The First Lady Escapes

by Verity Speeks

  John looked surprised. “Thanks, man.” He ran for the door.

  Phil felt like he was on a roll. He hitched up his jeans and for the first time in his life put his hand on his crotch and hastily rearranged his privates. Climbing back on his bar stool, he waved to the bartender. “Dude, get me a beer!”

  Chapter 48

  Ensenada, MX

  December 19, 10:00 p.m.

  Angel kicked off his new red-alligator cowboy boots, laid his new Google Pixel 2SL smartphone on the nightstand, and sprawled on the king-size bed. He was grateful that Raphael had bought new phones for him and Natalia and had insisted on buying Angel new boots the minute they arrived in Ensenada. The shops were open late on Friday night and the streets were filled with tourists. It seemed like a good time for shopping. Angel knew that the real, unspoken reason they agreed to stop in a few stores was to delay the moment ahead that made them both nervous. It was one thing to reminisce about old times, to laugh at old jokes, and to discuss plans for their life after they settled in Todos Santos. But Angel didn’t feel ready emotionally to be intimate with Raphael. He sensed his old friend felt the same way. Perhaps witnessing the passion between Natalia and Vaclav had made them feel insecure, as if they feared their own love wouldn’t pass the test of time, as Natalia and Vaclav’s apparently did.

  Angel also was grateful that Raphael had made them a reservation at the best hotel in Ensenada. Tomorrow they would continue driving south to Todos Santos. Their suite at the Playa Bonita was a far cry from one at the Funck Hotel Washington, D.C.: no Jacuzzi tub, no terrycloth bathrobes, no flat-screen TV. But it was spacious and clean; it had a king-size bed; and there were a few vibrant modern Mexican paintings on the walls.

  Angel stood up and opened the sliding-glass door to the terrace, to let in the ocean air and the crash of the waves. The chill helped clear his mind. He was glad to be alone in the suite for a few minutes to assess his feelings. Raphael had gone down the hall to fill the ice bucket to chill the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that he had brought. Raphael had also brought an ice chest filled with gourmet treats for a candlelight dinner on the terrace: fresh Baja oysters; shrimp ceviche; and a salad of baby micro-greens and herbs from Raphael’s own garden topped with thin-sliced ahi tuna. Angel was delighted that Raphael was excited to show off his new culinary skills, but neither of them was hungry for dinner yet. Angel hoped that a glass of champagne would relax them enough to talk about why, after Raphael was disowned by his father and left TJ, he had cut off all contact with Angel. It had hurt him deeply. Once that was out in the open, an old wound could mend. Then, just maybe, a second glass of champagne would relax them enough to make love.

  Since talking to Raphael on Facetime, Angel had felt intense longing for Raphael, like he did when they were fifteen and crazy about each other. But would it last? So much time had passed. After Raphael, Angel’s relationships had never lasted more than nine or ten months, maybe because he still loved Raphael. He hoped to discover if that was true. Right now, he wished he could discuss his feelings with Natalia. He wondered how she was getting along with her true love right now.

  Angel grabbed his new Google Pixel 2SL from the nightstand and lay down on the bed. Raphael had programmed Natalia’s number into the phone, but he figured that she and Vaclav were having a romantic dinner about now or making love. He didn’t want to disturb them. He opened Google instead. He wondered if there was any news about the missing FLOTUS.

  When he googled “First Lady of the United States,” what popped up was a meme of President Funck looking like he was being shocked by electricity while shaking hands with a hospice patient. Standing beside Funck was Natalia/Moon. Angel relished the grin on her face at the moment Funck made a fool of himself. He hoped that Moon wouldn’t have to continue pretending to be FLOTUS much longer, now that Natalia was safely with Vaclav.

  “Hola!” Raphael entered the room with a bucket sparkling with ice cubes. He plunged the champagne bottle into it and put the bucket on the table. He nodded to Angel, who was smiling as he watched the meme on his phone. “What’s so funny?”

  “You’ve gotta see this.” Angel patted the bed.

  Raphael lay down beside him and watched the meme on Angel’s screen. “Humiliating for the President of the United States, but hilarious!”

