Leave Her Out: A Novel

by Daniel Davidsohn

  Fernanda rushed to the entrance hall.

  Stella opened a drawer in her desk and pushed a little button installed inside it. Then she looked for the tiny red light in the corner of the ceiling, confirming that the video system she’d purchased a year before when she was being threatened by an unsatisfied client had started recording. She put on her blazer and walked to the door. She heard Fernanda welcoming Charles Dulles and the footsteps of this menacing man approaching her office.

  “Stella,” Charles said as she opened the door.

  He was a tall man, just over seventy years old, with a military haircut and a bearing to match. His powerful aura quickly filled the room, along with his strong cologne, which made Stella feel a little nauseated.

  They shook hands. “Please,” she said, pointing to the chair in front of her desk. They sat and eyed each other.

  “Let me guess,” said Stella. “You’ve talked to Flinch.”

  “What the hell happened, kid?” Charles said.

  Stella took a moment to think. “You want me to repeat what I told Michael?”

  “I need you to explain to me why the sudden change. Walk me through your mindset. What were you thinking when you said the things you said? Because I guarantee you, this isn’t going to be a simple walkaway. There are implications to your decision.”

  “No,” Stella said, and she stared at the former senator, all guards up.

  “No…what?”

  “My mindset is none of your business. I did my best to defend TND for as long as I could. Now I just can’t.”

  “Well, I’m baffled. Of all people, you were the last one I’d expect to backstab us like that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. If that’s the term you prefer to use.”

  “You will be sorry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not speaking for me. But let’s be real. If Loretta Johnson wins this case—and you walking away will certainly work in her favor—that’d be a blow to TND’s reputation. Damn it, reputation isn’t just our main asset, it’s our only asset. People will be upset. And that’s why I’m here, Stella. To warn you, as your friend. So do yourself a favor and take my advice. Cool your head and stay with us until the litigation ends. Would that be asking too much of you?”

  “Yes,” Stella said. She saw the muscles working in Charles’s jaw and went on. “The Nature Dweller is a corrupt organization. As I’m sure you’re aware. But at no moment did I let Michael Flinch believe I was going to blow the whistle. That’s not my intention. I simply don’t wish to represent TND for ethical reasons. There’s nothing beyond that.”

  Charles nodded and stood up. He walked over to the window with his hands in his pockets and stared out at the fog.

  “What a nasty day… You know, in difficult times we tend to believe—more than that, hope—that we’ve hit the bottom. But see, we never can tell where the bottom lies. We have no crystal ball. And over and over, when we think the worst is behind us, that’s when we learn there’s still a long way to fall.”

  Stella got up, walked to the door, opened it, and waited until Charles looked back at her.

  “I got it. You’re upset and trying to get me worried. That’s on you.”

  Charles nodded and walked to the door. He stopped in front of Stella before leaving. “You’re wrong. I’m not here to threaten you in any way. I’m here to remind you of all the angles you might have forgotten.”

  “I’m lost.”

  “Did you know that TND was an important contributor to your father’s campaign for the White House?”

  “That’s in the past. And I’m not him.”

  “It’s not in the past, Stella. And like it or not, you can’t distance yourself from your father.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Well…there are legal contributions, and then, not-so-legal ones. You’re a smart girl. When you check our donation records to your father, you can multiply the figures twofold. That’s how much our associates actually gave him. Your father spent a lot of time in the Caribbean before the campaign. Now, you do the math.”

  Stella frowned and put some effort in trying to look unimpressed. “Whatever, Charles. I have nothing to do with it.”

  “Yeah… Have a good day.”

  When he left, Stella closed the door and leaned against it. That man was repulsive. She could feel the bad vibrations around him with every fiber of her being. She’d always known her father wasn’t a model politician, but now, listening to Charles Dulles, and knowing the poisonous man that he was, she felt insecure about the whole idea of being in touch with her father again. Just as Mohe was trying to bring them together.

  Stella returned to her desk and switched off the video system. She heard the outer door of the office close and hurried footsteps, then Fernanda stormed in. Before she could say anything, Stella raised her hand and said, “Not now.”

  15

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  At least once a month, Mohe brought his father along and the three of us had lunch together at Maggie’s, a small joint that served wonderful pickle barrel sandwiches. It was eleven in the morning, and I was ready to eat. They would pick me up at twelve. I was feeling particularly anxious that day, looking outside the window every ten minutes or so, hoping that the blue sedan wasn’t part of the landscape and that the sun would show up less timidly than it had in recent weeks. And hoping that this lunch with Mohe would be like old times.

  My relationship with him had been somehow different recently.

  It appeared that lifelong issues were accumulating, being brought to the table. Yes, I was manipulating him about my health, and that probably offended him to some degree. I’d predicted that he would bring up the question of my will, but not that he would bring up Stella and advise me to leave all the money to her. It was too daring of him to suggest that. Of course, it made sense, even though I’d told him several times that I no longer wished to have any business with her.

