Notes and Disclaimers in Part One
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Ten Years Later
What the hell?
Somebody just knocked on the door. I squint at the clock. At...5:36 in the morning. I thought only I was crazy enough to get up this early on a Saturday. Even Josh won't get up for another hour, and he's the Chief of Staff. I peek out the window, and quickly open the door.
"Oh my God!"
"Buon giorno, bella Mamma Donnatella!"
It's Adi, with his own take on a dopey "Josh-grin" plastered across his face. I poke him, laughing. "Get in here, Casanova."
"If you insist." He picks up his worn duffel bag and hefts it inside.
"What are you doing here?"
"Our editor gave us a week off."
"Did you get fired? Were you stealing things?"
He laughs. "No. I'm not hallucinating, either. We went into the office, Stan took a look, and said, 'You guys look like shit. Take some time off. I don't want to see your sorry asses in here for a week.' So we left. You don't turn down time off, especially with Stan."
"I'm glad he has some sense. You do look tired." I take a closer look at him. We haven't seen him in months. He's wearing standard overseas reporter gear: jeans, a sweater, scuffed boots, and one of those flak-jacket-like things they all seem to have. I must say, though, he looks good. What? I'm a step-mom. I'm biased. So sue me. His hair's much shorter, though; he buzzed it. I can understand why; when you're trying to avoid landmines or gunfire, the last thing you want to worry about is bed head. Not that you'd be doing that anyway in that situation, but...you know what I mean. I'll just miss comparing him with Kramer in the mornings, is all.
He's too skinny, too. I glare at him. "Don't they make sure you eat over there, when you're risking life and limb in the name of the Pulitzer and journalistic excellence and whatever the hell else it is you do?"
He grins. "The scoop doesn't wait for breakfast, Donna."
"Well, it should. Breakfast is-"
"-The most important meal of the day," he groans. "I know."
"Well, remember. I have enough trouble getting your father to eat properly. I never thought I'd have to worry about you with that."
"Yes, ma'am." He salutes.
"Good," I say. "Breakfast. Come on through to the kitchen. Banana pancakes?"
He's got that hopeful look in his eyes, the one that makes him look about six, the same one Josh uses. I can't resist it from either of them. "With whipped cream and caramel sauce?" he asks pleadingly.
"Yes, you big lug. Come on."
I've been thinking about Donna's pancakes for weeks. See, she mashes bananas and puts them in the batter, and then she cuts up more and puts them on top, with the caramel and the whipped cream, and walnuts, and...
"What?" She asked me a question.
"I said, you said 'we.' Does that mean Phil's with you?"
"Yeah. He went into town to do...something, I don't know. He'll be here in a while. You mind?"
"Mind? Why should I mind? He's only been invading our home for six years, why should one more time make a difference?"
I laugh. It's true. I've known Phil since my freshman year at Princeton. He's from Australia, so, obviously, he didn't go home very often. He stayed with us instead. We were roommates for three years; we got each other through Wilson. By Wilson, I mean Princeton's Woodrow Wilson School for Public and International Affairs. Sam just about did the tango with Toby when we both got in; Dad was pretty proud, too, although he was still upset that I didn't consider transferring to Harvard. I did my grad stuff there, too, while Phil went and did a course in photojournalism. Afterwards, we teamed up, walked into all the big papers, and tried to get ourselves a job. Donna laughed when we told her the stuff we went through. I think it reminds her of how she started working for Dad.
Believe it or not, we got a job at the NY Times; and yes, we did it without mentioning we're on a first-name basis with the President of the United States. Stan did get this glazed-over look when I told him later, though. I made it clear that I don't have any inside info on what's going on with Sam and the White House, and surprisingly, Stan's left us alone. But I digress. Slightly.
