The First Affair (14 page)

“Office of the President, Jean speaking.”

“Jean, hi,” I said quietly, “it’s Jamie McAlister.”

“Does Margaret need something?”

“Um, no—actually—that’s why I’m calling. I was supposed to start officially working for her today, but when I arrived this morning I
was told I’d been reassigned to an
unpaid
internship at the DOHS.” I felt the clammy rumbling of a panic attack threatening. My loans would come due at Christmas. A thousand dollars a month.

“I’ll put you straight through to personnel.”

“Right, of course.” Not the President of the United States. “Thank you—um, Jean?” I halted her.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell him I called?”

“Of course, dear,” she said warmly. I hung up as soon as I heard the musical hold. Dropping into the chair, my eyes on the phone, I irrationally expected it to ring immediately.
I’ve fucked it up
, I thought. Were those goodbye gifts? Was that his way of telling me this was over?
Please
, I bargained,
just let him forgive me for rushing to his office
, and I vowed I’d never be impulsive again. After a few long minutes, I picked it back up and dialed the one person I could consult without having to redact this story.

“I just realized I put my underwear on backwards,” Lena greeted me.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Area code.”

“It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Sorry, I’ve been so busy here. Miserably busy. But I just found out I’m bonus eligible this year, so that’s cool. I feel like my boss can totally tell about my underwear and it’s—”

“I’ve been banished.” I tucked my head and put my hand over my mouth.

“Banished?”

“Lena, he punted me to the Department of Homeland Security. To another
internship
—”

“Whoa.”

“I know, right?”

“No, I mean, that’s the government government.”

“Huh?”

“Like, not the white building with the fancy china and not Congress, passing bills on dog food—these are the people who can drop you down a well. Jamie, stop. Seriously, get out, go home,” she said bluntly.

“Have you had your coffee yet this morning?” I tried cajoling her.

“My opinion can’t be turned on a latte. There’s no solution here. I’m sorry, there just isn’t.”

“Lena, I’m getting a cafeteria pass, it’s not Guantánamo. I just need to talk this through. We used to talk about things
because
there was no solution—that was the core criterion. Hour ten dissecting Malik was not going to make him love you.”

There was a silence.

“Lena? You still there?” I was about to call back when she finally responded.

“I’m uncomfortable, Jamie. Like, in the pit of my stomach. I asked my mom—”

“What?”

“As a hypothetical friend of a friend—”

“What other friend of a friend lives in D.C. and works—fuck—
worked
at the White House?”

“Exactly. I can’t talk to you about this anymore.”

“Are you kidding? You were mad at me because I didn’t share enough. I finally—look, there’s no ‘this’—I just—I don’t know what to do.”

“I told you what to do. You don’t want to hear it. Jamie, get on a plane or get on my mother’s couch—what does it matter which coast it’s on—and learn how to bartend.”

“While you earn real money and start your career?” I was stunned. “You sure you don’t just need a maid?” Her arrogance, my jealousy, the years she’d spent spotting me cash so we could do things at her level, all bubbled over.

“Jamie, that’s not—I gotta jump,” she added hastily, hanging up.

Heart audibly pounding, jaw set, my brain spun around one word like a weather vane: I
can’t
talk to my best friend about the one thing I really need to talk about. I
can’t
talk to Greg and find out what the fuck just happened here. I
can’t
quit the only opportunity I have right now. And I
can’t
be the sad broke girl on her rich friend’s couch.

When Paul came to collect me for lunch, I’d tracked down a bottle of Fantastik from the closet. That phone sparkled.

As we sat across from each other, the rushed movement of those around us getting food, getting it down, and getting out of there as fast as possible created an audible rustle like wind through a cornfield. He picked at his roast beef sandwich. “So you have no personnel file.”

I startled, pulled out of my imaginary pleadings. “Well,
technically
, I’m not personnel yet.”

“But we don’t really do interns. We’ve had, like, three since I’ve been here and they were all kids of senators and generals. On their way to West Point—mayonnaise.” He snapped his fingers, twisting around like some packets might be sneaking up on him. “That’s what I always forget. So, are you somebody’s kid?”

