Mr. President
Page 58
“Wow.” I have trouble finding my voice, my eyes wide as I take in the majesty of the presidential home, illuminated in the night. “Must be hard to believe you lived there once.”
I feel him shrug beside me, his voice low. “Actually, it’s harder to believe this is my view now. And sometimes still hard to think I’ll never see him again.”
I cannot help from asking, “Did you ever want to know why that happened?”
“I ask myself that every day. Come.”
He leads me to the bedroom; the view from the terrace is sweeping and endless.
“All this represents freedom and hope,” I say, signaling to D.C. “How can you still believe in justice after that?”
“You just do.” He opens the glass door. “You can smell it in the air.”
“Ever tried to find out?”
“I’ve tried to. Why—why and if on orders. I think about it constantly. I dream the scene, over and over, but I don’t want to live in that place.” He points at his feet. “I want to live in the now.” He points out the window. “And that is where we’re going. That’s where my head’s at for now.” I can tell by his expression that he’s being pulled into his memories. “Those first few months, I was consumed with it. Investigators mysteriously disappeared or were replaced by a new team. My mother couldn’t sleep without medical aid. Her worst fear is to lose me too. Her hope was that I’d be a lawyer.”
“And yours?”
“My hope?” he asks, seemingly surprised I even have to ask. “Our hopes change, don’t they? As our paths unfold. Now it’s to do what he wanted me to do—something for the country.”
I hear voices out in the living room. “Why doesn’t your grandfather like me?”
“He doesn’t like anyone who gets in his way.”
“I’m not in his way; I try to steer clear of him as much as I can.” I laugh.
Matt’s lips twitch sardonically. “You’re more of a threat to my candidacy than any of the actual candidates.”
“How can that be possible?” I signal at myself. “I’m no one, have no political aspirations.”
He taps his fingertip to the bridge of my nose, which I seem to be scrunching. “You’re distracting.”
“A tenth of what you are, at the most!” I cry.
He laughs.
We head back out to the living room and have a drink with Matt’s grandfather and mother. I notice the conversation is strained; I think the fact that Patrick and Eleanor’s agendas are so opposite right now is one of the reasons why the tension feels so thick in the air. I can hardly draw in a good breath.
Even Jack—who’s been lounging by the fireplace in the living room—seems to be a little more alert, his head tilting as if he’s trying to follow the conversation.
Matt seems to be used to it, though, and once Patrick leaves for the night, I relax a little. Excusing myself to the restroom, I leave Matt alone for a moment with his mother.
I hear them talking as I return. “I see the way you look at that girl and wonder why run, why not settle down?” his mother is asking him.
Matt sighs and stands to gaze out the window. “If I don’t run, Dad’s death will have been for nothing.”
“No, it could never be for nothing,” his mother says passionately, heading over to him.
“It could be for nothing if we don’t change and everything stays the same,” Matt tells her with a sigh.
He hugs her to his side and kisses her forehead, and she rests her head on his shoulder.
There’s a very tender, powerful mother-and-son bond. She looks older and frailer when next to him; his strength is striking compared to her fragility.
In one interview, Matt’s mother confessed that the day of the shooting, she thought she’d lost them both. How devastating for her! How afraid she must be now, the shooter never having been caught.
President Hamilton’s assassination went on to be an unsolved mystery, like so many political murders before that.
After such grief, though, Matt’s mother is still so refined. There’s a strength beneath the silk.
Her clothes rustle as she returns to take a seat on the living room couch. Then there’s confusion in her voice as she stares at Matt’s back. “You had a tough life there, giving your father away for the betterment of the people. Hardly any privacy, no normalcy even when I tried so hard to give it to you. Why do you want to go back?”
“Don’t you want to go back?” he asks her, looking confused as he turns and walks to take a seat next to her. “Tend to your tulip beds? Galas were your life. You were the finest First Lady this country ever saw. Don’t you want to fill that front fountain with ducks again? Come home on Marine One to the South Lawn of the White House all lit up for the night?”
Her eyes water and she lightly pats the corners to keep them dry.
“I want to see the ships Dad had on the walls of the Oval Office hung up there again. I want to be on the other side of Dad’s desk, make the calls that he could never make.”
“Matt!” she says.
“It was your home for seven years.” He waits a moment. “The White House is not just the White House, Mother; I see that now. The White House is the world. Help me change it.”
“I know what you’re thinking. Every widowed or bachelor president has had a relative acting as First Lady. I heard you at the debate. But Matt, I cannot act as First Lady anymore.” She stands up, then puts her hand on the top of his head, like she probably did when he was a boy. “Please rethink this. The White House is only the White House. Out here, you can have a life.”
She looks at me as I step inside the room quietly, unsure whether I should stay quiet or let them know I’m here. “I know you want one,” she tells him, still looking at me. Kissing his forehead and grabbing her glittering designer clutch bag, she smiles radiantly at me, like a queen getting her bearings. “So nice to meet you, Charlotte.”
Matt scrapes his hands down his face as she leaves, and for a long moment, I sit in Matt’s living room, letting him collect his thoughts.
“Charlotte, could you reorganize things and get me a few days off? I need to be by myself. I need to think.”
