When Audrey Met Alice (12 page)

That Sunday, knocking on my door woke me up at 8:00 a.m.—way earlier than I usually get up. And everybody at 1600 knows that. Groggily, I pulled back my blankets and shuffled over to the door. “Yeah?” I opened it and saw my dad standing in front of me. With a worried, slightly mad look on his face. He stormed in, clutching the front section of a newspaper. I had no idea what I’d done wrong, but my stomach still dropped. “Um,” I started.

“We need to talk,” Dad said. He took one hand off the newspaper to rub the bridge of his nose.

“I figured.”

Bad word choice. “This is
serious
, Audrey,” he said, wearily. “Do you know what’s in the paper today?”

“News?” Grogginess had morphed into crankiness.
How
could
this
have
anything
to
do
with
me?

“I’m going to advise you to cut the lippiness.” He dramatically cracked the paper open. “There’s a story in the gossip section about
you.
It’s been…enlightening.”
How
can
there
be
gossip
about
someone
who
doesn’t have a life?
This wasn’t the first time the papers had reported supposedly private stuff about my family, from some jerk face “unnamed source,” but it was the first time it was about
me
.

Dad continued, “I’ll read it for you.” He cleared his throat. “Our White House spies say that naughtiness abounds in the Rhodes residence. It seems the little First Lady is growing up—into a first-rate troublemaker.” His voice unconsciously shifted to a snarky gossip tone as he read the copy. Under different circumstances, I would’ve cracked up. “She’s been dressing for State Dinners like she’s going to a club, pulling temper tantrums at school openings, and taking joyrides on White House grounds and crashing cars. As if Madam President didn’t have her hands full enough with those low approval ratings. I guess it’s time for the First Gent to step up? Where is he, anyway? It’s a mess at 1600 Pennsylvania…” Hearing “taking joyrides on White House grounds and crashing cars” made my heart stop. My parents didn’t know about that. Or they
hadn’t
.

“I didn’t take a joyride and crash a car!” I exclaimed. “They got that wrong!”

“But did you take a golf cart to see a protest next to the lawn and crash it into the eggplant?”
Papaya
tree
, I muttered, but he didn’t hear me.

“I had permission to do that! Not to run into the kitchen garden, but to take the cart for a spin.”

“And now look what someone found on the Promenade. After you were out there last night.” He held out Alice’s cigarettes, which I’d meant to hunt for in the morning light. “Were you smoking?”

“No!” I stepped backward and put out both hands as if to show I was clean. “Count them if you want—I didn’t smoke any. I
swear
.” I shook my head. The last thing I needed was to go on an unnecessary substance-abuse watch. “I found them in a closet—I think they were Alice’s, I mean—
artifacts
.”

My dad did stop to study the pack for a few minutes, turning it over in his palm. He opened it and saw that not a cigarette was missing. “That doesn’t explain why you took a pack outside with you,” he snorted.

“That’s none of your business,” I shot back.

“Not my business? Are you serious? I’m your father!”

“Then act like it!” My ears rang with the silence after that. I felt almost relieved, though—like maybe now we would finally talk about how he’d been slacking at being a dad. And how hurt I was by that. “Put away your laptop and your phone, and act like it,” I said, a little louder this time.

For a moment, he stared at me. I don’t think either of us could believe I actually said that. “I…I
am
. I have to, because…your actions have created a
situation
!” He stopped and turned, hearing someone come up the stairs. In walked my jet-lagged, exhausted-looking mother—back from India. For once, she didn’t seem presidential as she walked down the hallway. Her light-blue blouse was wrinkled and untucked, and she’d taken off her shoes somewhere and was walking in stocking feet. Her hair had lost its volume, and whatever makeup she’d put on before the long flight back had faded. She looked like my normal mom—but tired and frustrated.

