Jill, Interrupted
Comedy is tragedy plus a magazine cover.
Note: Jill Biden’s Vogue piece…Sometimes reality feels too bizarre to address with mere prose. Then, one turns to speculative fiction.
Dr. Biden said she would wear the coat herself. And not just this coat, a marvel of double-breasted tailoring rendered in triumphant white by Ralph Lauren. Along with it, she would don another coat as well. A metaphorical coat – for what was a coat if not a mantle? A symbol of power, strength and perseverance? Yes. Well-versed in the symbolism of a strong shoulder and precise silhouette, Dr. Biden found herself drawn to the coat, and disinclined to forego it in favor of the sort of pretty, flowery dress she had donned for a previous Vogue cover. These were different times indeed.
Now, it all rankled a bit, really. The unfortunate timing of the whole affair. This was meant to be a purely positive occasion – a chance for the First Lady to declare, from the cover of the world’s most prestigious glossy magazine, that, “We will decide our future.” Who among the voting public would not find comfort in the notion of a chic (but not too chic), stern (but still friendly) and down-home (but glamorous enough for Vogue) PhD guiding (but only partially) the levers of power? Here she would stand: Dr. Biden, devoted wife, mother. Dr. Biden, doyenne of democracy. Dr. Biden, Tsarina of the Truman Balcony. Here, with lapels as sharp as her wits, she would urge the reporter to call her “Jill” and then declare that the Biden presidency, begun in 2021 as a balm to a weary nation, would once more stave off an old, dangerous foe and emerge victorious. Cue Battle Hymn of the Republic. Glory hallelujah.
But, as Dr. Biden knew all too well, often man plans and God laughs. Debate descends into debacle. Family photo op with Annie Leibovitz doubles as frantic campaign war-room meeting. And exultant Vogue cover-feature rollout declaring you First Wife/Mother/Teacher/Advisor hits the internet at the exact moment the national discourse paints you as the person most capable of deciding the future of the Democratic Party.
Yes, the timing rankled, indeed. So, too, did the discussion of her power and influence over the decisions of her husband. First, Dr. Biden knew that, above all else, Joe was still the same Joe. Full of vim, vigor and vivacity. He was Paul Bunyan with a grasp of foreign policy. John Wayne with a knack for getting complex infrastructure legislation through Congress. Ernest Hemingway with right hand poised to answer the red-alert phone and left index finger within reach of the button.
To see this titan brought low in 90 minutes, by what? The sniffles? And by whom? A malevolent make-up artist wielding a heavy hand and some overly light foundation? That feckless bitch Dana Bash? How many coats had they worn? How many triumphal Vogue covers had they graced? How many times had they had to coordinate schedules with grandchildren and Annie Leibovitz? None! None at all.
People didn’t know Joe. So what if he functioned best between 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m., and with no cameras around? Who among the public might not acknowledge the same? And think of all the capable people around Joe, people who would not hesitate to make whatever sticky decisions arose between 4:01 p.m. and 9:59 the following day. Think of White House Chief of Staff Jeff Zients! Think of the advisors! Well, think of the advisors, but for the subset of turncoats involved in the debate prep. In a more civilized time, Dr. Biden would have had the great pleasure of seeing that sabateuse Anita Dunn tarred and feathered in the town square. Think of Kamala!
Actually, better people not think too much of Kamala. Now that Dr. Biden thought of it, had Kamala seemed…different of late? Was the past few days’ tumult playing tricks on her, or had Madam VP divested herself of her signature je ne sais what loopiness? Nor was Kamala of singular concern. Dr. Biden was not unaware of the extra glint in Gavin Newsom’s eye during his post-debate media hits. His words said, “I stand with President Biden,” but his shark-like grin teased something else. To say nothing of that Michigander Machiavelli, Gretchen Whitmer.
Dr. Biden shivered, and sought comfort in the strong shoulders of her coat. Would that she could seek comfort as well in a knowing friend, someone who would truly understand her plight. Come to think of it, it had been quite some time since Dr. Biden had heard from Michelle. Was this some tacit indication of disapproval? Dr. Biden quickly dismissed the thought. Michelle was a busy woman, too busy, perhaps, to consider just how helpful a simple Tweet declaring, “When they go low, we go Joe” would be at this moment.
Previously, Dr. Biden had walked the corridors of power with unassuming stealth. Now, things had changed. The spotlight was an uncomfortable place, particularly when it illuminated you as singularly capable of shaping a tectonic change in an election. Suddenly, Dr. Biden found herself shifting, not under the weight of her authoritative coat, but under the gaze of millions of eyes of – what had Deputy Campaign Manager Rob Flaherty called them in that charming little email? Ah, yes, “the bedwetting brigade.” These handwringers clamored that Joe should step down “for the good of the country,” as the notoriously illiberal rightwing New York Times op-ed board had put it. Preposterous! So what, if by his own admission, her husband didn’t walk or talk as well as he used to? Did one put down the beloved family dog just because it now needed pet steps to climb onto the couch?
What would these people honestly prefer? A madman? A 34-counts convicted felon? Would they risk re-empowering a dictator simply because he projects that he could stay awake through the entire Tonight Show? Wouldn’t they rather the country remain in the hands of her staid, sagacious husband for six hours each day, and then in the hands of his capable cadre once the clock ticked over to 4:01 p.m.? For a bunch of people up in arms about SCOTUS imbuing the presidency with a dash of the divine right of kings, the Democratic electorate sure turned persnickety over the concept of vizier governments and regency councils. Dr. Biden could appreciate the irony, even if it made her livid.
For a moment, she regretted that the coat had not come with winter accessories – namely a set of earmuffs. Earmuffs weren’t particularly stately, but they would drown out the whispers that she was running some kind of puppet presidency. Again, preposterous! But – and this was a big but – if she were, would that be so bad? Edith Wilson ran the country for much of her husband’s second term, and she was the stuff of girl-boss legend. And Catherine de Medici – should she have let her idiot child sons run France? Do people hate the Tuileries? Do they hate the very concept of eating with FORKS?!
Of course, Dr. Biden could not voice such thoughts. Comparisons to any Medici were not advisable, given her party’s desire to frame itself as the last guardian of democracy. But what was “democracy,” really? At this point, democracy looked like the choice between a blusterous felon (not exactly a compos mentis spring chicken himself) and an elderly man capable of being undone by a light cold and mismatched foundation. In a moment of naked honesty, Dr. Biden could put aside her personal affections and concede why some might not find this a particularly compelling choice. Once the photo shoots were over and the rolling racks of outerwear packed away, she could acknowledge the “pros” to urging Joe to step aside. Let Douglas Emhoff deal with this. Or Chasten Buttigieg or Jennifer Newsom.
Then there would be no further humiliating dissections of her husband’s every stumble, verbal mishap or age-inappropriate ice cream cone. There would be silenceand peace and enjoying each other’s golden years in Delaware. But there would also be no Vogue covers, no moments where, against all odds, she was the most powerful woman in the country. And there would be no mantles to assume, secretly or otherwise. Heavy is the heart that wears the coat.