The Inner Circle

97

"She hasn’t said yes yet?” the President challenged.

“It’s not that simple,” the young aide replied as they rode up in the White House elevator.

“It is that simple, son-you ask a girl out, she says yes or she says no,” Wallace teased, tossing a wink at the usher who ran the elevator. “You want me to issue an executive order for you? I’ll handwrite it on the good stationery: Go out with my aide Patrick, or face formal charges. Signed-Me.”

The young aide forced a laugh, pretending he hadn’t heard the joke fifty times before. He didn’t mind, though. Like any job, everyone’s happy when the boss is in a good mood.

The elevator door unclenched on the second floor of the White House Residence, and as the President made a sharp right up the hallway, the aide knew that mood was about to get even better.

“You tell him who he’s eating with?” the usher in the elevator whispered to the aide.

“Why you think he’s walking so fast?”

At the far end of the hallway, the President spotted the small antique Georgian serving table that every day would hold a silver tray filled with small place-cards, each one in the shape of a thin, pointed collar-stay that was made of fine thick paper. On each one would be a calligraphed name, and the way the place-cards were organized in two neat columns-that same order would be the seating assignment for the day’s presidential lunch.

Today, however, there were no place-cards.

No seating chart.

No calligraphed names.

“Okay, who’s ready for mac and cheese?” Wallace called out playfully, clapping his hands together as he made a final sharp right and entered the narrow Family Dining Room, with its pale yellow walls and long mahogany table.

On most days, there’d be two dozen people gathered here.

Today, the table was set for two. Him and Andrew.

“No mac and cheese,” announced a disappointed eight-year-old boy with a mess of brown hair and glowing gray eyes. Just like his father’s. “They said we can’t.”

“Who says we can’t?” the President challenged.

Just outside the dining room-and knowing better than to come inside-the nanny who was in charge of Wallace’s son shook her head. Wallace knew that look. Andrew had mac and cheese last night. And probably the night before that.

“He’ll live,” Wallace said. “Two mac and cheeses.”

As young Andrew’s gray eyes lit up, Wallace couldn’t even pretend to contain his own smile.

“Chocolate milk too?” the boy asked.

“Don’t push it,” Wallace teased.

It was tough being President. But it was even tougher being a father in the White House. So at least once a week-or at the very least every other week-there was an uninterrupted meal with no staff, no scheduling, no briefings, no press, no VIPs, and no Members of Congress who will vote your way if you invite them to have lunch with you at the White House.

Some days, the Family Dining Room had to be for just that. Family.

With a playful shoo of his hand, the President got rid of the nanny and the other staffers, closed the door to the dining room, and flicked off the lights.

“Dad, I got two new ones-and found the one where they’re plumbers.” Andrew beamed, flipping open his laptop and angling it so they could both see. With the push of a button, a black-and-white episode of The Three Stooges started playing onscreen.

As President, Wallace knew he could use the White House movie theater downstairs. But as a father, just as he’d done long before he won the election, there was nothing better than being hunched over some mac and cheese, watching the classics with his son.

Kuuk-kuuk-kuuk.

Someone knocked on the door.

Wallace turned, all set to unleash on his staff-until the door opened and he saw who was knocking.

“It’ll take only a second,” Dr. Palmiotti said.

The President shot him a look that would need ice later. Sliding inside, Palmiotti didn’t care.

“Sorry, Andrew-I’ll be fast,” the doctor added, trying to sound upbeat. “It’s about your haircut,” he told the President.

As Palmiotti leaned to whisper in his ear, Wallace knew lunch was over.

“I’m on this. I’m taking care of it. And I’m sorry,” Palmiotti whispered. “He’s gone. They found him dead. Slit wrists.”

Nodding as if he were hearing a baseball score, the President stared across the table at his eight-year-old son.

“Y’have to go now, don’t you?” the boy asked his father as Palmiotti left the room.

“You kidding?” the President asked, reaching for the laptop and hitting the play button himself. “What kinda dad misses mac and cheese with his boy?”

As the theme music began and Moe, Larry, and Curly jumped around onscreen, Wallace sat there in the semidark room, listening to his son laugh hysterically, while trying hard not to think about the dead friend he’d known since he was nearly the same age as his boy.