Mr. President
Page 13
I rub the back of my neck and turn off the TV.
I’m used to the attention. My mother never approved of my father’s willingness to use me for publicity. She tried to fiercely guard my privacy, and I guess, before this, so did I.
But my father taught me the press didn’t have to be foes, they could be friends, or tools to aid his administration. Those White House years, we were always swarmed by an armada of press and resourceful photographers. The only respite was found at Camp David where they were out of bounds. Yet, we rarely went there, no matter how much my mother loved the vacation spot. Dad felt as if he belonged to the people, and insisted on being as open and available as possible.
“I spend so much time away, I want you to know me,” he’d tell me.
“I do.”
I’d walk him out to the South Lawn as he boarded Marine One. As always, I was a teen with a fascination with all things military.
“What do you think?” he’d ask of anyone, with the paternal pride of any American parent. “He’ll be president one day,” he’d say.
“Ahh, no,” I’d laugh.
He would have loved to see me try.
Instead, he’s been gone for almost a decade.
My mother got the call from a U.S. senator when it happened.
My granddad saw on TV that his son was dead.
All I remember of the funeral is my mom kissing the top of his head, his fingers, his knuckles and his palms, putting her wedding ring in his hand, and taking his in her own.
The vice president sent my mother a letter, and one for me.
Matt, I know the phenomenal man and leader your father was. He won’t be forgotten.
The letter was a kind reminder that my mother and I were homeless for the first time in our lives.
After the state funeral, we packed up as the new family established itself in the White House. I looked at the oval office one last time, the walls, the desk, the empty seat, and walked out, never imagining how determined I’d be to walk back in two terms later.
9
FIRST WEEK
Charlotte
I have restless dreams about the campaign, wondering who’ll win the primaries for the main political parties, and flashbacks of the day Matt’s father was killed.
It’s still dark when I wake. I take a hot bath, but I’m not that tired even though I didn’t sleep well. I’m still running on adrenaline from the excitement—stumbling half-naked around my kitchen, dressing while having breakfast.
I wear a khaki skirt, a plain white button-down shirt, and a pair of tan open-toed shoes with sensible three-inch heels. My hair is pulled back into a practical ponytail, not too tight, but tight enough that no wayward strands can escape.
The excitement in the room is palpable when I arrive at the building. Keyboards are clicking, phones are buzzing, people are maneuvering past the small halls, getting quickly from one place to the next. There’s respect in the air, gratitude for being here.
We want our candidate to win.
Matt asks us what we all desire for our next president, what we desire for our country. As the group mulls his questions over, that ridiculously sexy stare locks on me. “If you had a genie that granted you three wishes, what would they be?”
Every word he says is like an indecent proposal.
The women around me look a bit like perspiring.
I wonder if they’re all thinking of sleeping with him as their first wish and marrying him their last, like I am.
A woman raises her hand. “Jobs, health, and education. What every person wants. To feel validated, busy, like they’ve got something to offer. Love is impossible to grant, but if you make us busy, feel useful and validated, you give us self-love.”
“I’ll be your genie. You’re right; love is not something in my power to grant. But for those first three wishes, I’ll be your genie for everyone who knocks on my lamp.” He knocks on the table, and then he leaves us with all the things to do. Twittering with inspiration.
We all want to impress him. We all want to feel like we did something for this campaign. If Matt Hamilton is elected president, we’ll be making history.
I watch people putting together the slogans.
Hamilton is change
A new vision
Predestined to lead
The change we need. The voice we deserve
For the future
Slogans to capture what he represents.
Leadership for the people
The right man for the job
My favorite: Born for this
I settle in during the morning, and I’m happy to report that I’m settling in just fine.
The phone starts to ring more viciously from noon onward, and it doesn’t stop ringing from then on.
I answer so frantically I almost drop it. “Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters.”
“Matt, please,” a male voice demands.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“His father, Law.”
I was warned of this by the other aides, of course. It’s still hard to remain unfazed after a statement like that. “I’m sorry, state your name please.”
“This is George Afterlife, and I’m a psychic medium and his father is using me to communicate a message. It is imperative I talk to him now.”
It’s hard to ignore the sound of impending doom on the other side of the line.
“Mr. Afterlife, if you’d like to leave a message I will be sure he gets it.”
“Matt, it’s your father!” the man starts yelling, changing his voice.
“Matt is unavailable, but if you’d leave a message . . .”
“I must talk to Matt—I know the conspiracy behind my murder.”
For the next ten minutes I try to get the man to leave a message, and all he leaves is a number. I jot it down.
The phone rings again, and I have a mini heart attack.
“Yes? Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters?”
A breathy voice says, “Matt. I need to speak to Matt.”
“Who’s calling?” I take my notepad out to jot down her info.
“His girlfriend.”
I hesitate. Girlfriend? My heart sinks a bit, but I ignore it.
“Your name, please.”
“Look. He knows my name—I’m his girlfriend.” At this point, I’m feeling suspicious. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Does he?
