Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (51 page)

 
          
 
"I didn't want to worry you. How was I to
know?" He took a step toward her and whispered, "He didn't see you
looking through the mail, did he?"

 
          
 
She shook her head. "I'd finished. I
couldn't understand any of it anyway."

 
          
 
"Good. Ready to go?"

 
          
 
"Timothy ... I don't—"

 
          
 
"Don't worry." He took her hand.
"Once he's seen you, no one else matters."

 
          
 
As they walked down the stairs to the Mess,
Eva said, "How do you live with that?"

 
          
 
"Having to get permission to pee? I don't
know yet." He smiled at her. "Greatness is a bitch, isn't it?"

 
          
 
In the Mess, Evelyn Witt was having lunch with
one of her deputies.

 
          
 
The President's Appointments Secretary,
unperturbed by his precipitate move to the backwaters of the East Wing, dined
alone, reading the latest Stephen King novel. There was a petty joke among the
White House staff to the effect that because the Appointments Secretary liked to
read everything Stephen King wrote, he was condemned to read nothing but what
Stephen King wrote, since the Appointments Secretary's rate of reading was
synchronized precisely to Stephen King's rate of writing—approximately two
books a year.

 
          
 
The Vice-President of the
United States
sat at a round table with five of his
aides, and he held forth about bird-shooting, oil leases and poontang.

 
          
 
The sallow young Director of the Office of
Management and Budget shared a table with the corpulent old Chairman of the
President's Council of Economic Advisors, and—at least during the few moments
that Burnham waited to be seated— neither of them said a word.

 
          
 
In a back comer of the room sat Mario Epstein,
with one of his fungible aides—a dark-suited, white-shirted, rep-tied,
black-shod, thin-haired young man older than his years whom Prevention magazine
would undoubtedly analyze as a high-risk candidate for a duodenal ulcer, a
cerebral vascular accident or coronary artery disease.

 
          
 
Burnham and Eva were shown to a table for two
against the near wall. He felt eyes following him as they walked, and he
wondered if his decision to bring Eva here had been reckless. People in the
White House Mess were not likely to gossip; they were certain to gossip—like
squirrels in the fall, gathering tidbits to store away for use in lean times.

 
          
 
But he saw no one here who could harm him, not
even Epstein, for Epstein's sting had already been removed by the President's
meeting with Eva.

 
          
 
"You don't need the glasses to read a
menu?"

 
          
 
"Oh. I guess ..." She smiled.
"They're so new."

 
          
 
Burnham looked at his menu. "What's good
for us?"

 
          
 
"Nothing. God, look at this!" She
ran her finger down the page. "Saturated fats, processed animal refuse,
grease and crap."

 
          
 
Burnham laughed. "Crap, eh? Where do you
see that? Au gratin? Alfredo? Crap Suzette?"

 
          
 
"Have a salad."

 
          
 
They had salads and iced tea, and for dessert Burnham
ordered a sherbet against Eva's caution that a person as allergic as he risked
anaphylactic shock from any of the additives, preservatives and chemical toxins
with which commercial processors laced their products.

 
          
 
Burnham signaled for the bill and turned to
say something to Eva.

 
          
 
"Timothy!"

 
          
 
He looked up into the broadly grinning face of
Mario Epstein. Oh God, he thought, now what?

 
          
 
"Ah ... hi!" He waited for the sky
to fall.

 
          
 
"Good job this morning."

 
          
 
"Oh. Thanks. I'm not sure—"

 
          
 
"The President was really pleased."

 
          
 
Code, Burnham decided, he's speaking in code.
What he's really saying is: The President and I talked about you; the President
and I will always talk about you; never think that you are closer to the throne
than I.

 
          
 
Epstein turned to Eva. "Mrs. Burnham?"

 
          
 
"No," Burnham said quickly. "A
friend. Eva Pym . . . Mario Epstein."

 
          
 
"Very pleased to know you," Epstein
said, as he shook Eva's hand. "Timothy's a rising star here, as I'm sure
he's too modest to have told you." Then he said to Burnham, "We'll
have lunch, Timothy," and he waved to Eva and walked away.

 
          
 
Eva said, "He seems nice enough."

