The First Counsel (43 page)

I reach for the knob of the heavy metal door, knowing it's supposed to be locked. When I turn it, there's a thunk. And it gives. It's open. I pull open the door and leap inside.

My eyes quickly scan the length of the bowling alley. Lane, pins, rack of balls. "Nora, are you--"

My heart stops and I take a step back, bumping into the door just as it slams me from behind. There. On the floor. Hidden behind the scorekeeper's table--her legs dangle out and I see the edge of her skirt. Her body's motionless. Oh, God.

"Nora!"

I race around the table, slide down on my knees, and scoop her into my arms. From her nose, two thin streams of blood run down her face, collecting on her top lip. Her face is white. "Nora!" I lift her head and shake her. She lets out a soft moan. Unsure of my CPR, I slap her on the cheek. Again. And again. "Nora! It's me!" Out of nowhere, she starts to laugh--a dark little giggle that sends a cold chill down my back. She flips her right arm wildly through the air, crashing it down over her head and slamming her wrist into the polished floor. Before I can say another word, her laugh turns into a cough. A wet, hacking wheeze that comes straight from the lungs.

"C'mon, Nora, pull it together." Frantically, I grab the front of her blouse, including her bra straps, and pull her up straight. As she flops forward, a wave of clear vomit shoots out of her mouth, all over my shirt. Startled, I let go, but as her coughing gets louder, she's able to sit up by herself.

I wipe her insides from my tie, and she looks up, her eyes half closed, her neck bobbing and sagging uncontrollably. Her whole body is in slow motion.

She starts talking, but nothing makes sense. Just mumbles and slurred words. Slowly, it starts coming back. "Then . . . I'm not . . . you gotta be . . . Special K . . . Just some K . . ."

Special K. Ketamine. Congrats to Rolling Stone. I remember the article like it was yesterday. Snort it like cocaine and, depending on how much you take, you're gone from ten to thirty minutes.

"How much did you do, Nora?"

She doesn't answer.

"How much, Nora? Tell me!"

Nothing.

"Nora!"

Right there, she looks at me--and for the first time, I see recognition in her eyes. Blinking twice, she cocks her head. "Did we fool 'em?"

"How much did you take!?"

She closes her eyes. "Not enough."

Okay, that's a response--she's coming back. I glance down at my watch--five minutes to start, plus four minutes of intro. I race to the phone, call the operator, and ask her to beep Trey with a message. Rushing back to Nora, I help her to her feet.

"Lemme alone," she says, pulling away.

I grab her by the shoulders. "Don't fight me on this! Not now!" Seeing that she's about to fall, I shove her onto the seat at the scorekeeper's table and slap her again on the cheek--not too hard--I don't want to hurt her. Just enough to . . .

"Please don't hate me for this, Michael. Please."

"I don't want to talk about it," I shoot back.

On the scorekeeper's table, I see her open purse. I dump out its contents as fast as I can. Keys, tissues, and a small metal lipstick tube that, thanks to the incline of the table, is now rolling toward me. I catch it just as it falls. Looks like lipstick, but . . . I pull off the lid and see the white powder. How can she simultaneously be so smart and so stupid? Unable to answer, I reseal the tube and shove it into the small groove that holds pencils. Right now, there are more important things to deal with.

Snatching the tissues, I rip them open, spit into one of them, and like every mother does to every kid, wipe Nora's face. The blood from her nose is fresh. It rubs away easily. With my right hand, I brush the hair from her face, but it falls right back. I brush it again and tuck it behind her ear. Anything to make it stay. Once the hair is out of the way, I hold up her chin and get a better look. The edge of my shirtsleeve takes the last bit of throw-up from the corner of her mouth. The way her lips are sagging, I know she's still not there. But appearance-wise, as I check the rest of her, it's not too bad. She's leaning forward, with her elbows resting on her knees. Crash position. Still, all the vomit's on me. She's clean. And Dateline's waiting.

