The First Counsel

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As soon as I get back to my apartment, I go straight for the only piece of furniture that I brought with me from Michigan: a makeshift desk that was created by resting an oversized piece of oak on top of two short black file cabinets. As beat up and ugly as it looks, is as comfortable as it makes me feel.

The rest of my furniture is rented along with the apartment. The black pullout sofa, the black Formica coffee table, the oversized leather easy chair, the small rectangular kitchen table, even the queen-size bed on the black-lacquered platform--none of it's mine. But when the renting agent showed me the furnished apartment, it felt like home, with enough black furniture to keep any bachelor feeling manly. To make it complete, I added a TV and a tall black bookshelf. Certainly, using someone else's stuff is a little impersonal, but when I first got to the city, I didn't want to buy any furniture until I was sure I was going to be able to hack it. That was two years ago.

Like my office at work, the walls are what make the place mine. Over the couch are two red, white, and blue campaign posters with the worst slogans I could find. One is from a 1982 congressional race in Maine and says: "Charles Rust--Rhymes With Trust." The other is from a 1996 race in Oregon that brings lack of creativity to a new low: "Buddy Eldon--American. Patriot. American."

Pulling up my chair to the desk, I flip up the lid of my laptop and prepare to get some work done. When my mom left, when my dad got sent away, it was always my first instinct: Bury it all in work. But for the first time in a long while, it's not making me feel any better.

I spend twenty minutes on Lexis before I realize that my census research is going nowhere. Regardless of how hard I try to concentrate, my mind keeps drifting back to the past few hours. To Caroline. And Simon. And Nora. I'm tempted to call her again, but I quickly decide against it. Internal calls made in the White House can't be documented. Ones that originate from my home can. This is no time to take chances.

Instead, I pull out my wallet, remove my SecurID, and call the office. The size of a credit card, the SecurID resembles a tiny calculator without the numbered buttons. Utilizing a continuous-loop encryption program and a small liquid crystal display, SecurID gives you a six-digit code that changes every sixty seconds. It's the only way to check your voice-mail from an outside line, and by constantly changing its numerical code, it ensures that no one can guess your password and listen to your messages.

Entering the SecurID code at the voice-prompt, I find out I have three messages. One from Pam, asking where I am. One from Trey, asking how I'm doing. And one forwarded from Deputy Counsel Lawrence Lamb's assistant, announcing that the afternoon meeting with the Commerce Secretary is canceled. Nothing from Nora. I don't like being abandoned like that.

I was eight years old the first time my mother left for her clinical trials. She was gone for three days, and my dad and I had no idea where she went. Since she was a nurse, it was easy to check the hospital, but they didn't know where she was either. Or at least they weren't saying. The leftovers lasted for two days, but we eventually reached the point where we needed some food. Because of my mom's job, we weren't poor, but my dad was in no shape to go shopping. When I volunteered to go for us, he stuffed a fistful of bills in my hand and told me to buy whatever I wanted. Beaming with the pride of newfound wealth, I marched down to the supermarket and stocked up the cart. Skippy instead of the generic peanut butter; Coca-Cola instead of the drab store brand; for once, we were going to live in style. It took me close to two hours to make my selections, filling the cart almost to the top.

One by one, the cashier rang up each item while I flipped through a TV Guide. I was Dad; all I was missing was the pipe and the smoking jacket. But when I went to pay--when I pulled the wad of crumpled-up cash from my pocket--I was told that three dollars wasn't going to cover it. After a scolding by an assistant manager, they told me to put every item back where I found it. I did. Every item but one. I kept the peanut butter. We had to start somewhere.