First Lady (8 page)

Instead of responding, he turned the key in the ignition.

“I wouldn’t take off yet, Jorik,” Lucy said. “Butt needs a good half hour for her food to settle or she’ll hurl again.”

“Damn it, we’re never going to get out of here.”

Nealy didn’t think he should be using that kind of language in front of a teenager, no matter how foul-mouthed she might be herself. Still, it wasn’t her concern.

Lucy yanked off her headset. “Turn on the air-conditioning. It’s hot.”

“Have you ever heard the word
please
?”

“Have you ever heard the words
I’m hot as hell
?”

Lucy had pushed him too far. Instead of turning on the air-conditioning, he shut off the engine, got up from the driver’s seat, and calmly pocketed the keys. “I’ll see you ladies in half an hour.” He let himself out of the Winnebago.

It
was
warm inside, and Nealy lifted an eyebrow at the teenager. “Nice going.”

“He’s an ass.”

“He’s an ass who just left us without air-conditioning.”

“Who cares?”

When Nealy had been Lucy’s age, she’d been expected to dress neatly and carry on polite conversation with world leaders. Discourtesy would never have occurred to her. The teenager was beginning to fascinate her.

The baby had begun to smear her gooey fists into her blond fuzz. Nealy looked around for some paper towels, but didn’t see any. “How am I supposed to clean her up?”

“I don’t know. With a washcloth or something.”

“Where are they?”

“Someplace. Maybe in that drawer.”

Nealy found a dish towel, wet it at the sink, and, under Lucy’s watchful eyes, began wiping up the baby’s hair, only to discover that she should have started with her hands. As she worked, she tried not to notice the drooly smiles coming her way. Finally, the child was reasonably clean.

“Take her out of her seat and let her crawl around for a while.” Lucy sounded thoroughly bored. “She needs some exercise.”

The rug didn’t look very clean. Thoughts of typhoid, dysentery, hepatitis, and a dozen other diseases ran through her mind, and she glanced around for something to set her on. She finally found a machine-made quilt in one of the overhead bins at the back of the Winnebago, and she spread it on the floor, between the couch and the table. Her hands fumbled with the straps on the baby seat before she got them to release.

She braced herself, just as she always did when she had to pick up an infant.
Don’t die. Please, don’t die.

The child kicked and let out a happy squeal as Nealy lifted her from the car seat. She felt warm and solid beneath her hands, blissfully healthy. Nealy quickly set her on the floor. The baby craned her neck to look up at her.

Lucy had stopped making even a pretense of listening to her Walkman. “You shouldn’t have bothered with the blanket. She won’t stay on it.”

Sure enough, the baby shot forward on her hands and knees. In seconds she was off the blanket heading for the front of the motor home.

“If you know so much, why don’t you take care of her?” Nealy enjoyed the novelty of being rude. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to snap at everyone who offended her?

The baby pulled herself to her feet, using the driver’s seat for support, and began cruising on two wobbly feet balanced by one small hand smeared with dried green peas.

“What do you think I’ve been doing since my mother died?”

Nealy felt terrible. “I didn’t know about your mother. I’m sorry.”

Lucy shrugged. “No big deal. Leave that alone, Butt.”

Nealy saw the baby had edged forward and was standing on her toes to reach for the gearshift. The infant turned toward her big sister, grinned, and plopped her fist into her mouth.

“I’m not calling her Butt,” Nealy said.

“Then how’s she going to know you’re talking to her?”

Nealy refused to get drawn into an argument. “I have an idea. Let’s give her another name. A nickname.”

“What kind of nickname?”

“I don’t know. Marigold.”

“That’s so lame. “

“It may be lame, but it’s better than Butt.”

“She’s doing it again. Move her.”

Nealy was getting tired of taking orders from a teenager. “Since you know her behavior patterns so well, it would probably be better if you watched her.”

“Yeah, right,” Lucy scoffed.

“I think it would be best. You’re obviously good with her.”

Lucy’s face reddened beneath her makeup. “I am not! I can’t stand the little brat.”

Nealy regarded the teenager closely. If she disliked the baby so much, why did she keep such a watchful eye out for her?

