The First Affair (8 page)

“Does it happen often?” I dared.

“More than it should, which is not at all. Tell me something about you. About Jamie from Illinois.”

“Um . . .” I thought. “Okay, my cousin’s dog, the one I told you about today?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she was a ridiculously beautiful dog, calendar-worthy. But total Cujo. She’d dig up crap from the backyard and then run with it. But not, like, bones. She found this rusty pickax and would growl terrifyingly if we went to take it away from her. All the fur around her muzzle turned orange. And she’d race through the backyard and we’d sit with our legs up under us at the picnic table so she wouldn’t take off a limb as she passed.”

He laughed again. “Family picnics, I never had that. Must’ve been nice.”

“Hm,” I said, hearing how it sounded up against my memories that weren’t. Then I thought of his mother making stuffing with Kathie Lee and Hoda. She seemed like someone who had picnics—I was surprised to hear otherwise. And in this tenuous space between us, it felt weirdly inappropriate for me to follow up.

“Are you close to them?” he asked—because he could follow up.

“Um . . . well, they’re coming for the Fourth, so . . .”

“You didn’t answer the question, says the man who knows how not to answer a question.”

I mustered a small laugh.

“They’ll be proud of you, I’m sure,” he said gently.

“I hope so. They haven’t visited me since freshman year, so . . . yeah.”

“Back to this dog,” he swiftly offered, seemingly sensing my discomfort. “Sounds like a candidate for a watch list.”

“Or to be unloaded on unsuspecting cousins,” I countered.

“Ah, smart.”

“See, impossible decision made.”

“Yes, Afghanistan is just like that.”

“That’s really why I brought it up.” Tumbling downhill in the rhythm of our banter, I fully flirted. “Aren’t you taking notes?”

“I want to call you again.” My breath caught.

“Okay,” I said into the dark.

“I’ve laughed more in a few minutes with you than I have since the correspondents’ dinner. I want to think of you sleeping peacefully while I sit here and sort through this shit-mess.”

“Then think of it,” I said, wanting peace for him, too. Not knowing how to say that without sounding ridiculous. Not wanting him to go. Afraid he’d want to call me again but never would. Afraid I hadn’t said enough—or too much—to get him to reach out.

“Good night, Jamie.”

“Good night, Greg.”

It had begun.

Chapter Four

July 3

I spent the next week or so hovering in this new idea of myself, like a downtrodden, oh, I don’t know, intern, who had just discovered her superhero alter ego but couldn’t tell anyone. I walked the streets in my new suit, looking like any other office drone, and the people I passed on the concrete had no idea I was the balm craved by the man in charge of it all. Eager for confirmation that I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, I bought an extension cord and slept with the phone by my head.

I tried to focus on work, on submitting my résumé, on my parents’ pending visit and not letting ludicrous daydreams like being the next Carla Bruni creep in. I actually tuned in on myself having a heated debate about whether I would stick with American designers or dare to go foreign like Jackie.

The Friday of my family’s arrival we were slammed. With the campaign at full throttle, everyone was trying to figure out how to compete with Partridge, who had nothing better to do than cross and recross swing states, eating corn dogs and telling factory workers who his leveraged buyouts had put out of business that he was the only man who could find them new jobs. Meanwhile, Rutland was hampered by this little country he had to run, so it was our department’s job to coordinate with the campaign to make his routine public appearances double as election opportunities. Of course July Fourth weekend was identified as the prime occasion to score patriotic points, and I think the DNC would have shot him out of a cannon if they thought he could stick the landing.

Between the logistical details of essentially staging a giant pep rally on the grounds and all the President’s extra travel, the atmosphere in our office had the tension of a timed chess match. In the midst of this, Margaret’s secretary got a summer flu and I was pulled in to assist (read: hold binders and hand over Post-its) at a meeting among her; Abigail Stroud, the First Lady’s Chief of Staff; and Max Fishman, the head of the campaign to maximize—

“Love.” Which, believe it or not, was the Secret Service’s code name for FLOTUS. “Susan needs to be on the ground every day from now until November sixth,” Max said insistently, bordering on angrily.

