Mohe nodded. “Stella expected her father to change the world. So.”
“What a shame. I mean, President Morris is such a humble person. Breaks my heart.”
“He’s humble in his ways, sure, but he’s got considerable wealth. That’s part of the problem.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. Hasn’t he been a public servant for all his life?”
Mohe crossed his arms and looked down.
“Sorry,” said Debby. “Was that a delicate question?”
“No,” said Mohe. “You and I, we’re not kids anymore. You know politics attracts money one way or another. Tony’s a good man. I vouch for him. Always will.”
“When you say considerable wealth, you mean…”
“I mean sizable. Several million.”
Debby’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding me. That’s a lot for a man living in Glasgow. Does he help people? Charities and the like?”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“Long story for another day. Tony wants to leave a million dollars to Stella—it was going to be just a quarter of a million, but I convinced him to change his mind a while ago. Now, the balance? He wants to spend it while he’s still alive. Do you want another beer?”
“Bourbon?”
“Good call.”
Mohe signaled to a waiter and ordered their drinks. Both went quiet until the waiter returned. Mohe took the time to consider how much he could trust Debby.
“Cheers,” Mohe said.
“Cheers.”
They both sipped in silence.
Then Debby said, “I don’t think that’s what’s bothering you.”
“That’s part of it.”
“Why? I mean, Anthony can do whatever he wants with his money, right?”
“Not exactly. If it was up to me, he could spend it right here in the Charging Horse. My people would be grateful. The problem is, I’m also the executor of his will.”
“Oh.”
“And his closest friend. It worries me that he might be losing his discernment.”
“I don’t think so. I tested him. You were there. He’s fine.”
Mohe took a swig of his whisky. “Here’s what’s bothering me. I found it curious that Tony decided to arrange a checkup on his own. He always talks to me first.”
“Don’t take it personally. You’re not his babysitter.”
“No. But I’ve been his doctor since before we were friends. Anyway, I called the hospital at Bozeman Salutis and checked his story. He lied to me, Debby. He’s not well.”
“He’s sick?”
“He’s got elevated liver enzymes. They tested him. Anthony has nonalcoholic fatty liver disease. At his age, it could lead to a series of complications—cirrhosis or a cardiovascular disease. Things like that.”
“But these are all treatable, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but not if you’re hiding them from your doctor. The folks at Bozeman Salutis tried to schedule more exams, but Tony refused. He said he would contact them at a later date.”
“You gotta talk to him.”
“I will. But it’s not that simple. If he lied to me, he must have his reasons. Besides, there’s the will. Things can get a little complicated. Trust is a very fragile thing.”
“You said you’re the executor. He chose you because he trusts you. C’mon.”
“I’m the executor, not his financial adviser. When it comes to money, Tony is pretty much his own man.”
“Why don’t you talk to his daughter, then? Would that be out of the question?”
“I don’t know… Stella’s a little crazy. But I guess, if it comes to it, I’ll call her.”
8
GLASGOW, MONTANA
I woke up motivated this morning. Surprise: it was dark and cold outside. But who cared? Writing my memoirs had given me a thrill I hadn’t had in ages. Vicky showed up with a steaming cup of coffee just when the thought of asking her for one crossed my mind.
“You’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?” she said.
“And you’ve been quite curious. I hope you’re using it for my protection.”
“I’ve checked outside, if that’s what you mean. There’s not a soul on the street. Nobody’s watching you today.” Vicky left with an ironic smile. She didn’t appreciate being bossed around, even remotely.
I was already at my Theodore Roosevelt desk, feeling important again. Vicky had left a tray with fresh juice and pills. I couldn’t say I remembered what all the pills were for anyway, but I trusted Mohe. Usually, I’d have taken these at breakfast, at the table, but Marshall Higgins was knocking in my head. I couldn’t waste time. What if it all went away?
Marshall returned to the plantation in Georgia and informed his current employer, James Barret, that he was leaving. He thanked the man for the opportunity to serve him and wished him well. The planter coughed so badly that it was like the tuberculosis was speaking for itself. When he recovered his breath, Mr. Barret cursed Marshall and wished him hell. That was it.
Marshall left Georgia optimistic about his new start. Since leaving his motherland of Ireland at the tender age of nine, he’d thought of himself as a citizen of the world, independent and bold. And free; he had no wife or sons, though he was always open to passionate affairs with female slaves.
Alberto Lisboa, the farmer from Brazil, was waiting for Marshall at the slave market in Atlanta, and the two men headed to the Port of Savannah. Navigational issues in the Savannah River related to shoaling, sandbars, logs, and debris were slowly improving, and as a result of that effort, a new route to Brazil had opened.
Aboard the new ship, Marshall and Alberto travelled in separate cabins. In his accounts of the voyage, Marshall described Alberto as a reserved man to the point of boring. They spoke during their meals, when Alberto would prepare Marshall for the Brazilian customs and lay out his expectations for how his plantation should be run. Slowly but surely, Alberto established his authority, as Marshall considered that he was venturing into a strange land with rules and ways of life yet to be revealed to him.
