All the Presidents' Pets Read Online Free PDF Page B

screen door with one arm, embracing me with the other, then ushering me inside in one gentle fluid motion. I’d forgotten the sensation of tatami under my feet. “Forgive my informal appearance,” Wolf said. He was wearing the cotton yukata kimono, rather than the more formal silk one. “I’ve just come from a very hot bath.”
    â€œBelieve me, I’m just glad you could see me,” I said.
    â€œWell then, today is a day for the garden,” Wolf intoned. “Mihoko,” he said to his ancient serving girl, “could you bring us tea in the garden?” Mihoko set down her still-wet scrub brush and disappeared into the pantry. Wolf led me out through the back.
    Wolf’s Japanese tea garden was one of the Washington area’s best-kept secrets (as was the fact that Wolf is actually Japanese). A path of polished stepping-stones led down around a koi pond that held at least fifteen fish, some nearly a meter in length. Meiji-era stone lanterns flanked each end of a footbridge that led over the pond and into a small meditation house with shoji screen doors covered in a translucent, pine-laminated paper. A variety of evergreens, including a stunning collection of bonsais, warmed the environment. Outside the surrounding walls suburbia sprawled and honked. Inside Wolf’s garden it was Kyoto before Commodore Perry’s arrival. And Wolf was a master sensei.
    We sat cross-legged by the koi pond.
    â€œBernie’s gotten so big,” I marveled, pointing at one of the fish, named after one of Wolf’s former CNN colleagues.
    â€œFate has been kind,” concurred Wolf.
    Years before, I’d come to Wolf’s garden seeking advice. My boss at CBS’s
Early Show
had asked me to spend a week at Ringling Brothers Circus School learning to fly the trapeze, something Charlie Gibson from
Good Morning America
had done only three weeks before. After meditating, Wolf had advised me to call in sick rather than look like an also-ran. In exchange for his counsel I’d repainted the garden walls. It all seemed like yesterday.
    â€œNow what troubles you this day?” Wolf asked now.
    I explained my new assignment. “I’m torn, Wolf. I certainly don’t want to run from my fate.”
    â€œIndeed. So much is preordained. It was my fate to have a beard. It was my fate to have this wonderful home and garden. It was my fate to spend months at a time in Qatar, a country pronounced far differently than it is spelled.” He smiled. “It is okay to laugh.”
    I didn’t realize he’d made a joke. I forced a chuckle.

    â€œRemember, Mo-san,” Wolf continued, “sometimes we must simply trust the plan that has been laid for us. Perhaps you are meant to report about a dog. The important thing is to pursue your destiny with mustard.” He of course meant “relish.” Wolf could be forgiven the occasional malaprop, having learned English in a California internment camp.
    â€œSo maybe I was meant to cover Barney? Because if I knew for sure that things would work out, I would give myself into fate and just—”
    Wolf had risen to his feet, grabbed a bottle of Pledge, and moved over to a lovely lacquered console table against the wall, by the entrance to the house. He sprayed the table, then gently shushed me. “Wax on, wax off,” he said as he wiped the table clean. As always I followed along and for a moment I felt genuinely transported to a happier plane, accompanied by a siren’s song. (Mihoko was standing in the threshold singing.) When it was over the table looked great, and I felt as if I was walking on air. Whether or not it was the work of the lemon-fresh fumes didn’t matter. The tension-related aches and pains of the last few hours disappeared.
    Wolf led me to his crouching bowl (
tsukubai,
in Japanese) at the end of the garden to cleanse our hands and feet in the purifying waters. (I’d rigged the bamboo