  Mohe missed lunch with me the other day, which was rarer than his being late for an appointment. I suspected that he wasn’t telling me everything, but that was on me. When you played it straight, everything unfolded beautifully. There were no worries; you just dealt with every situation as it came. But when you started lying, you triggered a domino effect—you lie, others find out, then others lie too, and you’re not sure about anything anymore. The atmosphere between Mohe and me had soured. Back in the day, I was used to that happening with people. Now, it just left a bad taste in my mouth.

  At twelve, Mohe’s pickup truck stopped outside my house.

  Mohe came to the door to walk me to the truck. It wasn’t as cold as yesterday, according to the outdoor thermometer, but my body wasn’t convinced. Mohe’s father, a man named Otoahhastis, remained inside the car in the front passenger seat. His name meant Tall Bull, which was a very accurate description of him, despite his being nearly ninety and having long white hair. He was a wise elder and a shaman, with healing powers, supposedly. When I climbed into the backseat, Oto turned and we shook hands. He never smiled. His eyes had this depth, like he could bring peace to the world if he wanted—or war. He was unreadable, unshakable, and frustratingly mysterious. I would never have appointed him to any position in my days as president.

  Maggie’s served up decent sandwiches, as usual, but we didn’t linger. Back at my house, we sat outside in the backyard so Mohe and Oto could smoke their pipes. Vicky brought coffee and tea. She didn’t like to mingle with my friends, and I encouraged her not to. I didn’t want her to be contaminated by the real me. Mohe and Oto and I chatted about this and that, nothing serious, and they were pleasant company, but I wanted them to go. My plan for the rest of the afternoon was to get in bed, sleep for a couple of hours, and then write.

  “I went to Arcata,” Mohe said suddenly.

  The shaman turned slightly in my direction. I had the impression that Mohe brought his father along to judge me. I bet they would spend quite some time talking about me after
wards.

  “You’ve seen my daughter?” I asked. Mohe nodded and waited for my reaction. His father looked away when I caught him eyeing me. “Did you two talk about my will?”

  “She’s a beautiful woman now, Tony.”

  “Was she surprised by your visit? I am.”

  “Stella lives in a big house. She’s doing well.”

  “Married to a wealthy husband?”

  “Single. I don’t think money is a problem.”

  “Has she sold her mother’s art collection, then?”

  “Nope. It’s all hanging on the walls of her house. It’s a beautiful place.”

  “What does she need?”

  I couldn’t believe the hypocrisy of my question. And I noticed a subtle shake of the head from Oto. I thought he, too, couldn’t believe the hubris in me. I mean, if Stella was well and had money, what else could she possibly need?

  “She’s willing to see you,” Mohe said.

  “Is she?”

  “But—”

  “Ah. There’s a but.”

  “Stella wants you to contact her.”

  “Is that so? What is this about, negotiating the Treaty of Versailles? Are there any further requests?”

  Mohe lowered his pipe and looked me in the eye after a prolonged exhale. “She’s a different person. She’s grown up. She’s mature now.”

  “What about me, have I changed too? Do we ever really change?”

  By now I was afraid to look at the shaman. His gaze felt like the Supreme Court. I said, after some consideration, “Sure, Mohe. Why not? She’s my daughter. What father doesn’t forgive his child?”

  This time, I couldn’t resist looking at the elder on my side. As pathetic as it may sound, I needed approval. What a blow I felt when Oto looked away again. It was enough to make me understand how ridiculous I seemed, concerned about what the Cheyenne man was thinking of me instead of focusing on finding a way to reconnect with Stella.

  “Oto, what do you think?” I said.

  He turned to me with a stare that was humble but powerful. I knew that whatever he had to say, it wouldn’t please me because it would be full of truth. But I had no choice. I still had a reputation to preserve. By asking Oto, I’d made him feel important, pleased his son, and pretended that I too had some wisdom.

  “Follow the good life, my friend. So you can have a good death,” Oto said with calm and certainty.

  Well, I had asked. His answer felt like a punch in the heart. But really, a good death? What did he know about it that I didn’t? Did anybody really know anything about death? Not to mention that the greater part of my life was already in the past, and I couldn’t change it. I felt pressured. It immediately struck me that time wasn’t on my side, and even if I ignored Oto’s Cheyenne wisdom, deep down I knew there were things that remained to be done. Obviously, Stella and I would have to find a way.

  And what if there was a good death—and therefore a bad one too? The thought of the latter sent a chill throughout my body. I wanted to curse Mohe’s father, but I didn’t even have the courage to look at Oto as I felt his prolonged stare piercing me. The Tall Bull had his ways of affecting those who crossed paths with him.

  16

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  Follow the good life. The advice had been reverberating inside my head since yesterday. The problem was, that concept had died right in my first week as president, when I learned two things.

  First, the support I had would cost me the autonomy to fulfill many of my campaign promises. There were endless retributions to be made, interests to be served, and personal ambitions to satisfy.

  Second, the invisible beast called the Deep State—a mammoth structure comprising hundreds of government agencies and thousands of corporations that conducted themselves regardless of our common laws and principles—ensured I would never fully be in charge of what the people commonly understand as government.

