The Perception of Power
by Grace Vincent
There was very little difference between “First Lady” and “Medieval Consort.”
Rosalie Gauthier, the 58th First Lady of the United States, had learned long ago that even in the 21st century her role amounted to only as much as what was desired by the man who currently stood before her, Robert Gauthier III, the 45th President of the United States.
“The perception of power is power.”
The proverb was comical to Rosalie who knew that it most certainly was not, but out of respect for her station she remained silent. She ignored all her discomforts, maintaining her flawless posture, hands crossed on her black velvet skirt, and ankles crossed so that only the tips of her heels touched the Presidential Seal, which seemed to stare up at her critically from the carpeted floor of the Oval Office.
Though, she longed to dig her freshly manicured nails into the cream-colored fabric of the priceless couch.
If only Rosalie could have foretold the misery she was walking into after reciting her vows to him, the decade-older silver fox she believed to be her love, who was at the time a rich businessman. Robert had previously taken a liking to her during her fourth and final year of criminal law study at Harvard.
The perception of power is power.
The words, though empty in meaning, echoed in Rosalie's mind, as her husband droned on with his sermon, she wondered when he would reveal the self-serving motive of his speech.
Rosalie had long since outgrown her blissful naivety and learned to take for granted the self-serving behavior of the Commander and Chief.
“...domestic violence…”
Rosalie blinked, as a stray chestnut curl fell from her updo hair arrangement. She returned to reality just as suddenly, the words “domestic violence” shooting chills down her spine.
The President flinched at blemish to her perfectly gelled hair. “It has been a year, and you have yet to announce your platform as First Lady.”
“You requested that I wait—”
“And now the time has come for you to formally decide,” he said, hold up a hand before she could begin. “That platform will be domestic violence.”
Rosalie froze. Only a fool would believe that Robert Gauthier cared a cent for victims of domestic abuse.
She had been a fool before, and into the beginning of the Gauthier reign—standing, freezing cold, clutching tightly to a Bible, gazing adoringly into her husband's dark, empty eyes, watching him repeat the oath spoken before by the many other indomitable souls who had also achieved the height of their power, on the Capitol Hill steps. Rosalie had with all her innocence of being a rich man's wife of two years, thought of all the good she could achieve.
The perception of power is power.
Perhaps then, Rosalie pondered, it should have been clear to her. Just by the way her spouse had looked through her, on those steps, the way his bottom lip curved into the same smile he always wore after initiating a hostile takeover. The signs had been there, yet she remained unprepared, all while James Gauthier III ascended into the most Herculean position known to the modern world, and she, Rosalie Gauthier, became the antichrist to the feminist movement, the glorified wench and punchline to every vulgar political joke.
“Darling, surely you don’t mean—” Rosalie stopped herself, taking a breath. “You just defunded the grants supporting domestic violence shelters by 261 million!”
“Yes!” The President snapped in a rare moment of unchecked irritation, “and I’d abolish it all together if the whole hoard of hussies wouldn’t stage an insurrection!”
“So, I am to be your public distraction? While you continue to deny any support?” Rosalie leaned forward, her neatly trimmed brows furrowing. “I’m to be your unsubstantiated display of feminism?”
He gave a slow laugh, then settled back down on the couch facing her, raising a glass of whiskey, and lazily swirling a finger through the amber liquid. “As I said before, the perception of power is power.” He lifted the glass to his lips, then pausing briefly, “And people perceive you to have power. You are the First Lady after all.”
“Am I to have access to any actual funds?” Rosalie asked, finally pushing the stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Or will I just be the face of a fraud movement paraded in front of the press.”
“You believe I would choose you to represent me as a woke princess?” The President made a tsking sound, then reached forward and took a magazine, tossing it towards her. “The face of my family and household, perhaps, but for any liberal propaganda?”
