The Hopefuls (10 page)

And it kept snowing all Tuesday and Wednesday, and even I was shocked at how much piled up outside. The whole world was white. “It feels like
The Shining
in here,” I said to Matt, and he replied, “That makes me sort of nervous to be housebound with you.”

I thought maybe this break would be good for Matt. He'd been so stressed about finding a new job that maybe a few days off would be relaxing, but he just seemed antsy. We were both doing a little bit of work—I covered a snowball fight between Georgetown and GW, and Matt answered some e-mails. But after a few days we were bored of sitting in front of the fire and had gone through everything on our DVR.

Our firewood was running low and our food supply was even more pathetic than usual. On Monday and Tuesday, Matt had gone to get us sandwiches at Dupont Market, which was one of the only places that was open. By Wednesday, I couldn't stomach the thought of another one, so I made tomato soup from a can and threw some Goldfish on top. Matt poked at the little crackers as they floated around. “It's storm food,” I told him. He gave me a skeptical look and went back to dunking the Goldfish with his spoon, letting them bob back to the surface.

My phone rang then and I grabbed it, happy for the distraction. It was Ash, calling to invite us over. “I know it's a beast out there,” she said. “But I've got chili on the stove and Jimmy's about to start drinking whiskey. Get over here and save me!”

I watched Matt playing with his crackers and answered quickly, “We'll be over soon.”

We walked to the Dillons' because there were almost no cabs out and the ones that were around had no idea how to drive in the snow. No one did. Cars crept down the street at fifteen miles an hour, fishtailing until they landed with soft thuds against the huge piles of snow.

None of the sidewalks were shoveled, so we walked in the middle of the street. It felt like we were in a ski town.

“It's kind of pretty,” Matt said. We watched a man spin his wheels as he tried to get out of his parking spot.

“In Wisconsin, this would already be plowed.”

“In Wisconsin, this is just a dusting.”

“Very funny,” I said. We put our heads down against the wind and kept walking, listening to our breath and the crunch under our feet.

The Dillons lived in a gated community in Adams Morgan called Beekman Place, which was a development of town houses surrounded by a large stone wall that used to protect a castle. To get inside, you had to stop at a gate out front and have a security guard buzz you in. It didn't feel at all like DC in there; it was more like a tiny secret suburb hidden in the middle of the city.

They'd started renting their town house from a woman in the State Department who was out of the country on assignment. But shortly after they moved in, the woman put it up for sale and they decided to buy it. “We just love it here,” Ash said. “It feels safer than the rest of the city.” She whispered this last part, as if she didn't want anyone in DC to be insulted that she found parts of the city dangerous.

At first, the Dillons' place looked similar to ours and that of every other thirtysomething couple we knew—Pottery Barn–esque carpeting and furniture, with some random flea market bookshelf and one expensive chair that you got as an investment piece, but didn't really want anyone to sit in. But when you looked closer, you noticed that the Dillons' furniture had a little more heft and their rugs weren't the same mass-produced familiar patterns you saw in other apartments, but were actual Orientals. Ash told me that the furniture had been handed down from both families, but that she'd had to re-cover everything Jimmy's parents gave them. “It's some beautiful furniture,” she said. “But good glory does his mother love ugly fabric.”

It was always nice to spend time at their place, although when I returned home, our apartment seemed flimsier in comparison. I could almost feel the couch bending when I sat on it.

By the time we got there, I was excited to wait out the blizzard with the Dillons. We'd barely knocked when Ash answered the door wearing dark jeans and a low-cut red blouse with ruffles along the neck. She was barefoot and had on more makeup than I wore on my wedding day. (Ash was never without makeup, which fascinated me. She called it putting on her face and she did it every morning. Even if she was alone in the house, she had mascara and eyeliner on. At night, she'd smear Pond's cold cream all over her face, letting it sit a minute before wiping it off, and the smell always lingered on her.)

I'd worn a long sweater, leggings, and huge rubber boots to make it through the snow. My hair was in a ponytail and I barely had any makeup on. Suddenly, I felt underdressed for Snowmageddon.