“Um, my dad runs an intramural program on the South Side of Chicago, so no.”

He took that in. “It’s just that everyone else
wants
to be here,” he said, opening a lemon yogurt, and I couldn’t tell if he was including himself.

“Of course,” I agreed, unprepared for the job interview this was turning into.

“No, I mean, they
want
to be here. Since 9/11. It’s like patrolling the Arizona border to them—even if they’re just braiding paper clips. I’m only telling you this because you got popped over here from the White House, which means you did an exemplary job. But you showed up this morning looking like you were trying to find the nearest Red Cross gymnasium.”

I was mortified. “I—I am very excited to be here. It’s an honor. I just had a rough morning—family stuff.”

He nodded. “No, my first day was rough, too. But we promote internally, so if you prove yourself like you did there, you could land a position.”

“Thank you for sharing that. I appreciate it.”

He peered into his yogurt. “I came from the White House.”

“You did?” I asked through a full mouth.

“Originally I started in Rutland’s office back in Harrisburg.”

“What was he like?” It came out before I could stop myself.

He considered for a second while I tried to temper the signs of my curiosity. “Even then, him being the President just felt inevitable. Like
we all heard ‘Hail to the Chief’ when he walked in the room. Anyway, from there to the campaign—and . . .”

“They placed you here—why?” Everyone knew Rutland had taken only a handful of people from Pennsylvania.

“Eventually. It was a huge promotion,” he said in a way that connoted the exact opposite. “Keep your friends close,” he added airily. His cell vibrated and he glanced at it, blowing out “fffff” like he was about to say fuck.

I asked if he was okay and he abruptly stood, still staring at the phone.

“Paul?”

“My ex wants to stop by tonight to get his steak knives,” he said as if he had just bitten into something acidic. “Only they’re
my
steak knives and I will happily furnish him with my credit card statement from our ski trip to prove it.”

“That sucks,” I said.

“It does.”

“Thank you for lunch,” I said as he raised his tray. “And I’m really sorry.”

“Well, just try to look like you want to be here and you’ll do fine.”

• • •

That night, with razor wire in my chest and nothing else to go on, I priced out flights to L.A. I was determined to be a grown-up and look at this pragmatically, stay focused on what had happened to my fledgling career. Even if the DOHS position transitioned into a paying job, I could spend years waiting on promotions to gradually move up out of the earth like a seed in Siberia. Advancement at the White House had felt like it could lead somewhere, open doors to unforeseen possibilities. That DOHS basement felt like it would lead to scurvy.

“I don’t get it,” Rachelle said on the phone from a VP campaign stop in Des Moines, where Geoffrey had forced her to lug the equipment through the muddy state fair. “How does your guy have the power to pull off something this big?”

“He doesn’t,” I rushed, stubbing out my third cigarette. “Not power—exactly. Just . . . influence.”

“Ooh, influence, I
like
it. Jamie, reframe: how many girls can say they’ve been banished? He wants you so much he can’t even handle having you in the same building.”

Despite doing her best to find me a silver lining, I was desperate to regain some control, and pressing “purchase” on Expedia seemed the only way to achieve it. I told Rachelle we could talk more when she came back, but for sanity’s sake I had to reserve a flight in two weeks to L.A. It was enough time to give my notice, nut up to grovel to Lena, and pack. I drank till I could pass out. But the ringing phone soon invaded my dream.

“I woke you,” he said, sounding unapologetic.

I bolted up, the slap hitting me afresh.

“Jamie?” he asked uncertainly.

“I use some of my free time to sleep, yes.” I sounded cold, which only made me sadder.

“You called Jean.”

“To tell you I’m leaving.” It felt so good to say, I queasily realized that I may have booked the flight for only that reason.

“But I got you the post.”

“Um, actually, Greg,” I corrected him, anger flaring, “
I
got myself a job at the White House by rocking my internship and not being all Children of the Corn.
You
banished me.”

“I’m
keeping
you.” He was shocked.

“Keeping me? Like a pet?” I was completely put off.

