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  She had just finished doing a set of pull-ups when the guy, a gym moron type, approached her. He stood so close there was barely room for Stella to catch her breath.

  “Nice!” he said.

  Stella nodded briefly and turned away.

  “We should work out together. I love a woman who can pull up that hard.”

  “I bet you love yourself even more,” she said, and walked away to the stretching mats, far from that creepy Casanova.

  Stella lay on the floor, ready to work her abs. She lifted her chin to her chest and was confronted with a pair of thin legs, right by her head. She looked up to find a young woman of maybe eighteen standing over her.

  “Excuse me?” Stella said, thinking the girl would move. She didn’t.

  “Oh. Sorry. I mean, I’ve been wanting to talk to you…” The young woman sat down by Stella.

  What’s wrong with people today? Stella moaned silently.

  “My name is Fernanda. What do you do?”

  “I do exercises. When I’m allowed to.”

  “Yes, but what do you do for work?”

  “I save the planet’s creatures from extinction. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  Fernanda broke into a huge smile that revealed metallic braces. “That’s so cool!”

  “Thanks. Now—”

  “Oh. Yeah. Look, I don’t want to take your time and all, it’s just that I’ve seen you here and I had a feeling that you were, you know, different. Not like the usual people in this place. I saw that dude moving in on you. Ridiculous!”

  “It’s Fernanda, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A job. I mean, I’m looking for anything. To pay for college and stuff.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you know, I’m a loyal bitch. And I’m wondering if there are any jobs going where you work. I mean, I’d love to help save the planet. Sounds so cool!”

  Stella said nothing; she just began her ab crunches. By the twentieth crunch, Fernanda had deflated.

  “OK. Uh, nice meeting you. Sorry to disturb. Won’t happen again,” Fernanda said, and she got up and finally left Stella alone.

  Stella was pleased. She’d been noticing the young woman’s eyes on her for some time. Three times a week, when she went to that gym, Fernanda was in some corner doing her exercises quietly, shyly, pretty much invisible to the others, but her eyes always seemed to land on Stella. Now Stella knew what all that staring was about. She respected the girl’s courage in finally approaching her. She seemed brutally honest and, to some degree, pure.

  Weeks before, Stella had fired the two lawyers who worked for her, along with her secretary. She’d been refusing new clients and had even terminated her contract with a few existing ones. Her practice was doing well. Stella could afford the luxury of choosing whom she was going to work for. The two lawyers were no longer necessary, but being without a secretary was proving to be a pain.

  Twenty minutes later, when Stella was ready to leave the gym, she walked up to Fernanda and handed her a business card. “Call me. I may have something for you.”

  The young woman couldn’t believe it. Someone was actually willing to give her a break. She looked at Stella, opened up another big metal smile, and then, impulsively, hugged her.

  “You will not regret this!” she vowed.

  “I hope not,” said Stella, extracting herself from the embrace.

  “When do I start?”

  “Slow down, girl. What skills do you have?”

  “Uh, I read fast. Yes, and, uh, I’m all about details. And you would not believe how much I love nature!”

  “Work history?”

  Fernanda looked blank.

  “Computer skills?” tried Stella, and the girl’s face lit up.

  “Born with them.”

  “Would long hours be a problem?”

  “No. Not at all. Gee, I’m excited. What kind of animals are we talking here?”

  “The human kind. Boring, treacherous, unworthy.”

  Fernanda made no effort to mask her disappointment. But it only lasted for a brief moment. “I get it. You’re a lawyer. You deal with people.”

  “That’s right. You’ve never worked before, so we’ll do a test. See how you get on.”

  “Sure… Oh, what about dress codes and stuff?”

  “All you need is a thick skin.”

  “I got tattoos.” She raised both arms, as if Stella hadn’t noticed the ink all over them.

  “I don’t care. Anything else you’d like to know?”

  “No. Actually, yes. Will I, you know, be paid?”

  “Would you prefer not to? Of course you’ll get paid—if you pass the test. Call me to set it up.”

  Fernanda nodded, beaming like she’d just befriended a movie star as she watched Stella leave the gym.

  5

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  I left my hometown of Augusta, Maine, a little over a year ago. I’d lived there all my life, except for the time I spent serving my country as president. In Augusta, everybody knew where my house was. They knew my routine. When my dear wife Anya died and I started to feel…different, I decided to move far away from the life that I knew. I thought I was entitled to some privacy. Quietness.

  In Glasgow, a small town with just over three thousand residents, anonymity was a joy. Believe it or not, very few people in Glasgow knew there was a former president living among them. Only the Secret Service and some people from my inner circle—a very small one, by the way—knew I was there for my final days.

  Before moving, I asked Mohe to look for a property. I ended up buying a comfortable two-story house with a nice view of Fort Peck Lake. Just three bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, and the luxury of a Jacuzzi tub, which warmed my bones on cold days. Glasgow seemed perfect, with its rolling plains and open farmland, and I felt reasonably protected there.

  Protected enough to set in motion the plan I’d devised.

  For years, I was urged to write my memoirs, but I always said no. My private life belonged to me. Indecent amounts of money were offered, and money, well, it can be tempting. Even my dear Anya, always the caretaker, the prudent one, was almost seduced once by the appalling idea. She, just like me, experienced the occasional slip of the ego. But as the years went by, interest in whatever I had to say diminished and, eventually, ceased. Now, I was writing my memoirs for a very different reason. I was doing it as an insurance policy.

  It was very likely that the present generation didn’t even know I still existed, let alone what I had done for them. They would learn about me from history books, which would describe me as one describes a product, what it does, what it’s used for. That wasn’t in my hands. I wasn’t in control, and never really had been in control as people imagined presidents to be.

