The First Councel

CHAPTER 18

You ever been in this way?” Nora asks, heading for the south entrance under the awning. We follow the red carpet into the oval-shaped Diplomatic Reception Room, where FDR used to hold his fireside chats.

“I’m not sure-I keep confusing it with my apartment and the red carpet that leads to my futon.”

“That’s cute. Never heard that one before.”

“Before? How many guys’ve you taken on this tour?”

“What tour’re you talking about?”

“Y’know, this tour. The inside-my-Beltway tour.”

She laughs. “Oh, is that what you think you’re on?”

“You telling me I’m mistaken?”

“No, I’m telling you you’re in full delusion. I’m giving you a cup of coffee and kicking you out on your bee-hind.”

“You do what you want, but idle threats aren’t the way to get lovin’ outta me.”

“We’ll see.”

“Oh, we’ll definitely see.” I do everything in my power to make sure I get the last word. It’s the only time she’s excited-when the outcome’s out of her control.

Passing through the Dip Room, I’m swinging my shoulders with a strut that tells her she doesn’t have a chance. It’s such a bad lie, it’s pathetic. As we leave the room, we make a sharp left into the Ground Floor Corridor. Across the pale red carpet, there’s a guard on the left side of the hallway. I freeze. Nora smiles.

“And you were doing so well there, weren’t you?” she teases. “You had the strut going and everything.”

“It’s not funny,” I whisper. “Last time I was here, these guys… ”

“Forget about last time,” she whispers in my ear. “As long as you’re with me, you’re a guest.” Up close, she blows me a taunting kiss.

It’s amazing how she can pick the worst moments to turn me on.

As we pass the guard, he barely looks up. He simply whispers three words into his walkie-talkie: “Shadow plus one.”

Once we’re through the doorway, we can get upstairs by taking either the elevator or the stairs. Knowing that there’re guards waiting at the next landing, I head for the elevator. Nora darts for the stairs. She’s gone in an instant. I’m left alone with no choice. Shaking my head, I take off after her.

As we reach the next landing, two uniformed officers are waiting. Last time, they stopped me. This time, as I turn the corner of the stairway, they step back to give me more room.

Taking two stairs at a time, I close in on Nora. She leaves the stairs at the next landing and, following her lead, I head into the Residence’s main corridor. Like the Ground Floor Corridor, it’s a wide, spacious hallway with doors running along every wall. The difference is all in the decor. Painted a warm, pale yellow, and lined with built-in bookcases, half a dozen oil paintings, and plenty of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century antiques, this isn’t a tourist trap. This is a home.

Wandering down the hallway, I scan the paintings. The first one I see is a still-life of apples and pears. “Cézanne rip-off,” I almost blurt. Then I notice the signature at the bottom. Cézanne.

“Got it at a flea market,” Nora says.

I nod. Across from the Cézanne, I notice an abstract de Kooning. Time to slow down. Taking a deep breath, I get back in my zone.

“You want a quick tour?” she asks.

I pause, pretending to think about it. “If you want,” I say with a shrug.

She knows I’m bluffing, but her smile tells me she appreciates the effort. Midway down the hallway, we stop in front of a bright yellow, oval-shaped room.

“Yellow Oval Room,” I blurt.

“How’d you guess?”

“Years of Crayola.” Pointing inside, I ask, “Now what do you do in a room like this? Is it just for show, or what?”

“This whole floor’s mostly for entertaining-after a state dinner, cocktail parties, sucking up to senators, nonsense like that. People always wind up in here because they love the Truman Balcony-makes them feel important when they stand outside and touch the pillars.”

“Can we go out there?”

“If you want to be a tourist.”

She lets the challenge hang in the air. Man, she knows my buttons. Still, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

“That’s Chelsea’s old bedroom,” she says, pointing to the door opposite the Yellow Oval. “We turned it into a gym.”

“So where’s your room?”

“Why? Feeling frisky?”

Again, I’m not giving it to her. I point to the door at the end of the hallway. “What’s behind there?”

