Chapter 11
eleven
Alex
It’s late.
It’s late and I shouldn’t call but I want to.
I can always poll Cindy on the State of the Union next time I talk to her, during daylight when I have a good reason to discuss business. Right now, I’m sprawled on my bed, still wearing my suit pants but with jacket and tie off and the top of my shirt unbuttoned. I was too tired when I finally walked in the door to do more than scoop up Thor, who a staffer walked earlier in the evening, and flop. I’m holding my cell phone, which Ted reluctantly handed over after a final sweep of the house.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Ted warned me.
But Ted is married. He must have gotten that way somehow.
Cindy had gotten me through the speech earlier. Every time I stood, I sought her out in the crowd, staring at her so hard that if I’d had a magnifying glass I could have set her on fire. I hope she felt the warmth in my gaze, as I fought to keep my expression dispassionate. I want to know if she felt the heat building the same as me .
I wish I could text her. What would I say, though, “R U up?” I smile to myself at the ludicrous idea and turn on the phone’s screen so I can see the time. 1:13 a.m.
She’s probably still up. I open her number and stare at it. Even as I press the green phone button, I’m uncertain I should do this.
She answers after the first ring, while I’m still considering hanging up. “This is Cindy Wight.”
“Hi,” I say. “It’s...the vice president.”
There’s a pause in which I cringe at myself. “Hi,” she says. “Good morning,” she adds.
Relieved at her welcoming tone, I smile. “Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I just got in. I was taking off my…” She stops herself, and I fill in the blank: My heels. My dress. My… I stop there .
“I just got in,” she repeats. “Good speech tonight.”
“Yes, I agree.”
“From a delivery perspective, obviously. Not policy.”
I smile again. “Of course.” She went on TV and criticized the president of her own party tonight, accusing him of being “soft” when “the American people want boldness.” She’s the bane of existence for a lot of people in the White House comms shop who want to achieve party unity so they only have to counter the other side.
We both pause. I need to explain why I called but I don’t have a good explanation.
“I saw you in the chamber,” I say, but then run out of things I can tell her, my mind filled with ones I can’t. You looked good? That blue shirt brought out your eyes? I wished I was sitting next to you? I wanted to hold your hand?
“Yes, I...saw you too,” she says slowly. She must think I’m insane. She’ll start dreaming up ways to pass her cannabis legislation that don’t involve negotiating with a crazy person. “I wondered,” she begins, her voice cautious .
“Yes?” I say quickly. Ideas jump into my head: I wondered if we could see each other. Right now. Come over.
Not that I could. The Secret Service would strongly object.
“I wondered if the president would bring up the cannabis legislation in his speech,” she continues. “I’m glad he didn’t.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound like I expected anything else from her. I clear my throat, emptying it of foolish responses. “Right. I would have discussed it with you. We didn’t think it would help, with so much still up in the air.” I don’t mention that it wouldn’t have helped my legacy, either.
“Right. But if he made it a presidential priority, you would probably have a bill you could pass sooner and without my support,” she says. I hear a tapping sound on her end, like glass against glass. “Part of me wanted that. For my bill to become so important it would come up in the State of the Union. But I had a birthday and I guess it made me kind of impatient about things.”
“Happy birthday,” I say. “Belatedly.”
She hesitates. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to suggest you should have known.”
The book I sent her way must have been misplaced. I wonder what happened to it. Better not to tell her my staff stalks her on the internet.
“I wish I did know, though,” I say quietly, wishing I knew so many more things about her. It’s a weak comment. It implies something I’m still not willing to say outright and puts the pressure on her to either ask or assume.
Or ignore, which she does. “What are you doing right now?” she asks, matching my quietness.
I tip my head away from Thor, who is trying to lick my face. “Laying on my bed. Trying to avoid Thor kisses.”
Her breath stutters. It might be a sneeze or a cough, or it might have been a gasp. “What are you doing?” I ask, because it’s only fair. And I want to know .
“Drinking a glass of wine,” she says. “Seems like that’s what I’m always doing when you call. You must think I have a problem.”
I laugh. “It’s not like I’m calling you every day at 9 a.m.”
“Maybe if I had a dog or someone, I would relax differently,” she says, speaking in that poorly filtered way I love. We both pause again, as I form a dirty mental picture involving relaxing Cindy Wight. I’ve seen her out of that uniform of dresses and pantsuits. I want to see her with nothing on. I want to follow those long legs all the way up her thighs.
Clearing my throat to dissipate that image and what it’s doing to my body, I say, “Yeah, dogs are great.”
“I got the invitation, by the way,” she says, jumping to a new subject. “To your table at the Correspondents’ Dinner. Thank you.”