Mom turned to me. “I’m going to try so hard right now to not blow up at you, Audrey Lee.” That was a bad sign—she only calls me “Audrey Lee” when she’s seriously mad. “What is going on with you? Do you know how serious this is, and how much damage control we’re going to have to do? All I’m going to hear for days is”—she mimicked a nagging voice—“‘How can she lead the country if she can’t even control her kid?’ ‘How can she lead when even her daughter wants to protest?’” Her voice broke a little. “All this, and after Denise and I pulled those strings last week to treat you with a dance lesson?” She shook her head. “Cigarettes on the roof? I want to know what happened to my sweet girl.”

“Helen, wait,” my dad started to say.

My mom’s words stung.
This
is
so
unfair—I did the right thing on Friday night, even, and I’m
still
getting
into
trouble
for
it.
I clenched my fists at my side. “You want to know what happened?
You
happened.
You
had to run for president and
you
had to screw up all of our lives and
you
had to make me move here.
I
want to know what happened to my
mother
. Who is the
most
selfish person in this family.”

“Audrey, don’t speak to your mother like that!”

“Fine!” I shouted. “Madam President.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. “I regret to inform you that it’s your fault for running for president and ruining your daughter’s life in the process.” I raised my eyebrows and smirked.

My mom looked like she was either going to throttle me or cry. “That’s it. You’re grounded.”

“Ooooooh. Grounding me. As if I’m not already living in a federal prison.”

“Audrey, in your room. This discussion is over.” My mom gestured toward the newspaper, which was sitting on my desk—on top of Alice’s cigarettes, which my dad seemed to have forgotten about. I was relieved he hadn’t thrown them out. “We have to go clean up this mess now.” They stomped out of my room. As soon as my dad shut the door, I crumpled down onto my shaggy rug. I instantly regretted 75 percent of what I’d just said. I mean, yelled. Obviously I know my parents are good people trying to do great things. But it was like everything I’d been feeling since the campaign came spewing out of me during that fight, and I couldn’t stop to think about what I was saying, and now I’d made a big mess into a huge hot one.

• • •

September 5, 1902

Diary—

I’m writing in a somber state. Two days ago something terrible happened, and it has shaken me to my core.

My father was away in Massachusetts, and while riding in an electric trolley car, they were hit by a carriage. One of the Secret Service guards with him, dear William Craig, was killed. The children and I were all so fond of him. So was our father, who was fortunate to escape with mostly superficial cuts and bruises. Losing a good man like Craig is a tragedy, but one that could have been much worse. Only a year ago, on September 6th, President McKinley was shot and killed. That incident changed everything—it’s the reason why the president has these brave Secret Service men to protect him. I shudder to think that another American president could have been lost with this fatal incident.

Things between my father and I have never been easy. How many times have I reflected on my father saying that he can be president of the United States, or he can control me, but he cannot possibly do both? Sure, I laughed upon hearing his quip, but truth is afterward I slunk out of the room and back upstairs, red-faced.

I love my father, and I believe that he is an exemplary person and great leader and politician. I want to make him proud; I do want his approval; most of all I want his love. Perhaps sometimes, when I’m all mixed up in my melancholic love for Arthur Iselin or busy wreaking havoc in polite society with Emily Spinach, I lose sight of that aim and don’t really think about my actions.

Hence the past two days, I have gotten out of bed early like the rest of the family. The first day I padded down the stairs to the kitchen and joined them at the breakfast table; their wide eyes couldn’t hide their shock. I’d rejected the family breakfast, long a Roosevelt tradition, since before we moved into the White House. I shook off their stares and took my place at the table, stirring cream into my coffee with my head down, and when I looked up, I saw a tired smile on my father’s bruised and bandaged face. It was hard to tamp down the lump rising in my throat, but Alice is a “Tough.”

I think I will keep meeting with my family at breakfast time, even if that means doing some of my nighttime reading during the day. I might complain about Edith, but I do think she loves me as much as a stepmother can and should and maybe a little more. I love Ted and Kermit and Ethel and Archie and little Quentin. The quiet moments in the morning with them (well, as quiet as breakfast for a family of eight can be) ground me, give me some perspective during the rest of the day when I am presented with fickle Iselin or another false report of my engagement.