“My parents’ bedroom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, studying my reaction. “Really.”

Damn. She’s counting that one against me. I should’ve known better. Her parents are always off limits.

Down the hall, she turns a corner and stops at the wall on her immediate left. Passing her, I’m standing across the hall from the Lincoln Bedroom. “So when’re we going to get this coffee?” I ask.

“Right now.” She’s fidgeting with something on the wall, but I can’t tell what it is. “The kitchenette’s upstairs.”

I assume we’ll head back to the staircase, but we don’t.

Stepping closer, I see that she’s wedging her fingers into a thin crack in the wall. With a sharp pull, the wall swings toward us, revealing an otherwise hidden staircase. Nora looks up and smiles. “We can take the stairs on this side of the house.”

“Pay attention,” Nora says, “because this’s the best part.” She heads up a steep carpeted ramp and leads us toward the room directly above the Yellow Oval. “Voilà,” she says with a bow. “The Solarium.”

Resembling a small greenhouse on top of the mansion, the Solarium’s outside walls are made entirely of green-tinted glass. Inside, wicker furniture and a glass-top card table give it the feel of a Palm Beach den. On the left is a kitchenette, on the right, an overstuffed white sofa and large-screen TV. Scattered around the room are dozens of family photos.

On my far right is a short bookcase filled with what looks like homemade arts-and-crafts projects. There’s a purple and blue birdhouse that looks like it was made by a seventh-grader-on the side of it are the initials “N.H.” in peeling orange paint. There’s also a papier-mâché duck or swan-it’s too warped to tell which-a ceramic ashtray or cupholder, and a flat piece of brown-painted wood with fifty or so protruding nails that’re set up to spell the initials “N.H.” To make sure the letters stand out, all the nailheads are painted yellow. On the bottom of the shelf, I even spot a few trophies-one for soccer, one for field hockey. In all, you can trace the quality of the projects from first grade all the way up to about seventh or eighth. After that, there’s nothing new.

Nora Hartson was twelve years old when her father first announced he was running for Governor. Sixth grade. If I had to date it, I’d say that’s the same year she made the swan-duck. After that, I’d bet the birdhouse came next. And that’s where her childhood ends.

“C’mon, you’re missing the good stuff,” she says, motioning for me to join her by the enormous window.

Crossing the room, I notice the VCR on top of the TV. “Can I ask you a question?” I begin as I move next to her.

“If it’s about the history of the house, I don’t really know my-”

“What’s your favorite movie?” I blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your favorite movie-simple question.”

Without pause, she says, “Annie Hall.”

“Really?”

She lets out the sweetest of smiles. “No,” she laughs. After today, it’s not as easy to lie.

“So what is it?”

She stares out the window as if it’s a big deal. “Moonstruck,” she finally offers.

“The old Cher film?” I ask, confused. “Isn’t that a love story?”

Shaking her head, she shoots me a look. “What you don’t know about women… is a lot.”

“But I-”

“Just enjoy the view,” she says, pointing me back toward the window. When I oblige, she adds, “So whattya think?”

“Sure beats the Truman Balcony,” I say, pressing my forehead against the glass. From here, I have a full view of the South Lawn and the Washington Monument.

“Wait until you see it face-to-face.” She opens a door in the right corner and steps outside.

The balcony up here is a small one, and although it curves like a giant letter C around the length of the Solarium, there’s just a white concrete guardrail to protect you. By the time I get outside, Nora’s leaning over the edge. “Time for some fun-let loose and fly!” With her stomach pressed against the railing, she extends her arms and leans forward until her legs are lifted in the air.

“Nora…!” I shout, grabbing her by the ankles.

Lowering herself back to earth, she grins. “You’re afraid of heights?”