Baby Butt—Baby
Marigold
—reached for the gear-shift again. Nealy dashed forward, slipped her hands under the child’s arms, and carried her over to stand by the couch. The baby steadied herself with one hand and craned her neck toward her big sister, who was determinedly ignoring her. She let out a demanding squeal for attention.

Lucy bent her head and began picking at the blue nail polish on her big toe.

The baby shrieked again, even louder.

Lucy continued to ignore her.

Another shriek. Louder still.

“Stop it! Just stop it!”

The little one’s face crumpled at her sister’s anger. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered.

“Shit!” Lucy jumped up and stalked from the motor home, leaving Nealy alone with a heartbroken baby.

“Tell me it’s my imagination and that pinging coming from the engine isn’t getting worse.” Mat glanced over at Nealy, who was sitting in the passenger seat. They’d been on the road for about an hour, but he’d seemed occupied with his own thoughts, and it was the first time he’d spoken to her.

“I haven’t been paying attention.” She’d been too busy enjoying the rural scenery.

“Let’s stop,” Lucy said. “I want to go to a mall.”

“I don’t think there’s a mall near here,” Nealy replied.

“Like how would you know? And let me drive. I know how to drive this thing.”

“Quiet,” Mat said, “or you’ll wake up Butt.”

To Nealy’s relief, the baby had finally fallen asleep in her car seat. “Her name is Marigold.”

“That’s stupid.” He reached for the can of root beer he’d taken from the small refrigerator. She’d already noticed that he was something of a root beer addict.

“Butt doesn’t like it, either,” Lucy said, “but
She
doesn’t care.”

Nealy had been relegated to
She
twenty miles ago. “Well, that’s just too bad because it’s what I’m calling her.”
She
felt another surge of pleasure at her glorious rudeness. Imagine being able to talk to members of Congress like this.
Sir, the only thing that smells more than your breath is your politics
.

Quiet settled over the motor home, which Lucy had informed her was named Mabel. Even this broken-down Winnebago had a better name than that baby.

Mat glared at the road, his head cocked to the side as he continued to listen for engine noises. Nealy realized she was enjoying herself, despite the less-than-desirable company. A beautiful summer day with no receptions or formal dinners ahead of her. Tonight, she wouldn’t have to put ice packs on her hands to recover from another receiving line.

Soreness from too many handshakes was the bane of political life. Some Presidents had even developed their own systems for protection. Woodrow Wilson put his middle finger down, then crossed his ring and index finger above it so no one could get a good grip. Harry Truman grabbed the other person’s hand first and slid his thumb between their thumb and index finger to control the pressure. Ida McKinley, wife of President William McKinley, held a bouquet so she didn’t have to shake hands at all. But Elizabeth Monroe, the beautiful but snobbish wife of the nation’s fifth president, had an even better system. She simply stayed away from the White House.

Public figures developed lots of little tricks to make formal occasions more tolerable. One of Nealy’s favorites came from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. When she wanted her aides to rescue her from a boring conversation, she simply switched her handbag from right arm to left.

“I want to go to a mall.”

Where was that handbag when you needed it? “Why don’t you listen to your Walkman?”

Lucy tossed down the bag of chips. “I’m sick of that. I want to do something fun.”

“Do you have a book to read?”

“I’m not in school. Why would I read a book?”

Mat smiled. “Yeah, Nell. Why would she want to do that?”

Books had been Nealy’s most faithful companions as a child, and she couldn’t imagine anyone not enjoying reading. She wondered how parents entertained children when they traveled. Although she was the First Lady of the United States—the symbolic mother of the country—she had no idea.

“Would you like to draw?” she asked.

“Draw?” It was as if Nealy had suggested she entertain herself by playing with a dead rat.

“Do you have some crayons? Colored pencils?”

She snorted and continued picking at her toenail polish.

Mat shot Nealy an amused glance. “It’s the millennium, Nell. Crayons and colored pencils are old-fashioned. Ask her if she wants drugs and a handgun.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s funny.” Lucy looked up from her toe. “The first funny thing I’ve heard you say, Jorik.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular Jim Carrey.”

Lucy got up off the couch. “We have to stop. I’ve got to pee.”

“We have a toilet. Use it.”

“Forget it. It’s gross in there.”