Abigail, who was six feet in flats, leaned toward—and over—Max. “Look, Susan wants another four years of this as much as the next person,” she said in a weary way that made it sound like the next person was a Republican. “But you know the deal.”

“I don’t care,” Max said, red rising from his collar like a cartoon of a boiler. “She makes people fall in love with him, and we
need
that right now. Thanks to that furlough, we’re behind in the polls, behind in fundraising, and what we have is a wife with an eighty percent approval rating.”

“This is Adam’s senior year, and Susan’s made it clear she isn’t going to run herself into the ground making up for Greg’s mistakes.
This
”—Abigail circled her hands at the building around us—“will be over one way or another. She’ll honor the agreed-upon number of public hours per week—that’s
it
.”

After they left I asked Margaret about Abigail, who seemed like the last person someone as genteel as Susan would want as her representative.

“Oh no, it’s the opposite. Someone like Susan
needs
a bulldog like Abigail to advocate for her.”

“Isn’t that the President’s job?”

She didn’t answer.

• • •

I met my family at the airport because it was only my dad’s third time flying. He couldn’t get over how much smaller the seats were than on
his last trip. “I had my knees under my chin, my feet in the lap of the couple in front of us, and my head resting on the baby behind us. Mind you, it was a very comfortable baby.”

The first time he flew, he was a six-year-old moving to America. The second was to visit me Freshman Weekend. My parents hadn’t been in my dorm an hour when the call came in from the San Francisco police—after so many near misses, Erica had inevitably been in a car accident. Only it turned out what actually happened was that she was so wasted, she got out of the car on a hill without putting it into park and it rolled through someone’s fence and pitched into their hot tub. Which probably would have been a civil matter if she hadn’t punched the cop who arrived at the scene.

They spent the rest of the weekend on the phone, missing everything, and Gail discreetly stepped in to be my surrogate. I remember trailing Lena along the Sunday brunch buffet at the inn where Gail was staying, praying the lump in my throat wouldn’t give way to tears over the Canadian bacon. Erica got sober shortly thereafter. Honestly when it came to my graduation and Dad begged off, I was relieved.

“All right, Dad, you’re going to want to stay straight on the Potomac River Freeway,” I instructed from the passenger seat of the rental he’d insisted on despite my explanation of the Metro. I looked over to make sure he’d heard me and realized he was wearing the Izod that Erica and I gave him for Christmas. Meaning that Erica gave me her Amex and I signed the card from both of us.

“This is absurd,” Erica grumbled from the backseat, where she was emailing with her office. “We’re so close, we could’ve walked. Why’d we wait in line an hour to rent a car?” I was mystified, too—mostly by the expense, but I think the idea of having the car for the weekend gave him a base, like a snail’s shell.

“Take the ramp toward Rock Creek Parkway.” I gestured at the sign.

“And why didn’t you just get the GPS?” Erica added.

“It was thirty-five extra dollars a day,” Dad answered, “which means something to some people.” And we were off.

“D.C. isn’t really a walking city,” Mom added brightly, patting Erica’s
knee from where she sat beside her in the backseat. I don’t remember when she started sitting with Erica—possibly before I was born—but they both said the passenger seat made them queasy.

“Mom, when were you in D.C.?” I asked.

“Oh, you just hear that.”

“Another left on Virginia and here we are!” I announced as we pulled into the circular drive.

“Well, isn’t this fancy,” Dad said.

“I hate these postwar apartment buildings.” Erica unbuckled herself.

“Doesn’t it feel claustrophobic?” Mom asked as we got out. “Being squashed in by so many people?”

“No more than your office does,” I answered. Mom worked in the city for Midwest Mutual, where she’d been the assistant to one mid-level manager but eventually served seven of them, making their days go smoother. Watching her, the fatigue, the need to vent at night what she’d kept herself from snapping all day, made me want to grow up to have an assistant, not be one.

“Dad, follow the driveway around to the garage—Gail has a space assigned to her apartment. It’s 8K.”

“Got it.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Mom considered as Erica unloaded the bags.

“You hair looks nice,” I complimented Mom as we walked to the brass elevator bank. She had darkened it from her usual box red.

“I don’t know who I think I’m fooling with all these freckles, but what if I was a brunette for a bit? I could wear pink.” She gestured to her cardigan.