  Angel felt Raphael’s arm warm against his and breathed in the scent of his body: dust after a rain, boy sweat, and a hint of Gillette shaving cream. “Yo, remember the first time we shaved?” he said. “We both had, like, three whiskers on our chins and decided to shave them off together.” As if it were second nature, he nestled closer to Raphael.

  “Then we got in a shaving cream fight!” Raphael tickled Angel and rolled on top of him. They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. “Hola, mi angel,” Raphael said softly. “Lo siento mucho.”

  “I accept your apology, mi amor.” Angel tenderly kissed Raphael for the first time in how many years? It felt as if had been only a minute since their last kiss.

  Part V

  Chapter 49

  Rosarito Beach, MX

  December 20, 3:00 a.m.

  Natalia was fifteen years old, making love with young Vaclav on the bank of the Váh River in Žilina. She knew it was a dream because the air was hot, not icy, like it was in Slovakia in December. And instead of feeling the prick of frozen grass blades under her back, she felt the softness of warm sand. A shrill whistle, like that of the train to Bratislava chugging toward the railroad bridge, awakened her.

  For a split second, Natalia was startled to see grown-up Vaclav lying beside her in bed. He was naked, sprawled on sheets that were crumpled from their lovemaking and gritty from the sand they had tracked in from the beach. The memory of their reunion, their passion, and their joy last night came back to her. It seemed more like a dream than her dream moments ago of them as teenagers in Žilina.

  Vaclav was sleeping on his side, facing away from her. She sat up and studied his body, then touched his shoulder as if to convince herself that he was really here. She gently brushed his hair from his brow, remembering how he used to do that when he was young and couldn’t afford haircuts. Now his hair was deliberately long. “It’s part of my rock-star image, like my tattoos,” he had told her last night with a laugh. She was glad that Vaclav didn’t take the whole rocker thing too seriously. Pop musicians are narcissistic, she thought, showing off on stage and craving the attention of fans. “I play in a band because I love music, not for the glory,” he said last night. “All because of you! You became a model. You inspired me to follow my dream!”

  Natalia was relieved that Vaclav was so different from Rex. She was grateful that she would never have to deal with a man’s narcissistic selfishness, swollen ego, and dick-measuring machismo again. She traced the letters of “Natalia” tattooed on Vaclav’s toned bicep, the only word among dozens of tattooed pictures that he had added to his body over the years: surreal guitars, warped musical notes, the moon in various phases, and zigzag lightning bolts. “The lightning was my rage over losing you,” he said.

  Natalia was not a fan of tattoos—she had never been the least bit tempted to get one—but she was touched that Vaclav had imprinted her name on his body. She smiled, remembering how last night on the beach he had playfully exposed her right butt cheek to check that her heart-shaped mole was still there. “Hey, I gotta make sure it’s you!” he joked. After smothering her mole with kisses, he showed her the heart that he had tattooed on his own right butt cheek, the same size and shape as her mole. She impulsively bent over and kissed Vaclav’s heart tattoo now. He stirred in his sleep. She hoped he was dreaming about her.

  While he slept, she admired Vaclav’s high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and long eyelashes. She remembered that in high school she called his sexy eyes “bedroom eyes.” When, after so many years, she looked into them last night, the term still made sense. She found it amazing that Vaclav showed few signs of aging, unlike most men in their late forties. There wasn’t
a trace of gray in his hair and his only wrinkles were the crows’ feet that appeared when he smiled. She loved his smile; it was so natural, so genuine, the opposite of Rex’s.

  It struck her that last night they had barely mentioned their new life together and where it would lead. Instead, they spoke of old times: the happy ones, like when they made love in secret places after school, some of which left splinters in their backsides, and in her babika’s barn. They spoke of sad times too, like the day her father told Vaclav he could never see her again. She confided something in Vaclav that she had never mentioned to anyone other than Yvonne one night in Paris when they were drinking cheap Beaujolais and sharing secrets: the pain of giving birth to Vaclav’s son and having him ripped from her arms. Last night, she burst into tears as the story spilled out of her. Vaclav cried too and held her tightly. “I hope we will have children together now,” he said.

