"How can you talk so? Of course I appreciated them! You didn't. You didn't know them like I did!"
"Indeed?"
"They thought of everyone except themselves--why, their last words were about you."
"What did they say?"
"Oh, not now, Sam."
"Tell me." His voice was cool but the hand he put on her wrist was firm. It distracted her, and made it hard to think up the right thing to say. This was not the way she had intended to lead up to the subject of her plan.
"They said--they said--um--'Georgette, you're doing a heckuva job for Uncle Sam.'"
Sam stared at her and dropped her wrist. His eyelids went down, leaving his face blank. "Did they say anything else?" he questioned, not turning his head.
"They asked me to take care of their families, and I said I would, like they were my own."
"What else?"
"They said--'Stay the course in Iraq. Victory is the only option. We're winning!"
He was silent for a moment and then he laughed softly. "It's convenient to have the approval of the people you've killed, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
He turned and even in her confusion she was surprised that there was no mockery in his face. Nor was there any more interest in it than in the face of a man watching the last act of a none-too-amusing comedy.
"I think my meaning's plain enough. You've had everything and everyone you asked for in running this war. You kicked out anyone who disagreed with you. You've been turning corners and passing milestones so fast you're practically a blur. Obviously the Iraq War is over. You've won. We're implementing a troop withdrawal schedule starting next month."
"Won?" she cried. "No! No!" Incoherent for a moment she leaped to her feet and running to him caught his arm. "Oh, you're all wrong! Terribly wrong. It's not won--I--" She stopped for she could find no other words.
He put his hand under her chin, quietly turned her face up to the light and looked for an intent moment into her eyes. She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, her lips quivering as she tried to speak. But she could marshal no words because she was trying to find in his face some answering emotion, some leaping light of war fever, or fear of terrorists, or hatred of the Islamofascist conspiracy. Surely he must know, now! He dropped her chin and, turning, walked back to his chair and sprawled tiredly again, his chin on his breast, his eyes looking up at her from under bushy white brows in an impersonal speculative way. She followed him back to his chair, her hands twisting, and stood before him.
"You are wrong," she began again, finding words. "Sam, tonight, when I knew, I ran every step of the way here to tell you. Oh, I--"
"You are tired," he said, still watching her. "It's almost your bedtime."
"But I must tell you!"
"Georgette," he said heavily, "I don't want to hear--anything."
"But you don't know what I'm going to say!"
"It's written plainly on your face. Something, someone—perhaps the November elections?—has made you realize that the unfortunate country of Iraq is too big a failure for even you to paint as a success. And that same something has suddenly set the charms of shared accountability, bipartisan co-operation and taking advice from a diverse selection of statesmen and military advisors before you in a new and attractive light," he sighed slightly. "And it's no use to talk about it."
She drew a sharp surprised breath. He had never before read her like this. After the first shock at her own transparency, her heart rose with gladness and relief. He understood that she had a new plan, and her task was miraculously made easy. No use to talk about it! Of course he was bitter at her long refusal to listen, of course he was mistrustful of her sudden turnabout. She would have to woo him with sound bytes about sacrifice, convince him with a rich outpouring of terrorist threats, and what a pleasure it would be to do it!
"I'm going to tell you everything," she said, putting her hands on the arm of his chair and leaning down to him. "I've been so wrong, such a stupid fool--"
"Georgette, don't go on with this. Don't pretend to be humble and sorry. I can't bear it. Leave us with some dignity, some honesty. Spare us this last."
She straightened up abruptly. Spare us this last? What did he mean by "this last"? Last? This was their first, their new beginning.
"But I will tell you," she began rapidly, as if fearing his hand upon her mouth, silencing her. "Oh, Sam, I made mistakes when I cowboyed us into Iraq. I should have listened to the generals and to Colin Powell. I should have let the State Department officials implement their plans for the occupation. I was such a fool I didn't know how much I love getting opinions from people who don't agree with me, and getting advice from experts. Sam, you must believe me!"
He looked at her, standing before him, for a moment, a long look that went to the back of her mind. She saw little interest in his face.
"Even if I believe you," he said at last, "What about the people who have already died?"
"Oh, Sam, don't let's talk of them! They're just a comma. Aren't you glad to know-- I mean, now that I--"
As his tired eyes met hers, she broke off in embarrassment, shy as a girl speaking at her first rally. If he'd only make it easier for her! If only he would start clapping and cheering her words, so she could go back to her office and sign the orders to send more troops to Iraq. But as she looked at him, she realized that he didn't seem to care if she was telling the truth or not. He looked drained and as though nothing she had said was of any moment.
"Glad?" he said. "Once I would have thanked God, fasting, to hear you say all this. But, now, it doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter? What are you talking about? Of course, it matters! Sam, you do care about winning in Iraq, don't you? You must care. The troops said we were winning before they died."
