The Peace Maker

by Michele Chynoweth

  Leif had written a song to sing acoustically as his elegy titled “Wise Old Man.” The lyrics ended on a particularly poignant verse sung to God:

  “You created him, then called his name to lead a nation strong,

  He did his best to know Your will, discerning right and wrong.

  He heard Your voice and bravely lived to stay true to Your plan.

  He died a courageous, kind and just, faithful wise old man.”

  Martin Greene was getting dressed in his best black suit in his private quarters when he heard a knock on the door. He couldn’t imagine who it could be since his wife had long since left with their daughters for hair appointments and no one else was supposed to be on the second floor of the White House. Jordan had told his mother the night before he would meet them at the church.

  So the president frowned with puzzlement as he opened the door to his dressing room.

  Upon seeing who had knocked, Martin’s annoyed expression turned to shock, as if Satan himself stood before him.

  “Mornin’ Martin, may I come in?” Leif was dressed from head to toe in black formal wear, except for the black cowboy boots and black cowboy hat he wore.

  “H-h-how, how d-did you get in here?” Martin stammered out the words.

  “Oh, it was easy, in fact. The help downstairs must still be fond of me. Even though I know you’re not. Are you, Martin?” Leif suddenly seemed to tower over Martin by several inches.

  Martin cowered before him as if Leif were going to strike him at any moment.

  “Answer me!” Leif grabbed Martin by his expensive pressed shirt, causing him to visibly tremble.

  Martin yanked himself out of Leif’s grasp so hard that his shirt ripped. Leif was left standing with a handful of torn white linen while Martin furtively searched the drawers of a nearby bureau.

  “Are you looking for this?” Leif took a .38 Special revolver from his coat pocket and lifted it up, dangling it by the butt with the fingers of his left hand, and letting the torn cloth drop from his right.

  Martin stopped searching and turned to face Leif, staring at the gun with wide-eyed incredulity and fear, speechless. He fell back a step, leaning against the bureau.

  “I was in here earlier looking for you and found it in the top left drawer.” Leif’s voice was calm, emotionless. “I was actually coming in to ask you for an extra tie to wear since I forgot to pack one. I thought I’d look in your bureau since you weren’t here. Imagine my surprise when I found this.” Leif held the gun up and out, still dangling, closer to Martin’s face. “So I guess you were planning to use it, since its chamber is full.” Leif’s words came out as more of a statement than a question. “And I can only imagine that it was intended for me.”

  Martin remained silent. He was sweating now.

  “I’ll take your silence as confirmation.” Leif gingerly laid the gun down behind him on a rolltop desk, without taking his eyes off of the president. “Jordan told me about your plan to kill me during the Fourth celebration, Martin. But why? All I’ve ever done is respect you, serve you. Even love you. Not just as the leader of my country but as my father-in-law.”

  Leif noticed Martin hadn’t moved, and his former father-in-law’s eyes remained focused on the gun the entire time he was talking. “You were afraid I was going to turn your own gun on you, weren’t you? You know, for a second it actually crossed my mind. Not out of defense, to save myself, but because of all you’ve done to betray me, and especially all you’ve done to Wendy, your own daughter. But you know, I’m not like you. I heard a small voice inside me say that if I shot you, even if it was justified, it would make me as evil and as sick as you. Sure, I could cover it up; make it look like self-defense or an accident or even suicide. But God would know. Just as He sees and knows all you’ve done. I believe that God will keep me safe from you, because He knows the truth. He knows who should lead this country.”

  Martin suddenly went all limp and slumped forward, sliding down the bureau into a sitting position on the carpet. He covered his face with his hands and wept aloud, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

  After a few long minutes he finally looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes and moved his lips in silent prayer, then looked at Leif. His voice was choked with emotion but his eyes were lucid with clarity. It was as if something—or someone—had suddenly struck him, as if with a Taser delivering an electric shock—and his whole persona had changed. He looked and sounded utterly transformed, into someone defeated, meek, humble. “I’m sorry.” Martin sighed with resignation, still sitting slumped on the floor. “You’re right. I thought you were going to kill me. And you would have had every right. I’ve let my jealousy toward you fester into a cancer that has eaten away at me until I’ve become literally sick with rage. My obsession with getting rid of you has taken over my life and I’ve lost everything, everyone, because of it.” Martin put his face in his hands and started quietly crying again.

  “Martin, look at me.” Leif spoke with firm authority, commanding the commander in chief of the United States. Martin looked up again obediently. “You can make this right. Step down from the presidency once your term is up before it’s too late. Spend time with your wife and daughters. Let me run instead.”

  Martin nodded with a sigh. “Will you promise to protect them? My secrets can’t get out. If they do, I will probably be impeached…and they shouldn’t have to bear that shame when none of this is their fault.”

  Just then a knock at the door startled the two men. “Who is it?” Martin shouted through the closed door.

  “Secret Service. Mr. President, Governor Mitchell. It’s time to go the funeral.”

