Eighteen Acres: A Novel (8 page)

“Does that actually work for you? I mean, do people actually tell you things after you insult them like that?”

He’d laughed. “Believe it or not, they do.”

He’d been right about the White House lawyer getting indicted. Melanie had been sitting at her desk in the OEOB when she saw the breaking news on CNN. The OEOB was across the driveway from the West Wing, but it might as well have been on another planet. Melanie had stayed glued to the television all day. President Harlow had given a statement in the East Room shortly after the news broke. Melanie remembered reading in the papers that his communications director, Barry Donaldson, had written the statement on a computer without a hard drive so it wouldn’t show up in the White House records in case the White House staffer hadn’t been indicted.

I want to have that role someday,
Melanie had thought at the time.
I want to be the person the president turns to in the middle of a crisis.

Melanie and Michael had started meeting periodically at Starbucks across the street from the White House. He’d ask her about the mood at the planning meetings she went to, the cliques at the White House, and rumors about tensions or affairs between various staffers. And there was no shortage of scurrilous gossip to pass along, off the record, of course. When hundreds of young political animals from all across the country spent fifteen-hour days together, seven days a week, working inside the confines of the eighteen acres that made up the White House complex, there was plenty of friction.

Melanie had loved how important she felt meeting Michael for these visits. She didn’t realize at the time how valuable her rambling reports of life as a junior staffer were until she’d read an “analysis”
piece Michael wrote about President Harlow a few weeks after the indictment.

“It’s Business as Usual in President Harlow’s White House,” the headline had read. The story had gone on to say that “staffers attended meetings for the White House egg roll and planned for a bird flu outbreak just days after the resignation of one of the most powerful aides on the White House staff.” Michael had quoted her as an “administration official” saying that “nothing’s changed for those of us functioning at the nuts-and-bolts level.” His article had concluded that the White House was “out of touch” and “out of line” for refusing to discuss the indictment openly with staff.

Melanie had been mortified when she read the piece and saw slivers of stories she’d shared over the previous weeks reflected and in many cases distorted to fit Michael’s thesis that everyone at the White House was in denial. She’d phoned him and told him she needed to see him immediately. He’d laughed and said she was being childish. He’d assured her that he had many sources who told him similar things. Melanie had wanted to believe him, but she was fairly certain that he’d taken her stories and built his mood piece around her account.

“It’s unethical,” she’d said to him on the phone.

“Lesson number one, Kingston: getting a national security story or an indictment wrong is unethical. Mood stories are all bullshit. My editors wanted a mood story. I trust your judgment about the mood, so I wrote off what I understand to be true from our visits. Take it as a compliment. You’re a credible source.”

“And you’re a piece of shit,” she’d retorted.

She didn’t talk to him for months. Then, one day, when she was dropping off President Harlow’s Florida clips, she’d heard Barry Donaldson, the communications director, on the phone in the West Wing basement. He must have thought he was alone. It was just after six
A.M.
, so it was a reasonable assumption.

“Listen, you need to protect my ass. Can’t you ID me as a ‘senior government official’ instead of a ‘senior White House official’? No, not White House official—it needs to be ‘senior’ so they know it’s real. Listen, Harlow is going to dump her like a hot potato—he’s just waiting
for our friends on the Hill to start complaining in the press. Then he can say that it was a matter of party unity. No, he isn’t going to throw her overboard until she embarrasses herself in front of Congress. I know, it’s cruel, but life’s a bitch. Welcome to the big leagues, Dottie. No, no, you can’t quote me on that, no way. Listen, I’ve gotta go.” He’d hung up and rounded the corner, where Melanie was standing in front of the West Wing security guards.

Melanie had kept her head down and tried to avoid making eye contact.

“Hey, Marnie,” he’d said.

“Melanie,” she’d corrected.

“Right, Melanie. Uh, how long have you been standing here?”

“I just walked in and was on my way to the staff secretary’s office,” she’d said.

“I’ve never seen you in the West Wing before.”

“I deliver President Harlow’s Florida clips each morning.”

