Leave Her Out: A Novel

by Daniel Davidsohn

  “I already know that.”

  “Sure. But the memories I’m willing to write about have to do with the early days of my life.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They’re as vivid as the cheap wine you’ve brought tonight.”

  “So you have an excellent memory. I’m a witness to that. And you’re in great shape for your age. I can see that too. I’m happy for you.”

  “Great. That’s all I needed to hear from you.” I made as if to get up.

  “Wait,” said Mohe. “Something’s still missing.”

  I sank back in my seat, pleased. “Sure,” I said. “There’s more. And you should listen to this part carefully. When I say that I remember my early days? I’m really talking about my time as a black slave.”

  “A black slave?”

  “Yes. In Brazil.”

  I’d been looking forward to this moment, the big reveal, but I was a little nervous too. How would Mohe react? What he thought about me really did count. Looking at him then, as he stared at me with a blank face, I was reminded of our days on the battlefield of politics. He was evaluating me. Reading my soul, as he liked to put it. It suddenly felt as if the mental exam I had just been through with Dr. Hastings didn’t matter anymore. It all came down to his judgment.

  Mohe crossed his arms. “Anthony?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a work of fiction you’re writing?”

  “No. It’s my damn memoirs.”

  “Right. You do realize you were born white.”

  “I’m not crazy. Is Debby still here?”

  “You have lived as a white man. You will, with all the certainty of the universe, die a white man.”

  “That’s perfectly clear, my friend.”

  “Then I’m at a loss of words.”

  “That’s OK. All I ask is that you trust me.”

  “Trust…you may challenge the very foundation of trust if you go ahead with this.” Mohe uncrossed his arms and leaned forward on the chair. He was shaking his head. “You know I’ll always respect you, but if you follow this bizarre line… I mean, c’mon. Why?”

  “Mohe,” I answered with the utmost cynicism, “I don’t know why I came to remember all of this, but I know—with every fiber of my being—that my story is true. It’s going to require a special set of eyes to read between the lines when I’m done with it.”

  “So, a black slave from Brazil? And how would you possibly know that?”

  “Because this is my story. And you and my daughter are part of it.”

  6

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  It was six in the morning. Looking through the small wooden-framed window of my home office gave me an idea of how brutal it was outside, the very definition of dark and cold.

  There was a lamp hanging on a wall in the front yard. It painted a white streak across the snow, covering what I presumed to be the remains of my lawn. I wasn’t bothered. It would grow back in the summer. That was the natural cycle for everything. Being aware of it was what made our worries less troubling.

  I focused my gaze on the part of the street I could see from my vantage point. They were parked right there—in a blue sedan with its lights on. I reached for my binoculars and looked at them. I knew they could see me through their binoculars, so our eyes kind of met.

  “Hello, clowns.”

  Predictably, they left as soon as they were sure I’d seen them. That was all there was to it: they were reminding me of their existence. It was getting ridiculous. They knew I was hiding here in Glasgow, and they knew there was no place in the world I could hide for real. What was the point, then? The Secret Service was certainly aware of them, but I wasn’t willing to discuss it with them. I had a feeling that the two were connected.

  The only explanation I had was that they were engaging in some sort of psychological torture. Mohe had seen them once, but he still believed I was being paranoid. The reality was that the frequency with which they showed themselves to me had increased dramatically since I moved to Glasgow. Maybe they were afraid I was getting old and would start saying inappropriate things.

  Well, I couldn’t do anything about it, I thought, staring out at the now-empty street. I didn’t even know who they were exactly, except that my past was what brought them here.

  It was snowing again, and the snow reminded me of the White House.

  Not that I missed it. I really didn’t. But certain events came back to me from time to time, triggered by the smallest—and usually unrelated—things. Like one night in the East Room when we had a special dinner for some of our allies from across the world. The ambassador of Afghanistan, Mr. Tawfiq Barakzai, approached me when I was just getting ready to leave. After we exchanged a few courteous words and raised a glass, he asked me to reconsider the use of drone strikes.

  Mr. Barakzai wasn’t against the strikes per se; it was those who got caught up in the strikes that concerned him. He went on to describe a strike the previous winter aimed at a terrorist leader the US had been pursuing for some time. I listened wearily, remembering the day. I’d been in the situation room with my eyes glued to the monitors. The political fallout of claiming the lives of several schoolchildren had been messy. I’d apologized publicly and called for more caution from our military commanders.

  “One of the children who died was my wife’s niece,” finished Mr. Barakzai quietly.

  All I could do was look him in the eye and keep up that shield around my soul. Ambassador Barakzai walked out of the East Room as soon the sound of the Steinway piano faded away.

  Now, in a house that was only white from snow, I asked myself: Could I have done anything different? Changed the fate of those children? In theory, yes. But in reality, I doubted it. Yet there was bitterness in my heart as I went over the incident in my mind.

  Maybe I was getting old and sentimental. Age made you hurt, despite what the doctors told you. What comforted me was the fact that I was healthy, which meant I had no excuse to put off doing what I’d set out to do.