Anyway, what happened was that one of the foreign correspondent teams had just gone to another paper, and we were willing to go anywhere, places where nobody else really wanted to go. So we got the job. Donna kind of freaked, but after awhile Dad brought her around. I think he reminded her that he is, in fact, the Chief of Staff of the United States at the moment, and he can pull any number of strings if things get really bad. Not that I'll let him, though, unless it's absolutely necessary. I think the reasoning that by the time Sam's second term runs out, we'll have progressed to somewhat safer assignments also entered the argument at some point.
"And how is dear Philip these days?"
"Dear Philip is fine, charming his way through the world's hellholes. As usual."
"What, he isn't saving himself for your sister?"
I choke on my coffee. "Are you sure you want to say stuff like that when Dad is, you know, hypothetically within hearing distance?"
"He's clueless, not blind, Adi. Eventually things penetrate."
"Yeah, and we all have to scramble for the fallout shelter when they do. What? Phil likes to argue. And snark. And, as you know, Norah is quite adept at doing both."
Donna sighs. "Yes. She is, unfortunately, her father's child."
Banana pancakes. Donna's banana pancakes. I would know that smell anywhere. I wonder why she's making them today. As best I can recall, we didn't do anything particularly mind-blowing last night.
Who cares. You don't question the banana pancakes. I pull on a shirt and head downstairs. "Hey, Donna, what's with the-"
Then I notice Adi sitting at the table. I brighten. "Hey, it's the prodigal son! Should've known. Get over here, Cronkite."
"Dad, I'm not entirely sure Cronkite was, you know, an actual reporter."
"Hey, everyone has to start somewhere. Anyway, shut up and give me a hug." We embrace, manfully, of course, and I look him over quickly. "You look good, kid. Anything missing or blasted off I should know about?"
"Josh."
"What?" I meet Donna's dark gaze as Adi doubles over in mirth. "It's a simple, perfectly valid question."
"Do not even suggest such a thing, Joshua."
I hold my hands up in defeat. "Actually," Adi says, "I'm fine."
"Good," I say, as I sneak around Donna in an attempt to steal some pancakes. After 20 years, though, she knows all my maneuvers. Hell, she knew them in 20 minutes, practically.
"No, Josh. Cereal. Yogurt. Fruit."
"Donna! It's Saturday."
"Yes, it is. And as you are so fond of telling me, the world is open on Saturday. All the little wheels of the universe are still turning. "Including," she says pointedly, "the ones that cause your blood pressure to rise and plaque to build up along your arteries. So shut up and sit down."
Adi's sitting there laughing his head off. "Things are in a sad state of affairs if the second most powerful man in the United States can receive neither respect nor the right to exercise free will in his own home," I grumble.
"Josh, you do realize that if I let you exercise free will as regards your eating habits, the stress would have killed you by now, and then Sam would misplace the state of Florida. If I let you indulge every day, you would also likely no longer have a fan club and, most importantly, you would have a significantly higher level of sexual frustration."
"And why is that?"
"Because, sugarplum," she says smugly, "if such a situation were actually the case, I would consider it my wifely duty to safeguard you from unnecessary exertion."
What can a guy say to that? I eat cereal.
"If you even think about selling this to the National Enquirer, Cronkite, you're dead."
I swear to God, I have no idea how these two spent 25 years in each other's company without killing each other. For an innocent bystander such as myself, though, it's quite entertaining.
"And anyway," Donna continues. "These are not for you. They're for Adi and Phil."
"Stieglitz is here? Excellent. I can argue."
Donna rolls her eyes. "They're supposed to be resting, Joshua. They were dodging landmines a few days ago."
"How do you dodge a landmine? I thought the whole point of landmines was stealth."
Donna holds the pan above his head. "Okay, okay," he says quickly. He makes a show of digging into his cereal. "Plus, I can argue without Norah jumping into the middle. And without worrying about her jumping into anything else," he mutters.
Donna and I exchange grins. "Actually, Josh," she says, "you might just have to."
"Why?"
"I called her," I say, trying to keep a straight face. She's coming home for the weekend."
"Fabulous. And it started out such a fine day."