Empire

“They killed the President, Aunt Margaret.”

“And they’re hinting that it’s all your husband’s fault.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Good. Then you can listen. Do you think I haven’t been watching the news? How they make such a big deal about the fact that Reuben is the son of immigrants from Serbia? Then they always show a map of Serbia with Kosovo and Bosnia in big letters, as if his family had something to do with the war crimes of Milosevic and his stooges. As if Reuben were some troublemaking Bosnian Muslim. And how they’ve all picked up on the fact that he speaks Farsi. They just can’t let that go. He takes notes in Farsi. He thinks in Farsi. One time, just once, they explain that it was part of his military assignment to learn Farsi. Then they keep reminding people about his fluency in speaking the language of Iran. Never mind that it’s also the language of half of Afghanistan. But you’re only angry because they killed the President.”

“Aunt Margaret, when I was little I thought you were the coolest, smartest grownup in the whole world,” said Cecily.

“That would be right,” said Margaret.

“But I’m trying not to think about it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to dig your head out of the sand.”

“I’m just staying sane. That may not seem such a high priority to you because you’ve never bothered trying.”

Margaret burst out laughing. “Oh, you are so ticked off today!”

“How do the wives of politicians stand it? All the terrible things people say.”

“They’re in the game. Besides, their husbands’ people are usually doing the same thing to the other guy.”

“Well, what can Reuben do? Nothing.”

Margaret let that one pass in silence. For a long minute.

“Nothing?” she said. “Is that what that article in The Post was? Nothing?”

“A lot of good it will do.”

“It spun pretty well. His story is out there. All the innuendoes from the news media, but his story is available and people don’t have to believe what they get pounded with on CNN.”

“So maybe it will do some good.”

“So he’s doing something,” said Margaret. “And you’re… hiding.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

“Your uncle Peter is dead, dear. And he never cared about politics.”

“He cared about it all the time.”

“Yugoslavian politics, yes. American politics, no. The body count was so much lower in America, it was hard for him to stay interested.”

“Come on. Under Tito there was no politics.”

“No national politics. Local got very intense. Anyway, we’re not talking about my late husband the Serbian atheist, God bless him. Remember, you weren’t the first in the family to marry a Serb.”

“We were talking about how you think I’m supposed to do something instead of sitting here nursing an ulcer.”

“That’s not a nice thing to call your little boy John Paul.”

“I don’t work in government anymore, Auntie M.”

“And all the people that you used to know, they died? They emigrated to Ireland or Morocco?”

“Nobody that I knew could possibly have had anything to do with this.”

“But they could have something to do with helping you find out things that will help your husband. For instance, there was a Congressman you once worked for who just got a sudden job promotion.”

“And if I call him right now—assuming I could even get through—he’d assume I’m asking for a job.”

“So you tell him that you’re not, you just want some help, you know your husband did nothing wrong.”

“He knows my husband did nothing wrong.”

“Does he? I didn’t remember you were even married when you worked for him.”

Aunt Margaret was right. In fact, the idea of trying to get Congressman Nielson—no, President Nielson—to help protect Reuben had already occurred to her, in a vague sort of way, but she always pushed the thought out of her mind because she didn’t want to be the kind of person who suddenly calls somebody the minute he becomes President. Office seekers. Hire me, make me important, put me in the White House.

Besides, there was that White House switchboard to deal with. She’d be routed… somewhere.

Not that LaMonte was in the White House yet. He had officially said that the First Lady could take all the time she needed to vacate the White House. In fact, the rumored quote was, “I like the house I live in, and I can commute.” But everyone knew that was a ludicrous idea—it put too much of a burden on the Secret Service, which was already humiliated by having failed to protect the last President.

So where was he? What happened to his staff? No way would he go anywhere without Sandy, the battleaxe who ran his office—and his staff, especially the young wet-behind-the-ears aides like she had been—as if they were prisoners who had just been brought back from an escape attempt. And Sandy might even remember her.

What was Sandy’s last name? She’d always just been… Sandy.

“Where’s the phone?” asked Cecily.

“Long distance? On my telephone? What, is your cellphone out of batteries?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to get involved.”

“Right, you involved, me not paying for anything except the vast quantities of food your children eat.”

“They don’t eat vast quantities, you just cook vast quantities.”

“I want them not to die of starvation like fashion models.”

Cecily got her cellphone out of her purse and then dialed LaMonte’s office number from memory. After all these years.

Except in the meantime he had become Speaker. So the number got her somebody else. That was fine. “I’m such an idiot,” she said. “Can you give me the phone number of the Speaker’s office?”

“Oh, I can give it to you, honey, but it ain’t gonna do you much good,” said the southern woman on the phone. “The Speaker isn’t the Speaker anymore, sweety.”

“But I’m not looking to talk to President Nielson,” she said. “It’s Sandy Woodruff that I want to talk to.”

“Well, she’s with him, of course.”

“But somebody in their old office can get a message to her.”

“By smoke signal maybe, but here’s the number, I was looking it up the whole time I was talking to you, in case you thought I wasn’t.”

“Since when do you have to look up the number of the Speaker of the House?”

“My Congressman is in the other party, sweety. We don’t call the Speaker much.”

“You should have,” said Cecily, imitating her southern drawl. “He’s always been such a dear.”

The woman laughed heartily. “Well, you’re a caution. Good luck on getting your call returned.”

Cecily got through to the Speaker’s office. It was answered by a flustered aide—or perhaps an intern. Somebody who was not deemed important enough to take along to the White House.

“Sandy isn’t available,” said the kid. “But I’d be glad to take a message.”

“Cecily Malich,” said Cecily. “Only when Sandy knew me I was Cessy Grmek. I will definitely have to spell that for you.”

“Oh, no need,” said the kid. Definitely an intern.

“That means you aren’t writing it down, because I assure you, you cannot spell it.”

A faint sigh. A scruffing among papers. Finally: “All right, I have a pencil.”

“Cessy. C-e-s-s-y. Grmek. G-r-m-e-k. Can you say it back to me?”

“Did you leave something out? What I have here looks like a bad Scrabble turn.”

“Say ‘Grrrr’ like a bear. And then ‘mek’ rhymes with ‘check.’ ”

The girl said it twice.

It had the desired effect. She could hear Sandy’s voice in the background. “Cessy Grmek? I thought she was