The First Councel

With her arms swinging forcefully at her side, she plows forward up the red-carpeted hallway. I assume she’s heading up to the Residence, but she doesn’t turn at the entrance to the stairs. She just keeps going-straight up the hall, through the Palm Room, and outside, up the West Colonnade. Just before she reaches the door that leads into the West Wing, she takes a sharp left and sidesteps a dark-suited agent. “Oh, no,” I mutter, watching her plow along the concrete terrace outside the West Wing. There’s only one place she’s going. The back entrance of the Oval. Straight to the top.

Knowing that no one goes in that way, I slam on the brakes. In case there’s any doubt, the agent shoots me a look of confirmation-Nora’s the only exception. Leaning against one of the enormous white columns that leads up to the West Wing, I watch the rest from here.

Fifty feet away, without looking back, Nora stops at two tall French doors and, pressing her nose against the glass paneling, peers inside the Oval. If she were anyone else, she’d be shot by now.

The lights from inside the room illuminate her like a raging firefly. She raps loudly on the paneling to get some attention, then reaches for the doorknob. But as soon as she opens the door, her entire demeanor changes. It’s like she flipped off a switch. Her shoulders lose their pitch and her fists open. Then, instead of stepping inside, she motions for him to come out. The President’s got someone in there.

Still, when his daughter calls…

The President steps out on the terrace and shuts the door behind him. He’s a solid foot taller than Nora, which allows him to lean forward over her with full parental intimidation. The way he crosses his arms, he doesn’t like being interrupted.

Realizing this, Nora quickly makes her case, her arms gracefully gesturing to drive home her point. She’s not frenzied-not even angry-her movements are subdued. It’s like I’m watching another woman. She barely even looks up as she talks to him. Everything’s restrained.

As he listens, he puts a hand on his chin, resting his elbow against the arm that’s wrapped around his waist. With the Rose Garden in the foreground, and the two of them in the back, I can’t help but think of all those black-and-white photos of John and Bobby Kennedy, who had their famous discussions standing in the exact same spot.

Next thing I know, Hartson shakes his head and puts a tender hand on Nora’s shoulder. As long as I live, I’ll never forget it. The way they connect-the way he reassures her by rubbing her back. An arm over her shoulder. In silhouette, the power’s gone-just a father and his daughter. “I’m sorry,” his body language says as he continues to rub her back. “That’s the way it’s going to have to be on this one.”

Before Nora can argue, the President reopens the door to his office and waves someone else out. I can’t see who it is, but quick introductions are made. “This’s my daughter, Nora.” She snaps to attention, trained her whole life in campaign-trail etiquette. The President knows what he’s doing. Now that a guest’s around, there’s nothing Nora can say.

As she turns to leave, the President looks my way. I spin around and step behind a white column. I don’t need to make my entrance until tomorrow.

***

“Fuck him!” Nora shouts as we race back along the empty Ground Floor Corridor out of earshot.

“Just forget about it,” I tell her again, this time keeping pace with her. “Let ’em have their schmoozefest.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” she asks as we cross back through booksellers and approach the oversized bust of Lincoln outside the theater. “I was actually having fun! For once, it was fun!”

“And we’ll make up for it tomorrow. We were only going to be there another ten minutes anyway.”

“That’s not the point! It was our ten minutes! Not theirs! I picked out the movie, and made them pop popcorn, and sent you the message-and then… ” Her voice starts to crack. She rubs her nose vigorously, but her hands are shaking. “It’s supposed to be a house, Michael. A real fuckin’ house-but it’s always like the Music Room”-she wipes her eyes-“always a show.” Biting her lip, she’s trying to fight back tears. The redness of her eyes tells me it’s not going to work. “It’s not supposed to be like this. When we first got here, everyone talked about the perks. Oh, you’ll get perks. Wait’ll you see the perks. Well, I’m still waiting! Where are they, Michael? Where?” She looks over each of her shoulders as if she’s physically looking for them. The only thing she sees is a uniformed guard, sitting at his checkpoint outside the theater and staring straight at us.

“What?” she screams at him. “Now I can’t cry in my own house?” Her voice cracks even louder with that one. It doesn’t take a shrink to spot the breakdown coming.