•••••I’m staring at the door to the Oval Office, about to go in for the final time, to say my farewell to the President. There’s a peep hole in the staff door, so the President’s assistants can see if he’s deep in conversation with the Nobel Prize winner or movie star du jour, or if he’s looking restless and waiting for someone to come in and break up the meeting. (He doesn’t like to be the bad guy. That’s what staff is for.) But I know there are no celebrity visitors today. Today it all comes to an end.
•••••I glance at Betty Currie’s desk and it’s clear for the first time I can remember - no papers waiting for his attention, no schedules, no agendas. Tan packing boxes are everywhere, stacked along the walls, neatly sealed and labeled, reaching almost to the ceiling.
•••••She looks plenty tired herself, and I notice that Socks is not in his usual place lying by the French doors in the sun. Betty knows I’m looking for the President and we both turn to that door. It’s closed.
•••••“Is he with someone, Betty?”
•••••“No, he’s free, and I’m sure he’d like to see you - go on in.”
•••••I square my shoulders, tug at my suit jacket, and take a deep breath. I push open the white, paneled door and notice absently that my hands are shaking. Damn! This is going to be hard.
The President looks up, gives a weary smile. “Hi, Melinda. I’m glad you came by.”
•••••He looks exhausted, his normal ruddy color faded to ashen. Of course, I’ve seen the President worn out before. We have all seen him beaten down more than once, and seen him recover - every time- even from the “troubles” of 1998. But never like this. This time his eyes carry the sad realization that now we are truly at the end. This time his weariness is shocking. For weeks he’s exceeded even his normal hectic pace, getting little sleep and wearing out the staff. He’s working like a madman to do, do, do, all the last remaining things that have simmered on his agenda, some for years, against time that is now run out. Eight years may be enough for some presidents, but not for Bill Clinton. He’s been working to solve America’s problems forever, it seems. The idea that his time at bat is now over must be intolerable.
•••••I laugh a little as I realize, I don’t look that great myself. We’ve all been pushing ourselves to get one final thing done for him - the brilliant transition he asked for - and I’m about dead from the effort. Exhaustion is simply a garment we all wear, hanging loosely over our aching bones. We keep going with the promise that soon (soon!) there will be plenty of time to rest all we want.
•••••It’s Friday, January 19, 2001. At 11:59 a.m. on Saturday he will stop being President and become simply “Mr. Clinton.” There will be a new sheriff in town, a new family up in the Residence, testing the mattresses and admiring the art, and a new man in the Oval Office, sitting at the Resolute desk, being addressed as “Mr. President.” It’s breaking my heart to turn over the Visitors Office, my baby that I have nurtured for all eight years with my time, energy, sweat, sacrifice, imagination and determination. But giving up the Presidency? I can hardly imagine.
•••••He stands, stretches, steps to the front of the desk and reaches out to hug me. I go right into his arms and stay there for a moment. Finally, we pull apart, wipe our eyes, give a small sigh. I manage a sad grin. “This is finally it, Mr. President. I can’t believe it. Where has the time gone? Eight years? It feels like only eight months!”
•••••“Well, it’s been a hell of a ride, hasn’t it? A hell of a ride ... and I’m so glad you came along for the whole deal. What a time we’ve had. Who would have imagined all those years ago at Georgetown that we’d get to do... this ...”
•••••He looks down at the desk, gently brushing his fingers over the gleaming surface. His eyes are distant, looking either back at our amazing adventures, good times and bad, or forward at some imagined future; I can’t tell which. Then he gives a little shake, smiles and says, “I’m glad to see you - I have something for you. Only the folks who came along for the whole ride are getting these.”
•••••He holds out a narrow, rectangular white box. I open it with careful hands. Inside, nestled on cotton, is a small gavel, about 7” long, made out of honey-colored wood, with a brass band around the crown. I take it out and hold it up to the light.
•••••“It’s beautiful, but, what is it?”
•••••“Read the band,” he says with a sly grin.
•••••“President William J. Clinton, January 20, 1993. So, it celebrates your first inauguration?”
•••••“It’s made out of the wood they used to build the platform I stood on to take the oath of office. There are only a few, and I wanted you to have one.”
•••••I shiver, and the hairs on my arms stand up. Tears threaten my eyes again. This is our final gift exchange in the Oval Office, and it’s pretty swell.
•••••“Thank you, Mr. President, I love it! And I have a gift for you too.”
•••••I reach for the folder I’d laid on the desk. There hasn’t been time to wrap my present, but he won’t care. For years I’ve shopped on eBay for White House memorabilia, building my own impressive collection and buying things for the President’s birthday or Christmas gifts. I can’t compete in the gift area with his rich friends. I mean, Stephen Spielberg gave him a Norman Rockwell painting of the Statue of Liberty for Christmas 1999! But I seem to be the only one who knows how much he loves old books or publications about the White House and Presidents, and where to find them. I’ve gotten amazing things online, for very little money. His favorites are articles clipped from nineteenth century magazines, often with elaborate illustrations, about his predecessors, or the White House. Sometimes I find these at flea markets, but eBay is my best source. I look there almost every day. I enjoy the hunt (and the shopping). This “going away” present is another of these historic documents, and his eyes light up when he sees it.
•••••“Where in the world did you find this? 1885 - just look at these pictures of the House back then. This is great!”
•••••“eBay, Mr. President. I’ve become an expert at online auctions for you.”
•••••Finally we have something to laugh about, and we pore over the article together for a minute, gently turning brittle old pages.
•••••“These gifts are so thoughtful. Thanks very much. It will go either in the Library or maybe my new office up in Harlem. I’m glad to have it, and I’m glad to have had you here all these years.”
He shakes his head, thoughtful again. “A hell of a ride, a hell of a ride ... ”
•••••We look at each other one last time, each of us trying not to cry, reach out for a final, quick hug, and I walk out of the Oval for the very last time. Betty glances up as I leave, but I‘ve already said goodbye to her. I guess she’s seen plenty of these sad farewells, and knows if she says anything we’ll both fall apart. Such a nice lady, and who knows if I’ll ever see her again.
•••••My heart is so heavy I have to clench my teeth and tell myself, Just walk. Just walk.
•••••Out into the crisp, cold air of the West Colonnade, glancing at the bare sticks of the Rose Garden, where the President loved to throw the ball for Buddy. Through the House, pausing for a last look at the China Room, Library and Vermeil Room, to set their details into my heart. I know it will be a loooong time before I’ll see them again, if ever. Down the East Colonnade with a look out at the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden and the lawn stretching down to the South, the ghostly trees covered in frost. The little pool under the pear tree is frozen, and I know I won’t see it when flowers bloom there again.
•••••Down the hallway to our offices, now empty. My staff all gone. No reason for them to stay. All those people I have come to know and love over the years, gone to who-knows-where, and who knows when I’ll ever see them again. I look at the empty chairs and blank computers and remember our normal, frantic pace, our laughter and dedication, our pride. My heart’s getting ready to be broken, and I can’t let on - the Bush people are coming for a briefing and to get the keys. Time for all us Clintonistas (a word of scorn for them that we wear with pride) to move on out the door. Emotion has to wait ‘til I’m out of here and safely in my car - if I can manage it.
•••••So now I am the last one, waiting alone in my office. I’d like to send a few more emails from my impressive White House address, but the Archives people have shut that all down, so I sit in silence and stare at the blank walls, vaguely wondering how the new Director will decorate. It used to be so beautiful. In a couple of hours I’ll turn out the lights and walk away from the most amazing and wonderful time of my life. A hell of a ride. A hell of a ride ...
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