“I loved your snowball fight story,” Ash said without bothering to say hello. Ash commented on my blog posts more than anyone. Her screen name was sparklycowgirl, and I was always worried that people thought she was some sort of stripper. She was the only person (besides my mom) who read every single thing I wrote for the website. Not even Matt kept up with it all. Her comments on my stories ranged from “Girl, you're so right about this!” to “LOL, I'm dying” to “We need to get drinks here ASAP!” It was so obvious from what she wrote that she was a friend of mine, and I was half afraid Ellie was going to say something to me about it. But I didn't have the heart to tell her to stop.

Ash was holding a drink as she ushered us in the door. As we stamped the snow off our feet, I could hear voices coming from the other room.

“Who's here?” I asked.

“Oh, we just invited a few people. We were going stir crazy.”

There were about fifteen people at the Dillons', which made it feel like a full-blown party. Alan Chu was in the corner talking to a guy named Benji, who was the assistant to the President's chief of staff. (Everyone called him Donna, because he had the same job as Donna did on
The West Wing.
) He was a likable twenty-five-year-old, who was petite with dusty blond hair and freckles and looked no older than fifteen. He was always cheerful and had nicknames for everyone—he called Matt “Mr. Kelly,” and Jimmy “the Ambassador.” He and Alan were the most unlikely friends—they were ten years apart and Benji was adorable while Alan was horrendous—but apparently they honestly enjoyed each other's company. I'd commented on their friendship once, how strange their pairing seemed, and Matt had just shrugged. “Politics makes strange bedfellows,” he'd said. “But Benji's not gay,” I'd said, and Matt had laughed for about twenty minutes straight.

The two of them were talking to Lissy, the White House receptionist. She was a pretty girl from Arkansas who had a constant smile on her face, which I guessed must be a requirement for the job. Everyone called her ROTUS (short for Receptionist of the United States), and she seemed to be okay with this nickname, but it always made me think of a strange shape of pasta. Lissy's best friend, Cameron, was across the room talking to some guy I didn't know. Cameron was whip-smart and worked in the communications office. She also rarely smiled and scared me just a little bit, so maybe Matt was right about the strange bedfellows.

Billy (the DCOS) was there too, and was standing next to Jimmy at the bar. Jimmy (who loved to make signature cocktails) was mixing up a pitcher of Frostbites. I didn't know what was in them other than peppermint schnapps, but I did know that I felt warm and dizzy after my first one. The snow made everyone feel festive, gave them permission to act a little crazy. “Have another drink,” people kept saying. “It's blizzard season.”

Ash and Jimmy were great entertainers, happiest when everyone around them was eating and drinking. They were unconcerned with people spilling drinks or recipes turning out perfectly. Unlike me, who felt pressure to have everything in perfect order before a party, they were always inviting people over last minute. Ash's cooking was reminiscent of another time. She fried things in Crisco (“Butter doesn't give it that same oomph,” she explained to me) and served dips made with sour cream, mayonnaise, cream cheese, and dried soup mixes. She loved casseroles of any kind, was always using her slow cooker, and was unapologetic about her Jell-O salads and spaghetti pie and snickerdoodles.

That day, they'd set up a chili bar on their dining room table. The chili was in a chafing dish with bowls of toppings all around—cheese, onions, Fritos, oyster crackers, sour cream, chopped tomatoes. Whenever people felt like it, they'd grab a bowl and eat wherever there was room, standing by the fireplace or sitting on the couch. I watched nervously, waiting for someone to spill a hunk of chili on the beautiful rug, which made me feel silly because neither of them seemed to care.

Everyone loved being at the Dillons' house, and truly, their parties were always the most fun. I remember once watching Ash drop a bottle of red wine in the kitchen, everyone standing paralyzed as the wine went everywhere. I would have been mortified—at most people's homes this would be an incident that could ruin the night, but they just looked at each other across the room, and Jimmy started laughing. “I think the little lady might need to be cut off,” he said. As they mopped everything up with mountains of paper towels that turned red, Ash said, “Good Lord, it looks like a murder scene in here!” And then the party continued.