"Well, they were right, as far as they knew. But, Georgette, did it ever occur to you that even the most ardent wish to win doesn't mean that we can win?"
She looked at him speechless, her mouth a round O.
"There are no good choices left. You got us into a quagmire," he went on, "because of your insane obstinacy that makes you hold on like a bulldog to any decision you make and your arrogance that makes you deaf and blind to facts that contradict what you want to believe . . . . My belief that we can win wore out."
"But belief can't wear out!"
"Your belief that you are always right did."
"No it didn't!" She stopped suddenly, realizing her mistake. "I mean, yes. But actually I believe I WOULD have been right always if Congress had--if the media had---if the troops had--if you had . . . ."
"Then, you certainly gave a good imitation of believing you had nothing to learn from anybody up till tonight. Georgette, I'm not upbraiding you, accusing you, reproaching you. That time has passed. So spare me your defenses and your explanations. If you can manage to listen to me for a few minutes without interrupting, I can explain what I mean. Though God knows, I see no need for explanations. The truth's so plain."
She sat down, the harsh light falling on her bewildered simian face. She listened to his quiet voice saying words which at first meant nothing. This was the first time he had ever talked to her in this manner, without fawning, compliments or deference.
"Did it ever occur to you that I gave you all the money and power you asked for in this war and trusted you with my honor and future? Supported you for years? Rooted for you to make every milestone? You took everything and squandered it all, and now you want more."
Out of it all only the fact that he once supported her meant anything. At the faint echo of passion in his voice, pleasure and excitement crept back into her. She sat, hardly breathing, listening, waiting.
"I knew you weren't legitimately elected when you came to office. I knew about Florida, you see. But, fool that I was, I thought you could lead, and that you were the sort of girl I'd like to have a beer with. Laugh, if you like, but I wanted to trust you, to follow you, to give you everything you wanted. I knew you'd never had to work or struggle for anything, but I thought you'd at least be competent. When 9/11 happened I blamed Clinton. When we left Afghanistan half done and went into Iraq I took your word for it that there were WMDs, that it would take maybe six weeks, certainly not six months, that we'd be received as liberators and that Iraq could pay for its own reconstruction. Then there was Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib, warrantless wiretapping, hundreds of signing statements, an incoherent Social Security plan, Katrina . . . ."
He was certainly going on and on. Georgette stopped listening to the words and let the sounds wash over her. His voice was calm and tired but there was something in the quality of it that raised a ghost of memory in Georgette. She had heard a voice like this once before and at some other crisis of her life. Where had it been? The voice of a man facing himself and his world without feeling, without flinching, without hope.
Why--why--it had been her father after he arranged for her to do community service after she was busted for possession of coke. In the car on the way back home he'd talked of laziness, irresponsibility and dishonesty with a tired calmness that had more finality in its timbre than any desperate bitterness could have revealed. Even as her father's voice then had turned her cold with dread of things she could not understand, so now Sams's voice made her heart sink. His voice, his manner, more than the content of his words, disturbed her, made her realize that her pleasurable excitement of a few moments ago had been untimely. Something was wrong, badly wrong. What it was she did not know but she listened desperately, her eyes on his seamed, bearded face, hoping to hear words that would dissipate her fears.
"Ah, darling," she said coming forward, flashing an orange terrorist threat advisory notice in hopes that he would fling himself into arms in fear. "Darling, I'm so sorry but I'll make it all up to you! We can be so happy, now that we know the truth and--Sam--look at me, Sam! There--there can be other wars--not like Iraq but--"
"Thank you, no," said Sam, as if he were refusing a second helping of pie. "I'll not risk the nation again."
"Sam, don't say such things! Oh, what can I say to make you understand? I've told you how sorry I am--"
"My darling, you're such a child. You think that by saying, 'I'm sorry,' all the errors and hurts of years past can be remedied, obliterated from the mind, all the poison drawn from old wounds. . . . "
She sat down. It was obvious that he was not going to give her the extra troops she wanted. It was beginning to be obvious that all his talk about supporting her meant nothing. It was a tale of a time long past, and he was looking at it as though it had never happened to him. And that was frightening. He looked at her in an almost kindly way, speculation in his eyes.
"Sam, if you once supported me so much, there must be something left for me," she said desperately.
"Out of it all I find only two things that remain--pity and fear."
"Then--then you mean it's all ruined--that you don't support me any more?"
"That's right."
"But," she said stubbornly, like a child who still feels that to state a desire is to gain that desire, "but I'm the Decider!"
"That's your misfortune, because I'm taking away your power to decide."