“Can you come?” I pause, a new idea coming to me. “Did they give you a plus one? I’m sorry, I didn’t think to ask.” I rub a hand across my face. If Cindy Wight sits across from me with another man, my staff will suffer for it.
“No. I got the impression it would throw off the table.”
“That’s because you’re balancing me out,” I say, relief rushing through my entire prone body. “You’re doing us a favor. No one ever knows what to do with me.”
“Oh, I’m sure someone knows,” she says, and her register sounds deeper, like she meant the innuendo this time.
I smile up at the ceiling, because for what may be the very first time, I’m not the only one flirting. On purpose, anyway. My stomach loosens. “I’m glad you can come.”
She hesitates to follow my laden words farther down the innuendo rabbit hole. It might be a secure line but everything is still insecure between us, with me unable to promise too much and Cindy...perhaps afraid to ask?
“My schedule is a little unwieldy in March,” I add, the colorful blocks on my calendar piling up in my head. My stomach roils again. “So I might not be as available as I’d like.”
“Of course,” she says, like this doesn’t matter to her. “I’ll be busy, too, with the meetings we discussed. But I can always update someone else on your team, if necessary.”
I make a sound of regret, although it is necessary. “I’ll send you detailed updates on my progress, as well. Our people can try to schedule a few meetings or phone calls. I want to stay in the loop. I don’t want you to think I’m not devoted to this project. I just have…”
“About 30 other projects? I understand.” But she still sounds disappointed. “Are we still in agreement on the 4/20 deadline?”
The question I hoped she wouldn’t ask. “I’m concerned about it,” I admit, quietly. “But I think it depends on what kind of movement you can get.”
“Don’t put it all on me,” she says, her voice snapping from tentative to brisk so fast it gives me whiplash. “If we have the chance to pass something more significant, we should.”
“Even my version would still be some of the most significant drug legislation to pass in decades, and that would be thanks to you introducing it,” I interrupt, because she sounds like she’s growing angry. She crystalizes, somehow, when she does, all the anger making her glow like her skin is transparent and the fire shows through. I like to witness it. But she’s also prone to making impromptu declarations when she’s angry, and I’m not sure I want to be on the wrong end of an improvisation tonight. “But you have to get it through the Senate. That’s why you need me.”
“I definitely need you,” she says, the anger dropping out of her voice without warning.
The words hit me with physical weight in the middle of my chest. So many people need me every day—to ask informed questions, to sign off on something, to smile and wave and give someone else a reason to vote for me—but I’ve never wanted to be needed by one person this badly.
I take a beat to breathe through it. “You and I could agree on this tomorrow. Unfortunately, we can’t get it to the president’s desk by ourselves. I don’t want to create some kind of arbitrary line that we both have to pull our sides toward. The date might have to change depending on the temperature of the conference. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
“So you don’t have a line in mind already,” she says. Her voice isn’t angry, but she still sounds suspicious.
“No, I promise,” I say. But I wonder if that’s true. She’s got to get her people on board with dropping at least one provision or there’s no way to push this bill across the finish line with any kind of fanfare. While she’s still trying to preserve her whole version of the bill, talking to members who have no intention of voting for it as-is, I need her to shift her focus back to the votes I need. “OK,” I continue, rushing my words because I’m afraid I’m about to piss her off. I’m springing this conversation on her so late at night. “We’ve got to drop at least one thing—expungement or banks—and then I can convince everyone else to line up to vote for it.”
“We can at least have one? Either one?” Her voice sharpens, and I worry I’ve made her a promise I won’t be able to keep. I need this win. The bill has to pass, even if it means stripping it of everything extra she wants in it. “Everyone will vote for one or the other?”
This win is about more than my legacy now. Now it’s about her .
“I’ll talk to the Whip about it. Hell, I’ll come to a party lunch and talk about it. I’ll give speeches about it. I can get you the votes,” I say. I’m carried away with the desire to impress her, but I can’t stop. “As long as you can guarantee me the progressive votes. ”
“OK,” she says. “OK. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I know you will,” I say. “And I’ll see what I can do to meet your deadline.”
No need to tell her about my doubts.
Cindy
I don’t like my legislative director. He’s one of the few men in a senior position on my staff, and I hired him because everyone told me he gets results, not because I got a good vibe from him. But sometimes I wonder if I should have kept interviewing until I found someone good at the job who I also got along with better.
“So it’s either? The banking lobby will help us on that provision if we come to them hat-in-hand. They’d love to make working with cannabis money legal.” He’s pacing in my office. Martin makes me tense, and I also sometimes find him triggering. I already spend the majority of my time surrounded by men who dismiss my thoughts and undermine my work here in Congress only to invite another one onto my payroll. “Weed brings in millions of taxable income in the states where it’s legal. We can talk about getting that money flowing through the country.”
