Chapter 4: A Lie from Savannah

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The snow fell even harder.

Outside the White House gates, some were reunited with family, weeping in each other's arms; others hurried to the bus station to find a ride, eager to return home.

The security line buzzed with reunion and relief—car doors slamming, distant shouts, mothers pulling children close. Only I stood beneath the awning of a corner shop, sheltering from the snow, not knowing where to go.

The scent of chicken noodle soup drifted over, and I realized I was a little hungry.

The neon OPEN sign flickered in the window, and I caught a whiff of black coffee and crackers from inside. For three dollars, I bought a bowl of soup. There were no other customers, so the old woman at the counter chatted with me, smiling:

She wore a cable-knit cardigan, her hands spotted with age. "Honey, you just come from the White House? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Yes."

She beamed, leaning in with that familiar curiosity only small-town folks can muster. "Then you must have seen the President, right?"

I thought for a moment. If it was Daniel, I had lived with him in the East Wing for twenty years; I knew his likes and dislikes better than he did himself.

I remembered the way he liked his toast—barely browned, almost soggy. But as for Daniel after he became President, I had nothing to say.

The old woman saw my silence and guessed I hadn't been favored by the President, so she quickly changed the subject:

She fidgeted with her apron, voice lowering in sympathy. "I heard it was the First Lady who was kind. She pleaded with the President, and only then did he allow the staff to leave and marry."

I thought of Rachel’s face. She truly matched her name—born of a respected family, gentle and calm.

Her nails were always perfectly manicured, voice soft but sure. Even when speaking harsh words, her expression remained gentle and soft.

She told Daniel, Ellie Foster was a loyal house manager, faithful to the President for twenty years, and now the President could reward her as he pleased.

If that was not enough, then arrange a marriage for Miss Foster—a security guard or a White House physician would do—dignified and proper.

I could almost see the polite discomfort on Daniel’s face. Daniel said nothing, only stared at my kneeling back.

I was unwilling, so I bowed my head and made up a lie:

I told them I had someone waiting for me back in Savannah—a sweetheart from way back, just like in the old country songs.

Rachel, seated on the couch, was delighted, nodding in praise:

She smiled like a kindergarten teacher discovering a lost mitten. "What a devoted couple—almost missed your happiness."

Daniel's expression changed, his gaze at my neck growing deeper.

His eyes had grown cold, the blue of them iced over. He was no longer the nine-year-old Daniel, no longer the boy who, hungry enough to dig for food in the garden, would cry and cling to my sleeve, afraid I'd leave.

A child, once grown, will always throw away the crutch first.

The Daniel before me had eyes as deep as water, no sign of joy or anger. After a long while, he only rasped:

"...Very well."

I bowed my head and thanked them for their kindness.

Distracted, I burned my tongue on the soup and nodded in response:

I winced, more from the memory than the heat. "Yes, the First Lady is kind and gentle, truly a good person."

"That's good. After all those years of chaos, now the country can finally be at peace."

I smiled faintly, thinking of the steady thrum of Secret Service radios in the hallway, and the country’s longing for quiet. The snow had eased, and I picked up my umbrella to leave.

Back then, my parents took the money from selling me and fled the Dust Bowl with my younger brother.

The dust storms swallowed whole towns, and families vanished overnight. Mine was no different.

At that time, I followed the man who trafficked me, and the bus passed through Savannah.

The bus windows fogged over, and outside, my hometown was shrouded in misty rain. Savannah peddlers struggling to make a living everywhere sang folk songs:

"Did not do right in a past life, born in Savannah, at thirteen or fourteen, cast out."

That year, I was thirteen, and was cast out too.

I pressed my face to the glass, watching the Spanish moss drip from the oaks, the river glinting like a ribbon beneath the clouds. So when I first entered the White House, afraid of having no one behind me and being bullied, I lied and said my home was in Savannah, with parents waiting for me to return, that I would not remain in the White House for life.

Now, with nowhere to go, I actually hesitated over whether to buy a bus ticket to Savannah.

I stood under the humming fluorescent light of the Greyhound station, ticket window just a few steps away. As I pondered, from the antique shop behind me came the sound of haggling:

"This is White House-made! If my aunt hadn't left, how could it have come out? A thousand bucks is already cheap for you!" A man with a black mole on his lip shouted, "Kid, you don't know good stuff!"

"The workmanship is genuine, but we have to wait for the boss to take a careful look," the shop assistant wiped sweat from his forehead, apologizing with difficulty.

The black-mole man pretended to leave, and the assistant was nearly in tears, saying it's not easy to make a living and he can't make such a big decision lightly; if he was wrong, he'd have to pay for it himself.

I wondered which aunt had such skill, able to sneak such a big vase out under the watchful eye of Mr. Peterson, the strictest usher in the White House.

A smirk tugged at my lips—I couldn't imagine anyone getting past him. Amused, I glanced at the vase.

"This is not White House-made."

The black-mole man glared at me:

He bristled, straightening his jacket like a bouncer. "Look at this glaze—aren't you afraid of being sued for saying that, miss?"

I pursed my lips and shook my head:

"I don't know much about glaze, just feel it doesn't look like what I've seen before."

I had served Daniel's mother, before she took her own life, when she was still the beloved First Lady.

Back then, the East Wing was not yet deserted, and treasures from all over the world poured in like the tide.

Things others might never see in a lifetime, East Wing maids handled daily until they grew bored of them.

The black-mole man rolled up his sleeves to intimidate me, but then saw the small seal on the umbrella Mr. Peterson had given me, and wisely fell silent.

He recognized the White House monogram—no one in D.C. would risk crossing that. "You don't know good stuff, I won't sell it."

The black-mole man left in a huff.

Before the assistant could thank me repeatedly, a voice of admiration sounded behind me:

"No wonder Mr. Jiang thought the lady's bearing and speech were extraordinary—it turns out you are from the White House."

Seeing the plump, middle-aged shopkeeper before me, I nodded politely.

He had that quick D.C. charm, the kind that could size you up and write your résumé before you'd had your first sip of tea. Merchants have sharp eyes. He noticed my unstyled hair, the suitcase on my arm, and the umbrella by the door, and guessed most of my story.

Skipping the pleasantries, the assistant served tea.

The tea was green. After two cups, Shopkeeper Jiang laughed heartily:

The steam curled between us, catching the dusty sunlight. "You’ve got backbone, ma’am. We need more folks like you teaching these kids. Just now you spoke up with such righteousness—Jiang can see your straightforward nature, so I won't beat around the bush.

Next year, the White House will select new interns. Jiang's patron wants to hire a former house manager to teach the young ladies at home.

We've asked around a lot, but they're either timid or sly, or haven't really seen the world.

Jiang can vouch that the patron will not mistreat you. Would you be willing?"

With nowhere to stay, I nodded:

I sipped my tea, warmth finally seeping into my bones. "But I have a condition."