nearby, Ingrid Sanchez prepares to visit senators; aboard
en route to Columbus, Charlie might be vetoing a bill, deciding to increase or decrease spending or taxes by billions of dollars, conferring on the phone with the prime minister of the U.K. Later this morning, at the breast- cancer panel in a hotel ballroom in Arlington, Virginia, I’ll wear a red linen suit and encourage women to quit smoking, exercise regularly, and schedule yearly mammograms after the age of forty. This afternoon, I will visit with my daughter and give a tour of the White House to a group of forty third-graders who in turn will perform “God Bless America” at tonight’s gala in my honor. I wasn’t born to stand before crowds, to dispense advice or exhort, and after much coaching, I’d say I am only slightly better than adequate as a public speaker. Nevertheless, I attempt to rise to the occasion—I am the wife of the president of the United States, and I try to be a good one.
Charlie will be in office for nineteen more months.
IT IS AT
the end of the breast-cancer panel, during the part when the panelists and audience members have their picture taken with me—I greet the individual, we pose in front of a flag, the photographer’s flash goes off, and we’re on to the next person, all within a matter of seconds—that I see Hank Ucker leaning against the wall near the stage. I feel a flare-up of the fear that accompanies me everywhere, a fear whose omnipresence I recognize by the ease with which it sparks. Just once, in September 2001, was the fear truly justified, and even now I quickly realize that whatever is wrong, whatever has made Hank Ucker show up at a ballroom in Arlington, can’t be life- threatening to Charlie. If it were, I’d be whisked away immediately, shuttled to a bunker, outfitted in a bulletproof vest. (I’ve worn them more than once; above all, they are heavy.)
I glance at the line of people waiting to have their picture taken and try to count how many remain—more than forty—and I gesture to Ashley Obernauer, who is my personal aide. (Ashley is twenty-five and dazzlingly competent.) When she leans in, I say, “Ask Hank why he’s here.”
She soon returns. “He says he wants to chat—his word—with you on the ride back. He didn’t say about what.”
“Your husband is doing such a wonderful job,” a short woman in white polyester slacks, with wavy gray hair, says as we shake hands. “We pray for both of you every night.”
“Thank you.” I turn toward the camera, nudging her a bit as I do, so she’s facing forward, too.
“I’m so honored to—” she starts to say but is cut off by an advance person moving her along.
“Thank you for coming,” I call after her.
Another older woman is next (perhaps a nursing home was bused in?), and she says, “You tell President Blackwell that Mrs. Mabel Fulford says don’t back down one inch from the terrorists.”
“Will do,” I say, and the flash goes off, and I am on to the next person, a woman closer to my own age who says, “I skipped work to hear you today.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I say. There can be a Potemkin feel to these events, the contrast between the enthusiasm and warmth of the people we meet and the overwhelmingly negative coverage from the media of anything having to do with Charlie’s administration. Many constituents also hold a negative view, of course, but they tend not to come to such events unless it’s to protest, and the precautions taken to keep them out are ever more elaborate. For safety reasons, I entered this hotel through the service entrance in the back, but as we drove in, I still glimpsed today’s protestors standing across the street, holding signs and chanting. Usually, they’re chanting antiwar slogans, but I believe that today there were also some placards opposing Ingrid Sanchez’s Supreme Court nomination.
The next woman says, “When is Ella going to marry that boyfriend of hers?”
I laugh. “I’ll let you know when I do.” Camera flash, camera flash, camera flash, and finally, we’re at the end of the line. The event organizers are thanking me profusely, bestowing on me a gift bag that Ashley accepts, and we all are headed out the back doors to the motorcade—Ashley; a deputy press secretary named Sandy; Bill Rawson, who is one of the official White House photographers; a woman named Zinia who is a health policy expert; and six Secret Service agents (more agents wait outside). As we walk, Ashley says, “Alice?” and I holdout my palms; she squirts Purell on them, and I rub my hands together.
Hank has materialized beside me. He says, “America does love its first lady.” My dislike of the term
is well established (though I use it sometimes myself for lack of an alternative, I find it fussy and antiquated), and everyone within the White House calls me simply Alice or Mrs. Blackwell. I give Hank a tight smile. Outside, the June heat assaults us even on the ten-foot walk from the service entrance to the motorcade; a Secret Service agent named Cal holds open the rear door in the third SUV for me. (I avoid motorcades when possible, preferring a few Town Cars, but the breast-cancer summit was a highly publicized event. Before September 2001, I used three cars and six agents for public events; now, in addition to the police escorts, I use five cars and nine agents, an extravagance that no longer seems bizarre. Also after September 2001, my motorcade was granted “intersection control” in Washington, meaning we need not stop at lights.) Hank climbs in after me, and Ashley is about to follow him when Hank says to her, “Ride behind us, will you, Ash? We’ll all powwow back in the East Wing.”
Ashley glances at me, and I think of objecting, but something in Hank’s tone stops me. Fastening my seat belt, I say, “Hank, I thought you’d gone to Ohio.”
“Change of plans.”
“I assume Charlie’s all right?”
“The president’s fine.” Visibly, Hank roots with the tip of his tongue in a molar; above all, he likes to appear unruffled, so his studied casualness in this moment means that
must be wrong. Sure enough, he says, “I got a call this morning. Does the name Norene Davis ring a bell?”
I shuffle through my memory, though the problem is that I no longer know everyone I know. I often feel that I do nothing except meet people; it is fully possible I spoke to someone for fifteen minutes at an event, that I even sat next to him or her for the duration of a meal and we had a pleasant conversation, and that I have no
