“A hundred and four, still living at home in Chicago, and taken care of by an aide named Norene Davis.” Hank rolls his eyes. “They weren’t exactly trying to cover their tracks—hoping for some attention is more like it. I just got off the phone with Gladys, and I swear I’m not being arrogant when I say that receiving a call from evil incarnate might have been the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to the old crone.”
“You spoke to her directly?”
Hank nods. “She’s feisty for a centenarian, I’ll give her that. She says you had the procedure under the name Alice Warren.”
“Isn’t this a violation of patient confidentiality or the Hippocratic Oath?”
“Funny you should ask.” I know from Hank’s glib tone that I’ll be unlikely to see the humor in what he’s about to say. “As a matter of fact, it’s abortion that’s a violation of the Hippocratic Oath. Granted, it advocates confidentiality, too, but you know what? When you’re a hundred and four years old, you do what you damn well please.”
I think then of Gladys Wycomb’s white cat’s-eye glasses, her heavy-set build, her chauffeur and her fancy apartment and the gold fleurs-de-lis on the wallpaper in the hall outside it, the hall where, over four decades ago, I vomited into the Christmas vase. Slowly, I say, “And what she wants from me is to publicly malign Ingrid Sanchez?”
“Yeah, no biggie—just that, and while you’re at it, you can remind American show enthusiastically you support a woman’s right to choose.”
“Does Dr. Wycomb know I
said I’m pro-choice?”
“Not for three years, and apparently, your brevity both times was unsatisfying. I get the feeling this gal knows she’s about to kick the bucket, she’s spending a little too much time watching C-SPAN, and she’s had an eleventh- hour vision that she should intervene. She’s framing it as a matter of conscience.”
“By blackmailing me.”
“Again, let me emphasize: She’s a hundred and four, and she probably figures she’ll croak before she sees any legal repercussions. She doesn’t give a”—Hank pauses—“a hoot.” (A perk of being first lady: I’ve never been crazy about swearing, and now the only ones who feel comfortable doing it in my presence are Charlie and Ella.)
“Isn’t she putting Norene Davis at risk of imprisonment, too?” I say.
“The bottom line is you had an abortion. I’m not judging you, Alice, but the American people will. If Norene Davis goes to the clink, she’ll serve a few years, and then think of the media exposure, the book deals. She gets heralded as a champion of women’s rights, and the conservative base is cleaning up the mess for years to come.”
“So instead what? I deny the charge and call Dr. Wycomb a liar?”
“You don’t have to be the one to do it.” He turns to Jessica. “Can you help me out here?”
“What are our other options?” Jessica asks. Jessica is tall and lean, wearing black pants and a yellow silk sleeveless blouse. There is a good deal I admire about my chief of staff, but perhaps most of all her combination of unflappability and warmth; I’ve often found calmness and professionalism to go with an emotional remoteness, but this is not the case with her.
Hank says, “I’m not wild about this idea, and I don’t think the president will be, either, but we can schedule an interview where, in the most oblique way, you go ahead and criticize Ingrid Sanchez. We’ll set it up like it was an unexpected tough question, and if we go this route, woman-to-woman will work best—you’re showing Diane Sawyer how beautiful the Rose Garden is this time of year, she surprises you by asking what you think of the Supreme Court nominee, and you blurt out that you wish Sanchez showed clearer signs of supporting a woman’s right to—”
Jessica is shaking her head. “And what if that’s not enough for Gladys Wycomb? That’ll be the worst of both worlds, if we’ve capitulated and she still talks.”
“I want to go see her.” I stand; the idea has come to me abruptly, but I am certain. “If I leave immediately, I’ll be back in time to do the tour for the children’s choir. I’d like to talk to Dr. Wycomb in person. She was—” I break off. “She was my grandmother’s dear friend.”
“Her loyalty to your family is touching.” Hank looks at his watch. “If there’s nothing you need to do before you leave, the plane’s ready when you are.”
“You already scheduled it?”
Hank smiles. He delights in knowing what a person will want even before the person herself. “For obvious reasons, it’s got to be a baseball cap trip, and we’ll put the word out here that you went to see your mom.”
is our term for trips that are off-the-record—OTR—or at least ahead of time, and that involve as few people as possible. The phrase has its origins in the way Charlie has traveled twice to the war zones overseas: In the dark of night, he left once from the White House and once from Camp David and rode to Andrews Air Force Base in a single tinted SUV, no motorcade, sitting in the back wearing a baseball cap, accompanied by his secretary of state and just two Secret Service agents; even the tiny press pool who joined him aboard
wasn’t told where they were going until midflight. “Jessica, I’m thinking you’re the only one who accompanies her, plus whoever Cal thinks is necessary securitywise,” Hank says. He turns back toward me. “If anyone can sweet-talk this woman out of coming forward, I’m sure it’s you. You go out to Chicago, trade on your personal relationship, flatter her, and ooze sincerity. The disadvantage is if she can’t be sweet-talked, you may have given her credibility by paying a visit, but we can spin that into her being an Alzheimer’s-addled crackpot: She’s right that she saw you, but she invented this abortion business.”
“Hank.” I wait until he’s looking at me directly. “I don’t ooze sincerity. I
