Chapter Six
The president led me downstairs. I felt my hands shaking a bit at my side as I walked behind him, almost in his shadow. I’d never been in anyone’s shadow before, but I knew this was my natural place: he was President of the United States. That mansion was his home.
The various staff passed us and nodded to him, not even looking at me. I felt invisible.
He led me through the kitchen, through the bubbling soup pots, the fiery oven. I was amazed at the many workers who were poised over the heat, spinning their spoons wildly over the water. One of the chefs—a man with a white, poufy hat—turned toward me in an instant and winked at me. He pulled back to his work so quickly that I almost didn’t believe I’d seen the entire thing.
Xavier pushed the final doors open and led us into a tiny nook with these incredible windows. The windows were open, allowing the breeze to waft over the perfectly-set table. The white tablecloth seemed to glow in the sunlight.
“Wow,” I couldn’t help but say.
“I always have them make this table up for me when I’m feeling a little low,” he said, pulling the chair out and allowing me to sit. “I always come here to think. And eat, of course. But nearly no one knows this room exists. It’s my secret hideaway, I suppose.”
I nodded, sitting across from him. I couldn’t believe he’d brought me there. I couldn’t think about what to say, and I sputtered, “Where do you see the campaign going over the course of the re-election season?”
I almost wanted to bury my face in my hands. My words lacked so much tact. I’d jumped too far. He wanted to be friendly with me, and I’d stepped on his friendliness with formality. I bit my lip.
But he took it in stride as he splayed the napkin over his lap. “Honestly, I’m open to much of what you stated in your interview. It seems that you have a good way of going about it—about the election. You have enough vision that you could be my competition.”
The waiter came then, and poured us both a small glass of white wine. The president brought his glass toward me, and I tipped my glass to his, offering a slight clink into the world. I shivered once more, sipping the wine.
The president called back to the waiter. “Hey! Grant! Might we start with some of that fine garlic bread Yvonne made last week?”
“Very good, sir,” Grant responded, darting back into the kitchen.
I looked at the president, taking him in. “Anyway. I don’t know what you mean, running for the presidency,” I continued, laughing a bit to myself. “I’m not even eligible at my age.”
He tipped his head to the right, eyeing me serenely. “Ah. Yes. You’re 29, correct?”
I nodded, feeling my face grow hot. It was strange that we were there together, so intimately in the secret room of his mansion.
“And already you are chief of the re-election campaign for the President of the United States. You must feel pride in that, no?”
My face continued to burn as I searched for what to say. “I am very honored to be chosen for this position, sir,” I said, trying to project an air of confidence fitting of my job title.
A stagnation occurred between us, then, as we searched for things to say. The waiter burst back into the room and placed the garlic bread between us. “Enjoy,” he said, winking at me. What was it with all these winks?
I turned back toward the president. “Anyway. I just work too hard, that’s what my mother says,” I stated, digging into the garlic bread. My stomach was eating me alive.
But the president laughed at this, good-naturedly. “Yeah, my mother says that, too. You should be proud of all you’ve worked for. I admire it, you know. I was backed by some very important people when I was quite young, charging me into my future. But you; it seems you’ve worked from the ground up. And look at you, Amanda.”
I felt so strange, like I was on display in that moment. I turned my head down, gazing at my slim-cut power suit. I bit my lip. “I don’t know. I had a great deal of support.”
Xavier placed his wine back on the table. He positioned his fingers only a few inches from mine on the white cloth. “I just want you to know, Amanda, that you have a future here at the White House. Chief of Staff, maybe. Secretary of State. Even the presidency itself,” he smirked.
My eyes began to water as a mixture of emotions welled up inside of me. On one hand, I felt pride in the fact that he could see great things in me. On the other hand, I felt as though he was playing a game. Chief of Staff? Secretary of State? He could see me in those roles based on a press release? And that smirk—what did it mean?
I felt so restless, so unsure. His eyes seemed so focused on me; I suddenly wanted to burst from the windows and fly across the green lawn, back to freedom. But this place, I knew, was where I belonged.
I cleared my throat. “I appreciate your assurance in me, Mr. President.” I said the words with sterility. “Of course, you’ll understand that I’m not so sure of myself just yet. It’s only my first day in the position. I think I should test myself a bit more before I go entertaining such grand ideas.”
“But look at you. You’re here in my secret lair, eating garlic bread—only one day into your job,” he laughed, bringing his arms wide with a bit of charisma. “Surely you must be special.” I liked this side of him; the playful side.
But I needed to change to topic, to find another course. “So. Your wife. How is she doing, these days?”
He brought his hands down slowly, down to his side. The garlic bread sweated before us, emitting such amazing smells throughout the small breakfast nook. “Camille?” he asked.
I nodded, knowing that I had suddenly touched on a sore spot. I felt terrible, knowing in my heart that I had asked for inappropriate reasons. I wanted to know what was behind the curtain; I wanted to discover the intricacies of their relationship. I tried to tell myself I needed to know for professional reasons, to manage his image.
“Camille and I, well. We met so long ago, as you probably know.”
“College, right?” I asked him, reaching for another piece of garlic bread. God, was it good. The bread melted in your mouth, leaving a buttery sensation that sent me to the clouds.
The president nodded. “So long ago. We were just kids. And even then, I knew there wasn’t something—well. I knew there wasn’t something right about us.”
I felt the garlic bread dissipate in my mouth. I allowed the crust to drop to the plate, knowing that he was about to deliver something to me—information that was hardly confided in anyone, ever. I leaned forward, craning my ears.
“Well,” Xavier began, tapping his fingers on the white cloth beneath their plates. The table shook a bit, casting strange sunlight through the glass. “Sometimes, what you see on the outside isn’t the real picture. There’s the pretty picture, of course—the one everyone, the precious voters, wants to see. But then there’s the at-home life. The troubled life. The one you know you never really wanted.”
I nodded for a moment, pitying him in a way. For so much of his life, everything had worked out in his favor: he’d had his career, his marriage. The great country was at his feet. But then, everything was complex, as well. He wasn’t happy in his marriage. He was stuck sneaking around with me—this girl he hardly knew, telling her things he shouldn’t tell anyone.
I wondered, in those moments that dripped between us, filled with such tension, if he felt he could trust me. I wondered if he delivered this information to me in a sort of sealed package, reaching out to me as if to say: help me, please; I’m drowning.
I concealed a smile with my garlic bread, then, feeling as though the winds of change were shifting in my favor. The president was peering toward me, curious about me. And all the while, it seemed I simply had to sit there, filled with such longing for his mind.