He pushed his way through the reporters then, thinking he’d have done much better with a “no comment.”
* * *
“Madam President, how do you respond to Senator Woodrow’s comments?”
Normally Florence Metzger enjoyed dealing with the press, but today she was in no mood for bullshit. “Usually,” she said, “I don’t respond to comments like those, but in Senator Woodrow’s case, I’ll make an exception. A person’s principles are their own. Someone else’s will be different, often a lot different. Woodrow needs to look around and see the world as it is. Not through some distorted nineteenth century lens that wasn’t worth much then and has been getting more and more out of focus ever since.”
She knew that was a good place to stop, but she too charged on. “Woodrow’s main problem is, he was born scared and brought up scared. Scared to look at the world. So he looks at a small weaselly mental picture of it—two-dimensional line drawings in black and white. Not even any grays, just stick figures in black and white. Without faces. And he clings to it in spite of hell, where I do not doubt the proprietor is waiting for him with gleefully shining eyes.”
The rest of the questions were throw-aways. She didn’t even remember them afterward. She was too busy wishing she could withdraw at least that one last sentence.
“Senator, the President had some pretty strong things to say about you this morning. Would you like to respond to them?”
It had been a bad afternoon session, and Riley Woodrow felt testy. He’d have liked to shove the man’s microphone down his throat; or better yet . . .
“Well,” he drawled, “she talked about how hell was waiting for me. I expect she knows quite a bit about hell. She’s got close ties there. You’ve heard of guardian angels? Hers have leather wings. Her problem is, she’s a big, frustrated old maid who never had a date. What she needs is a man, but I wonder if she’s not more interested in that masseuse she hauls around everywhere with her, at taxpayer expense.”
He felt good about his comeback for perhaps eight seconds. But by the time he reached his office, he felt sure his mouth had gotten him in major trouble. To hell with it, Riley, he told himself. You’ve been mealy-mouthed too often. A man’s got to let her rip from time to time.
But he didn’t feel convinced. Not at all.
* * *
Before Woodrow left for the night, the e-mail was piling up. His staff would give him the for-and-against counts after the flow slowed, but of the messages themselves, they showed him only approvals. Which were numerous, for his jabs had been as widely broadcast as the president’s.
The message that counted, though, was by phone. It was from long-time congressman and sometime GOP House Speaker Carl McGrath, six years retired. McGrath had been a senior congressman when Riley Woodrow first came to Washington, had taken a liking to the loquacious rookie and become his mentor and sponsor; had advised him, and gotten him favorable committee assignments. They’d developed a strong personal fondness and closeness, and despite occasional political differences, Woodrow’s respect for McGrath approached reverence. They’d remained close even after Woodrow moved to the Senate, until at age seventy-four, McGrath retired with a heart condition.
Woodrow felt a twinge of discomfort when his secretary told him who was on the line, but he took the call. The face on the screen was pale, and puffy from medication. Woodrow realized with embarrassment how long it had been since he’d called McGrath, and determined to do better.
“Hello, Carl,” he said genially. “I’ve been meaning to call. How’s the world treating you?”
“Not too badly, Riley. I keep taking my medications, and reading. I always used to complain I didn’t have time to read a lot of things I’d have liked to. Now all I’ve got is time.” He chuckled. “Sounds strange, coming from someone eighty years old with a bad heart. But it’s true. I recommend retirement to anyone interested. When they feel ready.”
He paused. Riley Woodrow knew without question why Carl McGrath had phoned him.