Rodham

by Curtis Sittenfeld

Sometimes in the night I awakened with a sense of dread, a nebulous apprehension, and it took a few seconds to pinpoint its source. And yet there was a less predictable emotion that at times accompanied my hurt and disappointment. It took until after we’d left Oakland, until our second day on the road, as we were turning in to a motel parking lot in Omaha, Nebraska, for me to admit to myself that it was relief—a strange, perverse, sincere relief. The reality was that I was a hardworking and not beautiful middle-class Midwestern girl with a mean father. I had never believed the world existed for my enjoyment. I’d believed instead that every situation was a trade-off, that there was always a catch. I didn’t yearn to be envied by others, and wasn’t a great love affair with Bill Clinton enviable? Hadn’t it been thrilling and also made me slightly uneasy? Now the catch had made itself known. Bill could be genuinely devoted and at the same time struggle to remain faithful. We had been a couple for five months, and he’d already cheated. Surely this meant that at best, I’d live with the fear that he’d cheat again, and at worst, that he would cheat. He wasn’t too good to be true. But discerning his flaw meant that if I could live with it, I could keep him.