Henry and Elizabeth talk about Hanson after the Correspondents' dinner.
Updated 10/22/2023
"Elizabeth, can you believe that? The sonofabitch had the nerve to call me Elizabeth! I'm the President of the United States!" I'm watching her pace around our bedroom in the residence from the bench at the end of our bed. It's the only safe place she has to voice her unfiltered thoughts these days. She is filled with righteous anger, her fists are clenched, and her back is ramrod straight. She has an edge to her voice, the edge she used to get during her time at the CIA. I don't tell her to calm down. I know it's my job to listen. I will never know what it's like to be a woman in a position of power. I have spent the last 32 years of our marriage listening to how men treat her. Most of the time, it makes me want to go all caveman, but I know that's not helpful. It also helps that I know my wife will break a nose if someone goes too far. Andrada found that out the hard way.
"And he just sat there looking smug after my speech, pissed off that people liked it!" She's getting louder now. I stand to hug her so nobody hears her yelling about a sitting senator. She doesn't need that leaking in the news. Not when Hanson already hates her. She does that thing she usually does by not hugging back but not moving away, either. I feel her take a breath, and her posture shrinks. She lays her head on my shoulder and arms around my back.
"It just never ends. I'm the president and still dealing with the good ol' boys club bullshit." She's quieter now. She sounds resolved in the fact that sexism won't ever leave her.
"Why can't more men be like you?" It's a fair question. I want to tell her I'm not a perfect man. I've been guilty of misogyny, too. Sure, it hasn't been extreme, but I'd be lying to say that I didn't underestimate women while I was in the Marines or that I've never made one of our daughters change outfits.
"You've never made me feel unsafe or inferior to you. You helped me raise our daughters to be strong and independent. You are a good man, Henry McCord." She's read my mind once again. I'm amazed every time she does that.
"And you are a good President, Elizabeth McCord." I remind her. I try to remind her of that often. As of late, the news cycles have been filled with nothing but harsh and unfair criticism. She deserves to be reminded that her best is good enough. She looks doubtful. I'm not sure she believes me.
"You wake up every day and give your best to this country. You are and always have been a great patriot. You amaze me more and more by the day. You. Are. A. Good. President." I punctuate the last sentence with a kiss between every word. She gives me a small, thoughtful smile. The anger in her eyes slowly dissipated.
"Thank you," she whispers. I lead her to bed and hold her. I'm reminded once again of how small she is. It never ceases to amaze me how big she can make herself look. The secret isn't in the heels or the blazers but in her confidence.
"I love you, Henry," she says sleepily.
"And I love you, Elizabeth." And I do, endlessly and overwhelmingly.