The Ex-President

by Jeff Soloway

  “My son’s been invited on the Carlton Chomp cruise,” my mother announced.

  The waitress, more attentive than the busboy, dropped us an unreadable glance. She might despise us as immigrant-bashers, or approve of our presumably ethnonationalist politics, or just dread a potential argument.

  “Good for him,” said Clark, looking sorrowfully at the blintzes.

  “He wants me to come along. But he hasn’t told me why.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll fail,” I said. “Chomp supporters hate writers, especially New York writers. They’ll ignore me. They’ll lie to me. But you can help me win their trust. And maybe even Chomp’s.”

  “I see. Because I’m unthreatening. And a woman. And old.”

  “No, because you’re charming and attractive.” My mother is susceptible to flattery, as long as it’s reasonably plausible. “You have a genius for making friends. I don’t.”

  Clark cleared his throat before venturing an opinion. “Sounds like fun.”

  “It is tempting.” My mother painted raspberry sauce on a blintz. “Mr. Chomp may be a dangerous authoritarian, but I’ve always found him fascinating. Up until the end, he seemed to find such fun in everything, even his own viciousness. It was like he was roasting America. For me, hate is always such a burden.” She examined her handiwork as carefully as a new draft of her dating profile. “I’m sure he only quit because he knew his wife was leaving him. What’s-her-name, Fellatia.”

  “Hellania,” Clark corrected. “You think he resigned so he could pick up girls?”

  “Oh, no. I think he already had a lover. That’s why she—Hellania—left him. He quit the presidency to save his new girlfriend, this mystery woman, from exposure. I suppose I’m a romantic.”

  “So, will you come, Mom? Without you, I’m afraid Chomp will treat me like just another writer—you know, like dirt. But you can sweet-talk people, especially men like him.”

  “You mean old men.”

  She took a single contemplative bite. I waited. The shameful thing was, I really did want her help. The Chompians were famously hostile to interviewers. And demographically, they were not my crowd. My mother, on the other hand, was brilliant in any crowd, and a middle-aged crowd was her specialty. They would eat from her fingers. They always did.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll try to swing it.”

  “Try?”

  She smiled. “You’re my son and I love you.” She tilted her head, letting the goodwill spill out over the tabletop. “But if I come, please understand that I can’t always be at your beck and call. I’ll need time to enjoy myself. I may be available to help and I may not. Ex-President Chomp is your project, not mine. My purpose is not simply to make your life easy. Your career may be a disappointment, but that’s for you to change, not me.”

  Clark looked at my undoubtedly purpling face and interceded. “I like Chomp. Loved the old TV show. The man understands business. I threw some campaign money his way. Still get the emails. I miss him. We need people like him to stir the pot.”

  “Especially since we deported the kitchen staff,” my mother said. “I don’t miss him. Most of us have had enough of redcaps, and raids, and rallies, and counter-rallies, and police riots. Resigning is understandable, but coming back seems immature.”

  “Do you want to go with me or not?” I asked.

  “Do you want me to? I suppose you need another body in your cabin. And if you’re investigating the greatest political mystery of our time, you certainly don’t want to be distracted by a young lady. You know how you get. Just keep in mind all the other distractions, the cheery little cruise directors, the bartender babes, the acrobats. They’re all very dangerous. Don’t you agree, Clark?”

  “I’d never be distracted,” Clark said, just in case this was some kind of trap. “Not with you around.”

  “Thank you.”

  We fell silent. Clark nodded to himself once, and again, as if gathering some mental momentum. Behind us the cacophony of brunch rose and filled the high-ceilinged room. Clark stopped nodding, opened his mouth slightly, and said nothing. Perhaps he was afraid his plea, whatever it was, would be drowned out, or perhaps he was waiting for me to give them some privacy. But I wasn’t planning to leave my mother unprotected. She might be my nemesis, but she deserved better than Clark.

