Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

With one final, gentle tug, Nora pulls the bow back across the A string. The moment she’s done, she looks to me, searching for a reaction. Her eyes are wide with nervousness. Even at this, it’s not easy for her. But as soon as she sees the grin on my face, she can’t help herself. Lifting herself up on her toes, she bounces up and down on the balls on her feet. And even though she covers her smile with her fingers, her bright eyes blaze through the room, making even the Graceland curtains look like Renaissance art. Those beautiful, beaming eyes-so clear, I can practically see myself. I was wrong all those other times-this is the first time I’ve seen her truly happy.

I jump to my feet, clapping as loud as I can. Her cheeks flush red and she takes a mock bow. Then the applause gets louder. “Bravo!” someone shouts from behind me-outside, in the hallway.

I spin around, following the sound. Nora looks up, over my shoulder. Just as I spot them, the applause quadruples. Five men-all of them in bureaucratic blue suits and unbearably sensible ties. Leading them is Friedsam, one of the President’s top aides. The other four work under him. They must’ve been up here briefing Hartson, who loves to do after-lunch meetings in the Solarium. From the satisfied looks on their faces, they see their eavesdropping as another perk of the job.

“That was terrific,” Friedsam says to Nora. “I didn’t know you played.”

I turn back to see her reaction. It’s already too late. She forces a smile, but it doesn’t fool anyone. Her jaw’s locked tight. Her eyes glisten with tears. Clutching the violin by its neck, she blows past me toward the door. Friedsam and the white boys part around her like the Red Sea. Racing after her, I make sure to get close to Friedsam. “You leak it and I’ll make sure Hartson knows it’s you,” I hiss as I pass.

Chasing Nora up the hallway, I retrace my original steps back to her bedroom. There’re no guards up in the Residence, which means I can run. As I pass the Solarium, I tell myself not to look. But like a modern-day Orpheus, I can’t help myself. I glance to my left and spot the President sitting by the wide windows, flipping through paperwork. His back’s to me and… Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?

Before he turns to face me, I open the door to Nora’s room and step inside. She’s sitting at her desk, staring at the wall. With the constancy of a human metronome, she’s mindlessly bouncing her bow against the front edge of the desk.

“How you doing?”

“How do you think?” she shoots back, refusing to look up.

“If it makes you feel any better, I really loved the song.”

“Don’t rationalize with me. Even an animal knows it’s in a zoo when the visitors show up to gawk.”

“So now you’re in a zoo?”

“That music was for you, Michael. Not them. When they walk in and see it, it’s like they’re… ” She pauses, clenching her teeth. “Damn!” she shouts as she pounds the bow against the desk. As it hits, the bow snaps in two, and even though it’s still attached by the strands of horse hair, the top half flips forward, knocks over a silver pencil cup, and sends its contents spilling in every direction.

There’s a long silence before either of us says anything.

“Now what’re you gonna do for an encore?” I finally ask.

Nora can’t help but laugh. “You think you’re a real Mr. Funnyman, don’t you?”

“When you’re born with a gift… ”

“Don’t talk to me about gifts.”

Stepping toward her, I toss aside the broken bow and take her hands in mine. But as I lean down to kiss her forehead, I realize I had it wrong. It’s not that she identifies with what’s missing. Nora Hartson identifies with what’s destroyed. That’s why she can walk into a crowded room and find the one person who’s all alone. That’s why she found me. She recognized the hurt; she recognized herself.

“Please, Nora, don’t let them do this to you. I already told Friedsam that if it leaks, I’ll nail him through the toes.”

She looks up. “You did?”

“Nora, two weeks ago, I got pulled over with ten thousand dollars in my glove compartment. The next day, a woman who I had just been arguing with was found dead in her office. Three days after that, I learn that I let a known killer into the building on the day she died. This morning, I spend two hours trying to meet with this supposed killer, and I’m eventually stood up. Then, this afternoon, for the first time since this whole damn shitstorm started, you played me that song, and for three whole minutes… I know it’s cliché, but… it didn’t exist, Nora. None of it.”

Watching me carefully, she doesn’t know what to say. She wipes the side of her neck, like she’s sweating. Then, finally, she points to the broken bow that’s sprawled across her desk. “If you want, I’ve got another one in the cabinet. I can, uh… I know a lot of songs.”

I sleep so lightly the following morning, I hear all four newspaper deliveries. Between each one, my mind churns back to Vaughn. When the fourth one hits, I toss aside the covers, head straight for the front door, and gather the morning’s reading. Section by section, I open and shake each newspaper, wondering if something will fall out. Nineteen sections later, all I’ve got are fingers black with newsprint. I guess it’s still tomorrow at the zoo.

Waiting for Trey to call, I look over and notice the front photo of the Herald . A shot of Hartson from behind the podium as he gives a labor speech in Detroit. Nothing to really e-mail home about-except for the fact that, over his shoulder, there’re only five or six people in the audience. The rest of the seats are empty. “Trying to Connect” the caption blares. Someone’s going to lose his job for this.

A minute later, I pick up Trey’s call on the first ring. “Anything?” he asks, wondering if I’ve heard from Vaughn.

“Nothing,” I say. “What’s going on there?”

“Oh, just the usual. I assume you’ve seen our front-page hari-kiri?”

I look down at the photo of Hartson and the empty crowd. “How did that even-”

“The whole thing is bullshit-there were three hundred people on the left and right of the photo, and the empty seats were for the marching band that was getting into place-the Herald just cropped it for effect. We’re demanding a retraction for tomorrow-because, you know, a four-line apology buried on A2 is far more effective than an ass-sized full-color on page one!”

“I take it the numbers aren’t looking good?”

“Seven points, Michael. That’s it. That’s our lead. Take away two more-which, once the wires pick up the photo, is exactly where we’re gonna be-and we’re officially in the margin of error. Welcome to mediocrity. Enjoy your stay.”

“What about the Vanity Fair story? Any response on that?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear? Yesterday in California-California of all places! — Bartlett apparently used his First Family/family first quote on a religious radio station. The callers ate it up.”

“I didn’t know they still had religion in California.”

There’s a long silence on the other line. He must be getting reamed for this one.

“I assume you’re planning something drastic?” I add.

“You should hear it around here. Last night, it got so bad, someone actually suggested putting the whole First Family on TV for a live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview.”

“And what’d they decide on?”

“Live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview. If America’s really concerned that Nora’s out of control or that the Hartsons are bad parents, the only way to tackle it is to prove it wrong. Show ’em the entire family unit, throw in a couple Aw, Dad s, and pray that all’s well once again.”