Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (50 page)

 
          
 
Burnham swallowed, nodded. Sure, he thought,
the first time I tell you you're an asshole, I'll end up selling pencils in the
park.

 
          
 
" 'Course, we won't let that interfere
with your other . . . duties. Which reminds me: Soon's I catch my breath, I
want to go over that Gromyko business with you."

 
          
 
"Yes, sir." There it is again. The
Gromyko business. What Gromyko business?

 
          
 
The President patted his shoulder, turned,
stopped and said with a smile, "And thanks for waking me up. Damn, but
those meetings could bore the balls off a buffalo!"

 
          
 
Burnham opened the door to his office. Dyanna
sat primly at her desk, her hands folded, looking at him as if he were a child
late for supper.

 
          
 
"There's a . . . lady ... to see
you," she said.

 
          
 
"A . . . omigod!" He looked at his
watch. It was twelve-thirty. "Thanks." Before he pushed open the door
to his own office, he said to Dyanna, "You've got your Aunt Polly face on
again."

 
          
 
"My what?"

 
          
 
"Never mind."

 
          
 
Eva was standing at one of the windows,
looking out over the South Lawn. She turned as she heard the door close.

 
          
 
"Hi," Burnham said, noticing that
she looked nervous and uncomfortable. Well, the first time in the West Wing
usually did that to people.

 
          
 
He tried to kiss her, but she turned away and
whispered, "Not here!"

 
          
 
"Why not? There're no cameras."

 
          
 
"It's like . . . church. I thought you
worked across the street."

 
          
 
"I did, till this morning."

 
          
 
"What happened?"

 
          
 
"The President decided he couldn't live
without me." He smiled. "You don't have to whisper."

 
          
 
"What's through there?" She pointed
to the door in the far wall.

 
          
 
"Another office," he said. No point
alarming her.

 
          
 
He walked to his desk, to check for messages,
assignments, mail. "Where would you like to eat?"

 
          
 
"You have time?"

 
          
 
"Sure." In his IN box was a memo
from the Office of the Naval Aide to the President, informing him that he had
been reassigned to the Second Sitting in the Mess. "You want to eat
downstairs?"

 
          
 
"Here?"

 
          
 
"They moved me in with the grownups. It
might be fun." He cast her a reassuring smile. "Come on."

 
          
 
"Suppose somebody—"

 
          
 
"They won't. And if they do, we'll say
you're my . . . cousin from
Milwaukee
."

 
          
 
Eva sighed. "All right."

 
          
 
Burnham pulled the envelope of DOE mail from
his IN box and carried it to the couch. He sat down and patted the cushion
beside him for Eva. "This," he said, as he slit the envelope,
"is a sick joke on
America
."

 
          
 
"What is?" She sat beside him.

 
          
 
He pulled the documents from the envelope. TOP
SECRET— Q CLEARANCE ONLY was stamped across the top of each one.

 
          
 
"This stuff has to be signed for every
day. It has to be shredded every night. There's only one thing they can't make
me do with it, and that's understand it. Look." He passed her one of the
papers. It was a chart sprinkled with numbers.

 
          
 
Very carefully, almost in slow motion Eva
reached into her purse and brought out a pair of half glasses. She put them on
awkwardly.

 
          
 
"I didn't know you wore glasses."

 
          
 
"For reading. I just got them." She
tried to smile, but the smile died aborning.

 
          
 
She's embarrassed, he thought, her vanity
wounded. "Don't worry." He patted her knee. "Time cannot change
my love, nor age impair.''

 
          
 
Eva looked at the document. "It's not
even in English."

 
          
 
"See? Why they insist that I get this
stuff I do not know. But they do." He stood up. "Back in a
minute."

 
          
 
"Where are you going?"

 
          
 
"Just to the John. If you can figure out
what any one of those things means, you'll win a blue ribbon, two Kewpie dolls
and"—he grinned—"my tongue in your ear." He walked to the door.
Glancing back, he saw Eva touch her fingers to her temple, apparently fiddling
with the earpiece of her new glasses.

 
          
 
If he had not said, "Those things are a
nuisance, but you'll get used to them," if he had not said anything, if he
had stood still and listened, he might have heard a faint click— like a fly
striking a window pane across the room—and the even fainter sound of a tiny
electric motor. But he did speak, so he heard nothing but the sound of his own
voice.

