Long May She Reign (71 page)

Well, that didn't mean it was on another continent. And he was going, so how far away could it be? Meg shrugged. “That's okay. I mean, it's the only chance I'm going to get to see him play.” Since her brothers' spring vacation started on Friday, and he wouldn't have any more games until after she'd gone back to school.

“The semester will be over in time for you to come to a couple at the end of the season, if you want,” he said.

Yeah, but she was here
now
, and Steven was pitching today, and what was the big deal?

Her father sighed. “Meg, I really don't think this is the right away game for you to go see.”

Which made very little sense, unless— “Oh, Christ,” Meg said. “They're playing
us
? At home?”

Her father nodded.

With all of the private schools in the Beltway, they had to be playing her old school, on the one day when she was free to go to a game? Didn't that just bloody figure, although, in truth, the Mid-Atlantic Conference was small enough so that it really wasn't
that
improbable. And Christ, it was almost funny, in a wretched sort of way. “I think I should go,” she said.

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I'd prefer that you didn't.”

Had it slipped his mind that she hated being told what to do? “Fine,” she said stiffly. “I'll ride over with my agents, and maybe I'll see you there.”

Trudy made an extremely disapproving sound with her tongue.

Meg scowled at her. “He's treating me like I'm about ten years old.” No, more like
five
years old, because Neal was probably happily en route to the game at this very moment.

“Possibly because you're acting that way,” Trudy said.

Interestingly, she was quite willing to tell the President of the United States to fuck off—but she wouldn't ever be able to bring herself to say it to Trudy.

Her father yanked at the knot in his tie, either because he was trying to redirect some anger, or because it had started feeling as though it was choking him. “Meg,” he said, sounding as though he might be about to
humor
her. “I really wasn't happy about your sitting down with the god-damn
Washington Post
a couple of weeks ago, and you didn't take my advice about
that
one, either.”

Yeah, so he'd been against it; so, what else was new? Jesus, but he was a grudge-holder. Had he always been that way? “The story hasn't even come out yet,” she said. “She might do a good job.”

He nodded. “Yes, and won't she—and the rest of the mob—enjoy framing it around the scenario of your returning to the school for the first time.”

Scenario.
Fuck
. One of her post-traumatic triggers. He wouldn't have been mean enough to choose that word intentionally, but she had a feeling that his subconscious might have done exactly that.

“Meg, why don't you go get cleaned up and decide whether you really do feel well enough to go out,” Trudy said. “And, Russ, maybe you should give Maureen a call, so she can steer the press away, in case any of them pick up on the fact that you two might be heading someplace other than over to the hospital for a checkup.”

The Wise Elder, trying to do her thing, with a hostile audience.

She thought about staying in her room for the rest of the afternoon—and maybe the evening, too, but then, brushed her distressingly unruly hair, put on a Williams sweatshirt, and limped back out to the hall. It would be nice if she could have called Preston, and invited him to come, too, and be a buffer, but that wasn't a viable option with him in the West Wing now. Anthony might tag along, but she barely knew the guy, so that wouldn't help much.

Her father was waiting by the private elevator, still in his suit. Normally, he would have changed into something more casual, and probably be wearing a Red Sox cap, but with the suit, the press would be less likely to guess that they were going to the game. Her brothers' schedules were tightly embargoed these days, but it wouldn't take the laziest reporter in town much time to look up the local interscholastic sports schedules and figure out whether Steven had a game this afternoon, and where it was being played.

It went without saying, of course, that terrorists could easily do the exact same thing.

Along with nasty little tenth graders in Nebraska.

There
was
a quick burst of “Hey, where are they going?!” activity outside the South Portico, but her father just smiled and said hello, and she did the same, except that when someone asked how her knee was, she added a “Fine, thank you.”

Once they were in the car, and pulling away, they sat quite far apart, and other than her father asking whether her leg was comfortable, and her saying yes—even though it wasn't, neither of them spoke.

She could never remember feeling awkward in front of her father before. Somewhat estranged.

All right,
afraid
.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked.

“You're mad at me, Meg,” he said.

That didn't mean that it didn't go both ways.

They were cruising past the gates, and for a second, she felt a retroactive panic attack coming on, but she gulped it down, because she was pretty sure that if her father caught on, he would have the cars turn right around and go back without a second thought.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, looking out the window on her side. A number of tourists were standing around on Seventeenth Street, watching the small motorcade go by, most of them taking pictures of the cars, and presumably speculating about who might be behind the tinted windows.

“I was swinging at her last night,” Meg said, “but I think I was aiming at
you
.”

Her father nodded, unhappily. “I know that, Meg.”

Which might explain his very long stay in the Presidential dressing room, and current inability to sit next to her without fidgeting. “Does Mom know, too?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “In her way, she can be surprisingly bright.”

Oh, good—humor. Things would be so much more bearable if they could all sometimes remember the concept of humor. She glanced at his agents up in the front seat, who, in typical Secret Service fashion, were going out of their way not to listen. There was an unspoken covenant that protectees had to be able to have otherwise private conversations, and try to live their lives, in front of their agents, who, as reluctant but necessary witnesses, were never supposed to reveal anything they might have overheard.

“It's ironic,” her father said, “that, in essence, you're angry at me precisely
because
I put your well-being, and that of your brothers, above everything else.”

With that particular spin, she felt rather petty. And yes, she could see the irony. “You spent about seventeen years running interference between the two of us,” Meg said, “you know, trying to keep the peace and all, and when she finally actually did something really awful, I wasn't even very upset about it.”

