The World: According to Rachael (11 page)

A minute later, he responds.

Graham:
Glad that I made your morning. Looking forward to talking to you tonight.

I stare at my phone, not knowing how to respond. My past relationships since Aiden have been superficial. My idea of flirting would be, “Meet me at the Willard, Room 230, at eight.” I have to admit that this is fun. There’s that girly side of me that’s buried very deep, but still there. I like the idea of obnoxious flowers and thinking-of-you texts.

I delete what I had originally typed which was “Likewise.” Instead I send …

Me:
It’s a date.

I stand up, shoving my phone in my suit-jacket pocket and stroll back to my desk. It’s time to get back to work. I have one year left.

“Good evening,” I greet the President of the United States as I shut the door to his private office. Surveying the room, it’s shocking to see how a Type A, driven, neat person can work in these conditions. “This place has really become a rat hole. Want me to ask Laura to straighten it up?”

President Jones has removed his tie and suit jacket. His normally pressed white shirt is untucked, and it appears rumbled. Are his shoes off? This is a bad sign.

He’s sitting in the left-hand corner of his peacock-blue velvet sofa holding a high-ball glass of whiskey over ice in his right hand. “I know where everything is.” He gestures towards the piles of paper and file folders that are stacked to about chin height on his desk. Reference books are scattered across the taupe carpet as if he were frantically looking for something, found it, and then tossed the remaining books aside. “Besides, no one comes in here but me, you, and Laura. Who cares what it looks like if I can find whatever I need when I need it,” he says as he snaps his fingers.

There were seven of us in here including you, Mr. President, and one of us talked to the Sons of Liberty.

I sit down in the blue-print chair across from him and take the glass of high-ball that he has already poured for me from the coffee table. This is our nightly ritual if he’s in the White House, and I’m not at a networking function. It’s our downtime. The staff is gone for the evening. The place is ghostly quiet in the West Wing. Of course, there are still Secret Service agents lingering in the hallways, but they generally only speak when spoken to, so after a while it’s easy to forget that they exist.

The President’s private office is just off of the Oval Office. The most famous workspace in the world is really not used for much more than a reception room. The President rarely even enters that office. The toughest decisions that he makes are analyzed here in his private area. It’s really a lovely space. He has a large L-shaped desk and credenza that looks out onto the White House’s pristine gardens. His couch and chairs are very comfortable. I know for a fact that Shelby tested many before she chose the perfect ones for her husband. His fireplace is carved out of mahogany wood. It’s a shame that the public can’t admire it, because it’s really a treasure.

I have prepared an agenda for tonight’s discussion, but I quickly table it after reading his body language. He’s a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Wow! That analogy truly applies to him.

Instead, of rambling off my nightly to-do list, I take a sip of my whiskey and wait for him to speak.

Music is playing in the background. I don’t recognize his evening choice, but it’s a sad, depressing number. The piece is familiar. He’s played it before. I wrack my brain, trying to match up the music to what was going on in the world, hoping to find a clue as to what’s bothering him specifically this evening.

Fortunately, he doesn’t make me wait long to find out. “You know what today is?” he asks as he sips his drink.

I nod. Of course I know what today is. The reason I’m still the White House Chief of Staff is because I’m paid to know everything. “First Monday in November, sir.”

“Ah … Drop the sir crap, Rachael. Tonight, I’m not the President of the United States. I’m just a guy without a job in a year.” He looks so forlorn. His usually styled salt-and-pepper colored hair is a mess, as if he’s been dragging his fingers through the waves. The lines on his face, which give him a distinguished air, look deeper tonight. His five o’clock shadow is also dotted with more grey. These seven years have not been kind to his features.

I toe off my running sneakers and tug my legs under me. This is going to be a long evening. Fortunately, I’ve changed into yoga pants and my Wharton sweatshirt, anticipating a night run after our meeting. Not going to happen tonight. I settle into the plush cushions of the chair, making myself comfortable.

