White House Autumn (23 page)

THEY HAD THICK
corn chowder for dinner—Trudy’s familiar recipe, although the chefs prepared it—and dessert was a choice of puddings: chocolate, butterscotch, and rice. No tapioca. Downer.

Trudy took Steven and Neal up to the solarium to watch television, and Meg kept them company for a while. But then, she got bored—her brothers loved reality shows, which she did not—and went downstairs to see what her parents were doing.

Glen and the National Security Advisor were on their way down the hall, presumably having just met with her mother, and they were clearly very distracted, but nodded at her without breaking stride.

When she knocked on her parents’ door, there was no answer, and just as she turned to go to her room, her father said, “Come in.” Meg opened the door cautiously, not sure what she might have interrupted. But, if her mother was holding a high-level meeting, Glen wouldn’t have left—and her father probably wouldn’t be in the room at all.

Her parents were alone, and her father was sitting on the couch, watching the Celtics and glancing through the
New York Times,
while her mother was in bed, going through papers and reports, the telephone on her lap.

Even though it was quiet, the room seemed—tense. Very tense. “I, uh—” Meg put her hands in her pockets. “I’m about to go check my email and all, but I thought I’d say hi.”

Her parents nodded.

“What are your brothers doing?” her mother asked.

“Still watching junk.” Meg looked at each of them in turn, wondering if she’d walked in on the aftermath of an argument. There
was definitely a weird energy in the room. “Well. I’ll probably say good-night now, in case I fall asleep or something.”

“You look tired,” her mother said.

And how. Meg nodded. “Kind of. Does, um, Kirby need to go out?”.

“Frank just took him,” her father said. “And I’ll run him out again before I go to bed.”

“Oh. Okay.” Meg backed up. “Well, good-night.”

It occurred to her that she should have hugged her mother, so she went over there, hugging her clumsily, trying not to jar her shoulder or side. Then, she crossed the room to hug her father, not wanting to play favorites.

“Preston tells me
People
is agitating to come back,” he said, and her mother, who had just been lifting the telephone receiver, put it back down.

“They, um, want to change it,” Meg said.

“Update it?” her mother asked.

Not to put too fine a point on it. “I guess so.” Meg didn’t look at her, afraid to see her reaction. “Preston said it’s up to me. And, um, you guys, too, of course.”

“Do you want to do it?” her father asked.

Hell, no. Meg shrugged. “Well, I don’t really think it’s necessary.”

“I rather expect it is,” her mother said. “It will seem ridiculous, otherwise.”

Meg checked her expression before answering—it was more blank than anything else. Her face was tight, but it had been that way ever since it happened. She sure looked older, though. For the first time—probably ever—her mother actually looked her age. Looked
older
than her age.

“I think it’s a good idea,” her mother said.

In what universe? Meg sighed. “You mean, I have to?”.

“You don’t
have
to. It just seems sensible to me.” She glanced at Meg’s father. “Don’t you think so?”.

“No,” he said.

As far as she could tell, most of the country thought—inaccurately—that her father was nothing more than an easygoing, bland man, probably because, in public, he went out of his way to be pleasant and avoid anything controversial. In private, it was a whole other ballgame, and she was pretty sure that he was the only person in the world—literally—whom her mother occasionally found daunting. Or, anyway, equally tough.

“And why would that be?” her mother asked stiffly.

“That woman gave her a terrible time,” her father said. “Why put her through it again? My God, Kate, things are rough enough as it is. Why make things worse?”.

Meg drifted towards the door, not wanting to witness—or be part of—an argument. She was pretty sure that her parents fought a lot, but almost never directly in front of her. This was a lousy time to start.

“I’m
trying
to make it easier,” her mother said through clenched teeth.

Her father started to say something, looked at Meg, and then abruptly left the room. Meg kept her eyes down, embarrassed.

“I
have
to get back to work full-time,” her mother said defensively.

Meg tilted her head, confused, then caught on to the fact her possible interview really had nothing to do with why her parents were angry at each other. “Well, sure,” she said. “I mean, if you’re well enough.”