“I have a standing appointment every three months for lasering,” Erica responded as the door opened. “I am going out like Nicole Kidman.”

I looked at my very speckled arm.

“Well, some guys think they’re cute.” Mom wrapped her own speckled arms around our waists and squeezed us. “And they’ll want to kiss every one.”

Erica wriggled out of Mom’s embrace. “My head hasn’t fully
cleared from the flight.” The wheels of their overnight bags made a soft purr against the tan carpet. As I pulled out my keys, I watched my sister do this thing she does, her eyes dropping momentarily to the middle-distance as she performs what I think of as a full-body inventory. It’s always followed by a pronouncement. “I need coffee.” Like that.

I can’t imagine being so in tune with myself. At that moment I needed a job—and occasionally I remembered to floss. I could have lived on Frosted Mini-Wheats until someone was actually trailing behind me with a hacksaw, begging to take my diabetic leg.

Stepping inside, my eyes landed on the annoyingly steady red light of the answering machine. Not that he’d have left a message. But then it didn’t occur to me that he ever would have called in the first place. Or bent me over a sink.

“Okay!” Snapping myself back to the present, I started talking with the animation of a campus tour guide. “This is the place!” I actually walked backward across the living room, arms outstretched. While I objectively knew I was just borrowing Gail’s high-thread-count life, I was still proud of where I’d momentarily landed. “Isn’t it amazing?” I pulled back the drapes to reveal the White House, my money shot.

Erica threw her palm against the glare. “I’m seriously getting a headache.”

“How about some water, hon?” Mom asked. “Jamie, can you get her water?”

“I, um, of course.” I turned to the kitchen, but Erica helped herself to one of Gail’s Fijis from the glass-front mini-fridge. She sat on the couch, placing her manicured fingers to her temple. Her sleeves dropped back and I noticed she really didn’t have freckles anymore.

Mom sat beside her, face drawn in concern. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“Ma, I’m fine, I don’t need anything. I just need coffee, and could you—” Erica’s arm thrust out.

I leapt to redraw the curtain, the room dimming.

“Fucking asshole!” Dad blew in, slamming the door. “The parking guy was a total prick. Why are we sitting in the dark?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “What happened?”

“If I ask you where the spot is, obviously I don’t know.” My father jabbed his fingers repeatedly between his chest and the floor. “If I knew, I wouldn’t need to fucking ask now, would I?”

Erica kept her head tucked to her knees.

“Would you like a drink?” I offered.

“Always.” His usual line.

“I got your favorite!” I pulled out a liter of Irish lemon soda I’d tracked down at a gourmet store in Georgetown.

“Oh.” His face fell. “Doctor said I’m not supposed to have anything acidy anymore. Just the whiskey.” He winked. I poured him a water.

“So you guys are sleeping in Gail’s room, and I thought Erica could share the guest room with me—”

“That’s a lot,” Erica interrupted.

“Okay.” I regrouped. “Why don’t you take my room and I can sleep out here.”

“No, I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s fine.” She looked up. “Just with you breathing and everything.” She hunched her shoulders and flexed her palms. “I’m not good with people in my space.” She volunteered this less like an embarrassing shortcoming and more like an affirmation at a self-awareness retreat. This was another thing I always forgot she did—these pronouncements of her self-defined limitations as if they were assets in her catalog description.

“No, sure.” My phone buzzed. Bushy Eyebrows summoning me. “I’m so sorry to leave you guys, but I need to be back by the four o’clock meeting. You can order a cab to the restaurant if you don’t want to drive again. Um, I thought you might be tired from the trip—”

“Great.” Without letting me finish, Dad crossed the hallway to Gail’s room. “Here?”

“Yes.”

He kicked his shoes off and sort of dove onto the bed.

I turned to Mom and Erica. “So I made a reservation at Grafiato at eight. It’s supposed to be amazing, all small plates. Rachelle wants to join us—you guys are going to love her—”

“I thought it was just going to be the four of us,” Mom said.

“She has to work tonight—she won’t stay long.” I wanted them to see my whole life here, meet my friend. “And then I thought—the weather’s supposed to be nice—we could take a stroll to the Lincoln Memorial.”