The First Lady

GRACE FULLER TUCKER, First Lady of the United States, takes her time walking through the offices of the East Wing, saying good morning and hello to her young staff members. Her Secret Service detail of two women and one man spread out behind her as she walks forward past her young charges, who are referred to by the news media as “the First Lady’s children.” She always smiles at the joke but never lets on that the little phrase digs at her, a constant reminder she and Harrison will always be childless.

She may be First Lady, a guest on Ellen, a popular subject on the covers of People and Good Housekeeping, and patron of a number of children’s charities, but fate and her husband’s political career have conspired to ensure that she will never, ever be a mother.

Some days, like this one, she almost believes it’s been worth it.

“Morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Tucker.”

“Lookin’ fine, Mrs. T.”

She laughs, touches folks on their arms or shoulders as she passes through, thinking, Yes, it’s been a good day so far. This morning she attended a breakfast meeting at a homeless shelter for kids in Anacostia. There had been plenty of press there, plenty of attention to the overcrowding and lack of funding, and also—unfortunately—plenty of wide-eyed children sitting on mats on the floor, looking up at all of the adult activity, children who have never had a bed or a place to call their own.

Yes, a good meeting and photo op, although she was tempted to tell the assembled news media it was still a national disgrace that a country as wealthy and as smart as the United States hasn’t solved the homeless problem for children, but in the end she kept that opinion to herself. Once, she could have said that to Harry, but he’d stopped listening to her a long time ago.

The offices on the second floor of the East Wing used to be tiny and cramped, off one long, narrow hallway, but the previous First Lady had replaced them with a collection of open-plan cubicles. The only private offices belong to her and her chief of staff.

One of her staff members, Nikki Blue, comes forward, carrying a coffee cup emblazoned with a caricature of the First Lady with a halo and angel’s wings—originally from a blog site that hated her and her husband.

“Thanks, Nikki,” she says, accepting the cup gratefully and taking a small sip. “If Patty could bring me my schedule and—”

Something is wrong.

Something is very wrong.

The talk and chattering is finished. There are whispers and sighs, and this little warren of cubicles is now deadly quiet.

She turns, sees where everyone is looking.

To a trio of television screens, hanging from the ceiling behind her, all tuned to one of the cable news channels.

Someone whispers, “Oh, that son of a bitch.”

Up on the screens is a video of her husband stepping out in an alley somewhere in Atlanta, looking shocked, like a deer at night surprised by headlights, his arm around another woman…

Another woman.

Grace stands stock-still, forcing her legs not to tremble.

The video runs again and again, like some damn marital Zapruder film, Harry being tossed into the back of an SUV by the Secret Service, the woman—fairly attractive, a cold and logical part of Grace admits—being chased into a hotel, through a kitchen, out to the lobby, and then to the front, where she manages to get into a taxi, the camera work jerky and bouncing as they keep pace with her.

The cab, though, is stuck trying to get into traffic, and the woman—now named as Tammy Doyle, a lobbyist with a K Street firm here in DC—is shown turning her head away from the cameras, microphones, and shouting.

Now the video is back to showing the President being ambushed, being pushed into the SUV, being driven away, and now the talking heads are spouting off their views, theories, and deep thoughts—even though this news has just broken minutes ago—and she gasps as hot coffee is spilled on her shaking hand.

Grace brings up the coffee cup.

Oh, she is so tempted to toss it at the nearest television screen.

She turns, forces out a smile to her children.

“I’ll be in my office,” she says. “And can someone answer that darn phone? Let’s get back to work, people.”

Grace goes into her office, softly closing the door behind her and locking it. Her hand is still shaking as she puts the coffee cup down on her desk.

She turns off all the lights, hugs herself, and leans back against the closed and locked door.

She will not cry.

She will not cry.

She won’t give her husband the satisfaction, even if he’s hundreds of miles away from her.

Grace jumps as a phone rings on her desk, and from its tone, she knows it’s her private line and she knows who’s on the other end.