Before I can say another word, she takes off, darting farther around the long, curved balcony. I try to grab her, but she slips through my hands, turns the corner, and disappears. Trying to catch up and trying even harder not to look over the edge, I dash along the far end of the balcony. But as I make my way around the corner, Nora’s nowhere in sight. Undeterred, I plow forward, assuming she slipped through another door and went back into the Solarium. There’s only one problem. On this side of the balcony, no other door exists. Reaching the corner, I hit a dead end. Nora’s gone.

“Nora?” I call out. There aren’t many places to hide. From where I’m standing, the balcony runs flush against the mansion.

I press my hands against the wall, using my nails to search for cracks. Maybe there’s another secret door. Within thirty seconds, it’s obvious there’s nothing there. Nervously, I glance toward the edge. She wouldn’t dare… Rushing forward, I lock my hands tight around the railing. “Nora?” I call out as my eyes scan the ground. “Where are-”

“Shhhhhhh-lower your voice.”

Spinning around, I follow the sound.

“A little higher, Sherlock.”

I look up and finally find her. Sitting on the roof of the mansion, she’s dangling her feet over the edge. She’s low enough that I can touch her swinging legs, but everything else is out of reach.

“How’d you get up there?”

“Does that mean you want to join me?”

“Just tell me how you got there.”

She points with her foot. “See where the railing runs into the wall? Stand on that and boost yourself up.”

I take a quick look at the concrete railing, then look up at Nora. “Are you out of your mind? That’s lunacy.”

“To some it’s lunacy. To others it’s fun.”

“C’mon down here-I promise, it’ll be more fun.”

“No, no, no,” she says, wagging a finger. “You want it, you got to come get it.”

I take another look at the railing. It’s not even that high-it’s just my fear I can’t conquer.

“You’re inches away from climbing the mountain,” Nora sings. “Think of the rewards.”

That’s it. Fear conquered. Straddling the concrete railing, I hold on to the wall for balance. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down, I tell myself. Slowly, cautiously, I attempt to climb to my feet. First one knee, then the other. As dizziness sets in, my cheek’s pressed against the wall and my fingers scurry up the marble like startled spiders. What a stupid way to die.

“Just stand up-you’re almost there,” Nora says.

Only a few more inches. Balancing on the railing and leaning into the wall, I let my hands scramble for the roof. Within seconds, I lock on to the marble molding and grab that sucker with everything in me. Then, anchored in place, I slowly stand up. Nora’s no longer out of my reach. A hop and quick boost finish the job.

As I prop myself up on the ledge, I hear Nora’s hushed clapping. Her feet are still dangling over the edge, and she’s hiding behind a tall marble structure that looks like an exhaust duct.

“What’re you-”

“Shhhhhh,” she whispers, motioning across the roof. As she waves me next to her, I realize who she’s trying to avoid. On the other side of the roof is a man wearing a dark baseball cap and dark blue fatigues. In the moonlight, I see the outline of the long-distance rifle that’s hanging from his shoulder. A countersniper-the executive branch version of Rambo.

“Are you sure this is safe?”

“Don’t worry,” Nora says. “They’re harmless.”

“Harmless? That guy can kill me with a roll of Scotch tape and a highlighter. I mean, what if he thinks we’re spies?”

“Then he’ll stick us down and color us bright yellow.”

“Nora… ”

“Relax… ” she moans, mimicking my whine. “He knows who we are. As soon as I got up here, he took off to the other corner. As long as we keep it quiet, they won’t even report it.”

Struggling to act relieved, I scooch next to her and lean against the marble air vent.

“Still worried?” she asks as her shoulder rubs against mine.

“No,” I say, enjoying her touch. “But I’m warning you-if I get shot, you better avenge me.”

“I think you should be okay. All the times I’ve been up here, no one’s ever shot at me.”

“Of course not-you’re the crown jewel. I’m the one who’s target practice.”

“That’s not true. They won’t shoot at you without a good reason.”

“And what kind of reason is that?”

“You know,” she says, turning my way. “Assaulting the complex, threatening my parents, attacking one of the First Kids… ”

“Wait, wait, wait-define attack.”

