Fuck. I was in a tight spot. Tighter than I had ever been in before. I could feel the walls closing in, and I didn't like it one bit.
My right ankle was broken, twisted at a horrible angle. The shock and adrenaline were wearing off, and I could feel a bright red ache that threatened to blot out the world. I forced myself to take long, slow, deep breaths. This was going to be hard, but it was either going to be hard or I'd die in the middle of nowhere right beside all the trout I didn't catch.
The sun rose and sank, and night came on, and I had only managed to crawl about a mile. It wasn't enough. My strength was gone. I was alone. Scared. I could hear the first stirrings of the night creatures, on their way to score an easy meal.
I could only hope they killed me quickly.
(Reserved for Mader comments)
ReplyDeletePowerful. I love how this builds. The "bright red ache." And the last line.
DeleteHis face lit up at the sight of her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that could be called pleasant by some. Other things by others.
ReplyDelete“Well. Isn’t this a nice surprise?” he said after a brief hug. Then his smile faltered. “You’re here alone?”
As if her prearranged arrival at his Texas ranch surrounded by black SUVs could ever be called “alone” or a “surprise.” There would be time later to think on those days before her every public movement had not been shadowed. But this was not the time.
“I just wanted to chat, you and me. It’s been a while.”
“Indeedy, it has,” he said, and suggested tea and pastries in the sunroom. They traded family chitchat while it all was arranged—his wife was at the local library teaching kids to read; her husband was flying off every which way—and when they finally sat and were allowed a modicum of privacy, she began, pressing a palm over the back of his hand.
“I really do like catching up with you, George. But I admit I had an ulterior motive for this unofficial meeting.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “If it’s about the painting, I understand. You don’t have much wall space. Pass it on to someone who might appreciate it, you won’t be hurting my feelings.”
She hadn’t the heart to tell him she’d already done that, or at least tried to, but she kept moving. Pushing out a smile and lifting the teacup for a sip. Then set it down. “You been in touch with Dick lately?”
For a second he cringed. “Not since I gave him the portrait. I’m… I’m sensing a pattern here. Maybe I need a few more lessons.”
“No! No. Well, if you want to, then by all means…” She reeled herself in. “We need you, George.”
He let out a long breath, settling the cup on the saucer. Turning it a few degrees. Then looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Michelle. My mind’s made up. I’m staying out of it. Staying neutral. Staying the course. It’s the honorable thing. That’s what Pop would say.”
She could just see the old man saying those very words. In some ways, she believed this son would never be free of his father’s reach. And she had no right to judge what he’d done in office. She’d put in her time like he had. History would be the real judge of them all. Then again, as she’d learned, history was told by the winners.
“I understand wanting to stay out of it,” she said. “But as you well know, and as you’ve expressed to me on several occasions, these are not ordinary times.”
He held up a hand. “And I appreciate your argument. I’ve heard the whole speech from Laura. She got herself a Cat Lady for Kamala shirt. Looks adorable on her. But I can’t…see, when I left the White House, I made a bargain.”
Not another one, she thought. Bought and paid for by the same right-wing billionaires that—
“With God,” he said. “About the whole”—he whispered the word—“Iraq thing. That if I set to be humble and penitent in returning to my private life, continuing my pledge not to critique another president, then I might earn some absolution.”
She blinked. And blinked again. “George. What you have between you and the Lord is your own business. I’m just offering an alternative that could also earn you some absolution. And a whole heap of good will.”
“With all due respect. Good will doesn’t go as far as it used to.”
“Can you do me the favor of at least giving it another thought?”
He agreed to that, and after the wagon train of black SUVs dusted back to the main road, he returned to his studio and flinched, hand to his heart, at the small bearded man seated there.
“How the hell do you keep doing that?”
The man laughed, emitting the smell of brimstone. “Mr. President. If you would indeed like ‘art lessons’ we can so very easily tack that on to your soul bargain.”
George looked like he was thinking about it.
I really dig these pieces. Super compelling and interesting. I think you should anthologize these presidential stories. JD
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