I start at his request, not expecting it. “Of course. Of course, Matt.”
I feel him shrug beside me, his voice low. “Actually, it’s harder to believe this is my view now. And sometimes still hard to think I’ll never see him again.”
I cannot help from asking, “Did you ever want to know why that happened?”
“I ask myself that every day. Come.”
He leads me to the bedroom; the view from the terrace is sweeping and endless.
“All this represents freedom and hope,” I say, signaling to D.C. “How can you still believe in justice after that?”
“You just do.” He opens the glass door. “You can smell it in the air.”
“Ever tried to find out?”
“I’ve tried to. Why—why and if on orders. I think about it constantly. I dream the scene, over and over, but I don’t want to live in that place.” He points at his feet. “I want to live in the now.” He points out the window. “And that is where we’re going. That’s where my head’s at for now.” I can tell by his expression that he’s being pulled into his memories. “Those first few months, I was consumed with it. Investigators mysteriously disappeared or were replaced by a new team. My mother couldn’t sleep without medical aid. Her worst fear is to lose me too. Her hope was that I’d be a lawyer.”
“And yours?”
“My hope?” he asks, seemingly surprised I even have to ask. “Our hopes change, don’t they? As our paths unfold. Now it’s to do what he wanted me to do—something for the country.”
I hear voices out in the living room. “Why doesn’t your grandfather like me?”
“He doesn’t like anyone who gets in his way.”
“I’m not in his way; I try to steer clear of him as much as I can.” I laugh.
Matt’s lips twitch sardonically. “You’re more of a threat to my candidacy than any of the actual candidates.”
“How can that be possible?” I signal at myself. “I’m no one, have no political aspirations.”
He taps his fingertip to the bridge of my nose, which I seem to be scrunching. “You’re distracting.”
“A tenth of what you are, at the most!” I cry.
He laughs.
We head back out to the living room and have a drink with Matt’s grandfather and mother. I notice the conversation is strained; I think the fact that Patrick and Eleanor’s agendas are so opposite right now is one of the reasons why the tension feels so thick in the air. I can hardly draw in a good breath.
Even Jack—who’s been lounging by the fireplace in the living room—seems to be a little more alert, his head tilting as if he’s trying to follow the conversation.
Matt seems to be used to it, though, and once Patrick leaves for the night, I relax a little. Excusing myself to the restroom, I leave Matt alone for a moment with his mother.
I hear them talking as I return. “I see the way you look at that girl and wonder why run, why not settle down?” his mother is asking him.
Matt sighs and stands to gaze out the window. “If I don’t run, Dad’s death will have been for nothing.”
“No, it could never be for nothing,” his mother says passionately, heading over to him.
“It could be for nothing if we don’t change and everything stays the same,” Matt tells her with a sigh.
He hugs her to his side and kisses her forehead, and she rests her head on his shoulder.
There’s a very tender, powerful mother-and-son bond. She looks older and frailer when next to him; his strength is striking compared to her fragility.
In one interview, Matt’s mother confessed that the day of the shooting, she thought she’d lost them both. How devastating for her! How afraid she must be now, the shooter never having been caught.
President Hamilton’s assassination went on to be an unsolved mystery, like so many political murders before that.
After such grief, though, Matt’s mother is still so refined. There’s a strength beneath the silk.
Her clothes rustle as she returns to take a seat on the living room couch. Then there’s confusion in her voice as she stares at Matt’s back. “You had a tough life there, giving your father away for the betterment of the people. Hardly any privacy, no normalcy even when I tried so hard to give it to you. Why do you want to go back?”
“Don’t you want to go back?” he asks her, looking confused as he turns and walks to take a seat next to her. “Tend to your tulip beds? Galas were your life. You were the finest First Lady this country ever saw. Don’t you want to fill that front fountain with ducks again? Come home on Marine One to the South Lawn of the White House all lit up for the night?”
Her eyes water and she lightly pats the corners to keep them dry.
“I want to see the ships Dad had on the walls of the Oval Office hung up there again. I want to be on the other side of Dad’s desk, make the calls that he could never make.”
“Matt!” she says.
“It was your home for seven years.” He waits a moment. “The White House is not just the White House, Mother; I see that now. The White House is the world. Help me change it.”
“I know what you’re thinking. Every widowed or bachelor president has had a relative acting as First Lady. I heard you at the debate. But Matt, I cannot act as First Lady anymore.” She stands up, then puts her hand on the top of his head, like she probably did when he was a boy. “Please rethink this. The White House is only the White House. Out here, you can have a life.”
She looks at me as I step inside the room quietly, unsure whether I should stay quiet or let them know I’m here. “I know you want one,” she tells him, still looking at me. Kissing his forehead and grabbing her glittering designer clutch bag, she smiles radiantly at me, like a queen getting her bearings. “So nice to meet you, Charlotte.”
Matt scrapes his hands down his face as she leaves, and for a long moment, I sit in Matt’s living room, letting him collect his thoughts.
“Charlotte, could you reorganize things and get me a few days off? I need to be by myself. I need to think.”
I start at his request, not expecting it. “Of course. Of course, Matt.”
