Rodham

by Curtis Sittenfeld

More than forty-five years have passed since that night in the library, and at times it’s crossed my mind that his smile may have ruined my life.)

A tidal wave of disappointment crashed inside me, while calmly (this was my first experience of needing to act like I wasn’t devastated when I was) I said, “Okay.”

“I don’t know if this sounds pathetic or conceited,” I said. “But I always hoped a man would fall in love with me for my brain.” Again, Phyllis and Nancy exchanged a glance. Phyllis’s voice was kind as she said, “Hillary, no man falls in love with a woman’s brain.”

Then he said, “Can’t you feel it, too, how this is different from everything else? I want this—us—to last forever.”

I often secretly experienced my own good fortune as slightly shameful and my impulses toward activism as a form of contrition, but what if I could lead a life that made me worthy of luck? What if getting what I wanted most could be a fuel for my own morality, and additive rather than unfairly advantageous?

“Maybe he was trying to impress you because he knows how much I look up to you.” She was quiet before saying, “Some people who run for office want to create change, and some want everyone to fall in love with them.” “Bill wants to create change,” I said, and I didn’t like the thin, defensive sound of my own voice. “I’m certain of it.”

Did I imagine that my life would be full of such emotional extravagance? I must have, because to save the note did not occur to me.

When he embraced me, it was comforting in a way I hadn’t anticipated; I wouldn’t have thought the same person could cause and assuage my pain.

Sometimes in the night I awakened with a sense of dread, a nebulous apprehension, and it took a few seconds to pinpoint its source.

I didn’t know. I didn’t like to think about it, and I usually didn’t and then every few months, at moments I hadn’t planned to, I did.

“Do you think infidelity doesn’t matter?” “If he’s your husband, you decide what matters. Besides, men aren’t the only ones who can be unfaithful.”

He said, “It’s interesting that you’re so sure you’re not the problem when plenty of people would think it’s your expectations of me that are absurd.

“How does it feel to be consistently mediocre?” he asked, and I said, “You tell me.”

“How have you been?” he asked. “Do those law students at Northwestern know they’re damn lucky to have you as a professor?” I wonder what you want, I thought. I said, “I’ve been well.”

But I no longer felt what I had at Yale or in Arkansas, which had been not just a belief in his talents but an investment in that belief. It was far from clear to me that I hoped he’d succeed.

“Things are good almost all of the time,” I continued. “But every so often this gaping hole of loneliness opens up.” “Sometimes a gaping hole of loneliness opens up while I’m in the same room with my husband and children,” Maureen said.

If I was no longer his girlfriend, and never his wife, I was not responsible for his behavior, not even by extension. This absolution was my reward for losing him; in the years to come, it sometimes seemed like the only reward.

I was certain that Tennyson was wrong about it being better to have loved and lost, because now I knew what I was missing.

I adored Maureen. But I was struck, not for the first time, by how casually and authoritatively dismissive of marriage married women were, except when they weren’t.

I said, “Well, this is all very flattering, but it’s not how anyone besides you sees me. I’m actually an honorary man.”

“And I want a woman in that seat. Whether it’s Alan Dixon or Joe Biden or George Bush, I’m so tired of these idiot men getting to make up the rules for the rest of us. They’re not smarter. They’re not nicer. They don’t have better judgment. They’re just men.”

Was this because, for the first time in my life, I understood not only how organically an affair could happen but also how special and sweet—how not sordid—it could seem to the two people involved?

I didn’t want to upset him, but I also didn’t want to lie. I said, “It was a very long time ago.”

“I’ve heard of a lot,” Greg said, “but I didn’t know kinks could be G rated.

“I don’t know if I want to watch.” “Hillary, I’m not even going to waste time pretending this is a real discussion. I hate football, so come over in the last inning or whatever they’re called.”

Because they both were sophisticated and tough and the only person he was answerable to was her and if she’d dealt with it, it was no one else’s business; hell, maybe she’d had affairs, too. The American public would not, of course, like such a woman, but that didn’t matter. He was the one running for office, and the reality was that a wife like that would probably win him sympathy votes.

I said, “This is all a bit last-minute, but I’ve decided to run for Senate after all.” James looked just as dismayed as he had during our earlier conversations on the subject. “But why?” Was he expecting me to answer literally? I said, “Because our government makes lots of important decisions, and I’d like to be involved in them.”

I actually did feel forgiving, as if I didn’t need to punish him, because finally karma had.

“It’s just really weird,” Diwata said. We all looked at her. “What’s really weird?” I asked. Though Diwata was playful by nature, her expression was somber. She said, “It’s weird you almost married Bill Clinton, because he seems so unworthy of you.”

The less you screw up, the more clearly the public keeps track of each error.

It turned out—who knew?—that hummus and carrots offered both protein and fiber and that a handful of almonds was lower in sugar than a granola bar.

Some presidents cared about improving the world, and all of them had egos; but none of them had run because they hoped to gain entry to the highest office of power on behalf of an entire gender. Yes, I was me, Hillary, but I also was a vessel and a proxy.

Because, really, weren’t they two sides of the same coin, wasn’t Donald simply a far less palatable version of Bill? Rich and narcissistic and verbose, charismatic, and transfixing? Bill was far smarter, but was he really less sleazy?

Greg sighed deeply. He said, “Men are such assholes.”

Putting up with Bill Clinton’s bullshit—hadn’t I earned the right never to do it again? Sometimes speaking your mind is expensive, which doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.

It was both mortifying and mildly interesting to observe the extent to which, after fifty-five years, I remained romantically incompetent.

Had he been grown in a lab just for me? Or was he secretly a Republican operative plotting my exposure and humiliation?

“Wow,” I said. “Is he crazy or a pathological liar?” Aaron chuckled. “With Trump, you get a twofer.”

But there is something about another person caring when you go to sleep at night and when you wake up in the morning—caring not because of what they need from you but just because they love you—that is a novelty for me. There’s a sweetness and solace in it that I don’t take for granted.