Mohe was outside ringing the doorbell. I’d completely forgotten we were to have lunch together.
“Come inside, will you?” I heard Vicky saying as she opened the door. The frigid Montana air was unforgiving.
I greeted Mohe and said, “I’ll take my pills. Just a second.”
“What’s it gonna be today?” Mohe asked.
I yelled from the kitchen. “How about a steak at Ronnie’s?”
“If you’ve got the time…”
“Feeling humorous today, are we?” I said, returning to the front door. I put on my winter coat and my ridiculous fur hat, and then we left in Mohe’s pickup truck.
We drove for forty minutes. There weren’t that many restaurants in Glasgow. Ronnie’s was a viable option on clear days when driving was pleasant. Mohe liked that place. I would gladly eat Slovenian dishes prepared by Vicky at home, but it would be unfair to complain. It was nice to have someone who worried about you and took you out of the house. It was good for your head, Mohe explained whenever I suggested we stay home.
On our way to the restaurant, he updated me on his relationship with Debby. They liked each other, and things were getting serious. I encouraged him, not that it made any difference.
Ronnie’s was packed with people. Every once in a while I had the impression that somebody recognized me. They looked, squinted for a moment, and then returned to their affairs as if they’d seen a ghost. I knew I looked very different from my days as POTUS. It was calculated, believe me. I preferred not to be recognized on the streets, not to have people ask me questions I no longer cared about. When they asked, you had to answer. The last thing you wanted was to be rude to them, or you risked turning small incidents into news. I was too symbolic to allow myself to be insolent in public.
Mohe ordered pork ribs. I ordered a well-done sirloin. The waiter suggested a new cabernet, which happened to be fine. Our dishes were good too, an
d the conversation was light. Then Mohe rested his silverware on his plate, took a generous sip of wine, cleaned his mouth with a napkin, and looked at me seriously.
“We need to talk.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s about your visit to Bozeman Salutis.”
“Again?”
“Again. You should’ve told me the truth when I asked you about the checkup.”
I raised my hands in the air. “You got me.”
“Why did you lie?”
“A couple of reasons.”
“Nonsense. You have a serious condition. This isn’t something you fool around with by skipping exams and hiding stuff from your doctor. I need you to go back to Bozeman Salutis and take a few exams for me.”
“I was told there’s nothing urgent.”
“I’m not saying there is. In any case, do the right thing, will you?”
“I will. But right now, I’m concentrating all my energy on writing my memoirs.”
“You may not finish them if your condition is serious.”
Mohe asked for the check. Usually, I was the one who paid.
“Why don’t we have a walk outside? I need to digest those ribs,” Mohe said after he paid.
“The sirloin was just fine.”
We left Ronnie’s, passed by Mohe’s pickup truck, and continued along the sidewalk. Across the street was a park entirely covered by snow. Mohe pointed and we headed toward it. With a solemn expression, he lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and talked, not looking directly at me.
“Worst-case scenario? You die before you spend your money.”
“You know I’m an optimist. Well, I used to be.”
“A million goes to Stella; the rest remains without designated distribution. I wonder if you’d reconsider your will.”
“So that’s what you wanted to talk about.”
“I’m tempted to spend it all in the casino.”
“It’s just money, Mohe.”
“For Christ’s sake. You’re such a stubborn—”
“What do you suggest I do?”
Mohe looked at me, surprised. “You’ve never asked me how I think you should spend your money.”
“I’m asking now.”
After a few steps in silence, Mohe shrugged and said, “It’s your money.”
“Sure. Nobody ever questioned it.”
“That’s because the IRS doesn’t even know that money exists.”
“You know, Mohe, irony isn’t really your forte.”
“OK. You’re asking me to decide what you should do with your money?”
“I’m merely asking for ideas. I don’t know a single human being who doesn’t have ideas on how and where to spend money.”
“Fine. Here’s what I think. Stella’s your only blood, so leave it all to her.”
I was enjoying the conversation until he brought my daughter into it. The name was like a black cloud over my head, even after all these years.
Stella was a teenager when I became president, a dirty-mouthed hippie who was against just about everything. The last time we’d been together was at one of my inauguration parties. With the knowledge that the best parties were private events filled with celebrities and glamour, I thought that she would be impressed at some point and forget about our rift. But she barely looked at me, and when she did, she made no effort to conceal how she despised the powerful figure I’d become.
To this day, I didn’t understand why. I tried talking to her. Anya tried talking to her. Even Mohe, with his jovial charm, played his part in trying to read what was going on inside her head. I had high hopes that he would be successful; she liked to talk to him more than anybody else.
I suspected that whatever went wrong between us must have started way before I became a resident of the White House. The official story for her constant absence during my presidency was her devotion to studying; she went to California after the inauguration to study law at Stanford University, and she never came home. Not even for Anya’s funeral last year.
So, I lost hope and interest. I heard she’d settled in Arcata, in a cohousing community with forests and empty beaches on her doorstep. I heard she was happy (pure speculation), and her only problem was me, the absent father, the ambitious politician. I didn’t know if my daughter was married. Mohe had been our main communication channel, but according to gossip, she’d had boyfriends and girlfriends over the years. She’d graduated from law school with an honorable distinction, worked for several big shots in California—maybe being my daughter helped—and now she ran her own firm working with NGOs.
