Where’s he, upstairs?” Minnie asked a passing aide who was carrying the newest stack of autographed items, from personal letters to a red, white, and blue golf ball, that the President had just finished signing.
“Solarium,” the aide said, pointing up as Minnie headed for the back staircase that would take her the rest of the way.
Minnie always loved the Solarium, which sat above the Truman Balcony on the top floor of the White House and had the best view of the Mall and the Washington Monument.
But Minnie didn’t love it for the view. Or because it was the one casual room in the entire Residence. She loved it because it reminded her of home. Literally.
Lined with old family photos from when she and the President were kids, the narrow hallway that led up and out to the Solarium rose at a surprisingly steep incline. Even with her pink flamingo cane, it was tough for Minnie to navigate. But she still stared as she passed each old photograph-the one when she and ten-year-old Orson are smiling with all the chocolate in their teeth… the one with Orson proudly holding his first cross-country running trophy… and of course, the one right after she was born, with her mother placing baby Minnie for the first time in her brother’s arms. Back then, the side of her face was covered with skin lesions. But little Orson is smiling down, so proud to be the new big brother. Wallace had personally made sure that picture made the list.
“Don’t you dare do that,” Minnie called out to her brother, rapping her cane against the floor. As she entered the room, which was decorated with casual sofas, she saw the problem.
With his back to her, the President stood there, hands in his pockets as he stared out the tall glass windows at the bright glow of the Washington Monument.
“Don’t do that,” she warned again, knowing him all too well.
“You know this was the room Nancy Reagan was in when they told her the President had been shot?” her brother announced.
“Yeah, and I know from the last time you were all upset and moody, it’s also the room where Nixon told his family he was going to step down. We get it. Whenever you start staring out at the monuments or talking about other Presidents, you’re in a piss mood. So just tell me: What’s it this time? What’s in your craw?”
He thought about telling her that Palmiotti was dead. It’d be on the news soon enough-complete with the story of how the doctor was blackmailed and lured down to the caves by the criminal Clementine. But Wallace knew that his sister was still riding the high of the morning’s charity event.
“Actually, I was just thinking about you,” Wallace replied, still keeping his back to her as Minnie hobbled with her cane toward him. “Today was really nice.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Minnie said, smiling the half-smile that the stroke allowed. “Thanks again for coming and doing the speech. It made the event…” She paused a moment, trying to think of the right word. Her brother had heard all of them.
“It felt good to have you there,” she finally said.
The President nodded, still standing there, staring out at the snow-covered Mall. From behind, Minnie playfully tapped his leg with the head of the flamingo cane. “Make room,” she added, forcing him aside. With a sisterly shove, Minnie stepped close to him so they were standing shoulder to shoulder, two siblings staring out at the stunning view.
“It was fun being there. I mean, for me too,” the President admitted.
“You should do it more often then. We have a fund-raiser next month out in Virginia,” Minnie said.
Wallace didn’t reply.
“Orson, I’m
“Minnie, you don’t have to say anything.”
“I do. And you need to hear it. I just want you to know… my whole life… I appreciate everything you’ve given me,” she said, motioning out at the monuments and the Mall. “You’re a good brother.”
The President nodded. “You’re right. I am.”
Minnie rapped him with her pink cane, laughing. But as she followed her brother’s gaze, she realized Wallace wasn’t staring out at the Washington Monument. He was staring
“Who’s that?” Minnie asked.
The President of the United States stared and lied again. “Nobody important.”
118
I know they want to throw me out.
They want to grab me by the nape of my neck and heave me into the trash, like they do in old comic strips.
But as the two Secret Service agents walk me down the paved path that borders the South Lawn, I stay two steps ahead of them. Still, I feel how close they are behind me.
“Taxis won’t stop here,” the agent with the round nose says as we reach the black metal pedestrian gate and wait for it to open. “Go down a block. You’ll be better off.”
“Thanks,” I say without looking back at them.
From the security shed on my right, the female uniformed agent never takes her eyes off me. She pushes a button and a magnetic lock pops.
“Have a safe night,” the agent with the round nose adds, patting me on the back and nearly knocking me through the metal gate as it swings open. Even for the Secret Service, he’s far too physical. “Hope you enjoyed your visit to the White House.”
As I rush outside, the gate bites shut, and I fight the cold by stuffing my hands in my pockets. To my surprise, my right pocket’s not empty. There’s a sheet of paper-feels like a business card-waiting for me.
I pull it out. It’s not a business card. It’s blank. Except for the handwritten note that says:
15th and F.
Taxi will be waiting.
I glance over my shoulder at the agent with the round nose. His back is already turned to me as he follows his partner back to the mansion. He doesn’t turn around.
But I know he wrote that note.
I look down, rereading it again: 15th and F Street. Just around the corner.
Confused, but also curious, I start with a walk, which quickly becomes a speedwalk, which-the closer I get to 15th Street-quickly becomes a full-out run.
As I turn the corner, I’m shoved hard by the wind tunnel that runs along the long side of the Treasury building. At this hour, the street is empty. Except for the one car that’s parked illegally, waiting for me.
It doesn’t look like a cab.
In fact, as I count the four bright headlights instead of the usual two, I know who it is-even without noticing the car’s front grille, where the chrome horse is in mid-gallop.
It’s definitely not a cab.
It’s a Mustang.
I take a few steps toward the pale blue car. The passenger window is already rolled down, giving me a clear view of Tot, who has to be freezing as he sits so calmly inside. He ducks down to see me better. Even his bad eye is filled with fatherly concern.
Just the sight of him makes it hard for me to stand. I shake my head, shooting him a silent plea and begging him not to say
Of course, he listens. From the start, he’s been the only one.
“It’ll be okay,” he finally offers.
