It Came Gift-Wrapped
She turned it over for some obvious clue to what was hidden in it, but no luck.
It was a nice rectangular, ordinarily wrapped box. The gift-wrap was indigo
and there was a silver ribbon on top. It was ordinary. Ordinary except for the
note that came with it.
“Remember Super Super Tuesday? I do. You rocked my world and you rocked
the nation just like I knew you would. I love you, Hidge. Always yours, Bill.”
Hillary had always had a fair sense of humor. She was a mostly dry-witted
person and her jokes tended to be more like a steak knife to another person’s stick pin where insults were concerned,
but she had never been as cruel as this.
She knew a day must have passed since she found this thing, sitting, waiting mockingly on the Resolute Desk. She didn’t want to open it particularly; it could be a threat. She didn’t want to open it actually
because it could be genuine. Bill had always had a tendency to plan ahead, months
in advance even. This could really be a gift from him. It was her birthday after all, the first one without him.
Shakily, she put the post-humus present aside. Later, she’d deal with it later.
She didn’t want to open it now. Sliding her glasses in place, she
went about reading the first briefs of the day that were already stacked up on her desk. Remarks for today’s press conferences;
yesterday’s notes from the economic summit with Northern Ireland, the UHC quarterly progress briefing.
Universal healthcare was chugging along at an encouraging pace. Piece
by crucial piece they were building the infrastructure they’d need to diminish the current insurance nightmare and put
in place a truly effective system. 16 years of fighting and struggling and here she was, finally getting it done.
But she hadn’t done it alone.
Suddenly, she had the keenest feeling that she was being watched. Looking
up quick, she found that her audience was none other than her chief advisor-in-all-things, Evan Bayh. He was leaning against the door, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his tie loose; he looked worked
to the bone, yet infinitely capable of doing more. She liked that look on him.
“Something wrong?”
He shook his head slightly. “Nothing pressing. Believe it or not, I was bored after all that work and came here for a little excitement.”
She snorted. “Yeah, you came to the right place. I’m reading briefing notes. But, by all means, pull
up a chair and be bored with me.” He did just that.
Seated at her left elbow, he looked on with a patented child’s expression as she found something to veto. Only morning and her Vice-President was already out of things to do. Either he was very efficient or very sloppy.
Hillary had a feeling which it was.
It wasn’t long before his attention was drawn to the abandoned gift on the opposite end of the desk. It looked forlorn and unremembered there. He couldn’t
keep his eyes from it, and subsequently, neither could she.
“It’s somebody’s idea of a joke,” she supplied to his silent inquiry.
He folded his musician’s hands under his chin, framing his coming thoughts. “What makes you say that?”
“Note says it’s from Bill.” She folded her mouth into
a flat line. There were many insults that were easy to stomach for her, but this
one was downright cheap. It had made it through enough checkpoints to slap her
right in the face. She wasn’t used to that now.
“Could be,” he offered reasonably. She saw him scanning her
for dents out the corner of her eye. She wasn’t a dropped can of soup. She was as good as she’d been yesterday.
“Probably isn’t,” she retorted. He raised an eyebrow
curiously, but let it pass.
She continued her writing and notating. He continued his inverse sentry duty—guarding inwardly instead of out. Although she never said it aloud, she appreciated his presence. He shut down the echoes some days. He was the antennae that
made the picture clear. She was glad he was the one she’d chosen.
Evan was still king in her thoughts when he abruptly moved to stand. She
started and dropped her pen. He turned apologetically but seemed distracted.
“Evan?” she called out to him, worried.
He set his eyes on her, then on the gift. It was something of an admission,
really. He’d never been much on the downside of anniversaries. “He asked me to give it to you, if he couldn’t be here.
He said it while you were sleeping. I was standing by the door watching
you and Chelsea with him. I asked him if there was anything I could do and he
said to give it to you when it came. He’d always known you’d win
so he’d planned to have it delivered here. I intercepted when it arrived. I couldn’t decide if you really would’ve wanted it from him, or if I was
good enough. Eventually, I figured one last memento couldn’t kill you,
even if it hurt you. I’ve been up since 3 a.m., fighting with myself over
every last detail.” He sounded so guilty and she couldn’t tell why. “He did all the work; picked it, picked the wrapping paper, picked the ribbon.
Hell, he wrote the note. But I knew I’d decide the most important part:
how you found it and when, if anyone would deliver it right into your hands, if you’d be alone when it happened. I picked the Oval Office because I thought that was where he was most alive to you.”
Hillary couldn’t look away anymore, from the strangely plain package. “It’s no joke. It’s
me trying to be a friend to someone who isn’t here now—and to someone who is.”
“You are a good friend, Evan,” Hillary reassured him. She
reached for it, hesitantly. For every inch she reached towards it, it seemed
to get a mile farther away. That is, until he touched her shoulder and laid the
gift in the palm of her hand.
“You’re the good friend and you were a wonderful wife for so long.
You deserve one last chance to remember who he was to you.” He smiled
a melancholy smile before turning to leave her alone. “Happy birthday, Madame President.”
Evan’s voice was lingering still as she slowly unsheathed the box. It
was velvet, somewhat long. She wondered if it was jewelry, something she could
wear and show-off. Was it a necklace? A bracelet?
She was shaking long before it was free of the shopkeeper’s handiwork.
She stroked the soft material and imagined that he had touched it at one point long ago.
She draped herself in all the courage of her father and his father, even a bit of Bill’s own that he’d
shared with her. She knew she could withstand whatever was inside. She had every intention. With a muted pop, the box was open. And with a muted gasp, she cried.
Well, she laughed and she cried.
It was silver and shined to challenge the might of the great sun. It was
solid in her hand but just light enough for her to love it. It was made for her.
He’d said once that every President needed a good pen; one to sign the great laws with and one to send the worst
of ‘em back to hell. No guesses on which this work of art was for. “I have loved with all intention my foe, and loved with all heart my friend. You have always been my friend, and you will always be my heart—WJC.”
She stroked the engraving with a teary smile. She wished he were here.
More than that, she wished she’d waited to veto that bill she’d stamped earlier. It was a doozy. She thought he would’ve wanted his mark
on that.
No matter, there’d be many more for her to summarily refuse. That
was one of the prime highlights of this job.
With an unpresidential sniffle, she tucked the beloved souvenir of a time bygone into her breast pocket; an odd place
for it to be sure, but the closest place to her heart.
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