daughter. However, since the invitation smelled totally rotten, I was obligated to go. Showered, dressed in narrow pink pants
and fuzzy halter. At precisely seven o’clock, parked the Corvette in front of Senator Perle’s castle a few miles up the Potomac.
Wide balconies, a chandelier in every leaded window: she obviously didn’t need a husband for economic survival. A man stopped
me at her front stoop. Holster under the arm, audio pickup in left ear: armed guards, and she hadn’t even been named vice
president yet. “Leslie Frost,” I told him. “The violin teacher.”
“Leslie Frost,” he repeated into the intercom, poising me in front of the camera.
Senator Perle answered. She wore the same dress as that morning, but without the power belt. Her hair was still perfectly
glacéed but the twenty-four-hour makeup was nearing the end of its shift. I had not seen her wearing glasses before. She looked
her age. “Thank you for being punctual,” she said as a second guard ran a metal detector over my bra. “My daughter is waiting.”
Aurilla’s unnamed assistant, a pastiche of earth tones, emerged from a large first floor office. “Have you met Wallace?” her
boss asked.
“Gretchen’s so excited that you’re here,” Wallace assured me, crushing my hand as if it were a stress relief ball. “So am
I.”
“Hold my calls,” Aurilla commanded. I followed the proud mother to a beautifully appointed parlor. It was like the senator’s
hairdo: not an atom out of place. Looked less like a room than an extension of its owner’s will. In the middle of the carpet
lay a mound of French fries.
“Gretchen dear,” said Aurilla, stepping over them, “this is Miss Frost.”
Motionless as a doll, arms resting on the chair as if it were her throne, a girl of maybe eight watched my approach. One was
tempted to ruffle the flyaway black hair, pat her adorable cheeks, until one saw the eyes. I understood why Aurilla had thanked
me for arriving on time. “Hello,” I said.
The girl spat. We both watched a gob of potato cling to my thigh before dropping to the carpet.
“Gretchen!” Aurilla snapped. “Miss Frost is a famous musician! Shake her hand!”
Sliding off the chair, the girl extended her hand. I was about to shake it when she tried to kick me. Bad move, even for an
eight-year-old. I caught her foot and flipped her to the floor. Luckily, the French fries cushioned her fall. “Nice to meet
you,” I said.
Neither of them moved so I tuned the violin lying on top of the sofa and ran a few scales up and down. Aurilla had bought
her daughter an expensive instrument. “Get up and play something,” I said after a while, handing it to her.
“I don’t want to.”
Wouldn’t a mother have rushed to her humiliated flesh and blood, screamed for the security guard, had me thrown out? Conversely,
wouldn’t she have reprimanded the girl again? Aurilla merely stood in place with that ghoulish, plastic smile.
“Don’t play, then,” I shrugged. Tucked the violin under my chin and, strolling about, began a Paganini caprice. Nothing in
this room told me anything about Senator Perle except that she had money and a ruined daughter. Eventually I cut short the
fireworks. “How long have you been studying?” I asked the girl, yanking loose hairs out of the bow.
“Four years.”
“Like it?”
“No.”
I resumed playing, waiting for Aurilla to make her move. Why did people in this town always have to involve a third wheel
in their petty machinations? I wandered to the window. In the driveway, three black cars had come to a halt. Two men alit
from the first and last vehicles. The four of them fanned out, adroitly taking positions along the perimeter of Aurilla’s
property. The rear door of the middle car opened. Four men in suits clustered a fifth, hustling him to Aurilla’s front door.
As the bell rang, I smiled at my own stupidity: textbook Secret Service. Aurilla had
and fuzzy halter. At precisely seven o’clock, parked the Corvette in front of Senator Perle’s castle a few miles up the Potomac.
Wide balconies, a chandelier in every leaded window: she obviously didn’t need a husband for economic survival. A man stopped
me at her front stoop. Holster under the arm, audio pickup in left ear: armed guards, and she hadn’t even been named vice
president yet. “Leslie Frost,” I told him. “The violin teacher.”
“Leslie Frost,” he repeated into the intercom, poising me in front of the camera.
Senator Perle answered. She wore the same dress as that morning, but without the power belt. Her hair was still perfectly
glacéed but the twenty-four-hour makeup was nearing the end of its shift. I had not seen her wearing glasses before. She looked
her age. “Thank you for being punctual,” she said as a second guard ran a metal detector over my bra. “My daughter is waiting.”
Aurilla’s unnamed assistant, a pastiche of earth tones, emerged from a large first floor office. “Have you met Wallace?” her
boss asked.
“Gretchen’s so excited that you’re here,” Wallace assured me, crushing my hand as if it were a stress relief ball. “So am
I.”
“Hold my calls,” Aurilla commanded. I followed the proud mother to a beautifully appointed parlor. It was like the senator’s
hairdo: not an atom out of place. Looked less like a room than an extension of its owner’s will. In the middle of the carpet
lay a mound of French fries.
“Gretchen dear,” said Aurilla, stepping over them, “this is Miss Frost.”
Motionless as a doll, arms resting on the chair as if it were her throne, a girl of maybe eight watched my approach. One was
tempted to ruffle the flyaway black hair, pat her adorable cheeks, until one saw the eyes. I understood why Aurilla had thanked
me for arriving on time. “Hello,” I said.
The girl spat. We both watched a gob of potato cling to my thigh before dropping to the carpet.
“Gretchen!” Aurilla snapped. “Miss Frost is a famous musician! Shake her hand!”
Sliding off the chair, the girl extended her hand. I was about to shake it when she tried to kick me. Bad move, even for an
eight-year-old. I caught her foot and flipped her to the floor. Luckily, the French fries cushioned her fall. “Nice to meet
you,” I said.
Neither of them moved so I tuned the violin lying on top of the sofa and ran a few scales up and down. Aurilla had bought
her daughter an expensive instrument. “Get up and play something,” I said after a while, handing it to her.
“I don’t want to.”
Wouldn’t a mother have rushed to her humiliated flesh and blood, screamed for the security guard, had me thrown out? Conversely,
wouldn’t she have reprimanded the girl again? Aurilla merely stood in place with that ghoulish, plastic smile.
“Don’t play, then,” I shrugged. Tucked the violin under my chin and, strolling about, began a Paganini caprice. Nothing in
this room told me anything about Senator Perle except that she had money and a ruined daughter. Eventually I cut short the
fireworks. “How long have you been studying?” I asked the girl, yanking loose hairs out of the bow.
“Four years.”
“Like it?”
“No.”
I resumed playing, waiting for Aurilla to make her move. Why did people in this town always have to involve a third wheel
in their petty machinations? I wandered to the window. In the driveway, three black cars had come to a halt. Two men alit
from the first and last vehicles. The four of them fanned out, adroitly taking positions along the perimeter of Aurilla’s
property. The rear door of the middle car opened. Four men in suits clustered a fifth, hustling him to Aurilla’s front door.
As the bell rang, I smiled at my own stupidity: textbook Secret Service. Aurilla had
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