What if Mrs. Murphy had been there?
by David Benjamin
“…
Trump’s senior advisers fear leaving him alone in meetings with foreign
leaders out of concern he might speak out of turn. General McMaster, in
particular, has tried to insert caveats or gentle corrections into
conversations when he believes the president is straying off topic or
onto boggy diplomatic ground…”
— The New York Times, 17 May 2017
MADISON,
Wis.— I picture her as short, plump and huggable, in a print dress with
support stockings rolled down to just below the knee. Her hair, gray
and frizzy, is constrained with rubber bands in a disorderly bun. Her
eyes are cloudy and she suffers from her feet, but complains only a few
dozen times a day. Her demeanor is tirelessly sunny and sympathetic. She
makes lovely tea and always has cookies.
Her name is something
like Mrs. O’Toole or Mrs. Murphy. Nobody is quite sure of her first
name, or even if she has one. Ideally, she was hired from one of
Boston’s timeless proletarian enclaves — Jamaica Plain maybe or, even
better, Southie — where her sort of woman is still abundant.
She
would have been appointed, ideally, before her rambunctious ward was
inaugurated, so she’d be waiting for him at the White House, telling him
to wipe his feet and for Heaven’s sake, sit up straight. “Why are you
crouching like that, with your arms hanging down? You look like an
overgrown chimp in a blond wig.”
We couldn’t call her the
National Babysitter. Although accurate, this would offend his eggshell
sense of manhood. The transition team would have chosen a title less
obvious, like “handmatron.” Better yet, he would probably love being
waited on and watched over by a “factotum,” because it’s Latinate and
multisyllabic — and he has no clue what it means.
She would be a
paragon of kindly solicitude but with an adamantine air of motherly
authority. To her, after all, would fall the responsibility of
babysitting— during his every waking hour — the most capricious prince
to ever wander the White House corridors. She would have a certain way
of saying his name, in her Boston brogue, that freezes him in his tracks
— a heavy emphasis on the first syllable and the hint of suspicion in
the question mark at the end.
“DAWN’ld?”
Of course, as a
widowed granny with a sentimental side, she would often call him
“Donny.” She would know him by no other name, nor by any title other
than her precious little darlin’.
A few scenarios come to mind.
It’s
past midnight in an eerily empty White House. The uproar of a
television, accompanied by the beep of a cellphone, breaks the silence.
“Oh, dear Lord.” With an audible “oof” (Oval Office Factotum), Mrs.
Murphy rises from her bedside chair, sets aside her Bible, puts on her
slippers and waddles off to see what the little rascal is up to now.
“DAWN’ld?
What are you doin’ in the window? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Without even a
bathrobe to cover y’self? What if one of those darn, nosy shutterbugs
sees? Oh, I know you’re proud, little guy, but I ain’t the one to be
showin’ it off to. I raised six strappin' boys of me own, y’know. Now,
tuck it in and — what’re you doin’ with that phone? You know what I
said: no tweetin’ ’til after breakfast. And turn OFF that darn TV. It
only gets you aggravated, especially that sharp little lesbian gal on…
oh, what is it? MBTA? And another thing. Where’s your homework? No,
don’t you try to pull the wool over my eyes, young’un. I know your
teachers! You were supposed to be readin’ the AHCA weeks ago. No, I
don’t know what it is, but neither do you. And you won’t know it if you
don’t study! Well then, have someone read it TO you. It ain’t as though
this big ol’ barn isn’t just full of educated folks without much to do
all day long except beat their gums and leak wild stories to the Washington Post!
How about asking that nice, quiet Reince boy? No, not Stevie. I tell
you, sweetie, that one’s up to no good. And I wish to the Lord Jesus
that he would just get a haircut. He looks like something the cat
dragged in after the dog peed on it. That boy! I swear, he’s a worse
influence on you than Micky Flynn was, you poor little thing. Oh, I
know, you miss him. Mick was a hot ticket, bless his heart, but crazy as
a mouse in a toaster. No, you can’t tweet him. DAWN’ld! Give me that phone!”
Or this.
“DAWN’ld?
How many times I have t’tell you? Get that girl off your lap! I know
she’s your daughter, but — Vanka, honey-bun? Go play with Jared on the
lawn. He’s trying to hit the croquet balls with the wrong end. Donny,
darlin’, look at you now. You’re all warm and damp now. What WAS she
sayin’ t’you?”
And then…
“DAWN’ld? Who’s that with you
now? Where do you pick up these strange boys? Who let them in? Well, I
don’t care what the Secret Service says. Aren’t I the one who bakes your
cookies and tucks you in? Sergey and Sergey? Really? You couldn’t even
make up two different names? And where’re you boys from? Really? Well,
that does it. Does nobody around here remember Joe Stalin and that Cuban
with the beard who gave poor sweet Jack Kennedy so much grief? Okay,
let’s go. I’m sure you mean no harm, boys, but if you think you’re
gettin’ you into Donny’s office, after what Khrushchev did to the
Hungarians, you’re whistlin’ up the wrong skirt. Lord knows my little
darlin’ is lonely since they sent him here. Breaks my heart. The poor
dear just wants everybody to love him and whisper sweet nothins in his
ear and tell him he’s just the best thing that ever happened since St.
Patrick drove out the snakes. But I can’t just let in any ol’ riffraff
that comes in off the streets from Moscow. I’m the one who drives out
the snakes here. So, let’s go, boys. Out, out, out! And Donny, you go
sit down over there. Don’t you move an inch ’til I get back. Sit. Up.
Straight! And not a word — to anybody… DAWN’ld! Give me that phone!”
And finally:
“Comey?
Is that an Irish name? Well then, I’m sure his mother brought him up
right and she’s proud as punch. Don’t be silly, Donny. Jimmy can’t do
you any harm at all, long as you tell the truth and wash between your
toes. He’s a nice young man from the neighborhood, and you’re just gonna
get yourself in trouble if you start pickin’ on — DAWN’ld! What now!
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What on earth are you tweetin’ now? Honest
t’God, you’re gonna be the death of me. Who gave him that phone? STEVIE!”
Thursday, May 18, 2017
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