He took one of his characteristic pauses. “Singh made some strong suggestions after he saw you outside my office. That internship was our compromise.”

“And I’m sick about that, but why didn’t you tell me—”

“I’m in the middle of a campaign.”

“I just don’t understand how you need to follow anyone’s anything.”

“Jamie, I surround myself with smart people and I listen to them. That’s how this works.” He blew out hard and I pictured him looking at his desk, running his beautifully freckled hand through his thick hair. Would I get a chance to tell him that now—that I thought he had beautiful hands? It wasn’t something you shared after being banished.

“I need to go—”

“Jamie.” He snatched me back, the receiver already halfway to the cradle. “It’s just until after the election.”

Relief shot through me, contained by my skepticism, like a charge through a wire. I lifted the phone back to my ear. “Really?”

“Yes, of course! Why else would I have to listen to Singh?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that? Call me before I had to carry a box across town like an idiot.”

“Um, you know, Ms. McAlister, I’ve been busy,” he imitated me as a blush drowned my own freckles.

“Uh, what could possibly be more important in, you know, the world, than my job assignment?” I joined in the joke to show him I got it, I was chastened.

“Listen, I just need to keep my head down until November,” he said, his voice intimate again.

“No, of course.”

“Then I’ll bring you back.”

“You will?” I threw my arm out in the dark—it was all I needed to hear.

“Yes!” He was almost laughing at me. “Margaret’s pretty pissed at me as it is. Competent non—what did you call it?—Children of the Corn people are hard to find. You just need to trust me.”

“I do,” I said quickly, wanting to wrap his voice around me with the sheets. “I hope you trust me, too.” He had given me what I’d prayed for, something I could finally count on—a plan for us. It was almost as though everything up to that point had to happen so I could have it. I wanted to return the favor of providing relief. I sensed how important this was, keeping him at ease, and reminded him, “I would never betray you—never. You know that, right?”

“You’re special,” he said softly.

“Like, needs extra help?” I demurred.

“No, really, you have a—a light around you that I can’t get enough of. An energy like no one I’ve ever known. This between us—this is—”
What
—
what
is
this?
“Fun.” Such a small, dumb word, but he said it as if it were cupped in his palms and he was trying not to spill it. And I felt protective of him all over again.

“When I hear those pundits tearing you apart on TV, I just want to reach in and break their noses.”

He laughed deeply. “You’re hired—oh, shit, there’s the other line. It’s daytime somewhere.”

“Of course.” I hated to let him go. “Greg?”

“Yes.”

“You have my vote.”

“Well, that’s good. Illinois’s a swing state. Night, Jamie.”

I canceled my flight.

• • •

It was hard not to feel as if I were in a Greek myth, given the gift of hearing Zeus say I was special. Yet each time I replayed the memory, it faded, losing its potency, leaving me desperately needing a new memory to run thin. But there was none forthcoming.

Over the following weeks, on the sleep of someone with one ear open, I followed the campaign map and tried to immerse myself in my new internship, striving to prove myself as if word might get back to Greg that I’d collated three file archives in what Paul said was record time.

On line for an iced coffee to break up the monotony, I checked Facebook and saw that Kenny Richmond had announced he was gay. I immediately texted Lena. I hadn’t even counted out my change before the phone rang.

“Why now?” she asked as a greeting. “Why not on any given day at one of the gayest schools in the Northeast?”

“And why September?” I countered, raising my cup to the barista in the sign for thanks, phone clamped to my shoulder. “Why not back during Pride month?”

“Where is he working?”

“Wells Fargo, Boston.” I pushed outside into the tenacious heat.

“What does Wells Fargo have that Vassar didn’t?”

“Or Boston, for that matter,” I added, pulling down my sunglasses.

“It’s like going to France and waiting until you get back to Trader Joe’s to try Brie.”

“I miss you.” It popped out. She didn’t respond. “Lena?”

“I’ve been busy,” she answered tightly.

“Me, too. This new placement”—Paul’s much-appreciated euphemism for internship—“is super time-consuming. But I love it,” I added, because she’d made it clear that I couldn’t be staying there for any other reason.