The Devil's bed

“I still think the advice is sound, Bobby. I don’t want to launch anything controversial at this juncture.” The president loosened his tie and undid his shirt collar. “I can tell there’s more on your mind. Spit it out.”

“I’m wondering more and more what I’m doing here. There was a time I thought you relied on me, for more than just legal counsel. Lately I’m feeling like I’m moving my lips but not much is getting through to you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Ever since Carpathian died, it’s Llewellyn who has your ear, Clay. And more often than not Llewellyn is just an echo of your old man.”

“John Llewellyn knows politics better than anyone on Capitol Hill. I’m heading into a tough battle to hold on to this presidency, and goddamn it, I want to win. Llewellyn’s the man who knows how to make that happen.”

“I don’t like his tactics.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Clay. I can see his hand all over the Wayne White thing.”

“That’s politics, Bobby.”

“Alan Carpathian wouldn’t call it politics. He’d call it character assassination.”

“Carpathian’s dead,” Dixon snapped. He took a moment, then forced a grin. “Remember the Michigan game?” He was talking about their days together at Stanford, when they’d both played on the team that won the Rose Bowl in their senior year. “I called a post pattern. You argued for a hook.”

“I know. That pass won the game.”

“The post pattern.” Dixon stood up, walked to his old friend, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know what I’m doing, Bobby. I can handle Llewellyn and my father. And don’t worry about Kate. She’ll be fine. Look, it’s been a long day. How about we call it quits for this evening?”

“Sure, Clay.” Lee got to his feet and headed for the door.

After Robert Lee left, Dixon wandered to the window behind his desk and looked out. It was a hot, humid August night. He knew if he were able to slide open the pane, the air would hit him like warm water. Even after nearly four years in the White House, he wasn’t used to summer on the eastern seaboard. He thought about August along the high plains near the Rockies in his home state of Colorado. He missed the clear, dry air, the smell of sage. He missed the million stars that were the gift of the night. In D.C., the ever present haze and the city lights generally made the night sky a murky, impenetrable darkness.

He glanced at his watch and realized it was his daughter’s bedtime.

Dixon left the West Wing, accompanied by two Secret Service agents on POTUS detail. At the private stairs to the Executive Residence, he bid the agents a cordial good night. Unless called upon by the First Family, or summoned by an alarm, the Secret Service kept away from the second and third floors of the White House. As much as possible, the Residence was maintained as a sanctuary of normal life. At the top of the stairs, Dixon turned left down the center hall toward the west bedroom, where Willie Lincoln and John-John Kennedy had slept and Amy Carter had played with her dolls. He found his daughter Stephanie already under the covers. Kate sat in a chair next to the bed, reading from a Harry Potter book. Stephanie was so engrossed in listening to the story that she didn’t notice her father come into the room. He stood inside the doorway, watching silently.

Stephanie was seven, and Dixon loved her deeply. She had her mother’s long, blonde hair and pale complexion. She was smart and funny and loved to laugh, all very like her mother. From her father, she’d inherited athletic ability, a willful way, and a love of football. They often spent a Sunday afternoon together watching the Broncos or the Redskins on television.

Stephanie’s eyes drifted down from the ceiling and found him. She smiled and said happily, “Hi, Daddy.”

Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon looked up from the book she held. She didn’t smile.

Dixon came to the bed, leaned down, and kissed his daughter’s forehead. Her skin smelled faintly of Noxema. “What did you think of Ms. Walters?”

“I thought she was nice.”

“Me, too.”

“I got her autograph.”

“You can add it to your collection.” His daughter had practically grown up in the White House, surrounded by celebrities and the great people of the day. She collected autographs that she kept in an album. Her favorite was J. K Rowling, creator of Harry Potter, whom she’d met at a charity reading her mother had sponsored.

“I think that’s enough about Hogwarts for us Muggles tonight,” her mother said. She closed the book, set it on the stand, and rose from her chair. She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Sleep tight.”

“Can I read a little more? I’m not very sleepy.”

“A little more,” her mother agreed.

“Night, Pumpkin,” Dixon said.

As they left the room, Kate closed the door behind them.

“I was going to have a glass of sherry,” Dixon said. “Care to join me?”

“I don’t think so.” She walked past him.

“You were great this evening,” he said behind her. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

“I did what I had to do.”