 
          
 
He opened the door, closed it behind him, and
said to Dyanna, "Do me a favor and book me a table for two downstairs in
about ten minutes."

 
          
 
"Of course. Mr. Burnham ... I need to
speak to you."

 
          
 
"After lunch, okay?"

 
          
 
"As soon as possible."

 
          
 
"Right."

 
          
 
He had to ask directions to the men's room,
which peeved him—it branded him a new boy—but the Secret Service agent who
pointed him down a flight of stairs and around a comer did not treat him like a
Shiite Muslim or a motor-pool chauffeur. He addressed Burnham as
"Sir" and seemed eager to be helpful. The jungle drums have passed
the word, Burnham thought, pleased.

 
          
 
He took a leak, washed his hands and
straightened his tie. He searched the mirror for changes in himself. Could
power etch its signature into his face this soon? Was there a new jauntiness to
his carriage, a new confidence in his bearing?

 
          
 
As far as he could tell, he was the same seedy
WASP he'd always been.

 
          
 
He returned to his office, not stopping as he passed
through Dyanna's.

 
          
 
"Mr. Bur—" She rose from her chair
and raised a hand.

 
          
 
"Right after lunch," he said,
pushing open the second door.

 
          
 
His first sight was of Eva, standing at
attention in the center of his office. Sweating.

 
          
 
His second was of the President, sitting in
Burnham's chair, leaning back, his feet on the desk. For one split second, the
thought crossed Burnham's mind that only a man who weighed more than two
hundred pounds could make that chair recline comfortably.

 
          
 
"Oh," Burnham said.

 
          
 
"There he is," said the President.
"I was just telling Miss—Pym, is it?—what a pleasure it is for a President
to chance upon a young man as loyal and dedicated as you. Sure does ease the
burdens."

 
          
 
"Oh. Well ..." Burnham blushed and
looked at the floor, shifting his eyes to the couch: All his Q-CLEARANCE
documents had been replaced in the DOE envelope, and the envelope lay face-down
on the couch. The President couldn't have seen Eva reading his mail. He hoped.
"I'm not really—"

 
          
 
"No, it's true, Tim. Where were
you?"

 
          
 
The President's voice was not accusing, not
unfriendly, but not offhand either. He was looking straight at Burnham. He
wanted an answer.

 
          
 
"In the John, Mr. President." When
the President did not respond, Burnham felt pressed to defend his right to maturition.
"It was a long Cabinet meeting."

 
          
 
"Was it ever!" The President looked
around the office. "No, you don't have one. Tell you what: Use mine."
He jerked his thumb at the open door in the back wall.

 
          
 
"Ah . . . thank you, sir, but I'm sure
there are times you—''

 
          
 
"Use mine, Tim." The President's
voice was flat, discouraging discussion.

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
"Miss Pym says she's a nutritionist and a
caterer."

 
          
 
"We met playing squash."

 
          
 
"Good. Good for the heart. An aerobic affair."
The President laughed at his wordplay.

 
          
 
Burnham tried to smile, but his mouth was so
dry that his lips threatened to crack.

 
          
 
Eva's face was the color of wet plaster.

 
          
 
"Well," the President said, swinging
his feet to the floor and standing up. "I thought you might want to come
to the leadership lunch, Tim."

 
          
 
Burnham said, "Of course, sir."

 
          
 
Eva said, "I should be go—"

 
          
 
"No, no," the President said,
holding up a benedictory hand. "You kids go enjoy yourselves. I don't want
to go to the damn thing either, but I have to."

 
          
 
"Really, Mr. President, I—"

 
          
 
"There'll be plenty of other leadership
lunches, Tim. But the chance to share a meal with a pretty girl should never be
passed up. Tell you what: You go to the leadership lunch, and I'll let Miss Pym
buy me an organic cheeseburger." The President laughed. He shook Eva's
hand and said, "Take care of my boy." He said to Burnham, "See
you later, Tim."

 
          
 
And he was gone, pulling the door to his
private office closed behind him.

 
          
 
Eva sagged. Her shoulders drooped, and she
wiped her palms on the back of her skirt. She hissed at Burnham, "Just
another office, you said!"