“I understand that a year from now, a new president will be elected, but we still have a year to get much of our agenda accomplished. In fact …”

“That’s not what I mean, Rachael,” he says cutting me off. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do after this gig is up? I know that Shelby brought it up on Saturday, but have you actually given it some thought?”

Have I thought about it? Only every night at around three in the morning when I wake up in a panic, unable to catch my breath. Dropping my eyes to the rug, I begin to play with the hem of my sweatshirt. “I’ve thought about it,” I reply hoping my voice doesn’t betray my angst. “Apparently, Shelby is worried about me also. You know the invite to Coach Jackson on fight night was her setting me up.”

He ignores my remarks about his wife. “I can get you on at any university that you want. Just name the school.” He says with a determination that I didn’t expect to hear. I can read this man like a book. He’s obviously been worrying about my future. That’s so
Langford Jones
of him. “You know, I’ve really done you a disservice. At some point, since you’ve worked for me, I should have fired you and made you get experience doing something else.”

A smile crosses my lips. “But you and I both know that you can’t function without me.”

His genuine laugh lightens the somber mood in the office. “Isn’t that the truth?”

We both sip our whiskey in silence. I contemplate his offer. Do I want to be a professor after his term is over? Frankly, I’m not sure, and that’s what scares me. I’ve always known what I wanted out of life. And I’ve achieved it. Graduated Summa Cum Laude from Texas A&M University, and then I graduated with honors from Wharton School of Business. At twenty-four, the world was my oyster. Instead of packing my apartment and heading for the Big Apple like so many of my peers were doing, I drove right past New York and got a job working for Senator Jones in Washington D.C. As they say, the rest is history. I prided myself on never turning down an assignment, and earning the trust and admiration of the future President of the United States. I ran his campaign, and he offered me arguably the most powerful job in our nation’s capital, White House Chief of Staff. He made history. Not only am I the first female to hold this title, but I’m also the youngest, and the only person who’s never worked outside of politics.

Now, I’m staring at the end of this amazing run, and I don’t have a clue what I want to do with the rest of my life. When I look towards the future, all I see is blackness dotted with yellow question marks. At thirty-eight years old, I’m a has-been. There will never be another opportunity for me to hold the kind of power that I have right now. I don’t think that I want to go into politics, and being a professor sounds so drab. Yup! Blackness with question marks.

“So, what about you?” I ask breaking our mutual silence and hoping to turn the conversation away from me. “Write a book, give ten-thousand-dollar a pop keynote speeches, start a non-profit, paint portraits of world leaders?”

“The going rate is now one-hundred thousand, Rachael. You’ve sold me short.” He gives me a wink. “Shelby and I are going to scout some places when we’re home for Christmas. She’s thinking she wants to go back to Baton Rouge.” His voice is smooth, like the color of his amber whiskey, but I’ve known him long enough to detect the hint of sadness. President Jones loves his home state of Louisiana. I think the angst comes from being forced to say goodbye to Washington and politics. Term limits suck.

“Baton Rouge is a lovely place. I’m sure you both will be very happy there.” My voice is a touch too saccharine, and he jumps on my statement just as I would expect him to.

He stands up and walks to the fireplace across the room. Staring into the dancing flames, he replies, “At fifty-five, I’ll be a has-been being put out to pasture.”

Those same sentiments have raced through my mind on more than one occasion.
Where does one go when they’ve reached the pinnacle of their career?

He continues, “Have you thought about maybe getting married, starting a family? You know you’re still young enough, Rachael. Shelby seems determined to watch you walk down the aisle wearing white and spoil your babies.”

I bristle. “Why is everyone wanting me to get married? Damn. I’m very happy with my personal life, thank you very much.” Without realizing that I’d moved, my toes are curling into the carpet through my athletic socks, and my arms are crossed over my chest.
God, Rachael. Defensive much?

“Down, girl.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ve just witnessed how good you’ve been with my boys, and how much you love your best friend’s kids. Plus,” he says cutting his eyes to the side, “I hate to think that you gave up a family for me. Because above all of this, my family is everything to me.”