  Leif reached out and helped Martin stand up. The two quietly shook hands. It was a deal.

  The funeral procession and church service were televised throughout the world.

  Following Leif’s beautiful solo elegy, President Martin Greene stepped up to a podium on the magnificent altar to deliver the eulogy.

  “… and for all of this and more, Ray Silas was one of the greatest men of our times.” Martin had pulled himself together and eloquently spoke of Ray’s life as a son, brother, husband, father, grandfather, war veteran, congressman, senator, and party leader. He then thanked him for his service to his country. “He was someone who I always wanted to make proud. I’m afraid I didn’t do such a good job at it.” Martin looked up to the vaulted ceiling of the church. “Forgive me, Ray.” He looked back out at the congregation. “Ray Silas was truly a man of God. I thought I was, but…” Martin hesitated, a sob catching in his throat. He struggled to regain his composure, and looked up at the ceiling again. “Maybe since you’re up there now and you’ve got a better connection, you can ask God to forgive me, and tell Him I’ll try to do better from here on out.”

  Several people in the pews laughed at Martin’s last comment, but most uneasily murmured and shifted uncomfortably in their seats—especially his staff members, who were flabbergasted that their boss was admitting his failures in front of millions of voters.

  The president’s agents shielded him from the onslaught of cameras and microphones outside the church. His press agent, who had been instructed ahead of time, stopped and addressed the media, announcing the president would hold a brief press conference later that day following the funeral procession and burial.

  It was time.

  Martin Greene arrived at the White House Press Room and stood at the podium. The media would later report he looked somewhat haggard, with more gray in his hair and lines on his face than anyone remembered seeing before, but with a look of peaceful resignation replacing the constant worried frown that had been etched there for many months.

  A murmur swelled among the reporters, who were in suspense as to why the press conference had been called. The buzz was that it had something to do with the president’s comments during the funeral.

  Martin held up his hands and waited until everyone quieted again before he spoke. “I realize this might come as a shock to most
of you, who don’t know that in the past few months my family has suffered a good deal of pain through the loss of my two unborn grandchildren.” The media gathered started to mutter amongst themselves. It was the first time they were hearing the revelation that Wendy Greene had lost another baby. “After much consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer be divided between my family and my country. If I cannot be a good husband and father, then what good can I be as your president? I had actually talked to Ray Silas about all that has been transpiring, and it was his recommendation that I consider not running again for a second term in office—thereby allowing someone more fit to serve to step forward as the Republican Party candidate in next year’s presidential election.”

  A collective gasp was now heard among the reporters, who scribbled furiously in their notepads. “I know Ray highly favored the man who I am about to introduce as that candidate. I know he’d be honored that I am announcing right now, following this morning’s celebration of his life, the candidacy of Leif Mitchell.”

  The reporters had no time to ask questions. Leif suddenly entered the room and joined Martin at the podium, and the two shook hands amidst a flurry of flashes. Some of the press members gathered rose to their feet and started clapping.

  Martin stepped to the side of the podium and motioned for Leif to make a statement.

  Darren Richards watched the televised conference from his family room on his huge flat-screen TV, his mouth agape.

  Chessa was making an early dinner in the adjoining kitchen. She had caught glimpses of the three-hour funeral coverage and subsequent press conference as she cooked and cleaned.

  She heard her husband’s moan, put down the mixing bowl of chicken salad on the counter and rushed in to see what was causing his reaction.

  “Unbelievable!” Darren was standing, staring at the screen just two feet away, his hands clenched in fists. Chessa thought for a minute that he might just smash his hand through the screen. His face was red with fury.

  “What happened?” She looked on and saw the president and the governor of Kentucky holding up their hands together at the White House podium to the sound of applause.

  “Shhhh.” Darren ignored her and turned up the volume with the remote in his hand. She watched, standing a step behind her husband, afraid he might turn his fury on her if she got too close.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” Leif cleared his throat, smiling. “I am deeply honored to accept your gracious offer for me to take your place as a Republican candidate for the presidency, and thank you for your support. Ray Silas came to me five years ago to ask me to run for governor of Kentucky. And then he told me just the other night as I visited him at his home in Alexandria—the last night he was alive—that he thought I would make a good president one day. I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”

  Nervous laughter erupted in the room. “But God works in mysterious ways I guess,” he continued. “I too, have always wanted to make Ray Silas proud. I too hope and believe he is up in heaven looking down smiling on all of us gathered today, and that he is happy and at peace with all that is transpiring here and now. I am both humbled and honored to be following his guidance; you can all consider this my public announcement that I will be running in the primaries next year. After hopefully winning the backing of the Republican Party, I look forward to being on the ballot next November, winning your vote, and becoming the next president of the United States of America.”

  Darren clicked the television off and threw the remote onto the couch behind them. He pushed past his wife, grabbed a coat from the closet, and headed out the front door of their home without a word of explanation or goodbye.

  Chessa sat down on the couch and watched with interest as Leif Mitchell eloquently fielded the questions fired at him by the press assembled. The chicken salad sat uneaten on the counter, congealing.