Rosalie snatched the magazine from off the coffee table, only to see her own wide grey eyes staring back up at her, along with her long but slim figure donned in the navy cocktail gown she had worn to a charity gala. She had been at least smiling as the photographers had snatched the photo, though she doubted anyone could interpret her expression as a happy one, especially with the caption under it reading, “Chauvinist Enabler? Rosalie Jane Gauthier, the Misogyny in Washington.”
Rosalie would have preferred the word “pawn,” it seemed to sum up her role pretty clearly. She squeezed her eyes shut. Did she have a choice?
Rosalie thought back to the moments after inauguration, when the White House chief of staff, Randall Peters, approached her with an arrogant swagger, his fault-finding gaze had taken in her shivering figure, before slipping her a paper titled Protocol. It was here when her reality hit her, and it hit her like a wave. After a moment of hesitancy Rosalie turned over the paper, reading over the neatly worded paragraphs, which were essentially a list of regulations for her dress code and her mannerisms, including the amount of collarbone she was allowed to reveal, the level of knee that could be exposed, how many words she was permitted to speak at each gathering, the way she would sit…Rosalie was shocked and if she hadn’t been wearing heels she was sure she would have fled.
But now…running was not an option she thought, her eyes moving unconsciously towards her flat stomach, wondering how much longer until the world would know.
“Don’t worry; I'll give you a staff to help you with your public image…” He paused, sure to let the words hit. “You can have that blonde—what’s her name? The perky little one?”
“Fern.” Rosalie cringed, recalling the White House intern. A beautiful, fair haired college graduate, with a fringe haircut and pink face, notorious for buzzing around the East Wing at odd hours. They were formally introduced, however, in the minutes before Rosalie and her husband's joint press statement, when Fern had “mistakenly” broken a nail painfully into her while trying to fix Rosalie's powder.
That particular press statement happened to be the first in a series of public addresses in response to the growing number of reported screenshots of Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram DMs, all featuring her husband as Bill Clinton to whatever Monica Lewinsky he was pursuing.
Rosalie had hardly noticed it then, but Fern fit her husband's profile almost perfectly with her blonde hair and green-eyed young beauty. For a while Rosalie had wondered why he had married her. She was a beautiful, smart, Harvard graduate, but she didn’t appear like his usual mistresses. She was tall with round eyes and long, dark hair.
“Yes, Fern.” The President repeated the name slowly, easing back into a slouched position, before dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
Rosalie shot up fast, anxious to leave the room. She gave a slight nod of the head, almost resembling a bow, before exiting from the right doorway to see a familiar round face looking up at her like a child who got caught stealing candy.
Oh, it is so awkward running into my husband's childlike sexual enticements, Rosalie thought, sighing as the two women looked at each other.
Fern attempted to straighten her stance, though Rosalie still towered over her. Then she did something she never would have thought herself capable of—she nodded and opened the door ushering in the intern to meet her husband.
Fern shot her a look mixed with disdain and superiority, before shuffling into the Oval Office.
Rosalie watched Fern turn off the lights before shutting the door completely. The President's secretary wasn’t in, so she had no interference when taking a seat across the desk, waiting.
It took only minutes, when Rosalie heard a screech, the door flew open, and Fern, barefoot and blouse unbuttoned, spirited away, not noticing Rosalie's presence.
She gave a small shake of the head, concealing a small smile with the back of a gloved hand, before slipping back into the private study.
“Hello, my love,” Rosalie said into the dark room. She wandered towards the crippled figure lying face first on top of the Presidential Seal, gasping for air.
She stepped carefully over the shattered glass of whiskey she’d laced with just a touch of formaldehyde, making her way to the center of the room. Rosalie stopped in front of Fern’s discarded maroon heels, lifting one of them with a gloved hand.
She moved swiftly, knowing she only had moments before Secret Service Agents would storm in to see the First Lady sobbing over her husband's deceased form, his mistress’s shoe emerging from the back of his neck.
Gazing down at her husband, her lips curved into a smile, as she raised the overpriced heel over his trembling body.
“Darling, you know how you wanted me to support domestic violence?”