I’d heard she was good, and I wished I was secretly proud, but I wasn’t. With time, I learned to feel nothing for her. Not that I cared if she thought differently than me—I just wished she actually did some thinking. My only concern was that she didn’t end up paying for my mistakes. I couldn’t call this love. I called it preservation instinct.
“Tony?”
Mohe was tapping me on the shoulder.
“What?” I snapped. Then I remembered: the park, our conversation, leave it all to her. I said, “I hope that’s not the only option. You know Stella will be just fine with a million bucks. That’s enough to buy her weed for the rest of her life. Why trouble her with a ton of money?”
Mohe sighed. By now, we’d walked the entire length of the park and we were walking back. I wasn’t being fair to him. Mohe was trying to help, while I continued to have a hard time letting go of my presumptions.
“Mohe, I appreciate your concern, I really do. Let’s talk again in a couple of days. I promise not to die in the meantime.”
“You’re not very good at promises.”
“Oh…” My step faltered, only for a moment, but enough to concern Mohe.
“Tony?”
“There they are,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“My secret admirers. Left side. Blue sedan.”
Mohe saw them. It was the second time for him. “Are you sure it’s the same car?”
“Well, if you’re seeing it, why make it a case of collective paranoia?”
“Let me go talk to them.”
I had to hold his arm. “Don’t bother. They’ll leave before you reach them.”
“Maybe they’re Secret Service.”
“Have you told anyone about my memoirs?”
“No.”
“Good.”
9
ARCATA, CALIFORNIA
Stella was power walking at the Arcata Marsh and Wildlife Sanctuary, which had a good reputation for being a cost-effective and environmentally sound wastewater treatment solution. She was heading toward the wharf when her phone rang. Without breaking stride, she pulled it out—and frowned when she saw who was calling.
“What is it, Mohe?” she said.
“Hi, Stella. How’re you doing?”
“Good. You?”
“Fine. Listen, can we meet?”
She sighed. “Where?”
“I’ll come to you.”
Stella looked up at a flock of birds soaring overhead. Her thin lips twisted and her dark eyes squinted. There were hundreds of species in this region. She couldn’t identify this one.
“That’s a first. When have I become important?”
“You still live in that same place?”
“No. It’s been a few years since I moved. I’ll text you my address.”
“I’ll be there at three. Would that be OK?”
Mohe had represented big issues in her life. If it wasn’t about her father, it was about politics and how she should behave in a particular situation. But that was then, when she was a child. Mohe didn’t know Stella anymore.
Stella sighed again. “Yeah.”
She hung up and walked back to her car at a slow pace, speculating on what possible reason Mohe had to travel to California to see her. The past and its problems filled her head with painful questions she’d rather not address.
She took out her phone again and called
Vicky. The two had been friends since forever—in secret. Neither Mohe nor Anthony knew.
“How are you, my darling?” Vicky answered the phone.
“I’m fine. You?”
“Oh, you know…taking care of your father.”
“Is he doing OK?”
“If he’s not, he disguises it well.”
“Yeah, that’s what he does best… Listen, did you know Mohe’s coming to California? He wants to meet me.”
“No. Well, that’s interesting. Will you let me know what it’s all about?”
“Sure, Vicky. Take care.”
Stella hung up, got in her Tesla, and drove back home, which was just ten minutes away—a million-dollar house on Fickle Hill, surrounded by forest and peace. A lot had changed since Mohe and Anthony had last heard from her.
There were two things about Mohe that Stella appreciated. The first was that, unlike her father, Mohe didn’t look or act like a politician. The second was that he was always on time, and sure enough, she heard his car on her driveway at three that afternoon. His growing proximity sparked some anxiety as she recalled what she did not appreciate about Mohe, what led her to keep him at a safe distance: he was always speaking up on her father’s behalf, trying to mend what couldn’t be mended.
Mohe rang the doorbell and Stella forced herself to walk confidently to the door. When she opened it, she was hit with a nostalgia that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She’d always felt something for Mohe, however irritating his calls had been over the years, and having the chance to meet him in person as an adult woman was…interesting.
“Hello, Stella,” Mohe said. He looked way less intimidating than the last time she’d seen him, whereas she probably looked like a stranger to him, she thought. They locked eyes for a fraction of time, maybe a bit longer than the situation merited.
“Come in.”
She led Mohe from the entranceway through to the backyard terrace. Stella could have shown him into one of the rooms at the front, but she wanted him to see the house. It wasn’t particularly luxurious, but it was comfortable and filled with beautiful wood furniture. Mohe noted several paintings that used to hang in Tony’s house in Augusta when Anya was still around, mostly by unknown American painters. He also grasped the important part of the tour, which was the sheer size of Stella’s house. The rebel girl, the former president’s daughter with a difficult temperament, was all grown up, a successful woman.
Leave Her Out Page 4
