Laurie Boris

Everyone grieves in their own ways. Mine often comes with snark and political satire. Namaste, and love to you all.

---

Location: A Secure Underground Bunker in Delaware

She was, finally, alone. She didn’t remember a single time in the past hundred days when she’d been alone for more than it took to use the toilet. She’d been running faster than her doubts, fighting harder than her fears and now…they were threatening to catch up to her.

But she wasn’t ready to be caught. She thought about the gummy that, as a joke, Doug had pressed into her palm earlier that evening. What the hell, she said to the dimmed lights of the empty room, the institutional furniture, the unknown of her future, and downed it.

Then she kicked her Louboutins across the room, went flat out on the couch, closed her eyes and let Beyonce flow in through her air pods. When the first feathers of calm began stroking the edges of her frayed nerve endings, a click-clacking of sensible heels on the stairs made her wince. The voice of Hillary Rodham Clinton didn’t help: “Hey. You okay down here?”

She made to sit up. Her body wasn’t having it, at first, but she pushed herself. There was no way another human being would catch her out like this except her husband. Then she remembered she could drop the campaign mask. It wasn’t easy to unstick. She heaved a huge sigh, took out her buds. “You of all people should know I am definitely not okay.” She forced a smile. “But if you tell anyone that, I will cut you. Believe me, I know how.”

Hillary gave a crooked grin. “Prosecutor, are you…high?”

“Not so much. Maybe a little.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger. “Maybe a teensy bit. A teensy. Joyful. Bit.”

“Got any left?”

“Nope.”

“Too bad. I’ll just have to settle for this.” She went to a cabinet across the room and extracted a bottle of expensive-looking scotch and two glasses.

“Well, damn,” Madame Vice President said. “Joe’s been holding out on me.”

“Don’t take it personally. He probably just forgot it was here.”

She watched the older woman pour. Noting the steadiness of her hands. Thinking about the hell Secretary Clinton had been through, how she’d gone to hell and back, multiple times, and was still standing on her own two feet.

“So we got something else in common now,” she said to Hillary.

“Yep. That fucking orange clown show.”

With a thank-you smile, Madame Vice President took the glass offered to her. “Supreme Court extended all kinds of immunity to sitting presidents,” she said. “I can talk Joe into pretty much anything these days. Can we have him killed?”

Hillary cackled. “Just tell Seal Team Six to make it look like an accident.”

A shared smile then silence fell between them. Idly she wondered about the wisdom of mixing pot with alcohol, then decided that was tomorrow’s problem. “Seriously. How did you get through it?” she asked, staring into the depths of the amber liquid.

“Hmm. Let’s see. A lot of long walks, some screaming into the void, and making a mint off book and podcast deals didn’t hurt either. You see yourself going that route?”

“Feels like that would be giving up. No offense. I just gotta sit with this a while, and I definitely need the rest, but I still want to be in the fight.”

Hillary pressed a hand to her forearm. “Come fight on our team then. When you’re ready.” She looked at her watch. “I gotta go rescue Bill, God knows what he’s telling reporters.” She put down her glass, took a business card from her blazer pocket, and snapped it onto the table. “That number’s secure. We’ll set you up. You already know the crew. We’ll make you an honorable member of The Council.”

“Forty-six-and-a-half?”

“Actually, the half-numbering thing? I’m starting to feel like that’s a diminution. And a consolation prize. I haven’t written up my thoughts about that for the official record, or proposed an amendment to the by-laws, but with you, we’d be starting fresh. How does MVP work for you?”

“It’s not bad.” A gentle, pleasant fuzz began growing over her thoughts. “But I think I’m just gonna close my eyes for a bit.”

“Good idea,” Hillary said, and stood. “Anything you want to tell Joe? I imagine I’ll be seeing him on the way out.”

“Tell him”—she yawned—“we gotta talk about plausible deniability.”

“With pleasure,” she said. “I have a lot of ideas on the subject. Many of them untraceable.” And the sensible heels clicked back up the stairs.