other is a triumph over human nature.’ ”
“Or words to that effect,” said Margaret. “And I was right.”
“There’s something. Wrong. It’s… I don’t like the way he promised he could make everything go smoothly for Reuben. If there’s anyone on God’s green earth who knows that Congress cannot be controlled from the White House, it’s LaMonte Nielson.”
“Maybe he thinks he’ll still have clout in Congress.”
“No, he often said that the only President who ever controlled Congress was Johnson, and he did it by being a world-class… erk.”
“A tush flambe,” said Margaret.
“And he can’t control the press, either. They’re going to try to kill Reuben’s reputation and dance on the grave.”
“He just got made President. He’s feeling grandiose.”
“He was never grandiose. But no, he was joking. Cajoling me.”
“And yet you’re still worried.”
“I’m worried because Reuben is off the radar. Is he coming here? Is he going somewhere else to hide? Is he leaving the country? Is he on some kind of assignment? Is he arrested? Is he… ”
The front door slammed open.
“Oh, be gentle
with my ancient house!” cried Aunt Margaret.
“Dad’s got a new car!” shouted Mark.
“He’s here,” breathed Cecily.
“Go help your father with his luggage,” called Margaret.
“He doesn’t have any!”
When Cecily got to the front door, carrying J. P., the garage door was already closing with Reuben and whatever car he was driving on the inside. So Cecily went back through the house and intercepted him at the inside garage door. They kissed and Reuben took J. P. into his arms and greeted the girls, who had already run downstairs. “Where’s Nick?” he asked.
“Reading about strong-thewed women and bewitching men,” said Mark.
“In the back yard,” said Cecily.
Reuben gave everybody another hug and then went out into the back yard in search of his second son.
They gathered in the kitchen and Reuben gave them all a blow-by-blow account of his fight with the terrorists. Lettie and Annie were fascinated, but their reaction was most at the level of “Oh, gross,” and “Did you see them after they were dead?” Mark wanted more details, but in reply Reuben reminded him that this story was not to be told outside the family. “If you tell anybody that your dad is Major Reuben Malich, any of your friends, pretty soon there’ll be reporters outside the house and we won’t have any peace.”
Mark was disgusted. “I know that, Dad,” he said.
Nick said nothing. He just watched his father. And listened. And took it all in. He was the one that worried Cecily. Nick built his life around imaginary heroes, even if the fantasy novels were supposed to be funny. And then look at the father he had—the real thing, the strong-thewed warrior, the hero. How could Nick ever measure up to that fantasy?
Nick was the one who would go into the Army, she thought. He’ll think he has to in order to be a real man. Only the Army is not where he belongs. He needs to have time to himself. He needs a regular life. He needs to be surrounded by a gentle reality. Because he’s fragile. Real combat would hurt him. He would get scars that would never heal.
Scars like the ones that gnawed at his father. You don’t kill men without taking damage to your soul. Even when you’re defending yourself and other people. Even when the bad guys are truly evil. And if you ever get to the point where it doesn’t damage you to kill, then you’ve lost your decency. Thank God Reuben had never reached that point, and never would. But Nick—could he bear it, to have those wounds on his soul?
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