And We Are All Mortal

A couple months back, the NPR program Weekend All Things Considered ran a fiction-writing contest, asking for short works centered on a US President (real or fictional; author's choice). This was my contribution.

“I was reading the other day, thing about World War One.” Bobby finishes pouring the scotch into two glasses. “When the war broke out, it says, Prince von Bulow turned to the German Chancellor and said, ‘How did this all happen?’ The Chancellor could only shake his head and say, ‘If we only knew…’”

The President doesn’t take his eyes off the photos spread on his desk, not even to look at the glass of scotch his brother sets at his elbow. “They knew,” he says.

Each step drives the next, possibilities fall away. The noose tightens. And he can’t see how any of it could have gone otherwise. The impotent frustration of that German Chancellor is all too real to him right now. “They didn’t like it. But they had to know.”

Bobby leans over the President’s shoulder at the photos. “Not looking so much like a football field now.”

“Looking more like missile sites every day.”

“But the blockade is holding.”

“For now.” The President takes a swig of his drink. “With the Russian ships goading us the way they have been … only a matter of time.”

“So how did this all happen?”

“No,” the President says. “The question is, how do we stop it?”

When the whole thing started, one general had summed it up quite succinctly saying, “You’re in a pretty bad fix, Mister President.” The President had shot back with, “You’re in it with me.” A good laugh line, and it eased the tension for a bit, but it was a lie. Ultimately the decisions, the responsibility, the worldwide repercussions, are his alone.

“Damn it, Bobby, how do we stop it?”

“Tried praying?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Well. You know what they say, ‘Whenever God closes a door, He always opens a window.’”

“That’s lovely,” the President grumbles.

“Just trying to help.”

“You want to help?”

“Sure.”

“Find me that damn window.”

A knock at the door. A State Department aide steps in with a stack of paper.

“Mister President … a communication, sir. From Russia. Chairman Krushchev.”

“About time.” The President takes the pages. He reads each page to the end, flips it aside with careful deliberation.

“What’s he got to say?”

The President holds up a finger for silence. It takes a few more minutes to finish reading. He collects the pages, squares the edges against the top of his desk, and hands them to his brother.

“He suggests that we should both stop pulling at this knot of war we’ve tied ourselves into.”

“Good idea. We shoulda thought of that.”

“Krushchev says if we pledge not to try another invasion of Cuba …”

“Like we’d want a repeat of that ...”

“…if we pledge not to invade Cuba, he will pull the missiles.”

“Just like that?”

“Under UN supervision, they’ll get rid of everything.”

“If we promise not to invade.”

The President’s nausea subsides, just a bit. He allows himself a moment of optimism, the first he’s felt in over a week.

“I think we could do that,” he says.

 “Can we trust him?”

“Can we afford not to?”

“It would give us a way out,” Bobby admits.

“When God closes a door, Krushchev opens the window,” the President says with a grin. “Somebody’s got a keen sense of humor.”