“I’m fine,” her mother said, and it sounded so familiar—and so false—that Meg didn’t respond, concentrating on the way her Topsiders curled up in the front. Like elf shoes. She leaned back on her heels, making them curl even more.

“Would you mind leaving me alone?” her mother asked, her voice oddly blurred.

Meg looked up. “Alone?”.

Her mother nodded, face turned away, good hand up at her eyes.

Jesus, was she
crying
Her mother never cried. Not even when her father had died. “Mom?” She approached the bed. “Wouldn’t you rather that I—”.

“No!” her mother said. “Just leave me alone.”

Meg backed up towards the door, feeling guilty—and worried. “I’m sorry,” she said, and hurried out.

Too rattled to go into her room, she headed for the East Sitting Hall, planning to go lie on the bed in the Queen’s Bedroom, and stare up at the damn canopy, or something. But, it was getting late, and with her luck, Lincoln’s ghost would show up. She veered towards the Yellow Oval Room, instead, so she could go stand out on the Truman Balcony, and look at the Washington Monument. But her father was already at the window, arms folded, his back to her.

She was going to say something, thought better of the idea, and closed the door very quietly. Maybe, just this once, she would risk Lincoln’s ghost.

“
WHAT DO YOU
expect?” Josh asked, as they sat in the school library the next day. “When people are upset, they get in fights.”

She blushed. “Not everyone’s that much of a jerk.”

“It doesn’t make you a jerk,” he said. “It’s normal.”

Maybe.

Josh reached out to move some hair away from her face, Meg leaning her cheek against his hand. “He’s worried about her. Of course he’s upset.”

“But, she’s hurt,” Meg said. “You can’t yell at someone who’s hurt.”

“What, you’re going to wait until she’s better?” he asked.

“No, I—” Meg frowned. Where had
that
come from? “Aren’t you listening to me? I’m talking about my father.”

He nodded.

What, was he looking for some damn Freudian slip or something? If so, she had absolutely no intention of cooperating.

“I just get the feeling you’re mad at her,” he said.

Meg shrugged, even though he was right.

After her parents’ argument, and lying in the Queen’s Bedroom for an hour, staring at the canopy and the chandelier, she had gone to her room, climbing into bed to watch the news. Naturally, her mother was the main story, and the station showed film of the President leaving the hospital. She came out, the grey cape swinging in the wind, and instead of the quick wave and jump into the car she had promised, she stood there—without moving or smiling—as if daring someone to shoot her. Meg had watched, both angry and proud—mostly angry—as agents swarmed closer, and her mother still didn’t move, studying the crowd. Then, with a brief nod to the press, and an even briefer wave, she strode to the car, relieved agents crowding her inside. Meg had turned off the television after that, lying in the darkness, so furious at her mother for taking stupid chances that her fists clenched under the blankets. How many people would have the courage to walk outside after being shot, and give someone a perfect opportunity to do it again? Only, why did it have to be
her
mother? Why couldn’t it be someone else’s mother?
Anyone
else’s mother.

“Meg?” Josh said.

She looked up.

“Would you rather talk about something else?” he asked.

Yes. And yes. And yes
again.
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “Did you see what she did when she left the hospital?”.

He nodded.

“That was really selfish,” Meg said. “Pulling a stunt like that.”

“It was
brave”
he said.

Meg shook her head. “With three kids at home, afraid someone’s going to hurt her, and they’ll never see her again?” And an expressionless husband who must have had to fight every instinct he had to grab her—but just stood off to her left, watching the crowd in the same alert, silent way the Secret Service was.

Josh folded his arms on the table, leaning towards her. “Would you rather she had come out, burst into tears, and run to the car?”.

Meg looked at him, both amused and irritated. “No.”

“So, it could have been worse,” he said.

It could have been
unspeakably
worse—but there was no point in going into the various possibilities.

“Do you want to talk about something else?” he asked.

God, yes.

“Well.” He blinked a few times. “Okay. Then, we will.”

Christ, she was turning the poor guy into a basket-case. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just—that conversation would go
way
downhill.” Speaking of which. She looked around at the crowded, but reasonably quiet, library. “And you’re really the only one who’s talking to me lately.”