I’m used to the attention. My mother never approved of my father’s willingness to use me for publicity. She tried to fiercely guard my privacy, and I guess, before this, so did I.
But my father taught me the press didn’t have to be foes, they could be friends, or tools to aid his administration. Those White House years, we were always swarmed by an armada of press and resourceful photographers. The only respite was found at Camp David where they were out of bounds. Yet, we rarely went there, no matter how much my mother loved the vacation spot. Dad felt as if he belonged to the people, and insisted on being as open and available as possible.
“I spend so much time away, I want you to know me,” he’d tell me.
“I do.”
I’d walk him out to the South Lawn as he boarded Marine One. As always, I was a teen with a fascination with all things military.
“What do you think?” he’d ask of anyone, with the paternal pride of any American parent. “He’ll be president one day,” he’d say.
“Ahh, no,” I’d laugh.
He would have loved to see me try.
Instead, he’s been gone for almost a decade.
My mother got the call from a U.S. senator when it happened.
My granddad saw on TV that his son was dead.
All I remember of the funeral is my mom kissing the top of his head, his fingers, his knuckles and his palms, putting her wedding ring in his hand, and taking his in her own.
The vice president sent my mother a letter, and one for me.
Matt, I know the phenomenal man and leader your father was. He won’t be forgotten.
The letter was a kind reminder that my mother and I were homeless for the first time in our lives.
After the state funeral, we packed up as the new family established itself in the White House. I looked at the oval office one last time, the walls, the desk, the empty seat, and walked out, never imagining how determined I’d be to walk back in two terms later.
9
FIRST WEEK
Charlotte
I have restless dreams about the campaign, wondering who’ll win the primaries for the main political parties, and flashbacks of the day Matt’s father was killed.
It’s still dark when I wake. I take a hot bath, but I’m not that tired even though I didn’t sleep well. I’m still running on adrenaline from the excitement—stumbling half-naked around my kitchen, dressing while having breakfast.
I wear a khaki skirt, a plain white button-down shirt, and a pair of tan open-toed shoes with sensible three-inch heels. My hair is pulled back into a practical ponytail, not too tight, but tight enough that no wayward strands can escape.
The excitement in the room is palpable when I arrive at the building. Keyboards are clicking, phones are buzzing, people are maneuvering past the small halls, getting quickly from one place to the next. There’s respect in the air, gratitude for being here.
We want our candidate to win.
Matt asks us what we all desire for our next president, what we desire for our country. As the group mulls his questions over, that ridiculously sexy stare locks on me. “If you had a genie that granted you three wishes, what would they be?”
Every word he says is like an indecent proposal.
The women around me look a bit like perspiring.
I wonder if they’re all thinking of sleeping with him as their first wish and marrying him their last, like I am.
A woman raises her hand. “Jobs, health, and education. What every person wants. To feel validated, busy, like they’ve got something to offer. Love is impossible to grant, but if you make us busy, feel useful and validated, you give us self-love.”
“I’ll be your genie. You’re right; love is not something in my power to grant. But for those first three wishes, I’ll be your genie for everyone who knocks on my lamp.” He knocks on the table, and then he leaves us with all the things to do. Twittering with inspiration.
We all want to impress him. We all want to feel like we did something for this campaign. If Matt Hamilton is elected president, we’ll be making history.
I watch people putting together the slogans.
Hamilton is change
A new vision
Predestined to lead
The change we need. The voice we deserve
For the future
Slogans to capture what he represents.
Leadership for the people
The right man for the job
My favorite: Born for this
I settle in during the morning, and I’m happy to report that I’m settling in just fine.
The phone starts to ring more viciously from noon onward, and it doesn’t stop ringing from then on.
I answer so frantically I almost drop it. “Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters.”
“Matt, please,” a male voice demands.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“His father, Law.”
I was warned of this by the other aides, of course. It’s still hard to remain unfazed after a statement like that. “I’m sorry, state your name please.”
“This is George Afterlife, and I’m a psychic medium and his father is using me to communicate a message. It is imperative I talk to him now.”
It’s hard to ignore the sound of impending doom on the other side of the line.
“Mr. Afterlife, if you’d like to leave a message I will be sure he gets it.”
“Matt, it’s your father!” the man starts yelling, changing his voice.
“Matt is unavailable, but if you’d leave a message . . .”
“I must talk to Matt—I know the conspiracy behind my murder.”
For the next ten minutes I try to get the man to leave a message, and all he leaves is a number. I jot it down.
The phone rings again, and I have a mini heart attack.
“Yes? Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters?”
A breathy voice says, “Matt. I need to speak to Matt.”
“Who’s calling?” I take my notepad out to jot down her info.
“His girlfriend.”
I hesitate. Girlfriend? My heart sinks a bit, but I ignore it.
“Your name, please.”
“Look. He knows my name—I’m his girlfriend.” At this point, I’m feeling suspicious. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Does he?
