LESLIE BURKE WILSON IS SITTING in the green room going over notes when Erica walks in. Erica stops for a moment—struck by how arresting Wilson is in person. In her midforties, her thick black hair in a layer cut to just below her ears, she’s wearing black silk pencil pants, a matching low-cut top that reveals a hint of cleavage, and black sandal-strap heels. Exuding a subtle sensuality, thin and toned and expertly made-up—she’s one of those women who trick you into thinking they’re beautiful by sheer force of will. And brilliant styling.
“Leslie,” Erica says. The two women shake hands.
Leslie’s smile is open and warm, in contrast to her look, which seems a bit like armor. She’s wearing some amazing perfume—Erica recognizes the top note as citrusy bergamot, but under that is something floral, subtle and seductive, that she can’t quite name.
“Thank you so much for coming, and on such short notice,” Erica says. “I don’t gush, but if I were a gusher, please know I’d be gushing.”
“Gush back at ya.”
“Are there any questions you’d particularly like me to ask?”
“I think the president is facing one of the most critical decisions of her presidency. She was elected on a promise to bring the country together, but her political future depends on continued support from the right, which held its nose and voted for her. Now they want payback.”
“What do you think she’s going to do?”
Leslie tilts her head and gives Erica a conspiratorial smile. “Why don’t we save that answer for when the cameras are rolling?”
“Bingo.”
Leslie takes one of Erica’s hands in her own, looks her in the eye, and says, “Listen, I know your story, your history. And then, of course, there are the piddling matters of Nylan Hastings and Lily Lau.”
It may be a practiced charm offensive, but it sounds sincere, and Erica feels an immediate emotional connection to this woman—she feels like a friend, or even an older sister. “A gig’s a gig.”
“No, Erica, for some of us a gig is more than a gig. It’s a calling.”
“Speaking of which, I see my producer is calling us. Ready to rumble?”
The interview goes well, more than well. As with all terrific exchanges, this one takes on a life of its own. Inspired, ignited by Leslie’s answers, Erica finds the questions pouring out of her. The two of them touch on the Constitution, the history of the Supreme Court back to its founding, the best and worst justices and their most significant decisions, finally ending up where they started—at today’s developments, the president’s choices, and their ramifications for the court and the country.
“Well, that was fun!” Wilson says as they go to a break.
Erica walks her out of the studio. “You were cooking.”
“Listen, if you have nothing better to do Saturday night, Stan and I are trekking down to the Lower East Side to see a chamber opera based on a Toni Morrison short story. It’s being done by a new company dedicated to contemporary opera. Fran Lebowitz is on their board, and she’s corralling one and all.”
Erica feels a frisson of excitement: Leslie Burke Wilson is reaching out to her. Is she going to invite Erica into her heady circle of friends? But then Erica realizes, with a twinge of disappointment, even resentment, that she’s not free this weekend. “My daughter will be in town.”
“Bring her.”
“She’s thirteen.”
“All the better. Morrison is so remarkable. I just reread Beloved. It’s staggering.”
Erica stops for a second. The Lower East Side? Toni Morrison? A chamber opera? Three undiscovered countries for Jenny (not to mention Erica). “You know what? We’d love to come.”
“I’ll call Fran and have her put aside tickets for you. Three?”
“Four if possible. My daughter’s bringing a friend for the weekend. Now I’d better get back to my desk.”
“See you Saturday,” Leslie says with that disarming ironic smile.
Erica watches as Leslie strides out of view—and the world seems slightly less alive than it did just a moment before.