This is my relationship with the President Jones. It can be described in two ways: very fatherly, and bitingly professional.

I slam the rest of my whiskey and reply, “No one has held a gun to my head and forced me to spend my life focused on serving my country. Every choice I’ve made has been mine.” I walk towards him, staring up into his eyes. “The fifteen years that I’ve worked for you have been a dream come true. Now,” I say, changing the subject, “let’s go over what we want to achieve during your last year in office, Mr. President.”

Like the politician that he is, he knows when to pick a fight and when to keep his mouth shut. “Yes. Final-year-in-office agenda. I’ve read your proposal, and I agree with everything. I just have a few details to add.”

Our professional masks slide into place as I attempt to forget the conversation that we just had. It’s my defense mechanism. Enjoy the time while I have the privilege of serving the White House, because the countdown clock is ticking, and with each day it gets louder and louder. Or, as Graham Jackson told me, “Take it one day at a time.”

Towards the end of our meeting, I mention the Sons of Liberty radio show, and that they knew we had been brainstorming about immigration reform. The President is unfazed and says that it could have been a lucky guess, but in my gut I know that we have a mole. And my gut has never led me astray. I’m pretty sure that it’s Roan. It would make sense to leak the information to bolster his all-powerful position.

I also fill the President in on the popularity of the show. He believes, like I do, that they’re just another flash in the pan even if they may bother us a little this year.

I don’t arrive home until after midnight. This is my norm; not an exception. I toss my briefcase and purse on a chair by the front door and head straight up the stairs to my bedroom. Briefly, I contemplate taking a shower, but my bed is screaming my name way too loudly.

Consulting the clock on my phone, I ponder what I should do about Graham’s phone call. We never made it official if I was to call him or him to call me. Is midnight too late to call? Growing up, my parents said the rule was eight o’clock. Does that still apply when you’re almost forty?

After a long internal debate, I decide to send a text.

Me:
Just walked in the door. Call if you’re still awake.

My phone barely hits the quilt on my bed before it’s ringing. A huge smile breaks across my face as I scoop it up.

“Hi.” My voice sounds dreamy.
I’m hopeless.

“Rachael.” God, the way he says my name takes my breath away. It’s not Rachael, one syllable, like most people say it. It turns it into a prayer; “Ray-ch-ellll.” Just a hint of Texas twang.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“Boring. Then gaudy flowers arrived, and it was great.”

He chuckles. “Glad to hear it.” His voice is as smooth as the bourbon I drank earlier in the evening.

“What are you still doing awake?” I ask. “Don’t you have to be at work in, like, six hours?”

“I do. But I could ask the same question of you.”

I’m still in workout clothes but I crawl under my quilt, turning off my lights, and snuggle into my pillow. “I don’t sleep much.”

“Me either,” he says as if he’s excited that he’s found another thing that we have in common. “Hold a second,” he instructs.

He must be speaking to the dog because he says, “Go get on your bed, boy. Good night.”

I’m not a huge fan of pets, especially in the house, but the level of endearment in his voice for his dog does funny things to my heart.

“Sorry about that. George gets all testy if he doesn’t get his night pets.”

“I’ve heard that it’s very important for dogs to get at least twelve hours of sleep a day.”

“Ha! If that’s the case then George will live forever. Sometimes I bring him to lacrosse practice so he can get more exercise. He’s pretty useless.” As he talks about George, and school, and coaching lacrosse, I find myself envious of his life. He sounds happy and passionate about what he does. He doesn’t have a countdown clock to when his career is over.

“So did you broker world peace today?” he asks.

“Hmm … Not world peace, per se. But the President and I did spend a good part of the evening discussing his priorities for his final year in office.” The words “final year” are hard to choke out.

I snuggle deeper into my thick mattress and pull my quilt up around my ears.

“I’ve heard that immigration reform might be a part of the agenda,” he says.

I give a rueful laugh. “You and all of Washington have heard that. Apparently, it’s the worst-kept secret in this town.”

“Want my opinion?” He sounds tentative.