The Means (13 page)

25

About three times per week Mason and Evelyn have dinner together in the private dining room of the upstairs residence in the White House. The marriage is not typical but they are connected and these dinners fuel the connection.

The waiter, butler, and chef come with the job. The Masons pay for the grocery bill. Evelyn agrees on the menu with the chef at the beginning of the week. Mason is easy to please and when at home he likes simple meals because the rest of the time he eats at places that have many courses of small portions and sauces that are a chef's experiment.

Mason takes off his tie, changes his suit pants for jeans then walks the hall from his bedroom to the private dining room. The hallway is empty because they like to keep the Secret Service away when they're home together.

He turns right into the dining room and Evelyn is at the table reading
Harper's Bazaar
. Newspapers may die off but magazines with big, glossy fashion photos will be as tough as rats. “Hello, dear.”

“Hello, wife.”

“Spaghetti with meatballs.”

“Thank God.” Mason wonders if it would be better or worse for him if the public could see how normal he and Evelyn can be sometimes.

They had brought the Chippendale table and formal dining chairs from their home in New York because they wanted this room to feel familiar.

Mason sits under the Caio Fonseca painting which he bought when he was single because the painting seemed musical and made him feel good, which is the only reason to buy anything. He can't understand why anyone would have another person buy his art.

Evelyn is across the table and behind her on the console are busts of each of their children made by Bob Clyatt, an artist from home in Westchester.

Mason likes to think that the busts are there to remind him of why he does the hard work, that it is all for his daughters and the next generations. He is only semiconscious of the truth, though. The truth is that while he is mired in his imperfections, he has done the perfect things before that are represented in the busts, and that he can be a force for good. When the girls eat with them, they cover the busts with napkins.

“You're looking very handsome this evening.”

“And you look ravishing as well.” And she is a pretty woman. Mason says, “I saw a clip on the news from your speech at Georgetown Law School today. You were terrific.”

“Thank you, dear.”

The waiter enters in a tuxedo and white gloves and places salads of mixed greens in front of them.

There is kindness and warmth between Mason and Evelyn but in a Hallmark way. Each would spend twenty minutes picking out a card for the other with just the right sentiment, which is a thoughtful thing to do, but it would be better to write something on a blank page.

Both are a bit this way and both are capable of more but needed someone different to realize that potential in them. With each other, they have defaulted to what is emotionally easy and safe. But they have helped to realize the potential of other gifts in each other: efficiency, determination, and a desire to make the world better and to leave their mark on it.

A week ago, Ron Stark had shared news with Mason that had been less surprising to Stark the more he thought about it.

Stark had said, “Sir, I'm sorry to do it but I need to speak with you on a personal matter. It's about Evelyn.” Stark had strained to keep eye contact and managed to do so right up to the word
lesbian
, when his eyes dropped to the floor then came back up for the next sentence. “Nothing's certain, just rumors going around, but you should know, sir, while the rumors are still well contained.”

What the fuck? A lesbian?

“How is the State of the Union Address coming along?”

The president always begins major speeches with an outline of his own that he sends to speechwriters, then back to the president for changes, then back to the writers. “I'll finish a draft tonight. I'd like to read the opening to you after dinner.”

“Of course.”

Evelyn can always tell when the words are something Mason can make to sound authentic and in his own voice.

He looks at her and wonders if she's been with another woman. Recently. There's nothing off-putting about the concept itself. He knows he's worked with plenty of lesbians. It's the not knowing that is so fascinating to him. He hears rumors that his wife is a lesbian and he doesn't know her well enough to have an opinion on the rumor, and he doesn't connect with her well enough to ask.

It's not that he doesn't know her well at all. He has plenty of intellectual knowledge of her but very little emotional knowledge of her.

Mason thinks how this captures the dysfunction and the greatness. Their senses are deadened in one area and heightened in another.

He thinks he could come out and ask her about it, but where to start? So, dear, I hear you like girls. Do tell.

*   *   *

Evelyn looks into her husband's eyes and knows he'll look away first. She can always hold eye contact longer. It's a game she plays sometimes though he knows nothing of it. Tonight he's holding his gaze with her longer than normal and he's much more present tonight, she thinks.

