White House Autumn (24 page)

Meg nodded, studying her for a minute. For some reason, she had always attracted snappily dressed friends. Then, she glanced over at
Josh and Nathan and Zack, all of whom were visibly restless. “Want to go over there, and—I don’t know—be rowdy or something?”.

Alison grinned. “You mean, try to get kicked out?”.

“Yeah.” Meg grinned, too. “What the hell.”

TALKING TO PEOPLE
made things easier at school, but they still weren’t so great at home. Her mother didn’t seem to be getting better, but was still doggedly making her way down to the Oval Office—in a wheelchair, whenever it could be used discreetly—to work, and every night, when she finally got back upstairs, she would practically collapse. Actually, behind closed doors, Meg suspected that she
literally
did so, more often than not. Her father was tense and worried, drinking far too much coffee, and either angry at her mother for pushing herself, or fiercely protective. Trudy was trying to do everything at once—be there for Meg and her brothers, take care of her mother, comfort her father. Steven slouched a lot, and Neal sat anxiously next to whichever parent happened to be in the room, panicking if neither of them was available.

Meg spent most of her time trying to stay out of the way. When her mother was in the family quarters, Trudy spent hours with her, and Meg would see the two of them walking very slowly up and down the second floor halls, her mother leaning a little less each day. Sometimes, they would be sitting on a couch, Trudy talking in a low voice, her mother nodding unhappily. Sometimes, they weren’t talking at all, and Trudy would just be rubbing her mother’s good shoulder. Whenever Meg saw them, she would go in the other direction, not wanting to disturb their privacy. A number of her parents’ friends had been coming for short visits, including Mrs. Peterson, her mother’s closest friend, but as far as Meg could tell, Trudy was the only person around whom her mother wasn’t putting on an act.

Coming back upstairs one night after saying good-bye to Josh, she noticed that the door to the Presidential Bedroom was ajar, and
checked to see what was going on before entering. Trudy was straightening her mother’s blankets and fluffing her pillows while her mother, surprisingly docile, watched her do it. Her father was nowhere in sight, but that wasn’t unusual lately.

“Here, drink some of this,” Trudy said, handing her mother a mug from the bedside table. “It will make you feel better.”

As her mother sipped some of whatever the liquid was, Meg knocked tentatively on the door.

“Um, can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course,” her mother said. “How was school?”.

Because the very stubborn President hadn’t even come upstairs for dinner, so this was the first time they had seen each other since breakfast.

“Okay,” Meg said. “How do you feel?”.

Her mother smiled a little politician smile, which meant lousy. Meg walked all the way into the room, curious enough to lean over to see what was in the mug. It looked like tea. Very pale, yellow tea.

“Lemonade,” her mother said.

“
Hot
lemonade?” Meg asked. Talk about a disgusting concept.

“There are those who find it delightful,” her mother said.

“Apparently so,” Meg said, adopting the same tone of voice. “Want me to go put on a Victorian dress?”.

Her mother just sipped the lemonade, which actually smelled pretty good.

“Can I try some?” Meg asked.

“Ha,” her mother said.

Always generous, the Leader of the Free World. Meg stepped back. “So, you, uh, feel better?”.

“I think so,” her mother said, sounding doubtful. “I was mostly able to work straight through.”

“She’s
much
better,” Trudy said. “We walked for a good half-hour this evening.”

Which was definitely progress, so Meg nodded a “You, go!” nod at them. “Outside?”.

“Well, let’s not get carried away,” her mother said.

Trudy touched her shoulder. “It’s going to be gradual, Katharine. Recovering from any injury is.”

Her mother nodded, suddenly looking so miserable that Meg backed towards the door.

“I, uh, I guess I’ll be in my room,” she said. “I mean, if anyone wants me.”

She had some homework left to do, but decided to read, instead, pulling
In This House of Brede
by Rumer Godden out of her bookcase, and getting into bed, pausing only long enough to pat Vanessa.