Never in her life has a ringing phone frightened her so.

WHEN HE HAD been running for the state senate back in Ohio, years ago, Harrison Tucker recalled reading a story about Air Force One on 9/11, and how its pilots—desperate to get the President off the ground from Sarasota, Florida—had taken off at high speed, forcing passengers back into their seats, nearly crawling vertically in the air to gain altitude and safety.

Now, as President, Harrison sits in his well-equipped and comfortable office on Air Force One’s main deck, next to his forward suite, wishing this massive and expensive aircraft could fly him somewhere to safety and isolation.

But that’s not possible.

There is no safe haven from what has happened in Atlanta, and the news will get worse with every passing minute. His allies up on Capitol Hill will hesitate to expend political capital on his behalf. The influential columnists and bloggers will reevaluate their support as Election Day draws near. The governor of California will see a chance to turn the race around in his favor. And all of Harrison’s plans and dreams to help those millions down there in the wide expanse of this country…are now in jeopardy.

Sitting on the other side of his wide and polished desk is Parker Hoyt, his chief of staff, the man who has been behind the scenes for years—making the deals, pulling the strings, putting out the fires that took him from the Ohio Statehouse to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. His dark blue eyes are solemn, his gray-white hair crew cut, and he has a hawklike nose mocked by political cartoonists from coast to coast.

Parker gives him a sympathetic glance. “I told you that you’d eventually get caught.”

“I know.”

“I told you that the most-photographed, most-watched man in the world couldn’t get away with having an affair forever.”

“I know.”

“I told you—”

Harrison holds up his right hand. “Damn it, Parker, no more I-told-you-so’s, all right? Give me a plan, a blueprint, something to get me out in front of this story, to get me…out of this mess.”

Parker says, “Well, speaking of this story, we have about a dozen members of the press in the rear of this aircraft waiting for a statement.”

“Let them wait.” Harrison shifts in his seat, looks out the row of five windows, the drape hanging to the left, seeing the empty, wooded landscape of southeast America pass underneath. So much open space in this country…and he has a brief moment of envy, of men his age living down there in small towns, with small homes and even smaller problems.

He swivels his chair back and says, “Parker…”

His chief of staff crisply nods. “All right. We’re going to need to come clean about your relationship with Tammy Doyle.”

A hard, cold feeling settles into his chest. “Can’t we just say she’s…well, a friend? A travel companion? Someone to keep me company on these long trips?”

A brutal shake of the head. “Mr. President, with all due respect, grow up. You’ve tossed a huge piece of raw meat to the press four weeks before the election. They’re going to chase down her background, her travel records, her relationship with you. They’ll match up your campaign stops with trips she’s made to check on her lobbyist clients. That’s step one. Step two, they’ll start talking to people, and people love to talk. All it’ll take is one chambermaid, one room service clerk, one loose-lipped person looking for his or her fifteen minutes of fame, to verify that the two of you spent the night together somewhere, in New Orleans, or LA, or Chicago.”

Harrison sighs. “Never Chicago.”

“Lucky you,” Parker says. “So we need to get ahead of the story, and that means following a script. And fair warning, you’re going to hate it.”

The cold feeling in his chest is still there, but he knows from experience to trust Parker Hoyt. His chief of staff not only knows where the bodies are buried, but also had a hand in putting them there in the first place. Harrison likes to think of himself as a realist—something he told the voters four years ago during his first run for the White House—and knows he wouldn’t be sitting here without Parker’s advice and counsel.

“All right,” Harrison says. “What’s the script?”

Parker nods with satisfaction. “It starts with a phone call to your wife, then a day or two at a retreat, an apology, and then a photo of you walking hand in hand across the South Lawn as you take Marine One to Camp David. Maybe get a prominent religious figure to come spend some time to counsel you. Then some carefully placed leaks to the news media that the First Lady is furious with you, is making you sleep on a couch or in the White House bomb shelter, but that she is open to forgiveness and eventual reconciliation.”

Harrison rubs at his face. “What about Tammy?”