Evelyn hasn't given thought to labeling herself though she's had a female lover for six years.

Helen Bly was on Mason's staff in Albany. Professional, respected, and as appearances go would be the less feminine half of a lesbian couple. Her hair is brown and short enough to cut with clippers except for the bangs. Her body has the hard lines of a fifty-year-old woman in great shape.

Helen and Evelyn were friendly from the start and without any sexual undercurrent. Helen was openly gay and comfortable and Evelyn once made a joke about a sexual connection between them. It was only a joke and in innocent conversation but in a subconscious way had identified a possibility.

Soon in a conscious way, Evelyn would come back to the theme. Helen, it would all be so much easier if you and I were just lovers.

Helen would laugh and agree and arrange the governor's schedule so that she could be near the governor's wife as often as possible. It was self-inflicted tease and denial but she'd known many women exploring the borders of their sexuality and she recognized something in Evelyn that suggested a relationship was no longer impossible.

At a fund-raiser for Mason in a private home in Bronxville, Helen and Evelyn walked together into the study that served as a coatroom for the evening. Evelyn doesn't remember who closed the door behind them because her heart rate blurred her recollection.

They both had been drinking wine. Before they could sort through the coats, Helen walked to the front of Evelyn and slowly closed the distance while they stared at each other on a dare, trying to find the courage between them. Helen stopped in front of Evelyn, too far to kiss and too close to talk.

Evelyn was in the position of authority and is on paper the nonlesbian. Helen has done all she can do and so they stare at each other with frightened smiles.

What Helen said next, Evelyn captured as a memory in the chaos of emotions and has savored it. “You have to be the one to do it.”

It was infectious courage. Evelyn loved that Helen said it and so she kissed Helen there in the coatroom.

Sex with Helen is slower, more knowledgeable, and more effective than sex before. It happens in utter secrecy and about once per month, which is enough because Helen works in the East Wing now and she sees Helen every day and that gives life to something in her that Mason thinks is dead.

What lives between her and Mason she also loves, even if she doesn't love the man. She likes him and respects him, and the relationship allows her to do work she thinks is important. She believes in Mason and when his time as president is done maybe she'll leave him for Helen, though she thinks probably not.

Probably she'll just be honest with him about Helen and then maybe he'll be honest with her about the affairs she knows he's had. The openness would solidify the partnership and make them stronger.

Until then she has a role to play that comes from only a part of her. To be tough and smart for him and to be tough and smart for herself. On the whole, she likes life in the White House very much.

26

The Secret Service is not only discreet about what they witness, they won't let others see them witness the indiscretions. It's very considerate behavior.

Susan Fitzgerald walks into Mitchell Mason's room at the Fairmont San Francisco at one a.m. They're in town for a fund-raiser dinner, then another the next night in L.A. Mason's wearing a puffy white hotel-issue bathrobe and sitting in a chair with his feet up on the ottoman.

Susan waves hello and walks to the bathroom where she drops her black cocktail dress to the floor and puts on the other hotel robe. She doesn't tie the belt and walks back out to Mason with the front of the robe open as far apart as her nipples.

She straddles the ottoman in front of Mason and it all feels more erotic in silence. She massages the tops of his legs and parts his robe.

“Finally,” she says. “That was a long night.”

“Jesus, I know.” He pulls his legs back and puts his feet on the floor. He leans in and kisses her forehead, then holds her shoulders and guides her into his lap so they can both lean into the chair. They're too tired for sex and prefer to enjoy a safe and comfortable moment.

Susan's cheek is on his chest and the top of her head touches the underside of his jaw. They both look out over the room and not at each other.

The most thoughtful and honest conversations between lovers happen without eye contact. When one of the couple is driving the car or preparing a meal or staring at nothing in the hotel room. Sustained eye contact is too dominant a force for dialogue.

“Thank God for this time with you, Susan,” says Mason. “I need you.”

“That's nice to hear.”

“It's true. I need you and I need this time with you. It does so much for me. There's nowhere I can sneak away.”

Susan swallows. This is less nice to hear. It sounds more like appreciation for a massage with a happy ending than for a spiritual connection. This thought comes to her now because it has come to her before. “Nowhere but here,” she says.