Ash and I spent most of the blizzard party sitting on the corner of the couch and chatting. Alan came over once to say hello to us, perching on the arm of the couch. I think he knew that we disliked him and felt he should give a little effort. (Or maybe he felt sorry for us because we were only talking to each other and thought he'd take pity on us.)

“Beth, hello,” he said. He was always awkward. Whenever I tried to hug him hello, he stiffened as though I were trying to make out with him, so eventually I just stopped.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Good, good,” he said. “Busy, of course. The boss doesn't rest, but you know that! And how are you? What are you up to these days?”

“You mean, like jobwise?” I said, and he nodded. “I'm still at DCLOVE.”

Alan tilted his head at me and then said, as though he just remembered, “Oh, that website?”

“That's the one,” I said.

“She's their star writer,” Ash said, leaning over to pat my leg. “You should be careful, Alan. She may write an exposé on you!”

The two of us laughed, but Alan just looked uncomfortable and scooted away, which made us laugh even more.

Ash had spent the last weekend of January in Puerto Rico with her high school girlfriends for a bachelorette party. “I am telling you, it's nice to just be home,” she said. “I'm exhausted from all the sun I've gotten this winter!” That Ash could say these things to me with complete seriousness was maybe the greatest proof—along with the album that held the pictures of her as a debutante at her coming-out party, which I often pulled off the shelf to look at when we were there—that she was a true southern belle.

Matt was in a great mood, and I was happy to see him enjoying himself, laughing loudly and gesturing to Megan, the President's personal aide, about something. I wondered how many Frostbites he'd had—he came over at one point to say hi to me and smelled minty as he leaned down for a kiss. I thought maybe I should get him a glass of water, suggest he slow down, but then I looked around at everyone else, and decided there was no reason to worry. Everyone was getting a little sloppy. In the corner, I could see Benji making out with Lissy, and it was clear that the two of them were so drunk they believed themselves to be invisible. Every so often, someone raised a glass and yelled, “Snowmageddon,” and the rest of the party would cheer and raise their own glasses in response, echoing back, “Snowmageddon!” and then drink.

When I was at parties like this, I'd often take a minute and sit back and think, These people all work at the White House. It happened to me a lot during those eight years. And I don't mean that I sat back and was impressed by this. (Although of course it was impressive to work at the White House.) It was more that it was shocking to think that these normal, often overserved, people were important to the country. It was strange to think that they had the same relationship problems everyone else did, beyond weird to watch one of the speechwriters drink fifteen eggnogs at the White House Christmas party and then throw up on the sidewalk outside.

As the night went on, I was aware of people congratulating Jimmy, who was holding court by the bar. (This was another thing I started to notice about Jimmy—how when we were out or at a party, he didn't have to move around the room. He stayed in one place and let people come over to him, which they always did.) At first I thought maybe I'd imagined it, but then I heard Alan say, “This is such a great opportunity for you,” and I turned to Ash and asked her what he was talking about.

“Oh, Jimmy got a new job,” she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head like it wasn't even worth talking about. “Still in the White House, just doing some different things.” Jimmy's new title was Deputy Director of the White House Office of Political Strategy and Outreach, which Ash told me only after I asked specifically. We'd been talking for hours and she hadn't so much as mentioned it.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Who knows?” she answered.

Matt seemed to sober up on our walk home. We weren't the last to leave the party, but we were pretty close. It was just so cold and dark outside, so we kept having one more drink, and I started to think we were going to have to spend the night until finally, a little after 1:00 a.m., we put our coats on and left.

“I can't believe Jimmy got that job,” Matt said. “He didn't mention anything about it before tonight.”

The air was frigid and damp, and I moved my fingers around in my gloves to try to warm them up. “We haven't seen them much,” I said. “Maybe he just didn't get a chance.” But from Ash's evasiveness, I had a feeling there was more to it.