Part 2: How Did He Die

The President, VP and Secretary of State All Asked Me a Question They Did Not Want Me to Answer

(Continued from yesterday) …

Condoleeza Rice was the first stop in the guided tour. My youngest- I called him Menace for a reason - refused to surrender the potato chips he’d pounced on. The brunch had turned out to be a smattering of appetizers 99% of kids would refuse. My kids were starving. Even I was not about to take those chips from him.

The sight of all four boys - little Lou’s in their suits and sharp haircuts - melted me. I did my best to return Condoleeza’s bright red lipstick smile. And then, leaning right over the top of my kids’ heads, she asked, “How did your husband die?”…

I initially thought I’d misheard her. Surely, she would not expect four little boys to have to hear their mother describe how their father had been killed. Not in such a public place, in front of total strangers. Or ever, really.

But the lipstick smiled larger as my reply was awaited.

Drawing on every ounce of the small reserve of grace I’d built, I pasted my best non-bitchy face on and gave a little shake of my head, nodding toward my children. “In an explosion,” I fired curtly back while simultaneously maneuvering my kids as a unit a few steps away from her.

I hoped she was better at reading people or feigning empathy as Secretary of State in diplomatic situations than she was in that moment. She’d probably have shown more emotion at her favorite ice cream stand if they told her they were out of her favorite flavor, given how deftly she shifted gears. As if relieved to have made it through what she considered to be her duty for small talk, she motioned for us all to slip into our photo-op positions, and cheerfully waved us on our way.

The next family walked in. We walked out. Our next stop was President Bush.

Cell phones had to be surrendered for this photo op. We would rely on the efficiency of staff to send us our photos at a later date.

My kids were cheerful and interested in what was happening around them, even if they were too young to understand what a Secretary of State is or, as in my youngest case, what a president is. And I had not told any of them that the president, the vice president and Secretary of State were all responsible for sending their dad to Iraq. I did not mention that any one of them could overrule the military’s decision not to award their dad the Purple Heart, but had not done so.

That would come later. This moment on that day was about my children being shown at least the illusion of respect their dad was not.

I’d barely had a moment to process the absurdity of Condoleeza’s question to me when our family was called for our presidential photo op. Surely, I thought, the president would have more of his wits about him than his secretary of State, and would not ask me such a stupid question. But to be on the safe side, knowing my reserves of grace were virtually depleted and wholly committed to giving my children this experience, I intentionally entered last, behind my in-laws and my kids, hoping to avoid any conversation with GW at all,

GW, however, had other plans.

I remember thinking he was much taller than I realized. His eyes smiled with the rest of him, and he projected warmth as he extended his hand to me.

I have not figured out how to describe what it feels like to shake the hand of the man you believe used your husband as a pawn in his political games, and, although he did not directly murder my husband, his decisions put my husband in the situation that got him killed.

For nothing.

“How are you doing,” he asked, as if we were in his backyard BBQ, and I’d just walked up to him at the grill.

It’s a miracle I didn’t break a tooth, given how hard I ground my jaw shut in an attempt to get through this photo-op without causing a scene.

“Good, thank you,” I smiled back as I tried to reclaim my hand and herd my kids in for the photo op.

For reasons I may never understand, the president was not ready to let my hand or the moment go. His grip tightened. He pulled me closer.

“No,” he looked straight into my eyes, “I mean- How are you really doing?”

Was he for real? Was he really interested in knowing how I was doing, after watching my husband’s killer smile at me when he was acquitted in a sham of a trial? Did he really want to know how I was doing, raising our four sons without their incredible, loving, hilarious, strong dad? Or what it was like to feel so betrayed by the military, and by him?

Of course he didn’t really care about any of that. And yet, he was insistent. My grace reserves fell into negative status as I compromised truth with manners, biting out:

“Oh, how am I really doing? Well, Sir, I’m really enjoying my perfect life. Thank you so much for asking- twice.”

If I ever unbury the photo from whatever bin it’s in, I’ll show you how he angled away from me, as if to block me out. He’s a professional, so he recovered enough to release me even as all softness in his eyes yielded to contempt. And while he didn’t blatantly kick us out, he did skip the small talk after the photo, that the other families got.

Two for two. We had one stop left. Vice President Dick Cheney was the last stop on the receiving line.

I wondered what fresh hell I was about to navigate through, and questioned my sanity for pursuing this occasion so heartily.

It did not take long to discover that the VP was in lock-step with the other two.

“How did your husband die?” he asked, as if asking if I caught the score of a ball game last night.

Brunch was over. The presidential address to our group had happened. This was the last photo-op and the last of my nerves had been severed.

“Seriously?” I may have hissed the word more than I spoke it. Louder than intended. “Are you people for real? All the times we were told our case is the most important in the military- and aren’t you guys supposed to know about the most important things in the military? Aren’t you briefed on the families you let into these things? And none of you know my husband was murdered? And his killer set free?”

Now, it’s been about 16 years since this event happened. My recall may not be word-for word. But it is absolutely sentiment-by-sentiment, cause and effect perfect. Especially with Condoleeza and Bush. Those two conversations are branded into my brain. By the time I reached Cheney, though, I was disassociating myself from the moment in a last ditch attempt to keep my mouth shut.

I failed. Wholly. Completely. With every measure of contempt the moment warranted, and a smattering more.

A small nod over my shoulder. I felt the men step forward before i saw them, so focused was I on overseeing the VP photo-op. To his credit, Cheney didn’t bother pretending the contempt was not mutual. I was not invited to join his photo op.

The cameras clicked, a polite but firm hand on my shoulder was accompanied with a “Ma’am, this way” and my kids and I were escorted out of the room, back to our coats, and out of the White House.

I stood in a hot shower until on the brink of burns.

A new president moved in months later. Gold Star families were invited to a Halloween party with the Obamas. My two oldest did not want to go- Mom, we just met a president! I just want to do normal things and be with my friends on Halloween!”

One son wanted to go. My youngest didn’t care about any of it, either way. One of me, four kids. I could not be in two places at one time and no one was around to watch my three kids while I took one to the White House. So we did not go.

I still feel bad that my one son never got to wear his banana costume and boogie with a president. We’ve never been invited to meet another president and it is unlikely we ever will.

I can’t decide if that is a good or bad thing.

This story is included in my first book, Front Toward Enemy, a memoir/expose about my husband’s murder and the failure of the military judicial system *