  Only Mohe and that lady shrink I met yesterday knew I was about to write my memoirs. It was better that way. No expectations meant no pressure on me. Of course, my daughter—my stupid daughter—didn’t know about the manuscript. When I was done, I’d arrange for a copy to be sent to her (at that miserable hippie camp she called home, or wherever she lived nowadays) after my death. Or before. But I honestly hoped I wouldn’t have to send it before I went, because if I did, it would be for her own protection.

  In any case, I could picture the scene. Stella would open the package, scan the first couple of pages of the manuscript, realize it was about the things I remembered…and frantically read it to check whether I’d been unfair, offended her in some way, or simply made her look bad. As if I would do that. Not because I care so deeply about hurting her fragile, “the world owes me” feelings; because any attack on Stella would come back on me, the man who took a hand in raising that spoiled little girl who grew into an unbearably ungrateful teenager. Last time I saw her—a long time ago—she was convinced that I didn’t love her. But what was I guilty of—destroying her sandcastle? At thirty-five, people were expected to be grown, you know. Even Stella.

  An hour later, I was sitting at the kitchen table, dutifully working my way through the breakfast laid out by Vicky: fruit and toast. She was an early bird like me, and this was our usual routine. I watched her bustling about at the sink as I spread butter on my toast.

  Besides Mohe, Vicky was the only other person from the old days of glory, and she had become indispensable in my life. She was interesting. Different. Ten years younger than me, and a beautiful blonde, plump woman. Sometimes, more often than I should, I caught myself thinking of her and missing her company when I watched TV or read a book. Maybe I was missing my wife and was projecting it onto Vicky somehow. The heart was a messy thing.

  Vicky was from a small alpine town in Slovenia, but she left when she was twenty to study gastronomy in France, then came to America in her thirti
es. It was Anya who hired her, after Vicky cooked for one of our social events. It turned out not only could she cook, but she was good at pretty much everything that was asked of her. And she rarely said no. She became our secretary, and after a few months with us, she was handling everything in the house. When Anya died, Vicky said she was willing to follow me wherever I went. So, she came along to Glasgow.

  She handed me a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take this to my office.”

  She nodded but said nothing. Maybe she suspected something was going on, but if she did, she didn’t ask.

  In my office I sat at my desk, waiting for the coffee to cool and staring at my new typewriter. I bought it three months ago. Secondhand. Didn’t tell anyone. It was a simple machine, manual, and portable. I dared any virus or electricity blackout to interrupt my work once I started. It was not going to happen. I was protected by simplicity and armed with plenty of white paper and black ink ribbon.

  Anya would have been pleased to see me all set up to work at the desk, the only remaining luxury from my best days. It was a Colonial Revival-style double-pedestal desk, a copy of the Theodore Roosevelt desk. Other presidents used it too while they were in the Oval Office—Taft, Hoover, and Eisenhower. Not that I had any particular fondness for any of them. I just liked the desk. It was Anya’s idea; she had it made for my seventieth birthday. She was so attentive to details, always thinking of ways to please me. Did I treat her as well? I would have liked to think so, but I wasn’t so sure. It had always been about me—that was the truth. The presidency was a hell of an excuse for not having time for her.

  The coffee was a little less steaming. I took my first sip, thinking hopefully I’d be able to use the toilet without any pills later today. The typewriter was looking at me, challenging me, asking when I would type my first words. I was warming up. The writing was already forming in my head, preparing to go through my arms and hands, and finally arrive at the keyboard. I could feel it, like a flow of energy. Some might argue that writing should start not in the head but in the heart. Easy to say. I just wanted to fulfill my duty as a father, despite all the bitterness.

  Ready? OK.

  Chapter 1: The beginning

  Couldn’t be the end of it, could it?

  Chapter 1: The beginning

  Better. I looked out the window. Still dark. No blue sedan in sight. I flexed my fingers, and I let the words come:

  This is my story as I now remember it. Not about an individual who once had the honor of serving as the president of the United States of America. For that reason, I’ll have no regard for the symbolism of my position or the legacy of my work. This is not about the politician or the public figure who has been living the quiet life for years. This is about the man.

  For reasons that escape me, I’ve recently developed the ability to remember, as clear as day, people and events that belong to a far-distant past. Real people and events, as real as the angry reader of this humble account. It would be hypocritical and redundant to suggest that you should be the judge of what you read. You will be, whether you want to or not. That’s a human thing to do. And that’s our connection. A human connection.

  I’ll begin by telling you about a man called Marshall Higgins. He was a sturdy man, strong, and the coldness in his eyes earned him respect and fear. You need to know about Marshall to understand what role he played in making me who I am.

  I believe he was about twenty-eight years old when his life took a turn that is crucial to my own story. It was January 1, 1863, and Marshall learned that President Abraham Lincoln had issued an Executive Order known as Proclamation 95. It said that “all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free.”

  That proclamation represented the end of slavery, but for Marshall, it meant he was soon to be an unemployed overseer. Until then, he managed about fifty slaves on a four-hundred-acre sugar plantation in Georgia. The planter, James Barret, was dying of tuberculosis, and his only son, an arrogant young man with an inclination for sadism, despised Marshall. No doubt Marshall would be fired the moment James Barret died. Knowing what was to come for him, Marshall set off for Atlanta in search of new opportunities.

