Read Online The First Affair by Emma McLaughlin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma McLaughlin
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but it felt like an opportunity.
“Tell me you’re not calling me to poll?”
He laughed again. “I want to know.”
“Well.” I shrugged as if he could see me. “I had a complex strategy my generation is really perfecting. First I applied for every job in America. Then I applied for every internship.”
“So it wasn’t me,” he joked.
I rested my other hand on my stomach. “You’ve been an unexpected bonus.”
“Funny, that’s just what the Majority Leader calls me.”
I laughed. “It’s really mind-boggling that anyone takes him seriously.” Through the opening in the closet door I saw the shelf of Gail’s wigs. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
I almost brought up the panic attacks, but I lost my nerve. “Do you ever just want to throw your hands up?”
“Go back to waiting tables?”
I smiled. “I mean, just lose it. How do you keep slogging through when everything you try to do is flat-out lied about? I mean, when Pence got up on the House floor and said that ninety percent of Planned Parenthood’s budget goes to abortions, how did you not immediately run to the Rose Garden to say, ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ ”
“It’s tempting.”
“Or when Republicans now accuse you of being a socialist whenyou’re just trying to keep the funding for the programs they started? Their selective memory is astonishing.”
“Yeah, well, those people have given me more than a few gray hairs.” He sidestepped the question. “I have advisors saying I should color it . . .”
“No.”
“You don’t think?”
I realized he genuinely wanted to know. “It’s undignified. Presidents go gray.”
“That’s me, Mr. Dignified.” He cleared his throat. I flashed to the picture of him tickling Susan like they were everyday people. I knew I should bring her up, remind us of her realness—if only so he could tell me what I was missing, what the public didn’t know that would somehow make this okay. Dignified.
I bought myself a second. “Even when eating pizza off a memo, hard to pull off.”
Running through every possible comment or question I could phrase, I realized that my broaching her was the equivalent of dousing the conversation with a fire hose. And, much as it shamed me, I couldn’t risk it. “Where are you right now?”
“In my study. On the couch with a million pages of briefs that need to be read before sunup.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Depends on your definition. And how much you like numbers.” Another sigh. “If an issue makes it to my desk it has no solution. I’m asked to make the shit calls where someone gets fucked.” It was the honest version of his stump speech.
“I’m so sorry. But you seem to be handling it—I mean you—”
“Right,” he said quietly.
“No one could breathe under that kind of pressure.”
“I sense you could handle it.” It felt like he’d just bestowed his strongest compliment.
“Well, thanks, but it’s understandable is all I’m saying.” I wanted to find an implicit way to reassure him.
“I doubt that. People don’t like to picture their leaders poleaxed.”
“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
“Tell me you’re not calling me to poll?”
He laughed again. “I want to know.”
“Well.” I shrugged as if he could see me. “I had a complex strategy my generation is really perfecting. First I applied for every job in America. Then I applied for every internship.”
“So it wasn’t me,” he joked.
I rested my other hand on my stomach. “You’ve been an unexpected bonus.”
“Funny, that’s just what the Majority Leader calls me.”
I laughed. “It’s really mind-boggling that anyone takes him seriously.” Through the opening in the closet door I saw the shelf of Gail’s wigs. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
I almost brought up the panic attacks, but I lost my nerve. “Do you ever just want to throw your hands up?”
“Go back to waiting tables?”
I smiled. “I mean, just lose it. How do you keep slogging through when everything you try to do is flat-out lied about? I mean, when Pence got up on the House floor and said that ninety percent of Planned Parenthood’s budget goes to abortions, how did you not immediately run to the Rose Garden to say, ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ ”
“It’s tempting.”
“Or when Republicans now accuse you of being a socialist whenyou’re just trying to keep the funding for the programs they started? Their selective memory is astonishing.”
“Yeah, well, those people have given me more than a few gray hairs.” He sidestepped the question. “I have advisors saying I should color it . . .”
“No.”
“You don’t think?”
I realized he genuinely wanted to know. “It’s undignified. Presidents go gray.”
“That’s me, Mr. Dignified.” He cleared his throat. I flashed to the picture of him tickling Susan like they were everyday people. I knew I should bring her up, remind us of her realness—if only so he could tell me what I was missing, what the public didn’t know that would somehow make this okay. Dignified.
I bought myself a second. “Even when eating pizza off a memo, hard to pull off.”
Running through every possible comment or question I could phrase, I realized that my broaching her was the equivalent of dousing the conversation with a fire hose. And, much as it shamed me, I couldn’t risk it. “Where are you right now?”
“In my study. On the couch with a million pages of briefs that need to be read before sunup.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Depends on your definition. And how much you like numbers.” Another sigh. “If an issue makes it to my desk it has no solution. I’m asked to make the shit calls where someone gets fucked.” It was the honest version of his stump speech.
“I’m so sorry. But you seem to be handling it—I mean you—”
“Right,” he said quietly.
“No one could breathe under that kind of pressure.”
“I sense you could handle it.” It felt like he’d just bestowed his strongest compliment.
“Well, thanks, but it’s understandable is all I’m saying.” I wanted to find an implicit way to reassure him.
“I doubt that. People don’t like to picture their leaders poleaxed.”
“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
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