“You’re here at this hour every day to satiate POTUS’ obsession with his beloved Sunshine State?”

“Yes, sir,” she’d answered. President Harlow had been governor of Florida for eight years before being elected president, and he loved keeping up on his hometown press.

“Cool. Hey, anything you hear over here is classified, right, Leonard?” he’d said, turning to the security guard.

“Whatever you say, sir,” he’d said, winking at Melanie.

She’d smiled at the guard. “OK, well, I have to go.”

“I’m serious, Melanie. Classified,” Donaldson had emphasized.

Her hands had been shaking when she handed the clips over to the staff secretary. She’d felt her stomach tie into a knot and her palms begin to sweat. The president’s communications director had been trashing the president’s nominee for homeland security secretary. Dottie Flor was President Harlow’s pick for the post, and her confirmation process was not going smoothly.

She couldn’t go to her boss. Donaldson was her boss’s boss. She couldn’t go to the chief of staff. He played golf with Donaldson every Saturday. He’d never believe Melanie. She’d waited until ten
A.M.
and called Michael’s number.

“Kingston, how the hell are you?” he’d asked on the first ring.

“I need to see you.”

“Usual spot?” he’d asked.

“No, let’s meet in Dupont Circle.”

They’d met twenty minutes later at the Krispy Kreme on Dupont Circle.

“I think Barry Donaldson is trying to sabotage the president’s nominee for secretary of homeland security,” Melanie had blurted out as soon as they’d ordered their donuts and coffee.

“Slow down, Kingston. What did you hear?” he’d asked.

“Listen, you burned me once, so I need to do this off the record—like one hundred percent off the record. You can’t tie me to this information in any way, shape, or form, or I’ll get caught.”

“Get caught doing what? Sticking up for the president’s nominee? That doesn’t sound so bad,” he’d said.

“I’m serious.”

“OK, OK, Kingston. You got it. Double secret off the record. Now tell me, again, what you heard.”

Melanie had told him the whole story, and he was able to confirm it independently with sources on the Hill. The front page of the paper had carried a banner headline the day the story broke: “Top Aide Runs Coordinated Effort to Sink Dottie Flor.”

Donaldson had been fired, and Flor had been confirmed. Melanie hadn’t slept for a week. She’d kept waiting for the White House chief of staff to hunt her down in her office in the Old Executive Office Building or call her in the middle of the night to accuse her of leaking information. But no one had come after her, and after a while, no one spoke of Donaldson anymore.

Melanie and Michael had remained friends. During the eight years she’d served as press secretary, he often gave her a heads-up when a crisis was about to break. When she took the job as Charlotte’s chief of staff, he’d sent her a dozen roses with a note: “I’m always happy when my friends keep their security clearances. Kramer is lucky to have you, Melanie. Fondly, Michael.” In her three years as chief of staff, Melanie had hardly spoken to him. He’d been pursuing corrupt members of Congress in recent years, and with his daughter working
in the White House, he’d laid off the executive branch, much to Melanie’s relief.

Now, when Melanie opened her eyes, the train was forty minutes from New York’s Penn Station. She walked back to the dining car for another cup of coffee, then tried to get through the newspapers but found her eyes skimming the words without taking in any of the stories. She kept starting over and ended up reading them out loud to herself to get through them.

She arrived in New York at around ten. She walked out of the train station and pulled her black wool coat tightly around her. She was always surprised by how much colder it was in New York than in D.C.

She got into a cab and gave the driver the address where she was to meet Michael. The cab stopped in front of the diner. Through the window, the crowd looked as if it was made up mostly of tourists. Melanie paid the cab driver and walked inside. She spotted Michael in a booth near the back—a cup of coffee and a copy of the
New York Times
were in front of him.

He smiled at her as she approached. “You look tired as shit,” he said.

“Thanks. I feel like shit,” Melanie said.

“I didn’t say you looked like shit. I said you look tired as shit. There’s a difference,” he said, smiling again.

“I’m fine. Living the dream,” she said.

He laughed and stayed quiet, waiting for her to say more.