“So, what’s up?” she asked, rubbing her under the chin, which her cat adored. “Anything good on C-Span today? Oh, yeah? Well, what did I miss?” She kissed the top of Vanessa’s head, then opened her book. Nothing like a little private whimsy. Especially with cats. Vanessa had a fine appreciation of whimsy.

“Hi,” Neal said, standing just beyond her threshold. He was very respectful of other people’s rooms, probably because Steven was a big one for personal space and terrorized anyone who came into his room without express permission.

Meg lowered her book. “Hi. You okay?”.

His shrug was a blatant imitation of Steven’s “I’m thirteen, I’m cool” shrug. Neal was hitting a macho period and, looking at him in old sneakers, rumpled jeans and blue sweater, with his shirt untucked and half of his collar sticking out, she smiled. He was even starting to
dress
like Steven.

“You want to talk to me,” she asked, “or are you too cool to hang out with girls?”.

He laughed. “You’re
my sister.”
.

“Sorry,” Meg said. “I forgot.”

He came over to the bed, climbing up next to her. “Mom’s still sick in their room.”

Meg nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“Will she be okay soon?” he asked.

“I hope so.” Meg ruffled her hand through his hair. He needed a haircut. That was one easy way to see how awful her mother was feeling—normally, she would never let him walk around looking shaggy. It was funny, though—there were White House cosmetologists and everything, but unless they were going somewhere really important, her mother usually cut his hair herself, because they both got a kick out of it. Quality time—if not necessarily quality hair-dressing.

“I have to go eat,” he said.

“Words Steven lived by, too. Meg nodded. “Have a nice time.”

“Will you play pool with me?” he asked, not quite looking at her, since she had always made it pretty vocally clear that she hated pool.

She grinned. “Not a chance, pal.”

THE NEXT NIGHT
, Trudy came into her room at about eleven-thirty—which was quite late for Trudy.

“Am I interrupting anything?” she asked, carrying her crocheting. She was making a coat for Kirby.

Desultory emailing. “No,” Meg said, pushing away from her computer.

Trudy sat in the old rocking chair by the fireplace, settling herself comfortably. She put on her glasses and squinted at the collection of yarn in her bag. “Time to add some green?”.

“Yeah,” Meg said. “He looks good in green.”

Trudy nodded, taking out her crochet hook. Then, she fumbled in the pocket of her cardigan, pulling out—with a big smile—what was left of a package of gumdrops. “Look what I have.”

“Can I have some?” Meg asked.

“I think that could be arranged.” Trudy leaned over to hand her the package and Meg helped herself to a licorice one, two yellows, and an orange, then handed the package back, Trudy selecting a pink one before tucking the bag away. “When you three were little, all I had to do to make you happy was give you a gumdrop, and maybe hold you in my lap for a minute.”

She was now taller than Trudy, so lap-sitting was no longer practical. Unfortunately. “And Vicks VapoRub.”

Trudy nodded. “For nightmares.”

Meg thought back, remembering many nights of waking up crying, and having Trudy be the one to come, because her mother was down in Washington. Trudy, or her father.

“I feel very lucky,” Trudy said. “Being blessed with
two
wonderful families. A lot of people don’t even have one.”

Meg nodded.

“I’m going back to Florida in a couple of days,” Trudy said.

Which might be bad news, since her son—who was in his late thirties—had been battling kidney failure for quite some time. “Is Jimmy okay?” Meg asked.

Trudy nodded. “The dialysis is helping, although I
do
need to see him. But, I also think it’s time for all of you to be alone. I’m starting to be in the way.”

Meg stared at her. “But—I mean, you could never—”.

“I just think it’s time,” Trudy said. “You need to work things out together.”

“We need
you,”
Meg said.

“You need me to go away for a while. But, I’ll be back before Christmas.” She smiled a very loving smile. “Would I neglect my grandchildren?”.