“Oh, that’s a hard one,” she says as her hand flits across my chest. “I think it’s one of those know-it-when-you-see-it things.”

“Like pornography.”

“Actually, that’s not such a bad analogy,” she tells me.

I reach over and put my hand on her hip. “Does this qualify?”

“As what? Pornography or an attack?”

I take an immensely long look into her eyes. “Either.”

She seems to like that one.

“So does it qualify?” I repeat.

She doesn’t glance down. “Hard to say.”

I slide my hand a little higher, slowly making my way to her untucked shirt. As I sneak beneath it, my fingers dip inside the waistband of her jeans and brush against the edge of her underwear. Her skin is so tight it makes me miss college. As smoothly as possible, I make my way up her stomach.

“Not there,” she says, grabbing my hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… ”

“No worries,” she says as she offers me a smile. Pointing to her lips, she adds, “Just start a little higher.”

I’m about to lean in when I see her pull something from her mouth.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Just getting rid of my gum.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a tiny sheet of paper. As she turns her back to me, she wraps her gum in it and throws in a new piece.

“Want to take out your retainer as well?” I mutter.

Facing me, Nora’s sucking on her pointer finger. Pulling it from her mouth, she lets outs a sharp kissing sound. “Come again?”

I don’t have a single response that’ll do her justice. Instead, I just sit there for a second, enjoying.

For Nora, it’s a second too long. In one quick movement, she rolls over, straddles my legs, and, with a slight tug, pulls me toward her and glides her tongue between my lips. Right there, it all comes rushing back. Over the past two weeks, I’ve had dreams about her smell. Its bittersweetness-almost narcotic. As soon as we kiss, she slides her gum into my mouth. My girlfriend in fifth grade used to do that. I go to chew it, but it feels like it’s still wrapped in paper. Caught off guard, I pull away in mid-cough. It’s too solid. Unable to pry the gum loose with my tongue, I shove two fingers to the back of my throat, but before I can pull it out, it’s gone, accidentally swallowed.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I think so-it’s just… I wasn’t ready for it.”

“Don’t worry,” she says with a sweet laugh. “I don’t mind starting over.” Once again, she leans forward and slips me her tongue. My fingers run through her hair; her kisses grow more forceful. Eventually, we find each other’s flow. From there, it takes me a few minutes of kissing to nerve myself back into exploratory mode, but I eventually smooth my hands along the back of her shirt and feel around for her bra. She’s not wearing one. Lost in her kiss, I feel time disappear. It could be fifteen minutes or fifty-but we’re starting to burn.

Still on top of me, she pushes me back and slides her hands under my shirt. Unlike her, I don’t fight it-I just lie back on my elbows and close my eyes. Her close-cropped nails bite their way up the sides of my chest and behind my shoulders. Where she straddles my legs, I feel her heat up against me. It’s a slow rhythm at first, a nearly invisible grind. Slowly, she picks up the pace. In an instant, however, it’s all torn away.

Feeling light-headed, I’m hit with a sudden onset of nausea. I try to stop myself from coughing and dry heaving, but the whole world is suddenly blinking on and off. As I look up, everything starts sliding to the right. Across the yellow sky, I see one plane become four. The Washington Monument becomes the neck of a swan. “What’s happening?” I ask, though I hear no sound. It’s all static.

Struggling to stay conscious, I stand up and stagger to the edge of the roof. It’s not that high anymore. Just a small step down. I go to take it, but something pulls me back. Back against the chimney. It hurts, but it doesn’t. Sinking down in my seat, I’m having a hard time keeping my head up. My neck keeps sagging, like it’s stuffed with grape jelly. In the back of my throat, I still feel the tickle of the swallowed gum. How long ago was that? Twenty minutes? Thirty? The static’s getting louder. Unable to hold my head up, I let it crash back against the chimney. I look over at Nora, but all she’s doing is laughing. Her mouth’s wide open and she’s laughing. Laughing. A mouthful of teeth. And fangs.

“Son of a bitch,” I mumble as the world goes black. She drugged me.