  But when I looked at my mother, I was surprised to see her eyes were wide and receptive, her lips faintly curved in an encouraging smile.

  Clark got up suddenly to go to the bathroom. We never ask questions when eating with Clark.

  “I think he’s going to propose,” my mother said.

  “Please let him down gently.”

  “Why should I let him down at all? I’m tired of dating. If I’d started when I was young, I would have been fine. But by age twenty-two I was trapped. Don’t make my mistake.”

  “The mistake of having a child?”

  “I love children. You of all people should know that. I mean marrying young and staying married too long. I wasn’t meant to be alone and bored. I was meant to sally forth. We’re really the same, you and I.”

  I tried to agree. “I like travel. You like people.”

  “I like you.” She inserted another mouthful of blintz so we’d both have a moment to enjoy her compliment. “Have you seen your father?”

  “I always see him.”

  “How is he?” Her face had shown more concern while the waitress was naming the berries that came with the waffle-and-berries, but I didn’t miss the keenness in her voice. She was always eager to hear the score. She’d been winning for years. “Is he dating anyone?”

  “He’s the same. I tried to sell him on Match.com, but he told me he hears enough lies at work.” My father worked in software development, which he considered as corrupt and destructive an industry as drug dealing or investment banking. He didn’t really know any other profession besides his own, just as he didn’t know any other woman besides my mother.

  “Your father wasn’t programmed to be happy.”

  “I remember him happy. All of us happy.”

  “Not me.”

  “But you’re not happy now either. We both know it.

  “Why do you really want me on this cruise? You haven’t asked for my help since you were a child.”

  She seemed afraid my neediness would give me some power over her. “Mom, we’ll never be like other people.”

  “We’d never want to be.”

  “But we still like each other, don’t we?”

  “We love each other.” She planted her elbows on the table, squished her face between her hands, made herself into a kind of tepee of consideration. I felt humiliatingly grateful. If she had laughed me off, I would have had to storm away, maybe forever.

  “Then help me. At the very least, it’ll get you away from Clark for a few days. What have you got to lose? The cruise is free.”

  “Everything’s free, for you. On your trips.”

  “Like on your dates.”

  “I wish! Sometimes they’re poor. I give everyone a chance, Jacob. I admit that rich men like Clark get two. You think I could do better.”

  “I think you could be in love.”

  “I don’t want to do better. I like Clark well enough. I trust him, and I’d like to have one thing in my life I can depend on. Besides you, of course.”

  “He’s right behind you.”

  “I know.”

  She winked at me as Clark kissed the back of her neck. She thought money anxiety made a good excuse for her unsettled life, but I knew that she would give any man, rich or poor, a chance if he seemed like the right man. In her mind she had given my dad a hundred.

  “I’m going on Jacob’s cruise,” she announced. “Why don’t you come along?”

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  I said nothing.
I realized now that I had hurt her. The last thing she wanted was my pity.

  “I’m sure there are still cabins available for important donors like you,” she said. “And Jacob would rather have his room to himself, wouldn’t you, Jacob?”

  I refused to oblige with an outburst. “Sure,” I said.

  “And maybe,” my mother continued, “we’ll find the romantic atmosphere inspiring.”

  She planned to have her proposal onboard. I’d have to prepare my father just in case.

  Clark beamed. “Guy on Fox says Chomp’s running again. Wouldn’t that be just like him!” He bent over his phone to scroll through his Yahoo account. He thought he recalled a blast email promoting last-minute cruise tickets. There were still a few unsold cabins at outrageous but tax-deductible sums. Chomp, with the help of past appointees in the Treasury Department, had got himself classified as a charity.

