Free All the Presidents' Pets by Mo Rocca

off the record,” Scott trailed off. “See you tomorrow.”
    Candy got up to leave. “Hey, kiddo, join me at the Outback tonight at 8 P.M. A few of us are getting together to throw back a couple. If you haven’t been there before, the Bloomin’ Onion is delish.” John King passed by, holding his gym bag. Candy couldn’t resist taking a shot. “Hey, Johnny boy, need a lift to soccer practice?”
    â€œVery funny, Candy,” said John pertly. “FYI, I’m going to a spinning class and I’m driving myself, thank you.” And he was off.
    â€œSo will I see you later?” Candy asked me.
    â€œSure, I’ll be there.” I was only half listening. I wanted to catch up with Helen before she left the building.
    I caught her just as she was walking into the pressroom. “Hello, Helen. Have you got a second?”
    â€œOf course, Mo dear. I’m sorry our conversation ended so abruptly yesterday. I was awfully rude, I’m afraid. I hope you’re not upset with me.” She seemed genuinely embarrassed.
    â€œOh please, Helen, that’s absurd. I was afraid that you might not be well and I was just rambling on. Believe me, I have no bone to pick with you.” That last sentence seemed to make her wince. “I just wanted to take you up on your offer, to hear some old stories, get some advice. I think I’m going to need it.”
    She smiled. “You’re going to be fine, Mo. You’ve got to have tenacity in this business, especially with this White House. Something tells me you’re pretty dogged.” That last word startled me, considering the previous night’s canine occurrence. Of course I didn’t want to let my imagination wander in Helen’s presence.
    â€œSo what do you say?” I offered. “Can we maybe grab a cup of coffee? There’s a Starbucks at Farragut North.”
    She cut me off. “Follow me.” Then in a hushed tone, “I know where we can find some peace and quiet.”
    â€œCareful, she likes ’em young,” snickered Dana Milbank as we left together, not onto the North Lawn, but down the stairs to the lower floor of the pressroom. I wasn’t sure where Helen was taking me.
    â€œNut job,” coughed Nina Totenberg as we passed her on the stairs.
    Helen took me to her tiny cubicle way in the back corner. It was fairly cluttered with books, papers, and issues of
Reader’s Digest
dating back to 1911. The floor needed a good vacuuming, seeing as it was covered in a danderlike fuzz. A pair of sensible shoes sat by the wall.
    â€œAre those Easy Spirit shoes?” I asked. “My great-aunt used to wear—Ouch!”
    Without warning Helen had grabbed my wrist with her hand—it felt more like a claw—and yanked me under the desk. With lightning speed she pushed through the lower part of the wall. Suddenly we were crouched in some sort of crawl space.
    The White House, like any old mansion, has all sorts of tiny nooks and crannies, maybe even secret rooms. Was this the room where Clinton had allegedly menaced Kathleen Willey? According to her testimony, she had a can of Diet Coke as a last line of defense. I only had my notepad and a copy of
Cat Fancy
magazine, which coincidentally had a great article on former First Cat Socks.
    â€œHelen, what’s going on?”
    Helen wasn’t wasting any time. She made sure the hatch behind us was closed tight, then dragged me down a passageway, through another door and down a long dusky stairwell. It all happened so quickly that I was convinced nobody saw us. But where were we? I knew there was at least one basement level; it was on all the available floor plans of the White House. It was my understanding that with the gutting of the White House during the Truman administration at the beginning of the Cold War, that another lower level was added—a bunker for the President and his staff for The Day After and