“I'm trapped in my life. For the rest of my time on earth, I'm an historical figure. That's a claustrophobic idea.”

“A lot of men would be happy to be trapped in your life.”

“Even though I have no real friends, no real relationships? Do you realize you're the only relationship I have that's not shrouded in deception? How's that for irony? I deceive my wife. For Christ's sake, I don't even tell Ron Stark the whole truth of things, let alone anyone in Congress. They're all adversaries with respect to one thing or another. You're the only one. I trust you completely. There's nobody else I can really talk to, but look at us. We're a couple of cheaters.”

Susan doesn't say anything for a few minutes. She always tries to dress up the truth in something better but Mason has said it too plainly. She says, “This affair makes me happy and so unhappy. I don't even remember a conscious decision about starting it. It somehow just started and seemed like the thing to do.”

Mason does remember a conscious decision to get Susan into bed. “Well, it works for us.”

“It's amazing what works for us. No little girl dreams of growing up to have an affair, even with the president. But I'm doing it anyway.”

“You know how to sweet-talk a guy.”

“People see me as a power-hungry, or at least power-enthralled, soulless slut. Don't you know that ninety-nine percent of the time I see myself the same way as they see me? The only one percent of the time that's any good is when we're together.”

“Jesus, Susan, let the good times roll.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that sometimes I think about my husband, or when I hold my daughter I think, What am I doing?”

“You're doing what you need to do to take care of yourself, to give yourself what you need. And so am I.” He smooths her hair with his hand. “That's what this is for both of us. It's time away that we need. It's an adventure outside our obligations, not just away from marriage but from the office and everything else. This is a secret place to go where we can be ourselves and there's nobody to judge us or scrutinize us. It's a chance to be someone else for a moment. That's what this affair is. It's not cheating on our spouse, it's cheating on who we have set ourselves up to be.”

Mason is happy with the analysis.

It makes Susan feel better because she needs it to.

PART TWO

He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.

—Winston Churchill, 1874–1965

SAMANTHA DAVIS

27

Samantha drives alone to the address in Palm Beach Gardens that Connor Marks gave her. She takes the Florida Turnpike to Military Trail then all the street names become words from golf. She turns on Fairway Drive to a traffic circle past the offices for PGA National. Roads with thirty-mile-an-hour speed limits and little bridges that exist only to make an underpass for golf carts run the perimeter of an eighteen-hole course. On either side she sees water hazards with fountains in the middle that cause the sun to glitter off the ripples that keep the mosquitoes from breeding.

Before she gets all the way to the PGA National Resort she turns right and into a gated community. It's the kind of security gate that's mostly for show because the condominiums behind the gate are almost all rentals to golfers and hardly anyone can produce identification with an address for the community. Samantha says she's here to visit Monica Morris. The guard looks dazed from too much sunshine and waves her through and as an afterthought presses a button to lift the wooden beam of the gate. The road winds around as before except there is a series of six-unit condo buildings nestled into palm trees on either side. Each is two floors with three units per floor. It's January, when most of the country's golf is happening in Florida and Arizona, so the units look full.

Samantha finds a spot in front of Monica's building. She's unannounced but it's 8:30 a.m. so she hopes to find her in. The hedges and grass are kept up well and it's a pretty high-end place for a retired waitress. Samantha's still not sure what she's doing here.

She rings the doorbell and takes two steps back so she doesn't seem confrontational. In seconds a chain latch slides and the door opens. A woman in a nightgown stands in the doorway looking friendly. She's early fifties and about five foot five with hair colored blond. She's had too much sun in her life, like everyone who lived in Florida in the seventies when they used baby oil instead of sunblock, but she's very attractive for her age except for the onset of sun damage. “Hello? Can I help you?”

“Hello. I'm Samantha Davis.”

“Hello, Samantha.” Samantha is getting good at picking up on when people recognize her without acknowledging it. It's just a flicker. Monica does not recognize her.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

Monica is pulled in opposing directions by loneliness and suspicion. “What kind of questions?” She holds the frame of the door.

“It goes back a few years. It might take only a few minutes of your time.”

Monica opens the door all the way and takes a step back into the apartment but doesn't clear the entrance. It's progress and Samantha takes it. She moves two steps forward. “I know you have a story to tell. A big one, from your past.”