I run back to the phone and once again call the operator. She tells me my message was sent to Trey. He still hasn't responded. They must be starting. "Nora, get up!" I shout, rushing to her side. I grab her by her wrists and try to pull her to her feet. She won't help; she just sits there. "C'mon!" I yell, pulling harder. "Get up!" She still won't budge.

Circling around to the back of the scorekeeper's seat, I throw my tie over my shoulder, slide my arms under her armpits, and when I have her in full Heimlich, I lift as hard as I can. She's all deadweight. There's a sharp pop in my back, but I ignore it. Sure, I'm tempted to just leave her and let her hang--fourteen strikes and you're out. The thing is, if I don't get her on this show . . . Shit. Sometimes I hate myself in this place. It's a damn TV show. All this bullshit for a TV show. "Nora, for Godssakes, stand up!"

With one final yank, she's up and out. We can still make it, I tell myself, but the second I get her upright, her legs give out under her. We tumble forward, completely off-balance. With a thud, she's back on the floor--both of us flat on our asses.

As I watch her, we're both breathing heavily. However we got here, our chests rise and fall at the exact same pace. Searching for distinction, I slow my breathing and break away. For the next thirty seconds, I keep her sitting upright, watching the color come back to her face. I don't have a choice--if we want to get out of here, she needs a minute. Slowly, she picks her head up. "I mean it, Michael--I didn't mean to break my promise to you."

"So this just happened by itself?"

"You don't understand."

"I don't understand? You're the one who--"

Before I can finish, the door to the bowling alley swings open and Trey steps in carrying a compact and a blush brush. I'm tempted to be relieved--until I see who's following him. Susan Hartson. Despite the atomic hairspray, her light brown hair bobs angrily against her shoulders, and in the fluorescent light of the bowling alley, her facecake of makeup no longer hides her sharp features. Refusing to touch anything, she steps into the room like a mother stepping into a fraternity house.

"Can she make it?" she barks.

"They just hit the intro," Trey tells me, rushing forward. "We've got three minutes."

I pull Nora to her feet, but she's still off-balance. Catching her, I let her take a second. She's propped against my shoulder with her arms hooked around my neck. It takes her a moment, and she's still leaning, but she quickly wins the battle to stand up straight.

At the same time, the First Lady fights her way past Trey, stepping forward until she's face-to-face with her daughter. And me. Without a word, Mrs. Hartson licks her thumb and angrily spit-shines the last remnants of blood from Nora's nose.

"Sorry, Mom," Nora says. "I didn't mean to--"

"Shut up. Not now."

I feel Nora tense up. Within a breath, she's standing on her own. She lifts her chin and looks her mother in the eye. "Ready to go, Mom."

Following the acidic smell, the First Lady glares down at the vomit on my shirt, then, without moving her head, lifts her steady gaze to look me straight in the eyes. I'm not sure if she's blaming me or just studying my face. Eventually, she blurts, "Think she can do it?"

"She's been doing it for years," I shoot back.

"Mrs. Hartson," Trey jumps in, "we can still--"

"Tell them we're on our way," the First Lady says, her eyes never leaving me.

Trey darts for the exit. Turning back to her daughter, the First Lady grasps Nora's arm and pulls her toward the door. There's no time for goodbyes. Nora leaves first and Mrs. Hartson follows. I just stand there.

When they're gone, I look over my shoulder and see Nora's purse on the scorekeeper's table. So damn stupid. Shoving the keys and tissues back inside, I notice the silver metal tube that looks like lipstick. If I leave it out, someone'll find it. Good--maybe that's the best way to help her. For a full minute, I don't move, my mind playing through the consequences. This isn't a rumor about a backseat in Princeton. This would be drugs in the White House. My eyes focus on the shiny metal tube, watching it gleam as the ceiling lights bounce off it. It's so polished, so perfect--in its convex curve, I see a warped version of myself. Me. It's all up to me. All I have to do is hurt her.

Right.