“We’ve been pushing hard—totally off the record, like so off the record that even after it happens, you and I never had this conversation. Charlotte’s going to Afghanistan again to be there for their elections, and it’s been a bitch to get the trip together. There’s still no functioning government, and the military is pissed at Roger over the budget, so they have refused to participate in any of the planning. It’s just been a brutal couple weeks,” Melanie said.

“How is Charlotte?” he asked.

“She’s good.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know—she seems distracted when I see her on TV,” he said.

“I mean, between the anemic recovery and two wars, she’s been dealt a pretty crummy hand, and every time she opens her mouth to discuss any of those topics, her approval ratings go down, but you know Charlotte, she’s good. I mean, she never complains, and she takes her lumps. Congress shits all over her, and she still treats them like they’re her best friends in the world. I don’t know who treats her worse—the Democrats or the Republicans—but she rolls with it. She works her ass off. I’ve done this for three of them now, and I’ve never seen anyone like her—she is a machine,” Melanie said.

“Maybe that’s her problem,” Michael said. “With her poll numbers, she needs something big to change the dynamic, or she might get a third-party challenge from the right, and I’m not sure she’d survive that.”

“Let me see if I understand this. Her problem is that she works too hard and doesn’t pay enough attention to her poll numbers?” Melanie asked, sarcastically.

“No. But one of the problems voters have with her—and you know this as well as I do, Melanie—is that she seems superhuman, you know? She never stops—she doesn’t show any emotion. People want to know that she gets pissed, that she gets sad, happy, angry, something.”

Melanie looked at him and didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t summon me to New York to give me political advice, Michael,” she finally said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“So, what is it? Peter Kramer is the leader of a polygamist family in Utah? The kids are growing pot at boarding school? What? What crazy conspiracy tale do you have for me?”

“I can see you’ve lost your sense of humor, Mel, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got a source who claims to have photos, taped conversations, and all sorts of other sordid evidence that Charlotte’s marriage is a sham.” He stopped to gauge Melanie’s reaction.

Melanie laughed. “And in Washington, that makes her what? Part of the silent majority? You didn’t drag me here to tell me that you have
some loony source who heard rumors that Charlotte is gay or Peter is a swinger, did you? Because I can walk down to the briefing room and get that from any twenty-four-year-old blogger. Jesus, I can see clearly now why journalism is on its last legs. I’m embarrassed for you, Michael.”

“Listen, save the pissed-off act for your underlings; I’m sure they love you for it. I came to you because we’re friends and because I know it’s been an undercurrent for a couple of years, but this feels like it’s about to break, and I wanted to give you a chance to work with us and frame it yourself. People will have sympathy for her—I mean, assuming Peter is the one having the affair. If it’s her …” He stopped.

“If it’s her, what?” Melanie asked.

“Well, if it’s her, that changes things. You know that.”

She fumed silently. She and Charlotte talked about everything. But Charlotte and Peter’s marriage was one topic Melanie never asked about. And Charlotte never volunteered any information outside of what was obvious.

Charlotte and Peter Kramer lived separate lives.

But so did every politician on Capitol Hill. Most senators and House members lived one life in Washington and another in their home states and districts. And Peter was the first man ever to fill the role of a first husband. There wasn’t exactly a play book for him.

Had she let Charlotte down by not insisting that she appear more often with Peter and the family? Should she have dug deeper about why Peter stayed so far away from the White House most days of the week and every weekend?

“I know how close you and Charlotte are, and I thought you might know what was going on with her, but it’s clear you don’t,” Michael said.

“How do you know I don’t?” Melanie asked.

“I know you, Mel. I know you can’t always tell me what you know, but I also know when you don’t know something. And you don’t know what’s going on with her and Peter,” he said.

He was right.

“If you have it, why haven’t you written it yet? The
Dispatch
loves your big scoops,” Melanie said.

“You know I hate personal tragedy stories, Melanie, but if I don’t do it, someone else will. And if I do it, I’m going to get it right. I don’t have the whole thing yet. But I will get it, and I think you know that, too.”