Her father nodded. “I know. It's a little infuriating.”

Of this, she had no doubt. “Please don't be mad at me,” she said, “okay?”

He shook his head. “I'm not, Meg. Stop worrying about it.”

Yeah. It wasn't as though she had any good
reasons
to be worried. It made her sick to admit it, but— “Sometimes I'm scared of you now,” she said.

He looked startled. “What?”

“You,” she said. “Preston. My agents.” Except for Paula and Nellie. “My god-damn political science professor, because he has dark hair and he's in his thirties.” Although her political science professor probably
was
a threat, but only an academic one.

For the second time in less than twelve hours, she saw tears in her father's eyes.

“You'll never have any reason to be afraid of me, Meg,” he said. “Not ever, under any circumstances.”

She knew that, intellectually. She was safe with her father. And Preston. And, probably, her agents. Martin, for sure. Garth. Mr. Gabler.

Jack? Maybe.

She hoped so.

“I need to feel better about you,” Meg said.

Her father tilted his head.

“Men, in general,” Meg said. “I don't want to start seeing you as people who are mean to women.”

Her father sighed. “If I may say so, women are generally mean right back to us.”

Only when provoked—although she might be displaying a little gender favoritism there.

“And in my own defense,” he said, “I haven't been in my thirties for quite some time now.”

His hair wasn't all that dark anymore, either. In fact, during the past two years, it had turned frighteningly grey. Her mother had aged in office, but it was much more visible with her father. Alarmingly so.

She indicated her own hair. “How much of that is from me?”

Her father grinned wryly. “About a third. Your mother and Steven took care of the rest, although Mark's probably responsible for a big chunk.”

Her too often ne'er-do-well ski-bum uncle. “None from Neal?” she asked.

“A patch as big as a dime,” her father said.

Yeah, that sounded about right.

She looked at him, not completely sure what she was thinking, or how she felt. When she was little, her father had been the one person, other than Trudy, around whom she always felt protected. The person who was always
there
. In direct contrast to the person who, more often than not, wasn't.

“I know it may not seem that way,” her father said, “but your mother and I are actually working very hard to—we're working extremely hard.”

It sure as hell didn't
show
. She glanced at the two agents in the front seat, neither of whom appeared to be paying any attention to them whatsoever. Even so, she lowered her voice. “Do you think a woman could have gotten me to crawl?” she asked. She had told them, the night before, about having to drag herself down the hall to the filthy little room after her knee was dislocated, the guy watching, and smiling, every inch of the way. Amused. Triumphant, even. Although she hadn't really gone into depth about the fact that she had had to cry from the pain, handcuffed hands covering her face, in the unrealistic hope that he wouldn't be able to tell. “I mean, if she had a gun? Or was it because he was so much bigger, and we both knew he could turn it into rape, whenever he wanted?”

Her father's shoulders noticeably hunched. “I think a gun makes all the difference in the world.”

Maybe, but physical size, and sexual menace, didn't hurt. “It was weak,” she said.

“It was
sensible
,” her father said.

But not exactly valiant.

He let out his breath. “As you pointed out to your brothers this morning, you had to use your instincts, Meg.”

Unfortunately, her instincts generally sucked.

“I suspect there were moments when defiance helped you,” he said, “but that there were many others when it only would have resulted in your being even more seriously injured, or him deciding that it would be less trouble just to go ahead and—” He stopped.

Kill her.

“You have a superb mind,” he said, “and you had the good sense to use it.”

One man's opinion. They were very close to the school now, and with unfailingly bad timing, she realized that he was right, and it was a terrible idea for her to have come, and that it was going to be too scary, and she might have to ask to be driven home, without even taking the risk of getting out of the car.

“He had to handcuff, starve, and
injure
you, repeatedly, with God knows how many armed accomplices for backup, to get you to cooperate at all,” her father said with great intensity. “And despite stacking the deck in every way he could, how'd it play out?”

She really didn't like this conversation anymore. Or this entire
day
, for that matter.

“You beat the son of a bitch,” her father said. “He's the one sitting around right now making excuses and second-guessing himself.”

Or, possibly, sitting around and dreaming up a fiendish revenge plot.

“He had every possible advantage at his disposal,” her father said, “and you beat him in front of the entire world, with a god-damn
rock
.” He smiled unexpectedly, in a way that made him look very much like Neal. “Not to sound too much like your brothers, but it was
excellent
, Meg.”

Her father never spoke that way—particularly not when he was in full formal First Gentleman regalia, and it was both jarring and amusing to hear such an adolescent sentiment come out of his mouth. “You need to go with ‘
wicked
excellent,'” she said, “to get the full effect.”

Her father nodded, took a small leather pad with a Presidential Seal on it out of his pocket, and wrote a note to himself—which would have been much too goofy, if she hadn't known that he was kidding.

They were at the school now, pulling into the driveway in front of the administration building. It was too late to change her mind, and she followed her father out of the car, letting him support her elbow while she tried to get her crutch planted properly.

Her brothers had gotten there ahead of them, because she could see some of their agents, along with a couple of DC police cars, and people from the school security staff. Her old headmaster, the Upper School principal, and the academic dean all came outside to meet them, and she figured that the White House must have called ahead to—yeah, there was Anthony, standing next to the administration building.

She was dreading a “We are
so
sorry about what happened to you, it's all our fault” encounter, but they just told her how happy they were to see her, asked how she was liking college, and shook hands with her father. And they
did
seem really happy that she was there, actually.