Like a little kid playing jacks, I scoop up Nora's tube, grip it in my fist, and with a short prayer, shove it deep down in my pants pocket, praying this isn't the moment I'll forever look back on with regret.

* * *

A quick stop in the men's room sends the rest of Nora's Special K down the sink before I finally head back to my office. For the next hour, my eyes are glued to my small TV. Hartson's schmoozing must've worked--Stulberg's opening ran over by a solid two minutes, giving Nora just enough time to change into a new dress and put some blush on her cheeks.

As expected, most of the questions go to the President, but Stulberg's no dummy. America loves the family--which is why the sixth question goes to Nora. And the seventh. And the tenth. And the eleventh. And the twelfth. With each one, I hold my breath. But whatever she's asked, whether it's about her indecisive post-graduation plans, or what it's like moving back into the White House, Nora takes it in. Sometimes she stutters, sometimes she tucks her hair behind her ear, but for every answer, she's all poise and smiles--never an argument. She even gets in a joke about being called the First Freeloader, a subtle moment of humility that'll have the Sunday talk show pundits gushing over themselves with praise.

At nine o'clock it's over, and I'm honestly amazed. Somehow, as always, Nora pulled it off--which means any minute now, someone's going to . . .

"What kind of medal do I get?" Trey asks as my office door swings open. "Purple Heart? Medal of Honor? Red Badge of Courage?"

"What's the one for when you take it in the gut?"

"Purple Heart's for when you're wounded."

"Then that's the one you get."

"Fine. Thank you. You get one too." Reaching my sofa, Trey collapses in it. We're both deathly silent. Neither of us has to say a word.

Eventually, though, I give in. "Did the First Lady say anything to you?"

Trey shakes his head. "Like it never happened."

"What about Nora?"

"She mouthed a thank you on the way out." Sitting up straight, he adds, "Let me tell you something, my friend--that girl is Queen of the Psychos, know what I'm saying?"

"I don't want to get into it."

"Why? You're suddenly so busy?"

There's a loud knock on my door.

I glance over at Trey. "Who is it?" I call out.

The door opens and a familiar figure steps inside. My mouth goes dry.

Reading my expression, Trey looks over his shoulder. "Hey, Pam," he says nonchalantly.

"Nice job on the interview," she replies. "They're still celebrating in the Dip Room. Even Hartson looked relaxed."

Trey can't help but beam. My eyes stay locked on Pam. I can read it in her smile. She has no idea what we've seen. Or what we know.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Nothing," she replies. "Meanwhile, did you see the online poll NBC did with the Herald? After the interview, they asked one hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be Nora Hartson. Nineteen said yes because they could get away with whatever they wanted. Eighty-one said no because it wasn't worth the headache. And they say our education policy is having no effect? Please--eighty-one of them are Einsteins."

Avoiding a response, I keep it calm. "Trey, don't you have to get Mrs. Hartson off to that fund-raiser?"

"No." He's hoping to stay and watch the show.

I give him a look. "Don't you have a hobby or something you're supposed to be working on?"

"Hobby?" he asks with a laugh. "I work here."

I tighten the look.

"Fine, fine, I'm out of your way." Heading to the door, he adds, "Nice seeing you, Pam."

Cat's out of the bag. She knows something's up. "What was that about?" she asks.

I wait for Trey to shut the door. With a slam, he's gone. Here we go.

Chapter
28

What's going on?" Pam asks, standing in front of my desk.

I'm not sure where to begin. "Are you . . . Have you ever . . ."

"Spit it out, Michael."

"Have you been listening in on my phone line?"

She drops her briefcase, letting it sag to the floor. "Excuse me?"

"Tell me the truth, Pam--have you been listening in?"

Unlike Nora, Pam doesn't detonate. Instead, she's confused. "How could I possibly listen in?"

"I heard your phone--I saw how it works."

"What're you . . . What phone?"

"The phone in the anteroom!"

"What are you talking about?"