“Then clean it.”

Lucy’s lip curled with disdain. “As if.”

Mat looked over at Nealy. “Clean it.”

Nealy looked back at him. “As if.”

Lucy giggled and Nealy smiled at the sound.

“Sit down,” he ordered Lucy. “And buckle up. There are belts on that couch. Use ’em.”

She grabbed her Walkman and carried it to the rear of the motor home, where she flopped down on the double bed, shoved the headset back on, and banged her fists against the wall to the rhythm of the music.

“Nice kid,” Nealy said. “I’m sure she’ll do well for herself in prison.”

“If she wakes up the Demon, I’m going to kill her before she can get there.”

Nealy studied him. “I’ve never traveled with kids, but I think you’re supposed to plan frequent stops to keep them from getting bored. Scenic areas, playgrounds, zoos.”

“If you see a sign for a snake farm, tell me right away so I can drop off all three of you.”

“You’re a very cranky man.”

“And you’re awfully cheerful for a woman who only has twenty dollars in her wallet and just had her stolen car stolen.”

“It wasn’t stolen, and earthly possessions are nothing but obstacles standing in the way of our spiritual enlightenment.”

“Is that so?”

“Lucy said her mother died. When was that?”

“About six weeks ago. The woman never had any sense. She was driving drunk.”

“What about the girls’ father?”

“Fathers. Lucy’s father was a one-night stand. The Demon’s father was Sandy’s last boyfriend. He died with her.”

“That must be why Lucy’s so hostile. She’s trying to cope with her mother’s death.”

“I don’t think so. My bet is that Sandy died for Lucy a long time ago. I think she’s mainly scared, but doesn’t want anybody to see it.”

“It’s nice of you to watch out for them, especially since you don’t seem too fond of children.”

“Nothing wrong with those little girls that some good concrete blocks and a real deep lake won’t fix.”

She smiled. People always put on their best faces for her. It was nice to be around someone so cheerfully perverse. “What do you do for a living? When you’re not driving around children who don’t belong to you, that is.”

He took another sip from his root beer and set the can back down before he answered. “I work in a steel mill.”

“Where?”

“Pittsburgh.”

She settled back into the seat, thoroughly enjoying the novelty of chatting like an ordinary person. “Is it interesting? Working in the steel industry?”

“Oh, yeah. Real interesting.” He yawned.

“What do you do?”

“This and that.”

“It’s incredible the way the industry is reviving despite competition with the Japanese. It’s strange, though, to realize Indiana is our leading steel producer now instead of Pennsylvania. And Pennsylvania isn’t even in second place.”

He was staring at her, and she realized she’d revealed too much. “I read about it in the
National Enquirer
,” she said quickly.

“The
National Enquirer?
”

“Maybe it was the
Philadelphia Inquirer.
”

“Maybe.”

A stab of resentment shot through her. She’d spent too many years watching every word she said, and she didn’t want to have to do it now. “I have a photographic memory,” she lied. “I know all kinds of trivia.”

“Too bad you couldn’t remember your car keys.” He took another swig of root beer. “So Pennsylvania’s number three?”

“Number four, actually, after Ohio and Illinois.”

“Fascinating.” He yawned again.

“Would you like me to drive so you can nap?”

“You ever drive one of these things?”

She’d driven tanks, both American- and Russian-made. “Something similar.”

“Maybe I will. I had a lousy night’s sleep.” He slowed and pulled off onto the shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Lucy called out from the back.

“I’m taking a nap. Come up here and torture Nell for a while so I can have the bed. You can teach her all the dirty words you know.”

“Quiet, both of you. You’ll wake up B—Marigold.”

Lucy came forward as Mat vacated the driver’s seat, and before long, they were back on the road. The miles slipped by, but instead of enjoying the scenery, Nealy found herself wondering exactly what was happening at the White House.

The late afternoon sunlight slanting through the tall windows of the Oval Office fell across the polished shoes of Secret Service Director Frank Wolinski. He took a seat in one of the Duncan Phyfe chairs that sat near a nineteenth century landscape. The President’s chief advisor stood near one of the inner office doors, all of which had shell-shaped niches above them, while James Litchfield had taken a chair by a pediment-topped outer door.