 
          
 
"Adolf Hitler liked dogs," Burnham
said, and he frowned at Epstein's receding back. What was that about?

 
          
 
"I forgot to tell you."

 
          
 
"Forgot to tell me what?"

 
          
 
"When the President barged into your
office this morning, he called me Sarah. It was embarrassing."

 
          
 
"I bet it was."

 
          
 
He paid the bill and walked with Eva out of
the building and down the path to the West Gate.

 
          
 
"How long are you going to live in the
Y?" she asked.

 
          
 
"I keep thinking I'll be going
home."

 
          
 
"Do you want to go home?"

 
          
 
"At the moment it's not an option."

 
          
 
"That's not what I asked you."

 
          
 
"I know." He smiled.

 
          
 
She squeezed his hand. "Keep the room in
the Y."

 
          
 
They agreed to meet for dinner—that is, if the
President didn't trap him—and she walked quickly across
Pennsylvania Avenue
while she had the light.

 
          
 
"Lucky man, Mr. B," Sergeant
Thibaudeaux said, as Burnham returned through the West Gate.

 
          
 
"My cup runneth over, Sergeant T."

 
          
 
Dyanna was waiting for him, and she followed
him into his office.

 
          
 
"What's up?" he said, as he dropped
into one of the chairs that flanked the coffee table.

 
          
 
"I had coffee this morning with two of
Mr. Epstein's secretaries. They were just being nice, sort of welcoming me to
the White House, give me a few helpful hints and all, so they—"

 
          
 
"You can sit down, you know."

 
          
 
"No, that's okay. I may have to get the
phone. Anyway, they bought me coffee and a Danish, I don't normally eat Danish
in the morning, but—"

 
          
 
"Dyanna."

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
"We're not really talking about Danish
pastry here, are we?" Burnham didn't mean to be reproving, for he could
see that Dyanna was agitated, upset; he wanted to help her edit herself.

 
          
 
"No. I just . . . well, anyway ... it was
Dolores and Connie who took me to the Mess, and they were telling me how things
work here in the West Wing, and they asked me what it was exactly that you did,
and I said I wasn't sure, really, and they said it must be tough for you having
a wife who worked for Senator Kennedy, and I said how did they—" Suddenly
her eyes sprang open, and she said, "Oh!"

 
          
 
Burnham followed her stare and saw that the
President had opened the door from his private office.

 
          
 
"Excuse me," said the President.

 
          
 
Burnham jumped to his feet. "Not at all,
sir. We were—"

 
          
 
"Got a minute, Tim?"

 
          
 
"Of course." He said to Dyanna,
"Remember your place. It was just getting interesting."

 
          
 
He followed the President into the little
office, and the President shut the door behind them.

 
          
 
The room was snug and cozy. It reminded Burnham
of a reading room in an opulent men's club. The outside window was covered with
velvet drapes, and the only light came from two darkly shaded table lamps. The
wallpaper was a rich maroon fabric interlaced with delicate gold eagles. The
furniture was dark-green leather.

 
          
 
The President sat in one of the chairs and
directed Burnham to the couch.

 
          
 
"I don't believe in bullshitting around
the bush, Tim."

 
          
 
"No, sir." Burnham thought: You
should give lessons to Dyanna.

 
          
 
"Who was she?"

 
          
 
"Who wa— Oh. Eva. I met her playing squash.
She's a—"

 
          
 
"Tim."

 
          
 
"Sir?" Burnham felt that he had been
hit in the chest with a maul.

 
          
 
"We have a good thing going, you and I,
but it can only be a good thing as long as we're straight with one another.
Agreed?"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir. I—"

 
          
 
"Now, I venture to say"—the
President leaned back and gazed at the ceiling—"that in my time I've had
more women than you've had hot breakfasts, and one thing I know is that I can
spot a fella hypnotized by pussy a mile away."

 
          
 
Burnham blushed the color of the wallpaper.
"Mr. President," he said at last, "I'm having a few . . .
problems . . . with my marriage."

 
          
 
The President nodded. "I know."

 
          
 
Burnham was stunned. "You do? How?"

 
          
 
"Never mind. I just do."