Author: Jed Mercurio
Category: Other
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“One hundred years of delay have passed since President Lincoln freed the slaves, yet their heirs, their grandsons, are not fully free. They are not yet freed from the bonds of injustice. They are not yet freed from social and economic oppression. And this Nation, for all its hopes and all its boasts, will not be fully free until all its citizens are free. We preach freedom around the world, and we mean it, and we cherish our freedom here at home, but are we to say to the world, and much more importantly, to each other that this is the land of the free except for the Negroes; that we have no second-class citizens except Negroes; that we have no class or caste system, no ghettoes, no master race except with respect to Negroes?
“Now the time has come for this nation to fulfill its promise. We face a moral crisis as a country and as a people. It is time to act in the Congress, in your State and local legislative body and, above all, in all of our daily lives. Those who do nothing are inviting shame as well as violence. Those who act boldly are recognizing right as well as reality. In this respect I want to pay tribute to those citizens North and South who have been working in their communities to make life better for all. They are acting not out of a sense of legal duty but out of a sense of human decency.
“This is one country. It has become one country because all of us and all the people who came here had an equal chance to develop their talents. We cannot say to ten per cent of the population that you can’t have that right. I think we owe them and we owe ourselves a better country than that.”
After the President’s speech, the staff gathers to receive news of its reception across the land. The President doesn’t join them. Instead he meets with officials of the Justice Department to draft legislation to put before Congress that will enshrine equal civil rights in the Constitution, and then the following morning he federalizes the Mississippi National Guard, who march onto the Ole Miss campus to secure the registration of an ambitious young American who happened to have been born black.
A star is born, briefly it shines, and then it falls. They inter Marilyn during a quiet funeral in Westwood, the whole ceremony orchestrated by her ex-husband, who bars her Hollywood friends, even Frank, blaming them all for corrupting her to their fast living, and orders fresh red roses laid in her crypt three times a week. Every swish of his baseball bat swears retribution against any man who helped dim her light.
As dusk falls, the fins of the presidential motorcade become bats’ wings arched in the color of death. His limousine cruises out toward the Potomac en route to an assignation with Mary, but the events of recent days have seeded fears he could lose the next election, truncating every single one of his plans and programs.
Other men’s lives are a marathon, while he must regard his as a sprint. He has promised change, and though eight years may not even be enough, four years will certainly be too few. His legacy must exceed the works of one man and become the works of a whole people—that is the grand scale of the subject’s existence—yet his life itself is commensurately that much less than three score and ten, and instead must be measured by his years left in the White House, for a President is capable of achieving more in one day in office than in all the subsequent decades given him on earth.
The hopes and opportunities he has promised for all, this new spirit of limitless achievement he has proclaimed, all are grains of sand trickling through the hourglass.
Westward, across the river in Arlington, the headstones turn corpse-gray under the setting sun.
The President looks in, and says to the driver, “Turn around,” and he goes back to work.
THE SCHLONG
The President’s approval rating has plunged to its lowest number yet, so clearly his predecessors’ inaction was born of their insight that one can never underestimate how much the American people hate blacks, but Mary is an enlightened voter who’s come to appreciate the President’s stand on human rights, and, although he’s disappointed more citizens don’t share her view, he’s gratified by her conversion. Moreover, she demonstrates the often disregarded aspect of the subject’s fornicating habits, namely that a fair number of his passes target married ladies or divorced ladies near his own age; as a younger man he often regarded the bedding of a woman in the immediately senior decade to be quite the badge of honor, since such a lady must be scrupulously tasteful in her choice of lover in case the country-club matrons purloin her secret. But now that the subject is a man in middle age who, it has to be said, has come by a certain position, the questions of taste apply to his paramours, and, while beauty is the sine qua non, one must concede that a modicum of vulgarity attends a uniform pageant of girls whose years fall short of their bra size. In a certain way, he’s rather proud of his epicurism, because the only characteristic common to all the women he’s chosen is that they interest him on some intellectual or psychological plane, his wife (who else?) being the epitome.
The subject enjoyed his first success at a dinner two nights following the civil rights address to the nation, when Mary distinguished herself from the vast majority present by appearing to occupy a space nearer to his own than in the past, in contrast to those beaten back by the inferno of boats and bridges that surrounded his presidential personage that week, and that Friday, with the wife and children weekending in Virginia, she finally visited him in the White House as a guest of the Beard.
“Given your stand on human rights, Mr. President,” she said, “may I assume you’re also in favor of the Women’s Movement?”
“Sure I am,” he said. “I hate it when they just lie there.”
After a light supper and bottle of Côtes du Rhône, the Beard retired and the President lit an Upmann. “You got any pot, Jack?” she said.
He shook his head, grinning.
“No pot in the White House,” she said. “Whatever is the world coming to?”
When she services him the following week, he rewards her with a joint, scored and rolled by the Beard from a dealer about whom the President doesn’t ask and the Beard doesn’t tell, and when she passes it back to him as she reclines on the Lincoln bed, he takes a short drag but, on account of his office, doesn’t inhale.