  * * *

  —

  The night before the cruise my phone rang. I saw that it was my father and assumed he wanted yet more details on our trip. He’d been calling all week. He had wanted to know exactly what ports we’d be stopping at, what sort of debaucheries Chomp had planned for his passengers, and what our escape plans were in the event of a mutiny. He had even pretended to be interested in buying a ticket himself, as if dropping a few thousand dollars to get stuffed, sunburned, and sloshed on the same boat as Carlton Chomp appealed to his sense of whimsy. He had no sense of whimsy. His idea of extravagant expense on personal pleasure was renting the high-definition version of a movie. He used his one major nonessential possession, a digital SLR camera purchased after careful study of Consumer Reports, to snap pictures of potholes and undermown public lawns in his Long Island town. When he bought it, he told me he planned to use its video function to document serious episodes of urban police misconduct. As he never got to the city, the camera’s full potential remained unfulfilled. When I was young, he used to take a much cheaper camera on vacation and snap endless pictures of seagulls, sunsets, and me and my mother. He rarely indulged his aesthetic sensibilities now.

  I had told him that Clark had booked a room to share with my mother. My father was no fool. He scrupulously instructed me to congratulate them if Clark proposed.

  “Did you hear about the protest?” my father demanded, as soon as I picked up. “CNN says they’re planning to take over the port. It’s supposed to be the bloodiest one all year.”

  “The port’s on an island, Dad. We’ll be safe.”

  “They’re saying Chomp’s finished. I don’t believe it. He’s got another bomb to throw at America. Just try to keep out of range.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Keep your mother safe too. I was hoping to talk to you before you left. You and your mother. I haven’t seen you both together in, well—”

  “You know she won’t, Dad.” Years ago, I had asked her to cut off contact with him. The briefest conversation with her set him soaring to new heights of hopefulness from which he would plummet harder every time.

  My mother called me soon afterward. She said hello and sighed, as if already overcome by the tedium of our conversation. I assumed she was going to cancel the trip. Perhaps she too was worried about the protest. Or perhaps Clark had already proposed.

  The pause lengthened. I began to worry. It wasn’t like her to manufacture suspense before the story had started.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” she said at last. “Poor Clark. He’s a bit of a moron.”

  “Did you have a fight?”

  “We had a freakout. I had a freakout.”

  “What happened? You never freak out.” Not often, anyway. Other moms screamed or threw dishes. Not her. Even when my father was at his most obtuse, she would do no more than lift her eyebrows and announce that it was time for her book club or poker game or lunch date, and leave.

  “I unlocked his iPhone. He’s been flirting with his assistant. You should see the texts. You should see the assistant.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “These days every man I know thinks he’s Carlton Chomp, even Clark. I suppose I should be thankful. I might have avoided the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “Bigger than Dad?”

  I waited for her chuckle. It didn’t come. I felt like a jerk. I wasn’t used to handling her disappointments.

  “I told Clark it’s over,” she continued, “but he insists on coming on the cruise. He says he already paid for our suite. He’s not just a cheater, he’s a cheapskate. Can I stay in your room? I’m happy to serve as your secret agent. I’ll show those Chompians what resentment really is.”

  “If Clark’s really coming, maybe you should keep away. We’ll go on another trip together, I promise.”

  “Oh, I’m coming. I plan to slut it up in front of his face. He claims he never touched the assistant. I don’t believe him. He says he’s never been so miserable. I want to help him set some new records. I swear, I’ll sleep with Chomp himself.”

  Chapter 3

  When I was about thirteen, my mother began behaving mysteriously. She conducted hushed phone conversations in the bathroom, the tight-stretched cord of our old-fashioned phone vibrating like a plucked guitar string. (My father claimed cordless phones could be hacked.) She would indulge in solo evenings out in our little town, where there was nothing to do. She would instruct me never to answer the phone when it rang after 9 P.M., unless I was alone with my father—and then I should always get to it before he did. I pondered this curious behavior but never asked her to explain. I hoped that solving this adult mystery on my own would bring me a step closer to my own adulthood, as well as a step closer to her, whom I revered, and a step farther away from my oddball father, whom I merely loved.