  Natalia leaned over his sleeping body. His skin smelled of sweat, his sweat and hers, and of sex. She found it intoxicating. Her body warmed as she recalled the details of their lovemaking last night. He had given her pleasure, what was it? Five times? Six? Miraculous. His vták was as long, thick, and beautiful as she remembered, and it still perked up, stiff, like a young man’s, the moment he saw her. For a split second she pictured Rex sitting on his throne in the White House, his stubby vták stuffed in a silicone sleeve. The image revolted her. She vowed never to describe it to Vaclav. She vowed never to mention anything about her life with Rex to Vaclav. Everything about it seemed obscene now.

  Vaclav rolled over in his sleep, bringing her back to the reality of their musty hotel room. Feeling thirsty, Natalia got up from bed, careful not to wake him, and walked over to a table by the window. He had been thoughtful enough to stock up on bottled water. He had somehow managed to get a bottle of Russian vodka and a tin of Russian caviar too. Last night he had surprised her with them. “Where did you get these?” she asked. Vaclav just smiled. “Connections.”

  When Natalia lived in Paris, Russian caviar had been just about the only perk of going on escort dates with rich men. Rex never ate caviar. “How can you eat fish eggs?” he said. “They come out of the same hole as fish shit!”

  Last night Vaclav and Natalia had scooped caviar out of the tin with their fingers and toasted each other with vodka. She hadn’t drunk hard liquor since Paris. One shot and she was buzzing. Vaclav managed to down half the bottle without seeming sloshed. It certainly didn’t impede his lovemaking, she thought.

  She wondered if Angel and Raphael’s lovemaking had been as passionate as hers and Vaclav’s. She realized that she hadn’t thought about Angel since her reunion with Vaclav. Now it struck her that their reunion would never have happened without Angel, that her whole life wouldn’t have been transformed if it hadn’t been for him. She wanted to thank him again. Plus, she missed him. It was too late to call, but she decided to text him.

  Natalia searched the room for her plastic Target shopping bag. She had tossed her new phone into it yesterday. She looked under the clothes scattered on the floor, but it wasn’t there. Then she remembered that she had dumped the bag on the sand when she ran across the beach to Vaclav last night. Her new thong undies, nighties, toothbrush, and toothpaste, not to mention her makeup, were in the bag too.

  Natalia put on her white Mexican skirt and blouse so that she could run down to the beach and retrieve the bag. She was certain that she had dropped it near the bottom of the staircase down the bluff to the sand.

  As she opened the door to leave, the hinges squeaked.

  Vaclav sat up in bed. “Hey, are you running out on me already?” he said sleepily.

  “I forgot my stuff on the beach. My new phone—”

  “We’ll get it tomorrow. Come back to bed.”

  “What if someone steals it?”

  “In the middle of the night? C’mon, I want you.” He climbed off of the bed and padded toward her, naked. The lights were off, but her eyes were adjusted enough to the dark that she could see his erection. She felt lightheaded in anticipation.

  “Are you sure? Again?”

  Vaclav scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to the bed. “Again and again and again!” He kissed her. She parted her lips, inviting his tongue into her mouth.

  Chapter 50

  Ensenada, MX

  December 20, 3:30 a.m.

  Conner leaned drunkenly on the withers of a donkey with a bushy mane, like an overgrown crew cut, a red sombrero on its head. He placed the sombrero on his own head, downed all but the last sip from his glass of beer and then offered it to the donkey. The animal’s thick pink tongue darted into and out of the glass, quickly replacing the dregs of the beer with donkey drool.

  “Okay, mi amigo,” Conner said, slurring his words. After three beers and four tequila shots at this shithole tourist bar in Ensenada, he was blotto. “I shared my booze with you, now talk.” He leaned over and whispered into the donkey’s ear, standing so close that its fur tickled his nose: “Where the fuck are the Slovak dude and the First Lady?” The donkey opened its mouth and belched. He put the sombrero back on its head. “Thank you and fuck you.”

  Conner unsteadily carried his empty glass over to the bar. “Yo, dude, hit me again,” he said to the bartender, an old Mexican with a waxed mustache. Without looking up from his smartphone, as if he could do this in his sleep, the bartender refilled Conner’s glass from the tap. He chuckled as he handed it to him.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You seen this?” The bartender showed him his smartphone screen: the meme of President Funck getting “zapped” by the dying patient in the hospital. “Is your President as loco as he looks?”