  There wasn’t a script to be followed, but I was following unwritten scripts given to me in the form of long-existing policies. And they came from all over—from think tanks to interest groups from all walks of life. The pressure existed in every corner and at every moment. The need to please—or at least not to confront strong lobbies—was constant. I was running away from problems like the devil was right behind me.

  That morning, I walked in on Vicky reading my memoirs. She was cleaning my office, which was the perfect excuse, and she was engrossed in a page. She looked at me briefly and smiled. Then she walked out of the office. I sat down at my desk and looked at the neat stack of papers. I didn’t care if she’d read them. Somebody else other than Stella would eventually read the memoirs too.

  Outside it was snowing and dark. How boring. I glanced about and saw nothing suspicious in the vicinity. I may have seen the blue sedan, but I was trying not to care about them. That day, I wasn’t feeling exceptionally inspired, but ideas, words, kept coming to me. I felt like giving it a try.

  I was seventeen, practically a man, stronger than any other slave on the farm thanks to the extra food I got. But I was new to the game of trust. As far as I understood, Marshall and my mother were friends somehow. He trusted her, and I presumed that she trusted him too. By extension, I thought I was part of that circle of trust, which led me to make a mistake.

  Growing in confidence each day, I thought that stealing food wasn’t going to bring me any problems. The way I saw it, Marshall stole food from Master Alberto, my mother was part of it, and I was the end beneficiary. Why not skip a step and go directly to the source? I’d be saving them time, doing them a favor. If only I knew how wrong I was.

  Alberto’s useless wife saw me when I entered the kitchen, barefoot and guiltier with every step. She screamed, then yelled at me, and kept yelling and calling me names until I was hundreds of feet away from the scene of the crime. Until that day, I didn’t know I could run that fast and at the same time chew bread.

  A minute later, all was quiet, and by the end of the day I’d already forgotten the incident. But when my mother walked out to the middle of the sugarcane plantation, I got worried. Marshall had been overseeing us all for the entire day, and my mother’s presence there signified that something wasn’t right.

  “You stole food. You’re going to be punished!” she whispered in panic, and then walked back to the casa grande.

  At first, I couldn’t believe her. The other slaves were punished every now and then, but they’d always done something far worse to deserve it. All I did was steal some food, just like Marshall and my mother had done since I was born.

  Sure enough, Marshall gathered the slaves before dinner, and he walked up to me, tied my hands with a rope, made me kneel down, and fastened the rope to a coconut tree. He didn’t say a word, but I noticed that he was avoiding looking me in the eye as he did with the other slaves when he punished them.

  Everything happened very fast and unceremoniously: he laid bare my back and flogged me mercilessly thirty times. When he was done, my mother untied me and helped me stand up. I was soaked with perspiration and blood. The pain was beyond description. Marshall walked away without saying a word, though usually he would explain the reason for the punishment to everyone watching it.

  I had a fever for an entire week. My mother nursed me as much as she was allowed to. During that period, I saw Marshall passing by regularly, like he was checking on me. I was more intrigued by that than bothered by the pain in my back. I reckoned it was time to let the magic trick be revealed and find an explanation for why Marshall had helped my mother feed me for all those years.

  “Marshall,” I yelled when nobody else was near but I knew he was lurking. He appeared, furious, like calling his name was an offense in itself.

  “Shut up. What do you want?” he demanded, towering in the doorway. For some reason, I didn’t feel intimidated. Maybe it was the fever.

  “Why did you punish me?” I asked.

  His eyes grew large. I wasn’t supposed to be talking to him, much less asking imper
tinent questions.

  “You stole food, boy.”

  “So did you.”

  He approached me like he was going to punish me all over again. “What did you say?”

  “Why do you help my mother?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I think it is,” I said, but there was a slight waver in my voice now. Maybe I was going a bit too far.

  Marshall stared at me for a while. Then he sighed and walked to the door. But he looked back at me before returning to his work.

  “Kesia and I are friends. That’s all you need to know. And if I ever catch you stealing again, you’ll regret it.”

  So, Marshall didn’t say anything that I didn’t already know. But the simple fact that he’d spoken about it meant that he felt he needed to explain—to me, a lowly slave. That admission got me thinking that perhaps Marshall and my mother weren’t just friends. And since the only explanation my mother had given me about my father was that I had none, I began to consider the possibility that Marshall was the father I’d never had.

  17

  ARCATA, CALIFORNIA

  Stella spent the following two weeks avoiding calls from Michael Flinch. Dweller’s CEO left countless messages on her voice mail and spoke to Fernanda at least three times, demanding that Stella return his calls. One late afternoon, just before Stella left the office, Fernanda knocked on her door and announced, “Michael’s on the phone. He’s sounding, you know, desperate.”

  “Just hang up,” Stella said.

  Fernanda looked up, searching for the right word. “I think he sounded more like, menacing?”

  Stella raised her eyebrows. “Did he now. Right. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Cool,” Fernanda said and planted herself by Stella’s door. She wouldn’t miss listening in on that call for anything. She hoped her boss may lose her temper, just this once; that would be a sight to see.

  “Hello, Michael,” Stella said as she took the call.

  “Listen, they’re crushing me here.”