  Leif Mitchell is engaging, she thought as she watched the conference end and the network coverage switch to the news pundits pontificating about both the president’s surprise announcement and that of Leif’s candidacy. Charming and handsome too.

  Chessa caught herself, feeling guilty for a moment about her assessment of the man who had now instantly become her husband’s chief enemy.

  CHAPTER 12

  For the next week the Internet, news stations, talk shows, and even comedians had plenty of fodder again now that Leif Mitchell had thrown the proverbial hat in the ring for the presidential election set for the following November.

  Leif didn’t waste time and officially filed October twentieth among a relatively small gathering of a few hundred friends, family, and supporters at Little River. His parents and brothers had rallied to host the affair, held in a heated outdoor pavilion with an old-fashioned barbeque.

  He asked his former gubernatorial campaign manager, Logan Reese, to manage his presidential campaign. Logan enthusiastically accepted Leif’s offer, and immediately gathered a hardworking staff to begin fundraising and marketing efforts.

  Although governors usually fared well historically in presidential elections, it would be a grueling uphill climb since Leif didn’t come from money like Darren Richards and would most likely face tough primaries in just a few months.

  While no candidates had announced they would run against the incumbent Martin Greene, who had been considered a shoo-in despite his falling popularity, once Leif announced his candidacy, three more Republican candidates had come forward. They said that they were considering running now that the election would be “up for grabs” against a newcomer, even though that newcomer had gained widespread notoriety with his achievements in the Middle East.

  They had plenty of targets to shoot at to try to bring him down. There was Leif’s lack of experience, having only served five years in political office; there was his age—at 36-years-old he would become the youngest president, younger than Theodore Roosevelt who had been 42, and John F. Kennedy who was 43; there was Leif’s conservative leanings; and there was the fact, now publicly known, that he was divorced from the president’s daughter. Most damaging were the allegations by the press that suggested perhaps Leif had conned his father-in-law somehow into refusing to run again to pave his own way. Martin had stayed mute on these issues, as had Leif, both sticking to a no-comment response each time they were barraged with questions.

  With no real opposition, Leif handily won his gubernatorial seat once again that November and thankfully had a strong lieutenant governor, cabinet and staff in place to run much of the state’s affairs while he was campaigning.

  He managed to spend a relatively quiet, albeit busy, holiday season at his family horse ranch that Christmas. At the ranch, Leif, his family, Jordan, Logan, and his campaign staff set up an informal headquarters and spent countless hours on the phone on all but Christmas Day calling supporters to turn out to the first major contest of the upcoming election year, the Iowa caucus, scheduled for the first Tuesday in January.

  With the help of Logan, a brilliant speech writer, Leif had drafted a platform speech for his caucus meeting leaders to deliver that included defending Israel and enforcing peace in the Middle East as the only real solution to peace at home and worldwide, a “less-is-more” government approach, a promise to continue to maintain the country’s prosperity without raising taxes, and a commitment to protect the “right to life” of all human beings.

  Darren keenly followed all the media hype that circled Leif with the help of his highly paid crackerjack campaign staff led by Pete Connor. Even though he was more concerned with the upcoming primaries against his two Democratic foes, Darren still wanted to keep tabs on Governor Mitchell and the other Republican candidates.

  Besides sleeping together most nights, Darren and Chessa had literally spent only about an hour or two in each other’s presence during the Christmas holidays.

  Chessa wasn’t jealous, per se, of Darren being with his campaign staff instead of with her. Although Darren had made an effort of late to be courteous, kind, and
even sober most of the time in her presence, she was secretly glad he was gone a lot. The memories of his drunken rages still lingered, lurking in her subconscious and resurfacing from time to time like jumbled dreams from a horror movie.

  However, she found herself increasingly jealous that Darren was doing what he wanted to do and she hardly ever got to do what she wanted to do. She had always valued her alone time and especially guarded it lately since she had so little. But now when Darren would disappear after quick visits to the traditional Richards holiday family functions as the campaign trail called, Chessa was expected to stay and represent them both, which meant listening to her mother-in-law and sister-in-law jabber on about family recipes and what styles were in—or worse, gossip about in-laws on the outs, and how their friends or neighbors were so gauche or rude.

  Chessa got to a point where she almost had forgotten what she actually did like to do with her free time because she was always doing what was expected of her: either working, entertaining, or showing up to support her husband. And the little bit of time she had alone made her realize she had no true friends with whom to spend it. The cold, dark winter nights that enveloped her in their huge New York mansion didn’t help, making her feel isolated.

  She called Stephanie in despair the night before the Iowa caucus.

  She and Darren had just returned a few days earlier from a campaign jaunt to the Midwest. During the flights both out and back, Chessa had tried to focus on the magazine in her lap as Darren and Pete strategized and laughed over private political jokes she didn’t get, trying hard not to dwell on the thought of stumping for days, pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Chessa started to realize she hated her life. The seeds of a deep depression started to grow in her like a weed.