“Cannabis,” I correct him. “Cannabis is the most neutral term.”
“Weed, MJ, cannabis, whatever. Some of these old school guys aren’t going to appreciate dressing up the words. Ma’am.”
I sigh. He’s particularly frustrating because he’s not wrong. “I think both issues are worthwhile.”
“Yes, but what we feel about the legislation isn’t going to pass it. ”
“Be careful,” I warn him. “You’re coming dangerously close to telling me I’m too emotional about the bill.”
His brow furrows, like he has no idea what I’m talking about, then his expression clears. “Oh, that’s a female thing. Got it. No disrespect.”
Martin told me in his job interview that he lacks social awareness and responds well to directness. Not inaccurate. But it’s tiresome to work with someone who isn’t working on himself. Every time I warn him about something like this, he’s forgotten it by our next meeting.
“I meant that the rest of Congress is going to look at it in black and white terms,” he goes on. “It’s not about people behind bars who don’t belong there. It’s about what benefits them.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I say. “I keep reminding myself this bill is going to do a lot of good, even watered down.”
Martin sits down, perching on the edge of one chair in front of my massive mahogany desk. It’s not my taste, but choices were limited. “Personally, I don’t care what’s in the bill. I just want them to pass it. That’s why I think we should stop calling the members who don’t care and start convincing the ones who do. The rest of the Freshman Six, the blue staters.”
“I’m aware of how you feel, Martin,” I say, emphasizing “feel” out of pettiness. “I told the vice president I would do just that. Start calling our coalition. I need you to help find me a compromise that can pass.”
He pops back to his feet. “On it.”
My stomach sinks like I just lost a battle as he leaves. This is the right thing to do, isn’t it? I need to live in reality. But I worry I’m letting Washington chip away at my ideals.
Lizzie walks in as Martin walks out. I start to pull up my calendar to check if I have another meeting immediately, but I don’t need to. Lizzie knows my schedule better than I do and wouldn’t distract me if she couldn’t.
“You got a special delivery.” Lizzie is holding a wrapped package in her hands.
“Where from?”
Lizzie sets the rectangular box on my desk, making a dramatic flourish at it with her hands. “The White House. Or EEOB, whatever, same thing. Delivered by a courier, not by mail.”
“The vice president sent me…” I pause, staring at the red wrapping paper. I’m sure an aide wrapped it, but for a moment I picture Alexander Drake carefully cutting paper and folding crisp corners. For me.
“Open it!” Lizzie urges me. “Do I get to see?”
“I don’t think it’s anything private .” I imagine pulling a set of lacy lingerie out of the box, like a sketch on an anti-sexual harassment video. Neither of us has crossed a line in our tentative flirting so far. We’re nowhere close to panty presents, and realistically never will be.
Lizzie raises her eyebrows into her bangs, like she’s realized something shocking. “ Could it be anything private?”
“No. No,” I repeat, emphatically, and start pulling at the edges of the package. I don’t want to give my chief of staff ideas. Lizzie is discreet, but a little bit mercenary. She would want to use the relationship. “Of course not.”
Pulling off the wrapping paper reveals a cardboard box. Inside is a framed photo wrapped in tissue paper. I hold it up and smile. It’s me and Alex Drake standing at the briefing room podium, the White House seal and American flag behind us.
“I told you you were very matchy-matchy!” Lizzie declares. She’s right: My red dress and the vice president’s red tie look like they were meant to be together.
“The red balances out all the blue in the room,” I agree, trying to stay neutral. The vice president sends photos to a lot of people. Just standing next to him is an honor that people want to remember. “It’s a great photo.”
“What a thoughtful gift,” Lizzie says. “It’s not every day you brief reporters at the White House with the vice president.”
There’s a small card in the bottom of the box. It’s printed, not handwritten, and reads, “Happy belated birthday.” The letterhead declares: “From the Office of the Vice President.” There is no signature.
“I mentioned it the other day,” I murmur.
“Do you want me to hang it in here?” Lizzie asks, leaning over the desk to admire the picture.
I scan my office, which is furnished not in my style but from a catalog of items approved by the Committee on House Administration. I have a number of framed photos of myself on the walls—being sworn in, speaking on the House floor—but I’m not sure this one belongs with my list of accomplishments.
“No, I think I’ll take it home,” I say slowly.
Lizzie pulls back across the desk with a hint of surprise, but she says, “OK.” She goes on, “You have another meeting in 15 minutes, so I’ll let you have your break.”
Lizzie leaves, closing the door behind her, and I pick up the photo for a moment. Alexander Drake and I do look good side-by-side...but in a town as artificial as Washington, is it anything more than appearances?
The fact that he didn’t sign the card says maybe not.