  A ray of sunlight through the window was blinding me. It was sunny. What time was it? I checked the clock. Almost nine. You’ve got to be kidding. It took me nearly two hours to write down a few miserable lines? Not only that, but I was already lying. Sure, Lincoln did what he did, but to simplify the matter as the end of slavery? I was hoping to do better than that. Not sure how, though. This was my story, not the story of the United States. I had to keep focused.

  I took a quick comfort break and snagged a yogurt from the fridge, thinking I would skip lunch. Then I was back at my desk.

  Where was I? Oh, yes. Marshall.

  One afternoon, at a slave market in Atlanta, Marshall overheard an international merchant talking to a slave owner. What drew his attention was the fact that the merchant spoke with an accent he couldn’t identify—not Spanish, which he was used to hearing on his walkabouts. Furthermore, the man was well-dressed and looked like an important person. Marshall stepped closer and listened in.

  Soon, he learned all the relevant information concerning that foreigner. He was from Brazil. He spoke good English. He owned a sugarcane plantation in a place with a strange name. The man was there precisely because of Proclamation 95. Since the slavery business was still going strong in Brazil, he was looking for an experienced overseer to manage his plantation, which was worked by a mere twenty-five slaves, but was doing well.

  The foreigner was offering a hefty salary and excellent accommodation for the right candidate, who needed to be ready to depart immediately. Why the urgency? Because the end of slavery in the US had set a terrible example. Therefore, the foreigner wanted to take advantage of however much time slavery still had in Brazil before the bells of freedom rang in his land. The name of the foreigner was Alberto Lisboa.

  “I’m Marshall Higgins. I’m the man you’re looking for,” Marshall said, offering his hand to the foreigner.

  Alberto turned and inspected Marshall from his feet up. They shook hands. Neither looked away for quite some time. Testosterone and honesty were on display. It was, unquestionably, a delicate matter for both.

  Marshall went on to explain why the noble gentleman from Brazil should hire him. “I’m tough, but balanced. I use the cart whip whenever production standards fall, but in a moderate way. Mortality rate under my watch is low. As I see it, an adequate workload combined with plenty of provisions and the occasional punishment offer the best results for managing slaves. Hard usage wears them out and makes them useless.”

  I hoped I was being accurate. Not that any of it could be verified, but I wanted the writing to be of a decent standard. I wanted to be correct as much as I could. I would only lie when I couldn’t be precise and must invent something to fill the gap—or, naturally, if I had to preserve myself from embarrassment. Dignity before honesty, when it mattered.

  The sun was sinking in the sky. Funny how time had a different pace when I was immersed in my recollections. Dangerous, I should think. I wanted time to slow down, not fly by. Maybe writing wasn’t the best way; maybe it was too engulfing, time sapping. Maybe I was skirting around things when I could simply be direct with my daughter. But I didn’t know her anymore. And the direct approach could be risky. The problem was, I couldn’t trust my phone lines, the mail, my own house’s privacy, even conversations in public places. Anyone could be listening. Technology could be suffocating.

  Contrary to what Mohe believed, I wasn’t paranoid. I was just trying to find a way to be a father.

  7

  LAME DEER, MONTANA

  Since Mohe’s divorce, right after his and Anthony’s one-term mandate in the White House, he’d gone out with quite a few women, trying to find a replacement
for his ex-wife. He didn’t, though. Mohe enjoyed courtship more than he valued stability.

  The end of his marriage had left him without a penny. He was caught cheating and everything was meticulously documented, so his ex-wife kept every asset available. Now he was spending time with Dr. Deborah Hastings, whom he’d met at a medical symposium the year before.

  He’d taken Debby to Lame Deer, in southeastern Montana, where the government headquarters of the Northern Cheyenne Tribe were located. They were having lunch at the Charging Horse Casino and getting to know each other better.

  They’d already had a few beers each. It was Friday, and for them the weekend had begun. They’d exchanged jokes, then tidbits of personal history. Debby—in the role of measured, stable, all-understanding psychiatrist—was sensing a sore spot.

  “Something’s bothering you,” she said. “It’s totally fine if you prefer to keep it to yourself, Mohe. But the thing with me is, I notice.”

  Mohe spent some time looking around at the hungry gamblers at other tables.

  “You’re a shrink. You’re curious,” Mohe said, looking back at her.

  “I’m interested. That’s different.”

  “It’s just something I learned that’s worrying me.”

  “Well, feel free to let it out. I won’t charge you.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  “Is it about President Morris?”

  Mohe chortled. “Is it that obvious? Yes. Tony worries me.”

  “You’re like brothers.”

  “Yeah. We, uh, have a mutual trust in each other. As you know, Stella abandoned him a long time ago. They went in opposite directions right after he became president. Imagine, your only daughter… Different views on just about everything. In Tony’s defense, she’s always been a sort of mad, radical idealist.”

  “Ah. That’s why there are practically no pictures of them together.”