  Eventually I figured out the situation, even down to the most puzzling details. Television and movies didn’t help; they dealt with the subject of infidelity either so obscurely I couldn’t understand or so melodramatically it had no connection with any life I could recognize. But novels were useful. Not the sexless, mid-twentieth-century classics we were assigned in school (To Kill a Mockingbird, A Separate Peace, Lord of the Flies) or the Lord of the Rings knock-offs I devoured by choice, but the adult paperbacks I slipped from my mother’s shelves. I started by skimming them for the sex scenes, so much racier and more informative than TV shows or even R-rated movies, and ended by studying them minutely for the mechanics of adultery. I began to recognize my life, but seen from the wrong perspective—the parents’. Luckily, children’s imaginations are nimbler than adults’, or at least my father’s. My mother had always had friends. My father, suspecting nothing or rather permitting himself to suspect nothing, had encouraged them. He didn’t want her to be lonely. Only I knew the truth. My understanding swelled my sense of significance: I was one of those kids I had seen on television specials, a child from a broken home. I longed to tell my friends about the weight I bore, but was afraid they’d be interested for the wrong reasons.

  And then at last, when I was a sophomore in high school, the truth became public. One day, Mr. Caneiro, my art and design teacher, took my mother (with my father’s approval) to an art show in Boston. Somebody else’s dad spotted them not in a gallery but in the bar of a downtown hotel, making out like teenagers. This dad told only his wife, who told only her best friend, who told only the world. I was unembarrassed. Everybody knew about my mother, but nobody cared, nobody who mattered. My father wanted only to hold on to her; my friends were all trying to get laid themselves; those adults who gossiped or snubbed her were contemptible to me and, I assumed, to her. But my father’s gloom deepened. I didn’t know what upset him more, that she was unfaithful or that she was so unhappy. Either way, he had failed. Still, he would have stayed with her.

  The end came the day before Christmas my senior year of high school. I had slept late, and when I got up she still hadn’t returned from last night�
�s outing. This was unusual. She stayed away all day, while my father passed the time brandishing fake good cheer with embarrassing gusto. All I could do was indulge him in a daylong backgammon binge. A few weeks before, she had confided to me that she was considering a change. I remember the pride with which I accepted her confidence and announced I would always stand by her. But as I watched my dad’s eyes hollow out all that day, while he bungled four straight thirty-two-point backgammon matches, I began to feel overwhelmed. My teen friends got mopey after being dumped, but at least they retained their essential personalities. My father, on the other hand, was like a skeleton some sorcerer had forced to dance.

  On Christmas Day, she came only to the doorstep and would talk only to me. She said that she was leaving our home for an apartment in the city—alone. She had no lover. (Not at that moment.) She insisted she still loved my father and always would, but both of us knew she only loved him for my sake. She asked me, with a directness that for her amounted to pleading, to come with her for a few days. To help her move in. I said I understood but I couldn’t leave my father. She nodded, wiped her eyes, and walked back across a dusting of snow to her car, her footsteps redoubling themselves in our yard. I’m often ashamed to think that if I hadn’t opened the door in just my socks, I might have run after her, might have jumped in the car, might have abandoned my father to his depression. But I couldn’t. The rest of that year, I visited her a few times but never stayed overnight. My father needed me more.

  After I finished college and moved to the city as well, I continued to see her, though not nearly as often as I saw my father. Our visits became marked by sarcasm and defensiveness and, all too often, impatience on both sides to finish up and go home. We switched to brunches, often with her latest boyfriend as buffer or referee. On those rare occasions when we talked alone, she often ended the conversation by discussing those boyfriends, or boyfriends gone by, or boyfriend prospects. I didn’t mind. It beat talking about her job as a sales director or about my lack of a steady job. Since, in the stories, she was the one being admired, pursued, or (in the end) wept over, she tended to tell them with a verve and a twinkle that reminded me of the best moments of my childhood.