I am so thankful that my father is safe and that September this year will not bring another presidential death to the White House. I pray for the family of William Craig, and we will all miss him so.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

September 25, 1902

Diary—

I have been busy lately, helping my father recover from a medical procedure related to the accident. Sitting around and helping him recuperate, I’ve allowed him to talk ideas and politics with me for long stretches of time. I surprised myself when I found what he had to say about politics interesting, for once. Some things we agree on, and some we do not. For example, I am accepting of homosexual love. I’ve said so many times at parties—my favorite quote on the matter is that I don’t care what anyone’s proclivities are, so long as he or she doesn’t “do it in the street and frighten the horses.” I repeated that idea enough in conversation that word got around, and I actually received a letter inviting me to become the first “honorary homosexual.” What a newfangled idea! I adore it. I was going to show Father the invitation—jokingly tell him that I’ve earned their votes for him—but when I brought up the subject, I realized very quickly that our opinions could not be more in opposition. I kept the letter to myself, perhaps wisely, because Father has very traditional ideas on the subject.

But here’s something we did agree on. Father’s still consumed by the coal strike. The miners in Pennsylvania haven’t backed down and neither have the owners, and my father is wrestling with the idea of whether he (i.e., the government) should do something about it. Now it’s not only the unions and the coal company who will be affected; winter looms for the East Coast, and if the strike goes on, people won’t have coal to heat their homes. It could be a chilly winter for this country if someone doesn’t sort this out in a way that is fair to both parties. I think it is time indeed for the government to do something about an issue that concerns so very many people. Father has set up a fact-finding commission to find a way for both sides to end the conflict. At times like these, I feel so proud of him. In his words, he will lead them all to a “square deal” for both parties. Father was quite pleased with my interest in the subject. My parents keep telling me that I need to take up interests “outside myself.” I can practically hear them thinking,
Why
can’t Alice be more like her cousin Eleanor? So serious and studious and engaged in charity works with the Junior League.
In my defense, I have made public appearances for the sake of charity. I’ve simply made many more for parties and balls.

Lest you think I am turning angelic, when I haven’t been by my father’s side, I have been reading up on draw poker and dice throwing. I really wet my whistle for gambling in Cuba. Some friends of mine and I have little secret poker games after dinner, and I am bleeding them all dry with my winnings. Gambling on an actual race or game is my favorite, but poker and dice are the surest ways for me to amuse myself lately. I’ve told Maggie about my betting history and made her jealous. She’s never gambled apart from poker playing, so I’m tutoring her in what little I know. One of these days, we’ll escape to the Benning racetrack and make a mint. I have to admit that any time society labels an activity “unacceptable” for women, my interest in doing it, well and often, increases significantly.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

October 15, 1902

Diary—

It is the wee hours of the night and I am still awake, sitting in my bed surrounded by books, unable to sleep but too agitated to read. I got a letter from a friend today and read all about how Arthur was seen flirting with some other girl. I suppose I was right, and the lion’s share of his infatuation was with the novelty of my unique position as First Daughter. People always comment about what a charmed life I must lead because of that, but here’s a confession, Diary: It’s horrible at moments like this. I feel so foolish for believing that Arthur had eyes for me. Or for me only, I suppose. Compared to my friends, I am nothing. The countess and the belle, Maggie and Lila, are so attractive and bright and everyone likes them so much. They don’t need titles like I do. It’s hard to have beautiful friends like them while being a perfectly nondescript sort of person, physically.

Now I am so miserable, living in a world without Arthur’s affection. After all this heartsickness, I doubt I will ever marry. I don’t want to be abandoned by anyone else in my life; Tough or not I can’t bear it. So I’ll be a fabulous old maid. I’ll host parties for rich, powerful, and brilliant guests and be a Washington Grande Dame—on my own. Perhaps I’m lucky to be the child of a successful politician because I don’t need a husband to gain entrance to these spheres of society. Bully for me.