Laurie Boris

Because I just couldn’t help myself, and because satire is one of my favorite creative outlets, especially in anxious times. It’s cheaper than therapy.

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Forty-three’s impish 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.

“Isn’t this a nice surprise?” he said after a brief hug. Then his smile faltered. “You’re here alone?”

As if Michelle’s 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 suggested tea and pastries on the patio, which had a beautiful view of the low, rolling hills and the lake. They traded family chitchat while it 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 if it’s not your cup of tea. 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. “You been in touch with Dick Cheney 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, remembering her mission. “We need you, George.”

He let out a long breath, settling his tea 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. No endorsements. 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 fortunate 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 sorely learned, history was told by the winners.

“I understand wanting to stay out of it,” she said. “But 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 Swiftie 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 him too, she thought. Manipulated 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 took that in a moment. “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, my friend. Good will doesn’t go as far as it used to.”

She gave a quick, empathetic smile. “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 walked back to his studio, anticipating the joy of an afternoon of creative immersion. Entering the room he 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 that wrapped its arms around the room’s usual linseed oil aroma in a particularly unpleasant way. “Mr. President. It’s nice to see you, too.”

“What do you want? I’ve been keeping up my end of the bargain.”

“You have, you have. No endorsements, not a public word against my star pupil Donald in return for the cleansing of your conscience, while you’re still on this side of the earth at least.” He crossed one cloven-hoofed leg over the other. “But your beautiful, charming guest is quite persuasive. So I’d like to tack a little incentive onto our contract to help you stay on the straight and narrow, so to speak.”

Forty-three tried, and failed, to starch his spine. “What.”

“We happen to be having a special today on artistic talent. Call it a bonus.”

Forty-three’s mouth rounded in surprise. “I’ve been improving. Everyone’s saying so. And that’s gonna be way obvious, if I’m suddenly Rembrandt or something.”

The unwelcome guest waved a hand. “We can make it a progressive achievement. Nudge that improvement a little bit faster. Anyone asks, say you’ve had lessons. As your friend suggested. She is quite brilliant in addition to her charm.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Forty-three said, narrowing his eyes. “She doesn’t want to be anywhere near politics anymore, and I sincerely doubt you could offer anything to make her change her mind.”

“Hmm.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “You forget how I love a challenge.”

“I’ll do it,” Forty-three said. “Give me the art thing. Just leave her alone.”

“Done. As always, a pleasure doing business with you.” And with a courtly bow and a puff of smoke, he was gone.

The forty-third president of the United States was left alone, standing in the middle of his studio. He shook his head. Let the sounds of the ranch ground his body – the birdsong, the wind through the oaks. Then an image came to mind. An image his hands itched to paint. He picked up a brush, and shut out the rest of the world.