“It’s a weird situation,” he said. “People don’t know how to handle it.”

All things being equal, she should probably be appointed the chairperson of that particular club. She slouched forward, putting her head on her arms. “Do you mind if I rest?”.

He squeezed her shoulder, keeping his hand there. “No.”

Good. She closed her eyes, very much wanting to sleep. Another hand came onto her back, this one clumsier.

“You, uh, okay?” Nathan asked, sounding very unsure of himself.

Meg lifted her head. “Yeah. I’m fine. How are you doing?”.

He shrugged, moving his hands into his pockets. “This private?” he asked, indicating the two of them.

Meg shook her head.

“Not until we start making out,” Josh said—and she very much appreciated his effort to
act
as though everything was completely normal.

Nathan turned. “Zack, man,” he said across the library, and Zachary came slouching over from one of the computers, his pen hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette. They stood there uncomfortably,
not sitting down, both the same height, but Nathan at least fifty pounds heavier. Kind of an amusing contrast.

“You going to hang out with us, or what?” Josh asked.

They both nodded, and took seats at the table with them.

“What’s with Alison?” Meg asked, scanning the library and locating her at a table near the windows, doing homework.

Zack and Nathan exchanged glances.

“Feels bad,” Zack said. “About tennis, and all.”

And maybe about the fact that her supposed friend at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue hadn’t been returning phone calls or responding to emails lately. Meg sighed. “Back in a minute.”

She walked across the library, her own hands automatically sliding into her pockets. Awkwardness seemed to be the name of the game. “Um, you busy?”.

Alison looked up, distinctive in her oversized shirt, skinny leather belt, and scarf made out of two bandannas braided together, one blue, one pink. “No,” she said, closing her book.

Meg nodded, pulling a chair over, sitting with one knee up, arms wrapped around it. “I’m sorry. I’ve really been a slime lately.”

Alison shook her head—but didn’t meet her eyes. “No, you haven’t—”.

“Beth says I’m a jerk, and always have been,” Meg said.

Alison hesitated for a few seconds, and then grinned. “Well, she’s known you longer than I have.”

Therefore, making her less susceptible to barks, and snarls, and general surliness. Or, at any rate, more
accustomed
to it. And, being Beth, mostly immune to it, anyway. “I’m sorry,” Meg said. “I’m probably going to keep being a jerk sometimes””—or even,
often
—“but, from now on, I’ll at least try to
notice
when I do it. Or you guys should, you know, point it out to me.”

Alison just grinned.

“The ISL didn’t go very well?” Meg asked. The league tennis
championships, about which she knew only a few details, because she hadn’t had the heart to bother finding out any more than that.

Alison looked guilty.

“It was just my stupid agents overreacting,” Meg said. “It’s no one else’s fault. Did Renee take my place?” The second-ranked player on the team.

Alison nodded. “Yeah, but that freshman from Bullis pretty much blew her off the court.”

Meg had been able to handle that pesky freshman pretty easily during their regular season match, but she was a solid player, who was so intense that she was hard to rattle. But, she hadn’t adjusted well to changes of pace, and was prone to unforced errors—and Meg had found it quite simple to capitalize upon these two things. “What about you?” Meg asked. Alison normally played in the No. 4 slot, but also would have moved up, too, and gone into the No. 3 position.

Alison sighed. “Remember that baseliner from Holton-Arms who never stops grunting? She got me 6-2, 6-1.”

Another decent athlete, but the grunts had such a piercing quality that it was unpleasant to be anywhere within one hundred yards of her. If Meg had had to play her, she probably would have worn ear plugs—in lieu of hitting her over the head with her racket. “I’m sorry,” Meg said. “She’s a pain to play.”

Alison nodded. “Literally. I had a killer headache, afterwards.”

No doubt.

Then, Alison looked at her seriously. “Meg, is there anything I can
do?
“.

“No. I mean, thanks, but—I don’t know. It seems like my family’s just going to have to”—She was going to say “fight,” but changed her mind—“figure it out. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Alison said, “but if there is—”.