  Conner was about to launch into a defense of President Funck, but guessed that the greaser wouldn’t buy it after the whole Mexican border-wall thing. Besides, he was thinking about the American guy who had been watching this meme in the bar in TJ. What was his name? “Bob?” The dude had sent him to Ensenada on what turned out to be a wild goose chase.

  When he arrived, Conner had searched his GPS for a Hotel Ensenada and an Ensenada Hotel, but found neither. There was an Ensenada Inn, but when he drove up, he discovered the charred ruins of boarded-up motel. From the number of broken windows he figured it had been closed for years. He wondered if Bob had lied to him, or if the dude wasn’t really Bob at all. Maybe “Bob” was looking for the First Lady himself, he thought.

  Conner had called the First Daughter on the drive from TJ to Ensenada. “I’m on their tail,” he said to Gretchen, oozing excitement and self-confidence. “I’ll have her in cuffs within an hour!” When he hit a dead end, he ended up in this bar. He had been drinking for a couple of hours now, trying to figure out what to do next. Instead of feeling excited, he was scared shitless.

  He paid his bar tab. “I don’t suppose you know a Hotel Ensenada or an Ensenada Hotel in town,” he said to the bartender.

  “I live here fifty years and the only place I know with name ‘Ensenada’ is an old inn that was a whore house.” The bartender scratched his head. “Funny, right? You’d think a town named Ensenada would have a hotel named Ensenada.”

  “Right.” Conner drained the last of his beer. He didn’t stop to pat the donkey on his way out.

  Outside the bar, the darkened streets were deserted. Even the wildest ravers in this party town have hit the sack, he thought. He tried to remember where he had parked his rental car. What was it again? A Chevy? A Ford? He rummaged in his pocket and clicked the button on his car key. A block away, the lights of a Ford Fiesta lit up. He trudged along the shadowy unpaved street toward it.

  Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned and saw three young Latino thugs with bandannas around their foreheads. They wore white T-shirts and low-slung, baggy chinos. Gangbangers. What did they want? he wondered. The twenty bucks in his wallet? His piece-of-shit car? Right now, Conner’s vision of himself in Ray-Bans and a black suit, strutting alongside the “Beast,” was a bad joke. They could have h
is life for all he cared.

  Chapter 51

  The White House

  December 20, 6:30 a.m.

  “Fuck! I look like a fucking spooked wimp, a candy-ass fucking nut job!”

  Rex Funck paced his bedroom, the “zapped hand” meme of him in the hospice ward playing over and over on his giant TV screen. His blue terrycloth bathrobe had sprung open, revealing his hairless chest and Big-Mac gut, but not his dork. All Gretchen could see below his sagging paunch was a scant tangle of pubes. She was so fed up with her father that she dared sneer to herself that he was in such a snit, his dork had gone into hiding. She pulled off her sanitary face mask and trashed it.

  “Daddy, c’mon, you’ve got to get some sleep, I’ve got to get some sleep! I’ve been here all night. My kids need me.”

  “What kids?” He shook his head, as if trying to remember if Gretchen had any. “Baby, you are not going anywhere until we make this go away!” He gestured to the meme on TV.

  “Daddy, it’s all going to happen. It’s all good! Conner said last night on the phone he was on his way to Ensenada. He got an ID on the Slovak guy from a reliable witness in Tijuana. Once the real FLOTUS is back in the White House, you’ll be more relaxed. These things won’t happen.”

  “I want Moon whatever-his-or-her-name-is shot! No, I want her electrocuted!” He grabbed the remote and switched from CNN to FOX News. The “President zapped” meme was running there too. “Fuck! FOX threw me under the bus for ratings!”

  “Daddy, it’s yesterday’s news cycle. Today’s news cycle starts any minute!” Desperate, she grabbed her cell phone from the coffee table. She pushed “Call Back” on the phone number from which Conner called her at 1:00 a.m. Eastern, which was 10:00 p.m. Pacific time. That was more than eight hours ago. Where the hell was he?