She looked up quickly to see if there was a jeer behind those words but there was none. He was simply stating a fact. But it was a fact she still would not believe--could not believe. She looked at him from round eyes that burned with a desperate obstinacy and the sudden hard line of jaw that sprang out through her jowls was Barbara's jaw.
"Don't be a fool, Sam! I can make--"
He flung up a hand in horror.
"Don't look so determined, Georgette! You frighten me. I see you are contemplating the transfer of your tempestuous attentions from Iraq to Iran. I fear for my future, my liberty and my peace of mind. No, Georgette, you will not be starting a war against Iran. Your power has gone away."
Her jaw trembled before she clenched her teeth to steady it. Gone away? No, anything but that! How could life go on without power? But how could she get it back? She was helpless against Sam's cool mind, his disinterested words.
For a moment she was on the verge of an outburst of childish wild tears. She could have thrown herself on the floor, cursed and screamed and drummed her heels. But some remnant of pride, of common sense stiffened her. She thought, if I did, he'd only laugh, or just look at me. I mustn't bawl; I mustn't beg. He must respect me even--even if he doesn't support me.
She lifted her chin and managed to ask quietly:
"What will you do?"
There was a faint gleam of admiration in his eyes as he answered.
"I'll impeach both you and Dickette. We'll try a Democratic president again."
"But you hate them! I've heard you laugh at them so often and--"
He shrugged. "I still laugh--but I've seen the differences now. Georgette, I'm two hundred thirty-one--the age when a man begins to value some of the things he's thrown away so lightly in youth—the respect of the world, honor, true security, the good of the whole society rather than the wealth of a few, and a sustainable eco-system--When I lived those days I didn't realize the righteous joy of them--"
Words came back to Georgette and she quoted parrot-like: "We all must take responsibility and take action now to provide moral leadership in the world and strengthen our middle class."
Sam said sharply: "Why did you say that? That's what I meant."
"It was something that--that John Edwards said."
He shrugged again. "Georgette, when you are two hundred thirty-one, perhaps you will know what I'm talking about and then perhaps you, too, will be tired of playing soldier with other people's lives and focusing on the stock market as the only measure of a nation's prosperity. But I doubt it. I think you'll always be more attracted by surface rather than by depth. Anyway, I can't wait that long to see. People are dying, the world condemns us, the deficit is out of sight and the voters are unhappy. It's time for a change."
"Stop," she said suddenly. She had hardly heard anything he had said. Certainly her mind had not taken it in. But she knew she could no longer endure with any fortitude the sound of his voice when he denied absolute power to the unitary executive.
He paused and looked at her quizzically.
"Well, you get my meaning, don't you?" he questioned, rising to his feet.
She threw out her hands to him, palms up, in the age-old gesture of appeal and her heart, again, was in her face.
"No," she cried. "All I know is that you do not support me and my power is going away! Oh, my darling, if it goes, what shall I do?"
For a moment he hesitated as if debating whether a kind lie were kinder in the long run than the truth. Then he shrugged.
"Georgette, I'm too old to believe in such sentimentalities as clean slates and starting all over. I'm too old to shoulder the burden of constant lies that go with having you as president. I wish I could care what you do or where you go, but I can't."
He drew a short breath and said lightly but softly:
"My dear, I don't give a damn."
She silently watched him go up the stairs, feeling that she would explode with anger, die from grief, at being told "No." She knew now that there was no appeal of emotion or reason which would turn that cool brain from its verdict. She knew now that he had meant every word he said, lightly though some of them had been spoken.
"I won't think of it now," she thought grimly, relying on her old solution. "I'll go crazy if I think about losing the presidency now. I'll think of it tomorrow. I'll--why, I'll go home to the ranch tomorrow," and her spirits lifted faintly.
She had gone back to the ranch before in a state of pure boredom with her presidential tasks. They were always giving her thick reports to pretend to read, and talking gobbledygook about finance and laws that got in her way. After many weeks of bike riding and brush clearing at Crawford she had emerged from its sheltering walls strong and armed for victory. Well, it had had a baddish result when Cindy Sheehan got all that anti-war publicity and the hurricane hit New Orleans, but SHE had certainly felt better for the down time. What she had done once, somehow--please God, she could do again! She would clear brush and talk to her lawyers.
She could see the white refrigerator gleaming welcome to her, sheltering beers to be drunk in seclusion, feel the smooth grain of the liquor cabinet as she braced herself with one palm while throwing back the first shot of bourbon.
With the spirit of her people who would not know reality when it collided with them head-on, she raised her chin. She could get her power back. There had never been anything her Dad couldn't fix for her, once her Mom read him the riot act.
"I'll think of it all tomorrow, at Crawford. I can stand it then. Tomorrow, I'll think of some way to get it back. After all, tomorrow is another day."
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How I wish Americans would react to Georgette's--I mean George's speech tonight.