Monica's eyes go wide but it's not the kind of fear that freezes a person. It's more. Monica can no longer make eye contact. It's fear and shame. “Who are you? Who are you with?”

“I'm a reporter.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know what happened.”

“There's nothing to tell. What happened with what?” Monica's shifting her weight between her feet. Samantha knows she's about to get kicked out.

“Monica, your boy is eighteen now. It's time.”

This stops the transfer of her weight. Monica plants her feet and meets Samantha's eyes. Questions are running through her mind but she doesn't ask any of them. “You need to leave, please.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” Samantha takes a step backward. She tries Connor's trigger. “Connor Marks sent me. I'd like to hear about Mitch.”

This changes everything for Monica, as though the evil mask is removed to reveal a friend playing a goof the whole time. “Connor sent you?” She smiles a real smile and looks even prettier. “How is he? Oh my gosh. Come in, come in.” She takes Samantha by the back of the arm, which she had wanted to do from the beginning. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Coffee would be great, thank you. Black.”

“Come sit down.” It looks like a two-bedroom condo with an open floor plan for the living room, dining room, and kitchen. There's a round breakfast table with four chairs that must also be the dining table. Monica doesn't entertain much.

“Thank you.”

“How is Connor?”

“He's doing well. His business is doing well. Lots of celebrity clients.”

“Of course he's doing well. He's such a kind man and a smart man. He'll do well because people love him and he deserves to be loved.” Monica has the energy of a person who is so excited to have company and so out of practice with it that she hardly knows what to do with herself. She gets out cream and sugar then remembers Samantha said black. Samantha watches and says nothing.

Monica brings the coffee and sits next to Samantha. She looks right at Samantha and holds the gaze while forcing her energy to level. “Connor wants you to speak with me about Mitch.” It's not a question.

Samantha nods. She doesn't need to ask for it now. It's coming.

“I've wanted to for years, you know. I wanted to right away, on the spot. Sean was only six at the time. He's a freshman at Florida State.” She smiles to say, How 'bout that. “That's when I met Connor. Twelve years ago. He told me to tuck it away, and God knows I've tried. Of course I would go to jail and I should but he told me Sean's only six so I couldn't be his mom. Someone else has to be mother to a six-year-old if a mother has to go to jail.” She pauses. “Now he's eighteen and an adult, so I guess I can be mother from a jail cell. Connor might still be a father figure. He's looked after me these years and always looked after Sean. Takes him to a Miami Dolphins game every year. And they always do preseason baseball. I wonder how long I'd go to jail for. I guess it is what it is.”

“Why would you go to jail?”

“Oh, he died, Samantha.”

Samantha doesn't want to disrupt things by revealing ignorance. “Can you take me through what happened in your own words?”

Monica takes a breath and a sip of coffee. “Well, we had a lovely dinner on Palm Beach Island. Brazilian Court. It was a beautiful night; we sat outside in the courtyard. We had too much wine, I suppose, obviously. He was staying at a house in Jupiter, a friend's house. He had meetings in Stuart the next day. We were driving north on US One from dinner. We hit a man on a bicycle. I hit him. I was driving. He went flying and I pulled off and we saw him all mangled up. It was awful. I started to get out of the car but he held my wrist and stopped me. Told me to go on to Jupiter, that there was nothing we could do.” Monica looks smaller and older than she did a few minutes ago. Her eyes fill with tears but don't release any. “Of course I knew that was wrong but he persuaded me.” She says more firmly, “I let him persuade me. We were both so damned drunk. Anyway, we went to the house in Jupiter and we stayed around the house all the next day, both of us wrecks. Especially when we heard the news that the man on the bicycle died. That's when I met Connor.”

Samantha nods. This poor woman has been wracked with guilt and the fear of losing her son for twelve years. Samantha would like to take notes of the interview but doesn't want to spook Monica. And anyway, even though it's an interesting human interest story, it's not the kind of thing she's likely to cover. More for local news. “So, Connor wasn't your dinner partner. You met Connor the day following the incident?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who was in the car with you?”

Monica frowns. “Mitchell Mason, dear. The president of the United States.”