Meg tried to smile back, but swallowed, instead, afraid that she was going to cry.

“You’ll be all right,” Trudy said. “I have great faith in you.”

For no legitimate reason. “It’s hard,” Meg said.

“It always is.” She picked up her crochet hook, starting a green row. “But, don’t worry. You can do it.”

Meg watched the row get longer, seeming to grow magically. “Trudy?”.

Trudy glanced up.

“Can I have another gumdrop?” Meg asked.

ON WEDNESDAY, JOSH
had jazz band practice and Meg decided to stay after and wait for him.

“You going to come watch me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’ll distract you.”

“No, you won’t,” he said. “It’ll make me play better.”

It would make him show off, more likely—and, therefore, annoy the band director. “Look, I’m still kind of behind, so I’ll just hang out in the library,” Meg said. “Come get me when you’re finished.”

In spite of good intentions, once she was in the library, she wasn’t really in the mood to do homework, even though it would be at least another hour before Josh showed up. So, she wandered over in the direction of the fiction section, but ended up looking at the political science collection, instead.

There were a lot of Kennedy books. Books about assassinations. Martin Luther King. Books like that. It was always the likable Presidents who seemed to be the biggest targets—never the divisive ones. People like Ford, and Reagan—and now, her mother. There had to be some kind of lesson there, but whatever it was, Meg didn’t like it.

She took down a book she had read before, a scary book called
Four Days.
November 22nd, 1963 through November 25th, 1963. Decades ago, long before she had been born—but, it was still a part of her life. Of every American’s life.

The book was full of photographs: the window where Lee Harvey Oswald had been waiting; Kennedy, as one of the bullets actually struck him; Jack Ruby shooting Oswald; the funeral—horrible pictures. The worst of all was the famous view of Jackie Kennedy leaving the plane, her pink suit bloodstained.

Meg shuddered, closing the book. The day it happened, when she finally saw her father, he had been wearing a different outfit. The old one must have been—Jesus. She shivered, feeling very cold.

“Meg?” a voice said.

She looked up to see her English teacher, Mrs. Hayes. “Oh, um,” she stood up to be polite, “hello.”

“I saw you from up there,” Mrs. Hayes indicated the checkout desk, where Meg could see a stack of books, “and I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

Meg nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hayes glanced at the Kennedy book. “You should stay away from things like that.”

“Yes, ma’am, I should.” Meg looked at her in her casual wool skirt and light blue sweater, highlighted by a single silver chain, wondering what it would be like to have a mother who was an English teacher. A mother who sometimes overslept, a mother who got angry when people didn’t pitch in around the house, a mother who would run down to the store in jeans and a sweatshirt. A normal mother.

Mrs. Hayes put the book back where it belonged, and Meg thought about mothers who were in the house, mothers who worked in banks, mothers who were doctors and nurses.

“I recommend Anne Tyler,” her teacher said, smiling.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve read a couple,” Meg said, wondering how many children Mrs. Hayes had. Did she have to cook dinner when she finished school, or did her husband do it? Looking at her, Meg had the feeling that she was going to go home and make spaghetti and meatballs.

“I hope you’ll feel well enough to come back to the newspaper soon,” Mrs. Hayes said. “We miss you.”

Meg flushed. She had sort of been neglecting extracurricular activities lately—to say nothing of
curricular
ones. “Yeah. Next week, maybe?”.

“Whenever you feel ready,” Mrs. Hayes said.

“Thank you.” Meg shifted her weight, starting to feel embarrassed. She had never been one to talk to teachers much.

Mrs. Hayes patted her on the shoulder, very normal-motherish.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?” Meg put her hands in her pockets, then took them out. “I mean, may I?”.

Mrs. Hayes nodded, her expression amused.

“Do you live in a house?” Meg asked.

Her teacher looked startled.

“I mean, as opposed to an apartment, or Crystal City, or whatever,” Meg said.

Her teacher smiled. “Yes, I live in a house.”