Before she leaves, she says, “What would your wife think of what we’re doing?”
“The pertinent question is, what do you think of what we’re doing?”
“I think I’m a whore.”
“I rather hope not. I couldn’t afford you.”
Her smile is thin, her skin pale. She says, “How does she put up with you, Jack?”
“I guess she must love me,” he says.
In recent weeks, the First Lady has been in one of her mysterious phases, the cause of which he appears unable to decode. A few days ago, his secretary interrupted the President between meetings. “I’m very sorry, Mr. President, but I thought you should know that the First Lady has taken ill.”
From her tone, the President understood immediately the type of illness afflicting the First Lady, that peculiarly evanescent malady that prostrates her at the time of an official appointment but from which half an hour later, she bounces back, onto the tennis court or into a dress fitting. His brow turned all the darker when Mrs. Lincoln added, “It’s the mentally handicapped children,” knowing this particular charity was of personal importance on account of his sister, and a cause upon which he’d pressed the First Lady to become involved.
“When are they due?” he said.
“They’re in the Green Room now, Mr. President.”
“Put my eleven-thirty back to noon.”
“And this afternoon’s schedule, sir?”
“Don’t change it. I shan’t swim at lunchtime.”
He opened the Oval Office doors onto the West Colonnade, bringing the agents to attention. They followed at a respectful distance as the President strolled between the white marble pillars to the South Portico, whereupon the President proceeded alone via the Blue Room, entering the Green Room in which a group of about a dozen youngsters sat with their teachers.
The Pres
ident said, “I’m afraid the First Lady has taken ill, but I hope I’m an adequate substitute.”
The teachers formed a line and the official photographer asked if the President minded pictures, and then he met the children, who ranged from about six to about sixteen, though it’s often hard to tell age when their problems are severe, before the principal inquired nervously if the President would care to remain for the show they’d prepared. The President took a seat and the first performer gave a short violin recital, which won loud applause from the President.
The second performer was a young boy who had to be cajoled into standing up but was so nervous that his voice was inaudible as he attempted to recite a passage of poetry. The President asked the photographer to stop flashing, as he thought it might have been distracting the boy, and then the President crouched beside the lad to hear his poem.
The President said, “Shall we read it together?” and he enunciated the first few words, the boy following, till the boy’s voice got strong enough to lead, and, when they reached the end, to wonderful applause from the teachers and small number of White House staff, the President shook the boy’s hand in that big way one does with children. The President left feeling as he always does, that, despite the unrelenting pain of his back, which only intensified that afternoon since he was forced to omit his midday swim, one must not dwell on one’s own situation when there is far, far greater misfortune in the world.
That night over dinner, the President decided to challenge his wife on why she had missed the engagement, having learned from her assistant (under considerable duress) that the First Lady spent the day in dress fittings, followed by lunch with a girlfriend, followed by a closed visit to a boutique, to which she said, “I was ill.”
“With what?”
“My stomach.”
“You know how much it meant to me.”
“I do, Jack,” she said, and lit another L&M, staring defiantly through the cloud of smoke she blew in his direction.
After Mary has gone, he decants a glass of water and pops a couple of painkillers before breaking out onto the balcony overlooking the south grounds. By now, every second set of lights on Constitution is a taxi.
The First Lady’s press secretary came in some distress earlier, as a consequence of unsettled accounts with various fashion designers and jewelers, the First Lady’s creditors nearing the brink of embarrassing the White House through legal proceedings, whereupon poor Pamela became embroiled in the potential scandal. That morning, she opened a folder to show the President a clutch of unpaid invoices totaling close to a hundred thousand dollars.
These episodes occur periodically in the subject’s marriage, when his wife becomes a cat that buries its shit. Usually the subject is only aware of an arcane tension in their relations, until the day he excavates her copropolis. He will write a check on Monday, and his wife will utter not a word of thanks; her equilibrium will be restored, and she will return to her obligations as First Lady.
But the President’s fury has simmered all day, and now he thumps the marble balustrade with his palm. It isn’t her money she’s spending, nor his exactly, but their family’s, money that will provide for the children’s education, for their future, their homes and vacations, and, as well as being angry, he’s hurt, because her lack of values mock any gift he ever gives her, a dress he buys or a mare, because she values nothing material if frittering a hundred grand is something she can do without compunction.
Unable to sleep, the President makes work calls for hours, waking aides at home in their beds, until Adm. B. arrives in the early hours, having been informed that the President is sleepless and agitated, but, before administering a sedative, he wants to ensure the President takes all his medication, in particular the testosterone, which he missed earlier on account of relentless meetings.
“I feel pent up,” the President says.
“You’ll be fine, Mr. President,” the Admiral says.
“I think it’s the injections.”
“You’ll be fine, Mr. President,” he repeats before he leaves.