Parker utters an obscenity. “You forget about her, right now, right this minute.”

“But she—”

“I don’t care if she’s Mother Teresa on the outside, the world’s greatest lover on the inside, a political genius, and gourmet cook as well―she’s out of the picture. You’ve got to worry about your reelection, worry about the First Lady. Besides being angry and hurt, she’s now in the mood to cut off your manhood and toss it into the Potomac. And there’ll be a large section of the population…voters, Mr. President…who would cheer her on. We can’t have that.”

Harrison stays quiet. The interior of Air Force One is so insulated and well built that the sound of the powerful jet engines is just a distant whisper.

He says, “Is there any other way?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mr. President…to save your presidency, to continue to serve this nation for the next four years…you need to make the call. Otherwise…well, you’re clearing the way for a West Coast governor to kick you out of the White House in four weeks. The same governor, I’ll remind you, that three hundred leading economists said last month would destroy our nation’s economy if he were elected.”

Parker’s words resonate with him. There’s been progress here and around the world, but there’s still so much more to be done.

And he knows he’s the man to do it.

Parker is right.

He hesitates, picks up the phone, talks to the on-duty communications officer, who has the talents and technical ability to reach anyone with a phone, anywhere in the world:

“Please get me the First Lady.”

BUCK UP, THE First Lady thinks, and with the lights in her office still off, she strides over and picks up the receiver.

“Yes?”

From the crackle and snap of static, she instantly recognizes the call is coming from Air Force One, and the communications officer flying up there somewhere says, “Please hold for the President.”

Grace leans against the edge of her desk.

Waits.

She’s amazed at how calm she is.

“Grace?” comes the voice that used to excite her, intrigue her, and now, for the last years, often disappoints her.

“Yes,” she says, not wanting to say anything more.

More cracks and pops of static. Let him go first, let him set the tone.

“Grace, I don’t know what to say, I mean, I’m so sorry about—”

“Shut up, Harry,” she says. “Save it for your girl, whoever she is.…And who is she?”

“She’s uh, well, we can talk about it when I get back—”

She interrupts him. “Talk? What shall we talk about? Is she the first? Is she? Or is she one in a long line of eager young ladies looking to service the President of the United States?”

“Yes,” he snaps back. “She’s the first. And the only one. And she’s not just—”

“Oh, spare me, Harry, how she’s much more than just a mistress or a woman you’ve cheated with,” she says. “Don’t tell me that this secret, sordid business of yours was so special, so romantic. Are you proud of yourself? Are you? You’ve managed to humiliate me, make a mockery of our marriage, and you’ve also given voters something else to think about when they vote in four weeks. When they get into that voting booth, what are they going to see? The honorable Harrison Tucker, President of the United States, or a cheating husband?”

“Grace, please, I hope we can—”

She talks right over him. “Hope?” she asks, voice rising. “Here’s what you should hope, fool. You better hope that the American voters are stupider than you think, that they’ll ignore the blatant…idiocy of sinking your chances a month away from Election Day. That they won’t sign on with that yogurt-and-granola-loving governor and kick your sorry butt out of the Oval Office. And to drag me down with this…drama of yours. Harry, I won’t have it. I’ve put up with enough from you over the years, from Columbus to DC, and you know the sacrifices I’ve made…what I’ve given up.”

Her voice chokes, finally, and she bites her lower lip to prevent a sob from coming out. And she doesn’t dare tell him what else is on her mind, that all the good work she’s done as First Lady in the past four years—to rescue the most helpless and vulnerable in this nation, fighting for them even when he and his bastard chief of staff wouldn’t—will now be ignored for the gossip-filled stories to come.

The tears are now rolling right along. Harrison has hurt her, but she doubts he knows just how deeply.

Through the static on the phone—coming from Air Force One’s extensive telephone encryption system—her husband’s voice comes through, soothing and apologetic.

“Grace, please…I made a mistake. A serious mistake. No excuse, it’s all on me…but please…can we discuss this, work through this—”