As soon as Betsy turned the corner, her stomach went nervous, but only when she took in the specifics—news vans blocking the street, lights and cameras in front of the house—did she make a connection between the commotion and her father.
It could have had something to do with Iowa, which he’d won four days earlier, or with New Hampshire, four days away, but somehow she understood that this could not have been about anything good.
Maybe he’d said something he shouldn’t have, but to garner this kind of attention he would have had to say something truly terrible or stupid, and it wasn’t like him to say terrible or stupid things, he was careful, he knew how to shut up and let others say terrible or stupid things.
Betsy thought: Car accident, plane crash, assassination.
She walked faster, and as she got closer, about halfway down the street, she saw two cameramen laughing, maybe some crack one had made to the other, and she guessed that no one would be joking, not in front of their home, had her father been hurt.
It was bitter cold and windy and she hadn’t worn gloves, and was carrying a bag, and her hands were freezing, and she really wanted to be home and warm. In the bag was a box, and in the box was a tie she’d bought for her father at Brooks Brothers—rather, a tie she’d bought to be from her mother to her father. She always bought him ties, they both did, always blue, for every occasion—birthday, Christmas, Father’s Day, anniversary, winning Iowa. This one was for Valentine’s Day.
She closed her eyes and waited, imagining that when she opened them, the cameras and reporters would be gone.
She opened her eyes: they were still there. Betsy could see that some of her neighbors were out on the street too. Delancey Place, one of the quietest streets in Philadelphia, had turned into a media circus. She walked around the block to the alley behind the house and snuck in through the back.
She found her mother hiding in the tub. Her mother was fully dressed—jeans, a light blue sweater, wool socks.
“Has Dad been hurt?”
Her mother shook her head no.
That was the beginning and end of their conversation. That was all Betsy wanted to know. As long as her father wasn’t hurt, they could handle whatever this was about.
She could have turned on the TV, could have gotten in the tub with her mother and closed the curtain, could have snuck out the back of the house and taken her mother with her, but somehow she knew what to do and had the bravery to do it: she walked out the front door, still carrying the tie, and faced the cameras.
They charged the stoop. But, as if realizing it was just David Christie’s daughter, not even old enough to vote, they paused.
Then one reporter asked her, and then they were all asking, what her reaction was to the news, the reports, the allegations, the photo, had she known, had her mother known, was it true, what did she know, how did she feel?
She knew to say nothing, what her father was so good at—let them talk and talk and make themselves look bad. She stood there stone-still. “Just a girl,” she imagined someone might say. “Leave her alone. As if her mother having cancer isn’t enough.”
Betsy used the same tactic when her father came home that night. By then he had made three denials—in New Hampshire, upon his arrival in Philadelphia, and in front of his home—simple and quick.
Nothing but tabloid trash.
I love only my wife.
I’m determined to focus on the issues important to our country.
When he came inside, Betsy stared at him, and kept staring, until her father looked down.
And so without a word spoken between them, she knew.