The President doesn’t sleep. He’s still angry with his wife. Since reading the poem with the mentally retarded boy, he’s been thinking a lot about his sister. Normally he hardly thinks about her at all. In his family, she’s best never mentioned, given it raises the uncomfortable issue of culpability. He wonders how she sleeps. He wonders if her blank look continues day and night and if her nurses grow so disturbed by those staring eyes that they drug her just to close them.
In the end, he calls Fuddle, since she lives nearest, who drives over, albeit grudgingly, signed in by the Beard whom he’s also woken, and, when she slips into the bedroom, he throws open the covers and tells her he won’t be able to sleep unless she gets a grip on his problem.
He rises at first light and works alone in the Oval Office, reading reports and dictating memoranda into a machine, though when he wants to step out into the Rose Garden for some air, he finds the patio doors locked. He taps on the glass to beckon the agents, but they don’t react. Maybe they don’t recognize him in sweater and slacks. He taps again. He turns away wondering if they really don’t hear or if they’ve been ordered not to let him out, but when he calls for Marine One, it comes without delay, transporting him rapidly out of D.C. and over rural Virginia to the ranch.
The First Family eats lunch outside, and the President makes a fuss over the children. John toddles around the table always with a hand on one of the legs, though when he reaches his father, he is so overcome with excitement that he drops onto his butt and bursts into tears. The President can’t lift him from a sitting position so the First Lady must round the table chewing a mouthful of ham and hoist him onto his father’s knee, slapping dust off the seat of his dungarees. The President feeds him a sliver of ham, but the eggs only provoke an expression of disgust. Caroline gabbles news of her pony rides to which her mother interjects an occasional correction or clarification, but the President notes she is terser than usual and making limited eye contact.
Before long, the subject’s eyes itch and he starts to sneeze. He is afflicted by grass pollen and horse hair and dog hair. Even his son’s rocking horse with its authentic mane precipitates an allergic reaction. By the time they put the children to bed, there’s a low wheeze to the subject’s breathing. His chest pulls tight and his sinuses clog. His wife disregards the symptoms steadfastly until her provocation makes him flare in anaphylactic anger.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” he snaps. “God damn it. I’m not made of money.”
“You can afford it,” she says.
“That’s not the point!”
“Tell me the point, Jack.”
“You’re not at liberty to spend my money willy-nilly.”
“I’m not ‘at liberty.’ But you are.”
“I’m what, Jackie?”
“‘At liberty,’ Jack.”
“They were going to make a scandal out of the unpaid bills.”
“Sure they were, Jack. They figure it’s good for business if all their clients know how indiscreet they can be when they put their minds to it.”
She lights a cigarette, knowing it will only make his chest tighter.
He retreats to the doorway. He glimpses a shadow move through the hall, and assumes it’s the nanny. When she’s gone, he says, “I need you to stop spending so God-damned much, Jacqueline, that’s all, for Christ’s sake.”
She says, “You know why I spend, Jack,” then turns away to smoke by the window.
At night, the wind rustles the dark trees that ring the ranch. His wife brings the children every couple of weekends depending on the season, and more often than not he joins them sometime during the Saturday, staying till after lunch the next day, before returning to work, and usually an assignation, on Sunday evening. He watches the trees rock, their darkness opening and closing. Marilyn’s ex could hide out there, his bat swishing through the leaves, as could some of Frank’s goons slinging Berettas.
Frank sent a generous gift for the President’s birthday, a strikingly embroidered rocking chair, that the First Lady decided was tasteless, in keeping with her general execration of Frank as “a boorish hood,” so, despite finding it comfortable and rather appealingly outré, the President was forced as always to accede on matters of décor, hence the chair’s donation with churlish haste to a children’s hospital, although in truth it was convenient that a connubial intervention would provide cover were Frank to cite his gift in rapprochement.
The truth is, he may sometimes treat his entourage abominably, but he was always generous to the subject, and often, particularly when the President reflects upon that dinner at the White House where Frank’s coarse overfamiliarity offended many guests, especially the First Lady and her coterie of society ladies, he concludes that most likely they were merely witnessing the effects of liquor in combination with the excitement of a slum kid who grew up to be best friends with the President of the United States, and this was the reason he kept calling the President by his first name when all the other guests observed the general convention whereby only his wife calls him “Jack” in public.
Yet on this particular night, peering out toward the dark trees massing in the distance, the subject recalls a past occasion on which Frank addressed him as “Mr. President” and the President said, “‘Jack.’” He wonders if the memory can be real. Whether Frank’s volubility meant he was intimidated by the subject’s status or felt comfortably equal to it, the subject has chosen to presume the latter, and be affronted. But when he thinks of Frank, as he is doing tonight, he misses him.
In the sitting room, a black telephone rests on the hook while nearby an agent reads a biography of Northumberland under flashlight—a book the President pulled off the shelf and recommended to him—and, after asking him for some privacy, the President dials Santa Monica.