  When I told Mohe the other day that I was finally going to write my memoirs, he was surprised and even encouraging, but he wasn’t necessarily impressed. He didn’t say it, but I could see it on his face. There had been a moment for writing them, and we both knew it was in the past.

  Anyway, I told him that this was going to be worthwhile. I said, “I’m going to tell the people exactly who I am, what I’ve been through, and how I feel about a thing or two.”

  “Good luck,” Mohe said.

  I was just teasing him. My memoirs would be written with only one person in mind: my daughter Stella. She was the burden of my life, the heaviest of all the weights on my shoulders.

  I slept for the greater part of my journey from Bozeman and arrived in Glasgow before sunset. The Jacuzzi was ready. After soaking in it for thirty minutes, I slept for another three hours. When Mohe arrived, sharply at eight—our usual dinnertime—I was feeling invigorated. I heard his pickup truck parking outside and peeped through the window. Snow was falling heavily.

  “Mohe’s here,” Vicky said as she walked toward the kitchen.

  “Yeah.”

  Mohe was helping a woman out of his truck. The
psychiatrist, I assumed; probably in her mid-forties, and unusually beautiful for Mohe’s standards. She was covered up in a heavy coat that quickly accumulated snow as the two of them walked down the path to my humble house.

  Next to Mohe, the woman looked positively conservative. Mohe was no longer the neatly dressed politician of his day. He had grown his hair long, in line with his Native American traditions, and he wore colorful coats and boots. He felt at home in Montana, as he should. I took a good look at him. Twenty-two years younger than me, and he still looked strong and menacing at fifty-five. He used to be just a couple of inches taller than me, but these days it was more.

  We’d both changed. I no longer had hair to brag about, only a few stray white strands on top of a head that angled down over a spine more curved than it should be and hips that were worn. The important thing was, the doctors said I was fine. Bull testicles, be warned.

  I opened the door. No ceremony required between us. He didn’t even need to ring the doorbell; I knew he was outside, and he knew I’d already seen him.

  “Good evening,” I said to them both.

  “President Morris,” the shrink said, extending her hand. “I’m honored to meet you. I’m Dr. Deborah Hastings.”

  “Oh, please,” I said over the obligatory handshake, “I’m only Anthony, which downgrades you to just Debby, if you don’t mind. I’m glad you could come at such short notice. Please, come inside. Mohe, how’re you doing?”

  We shook hands.

  “I’m doing curious,” he said with a shadow of a smile. “I brought some wine.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “What’s this smell, Tony?”

  “I don’t know. Slovenian food, I guess.”

  So we sat at the table and ate—bujta repa, a winter-warmer pork dish—and drank wine. Mohe had two glasses, Debby had one, and I had just about three sips of the cheap merlot. Not that I didn’t appreciate a good drink; I needed to stay sober for my test.

  Vicky showed up to see if everyone was enjoying her bujta repa. We all nodded.

  “Where I come from, they say love comes through the stomach.”

  We nodded our agreement again and Vicky returned to the kitchen.

  As we finished our meal, we talked about the weather. Nothing new about it. Then the shrink praised some of the progress she presumed I’d brought to the country. Mohe didn’t say much, which was normal. Besides, he was curious. By now, he and I were both eager to move on to the oddity of a mental examination at my own request. Debby seemed ready to spend the night talking about my presidency, though, which impelled me to interrupt her when I had the chance.

  “Well, I think I’m ready for the test. I guess you’re back to being Dr. Hastings. I’m all yours. What do you need?”

  “Just relax and give me honest answers,” she said.

  We moved to the living room and settled on couches by a crackling fire. Debby took a tablet computer from her bag and explained that she was going to ask me a series of questions and I should answer them honestly. I wondered what the point would be of lying, but I refrained from asking. Animosity would do no good. I wanted the test to go as well as possible.

  Without further delay, the questioning began.

  “President Morris—”

  “Not a good start.”

  Debby blushed. She really was cute. “Sorry. Anthony. So…when you start doing something—it could be anything—can you get it done in a timely manner?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you concentrate? Stay focused on the task at hand?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Our appointment tonight? I believe it was scheduled earlier this morning. Well, after that, I travelled for six hours by car through the snow. Poor Robert had a hard time at the wheel. When I got home, I took a bath, had a nap, got dressed, sprayed some cologne, went downstairs, careful not to fall, and switched on the lights in the living room. The fire was already burning. At about one minute before eight, I got up from that couch over there—I was reading a book about natural foods—and looked out the window. It’s a sort of game I play: I bet that Mohe will arrive on time, and he always does. So, when I got up one minute earlier, I was able to win my little bet again and save energy—because I didn’t have to sit down and then stand up again when you arrived—and then, voilà. You and Mohe arrived on time. My point being, I’m in the here and now, still going through the, uh, task at hand.”

  Debby smiled. “Good. Now, have you been experiencing different emotions lately, or feeling that your mind is perhaps too busy to process whatever happens on an emotional level?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sharing how you feel with somebody or writing it down?”

  I nodded and her eyebrow twitched. I saw it. From what I understood, a positive answer might signal that something wasn’t right.

  “Do you mind telling me about it?” she asked delicately.

  “No. It’s just that Anya…”

  I paused, and Mohe stepped in. “As you know,” he said to Debby, “Anya passed away last year.”

  “Of course. The first lady. It must be really hard for you, Anthony.”

  I went on: “See, I should probably have gotten over the loss of my wife by now. I think there ought to be a limit for everything, and that includes grieving. It could be that I’m wrong. So, to answer your question, I don’t know exactly why my emotions behave the way they do, but I suspect it’s because I loved my wife with all my heart.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mind you, one of the many reasons I moved to Glasgow was to get away from the house we lived in together. It was an honest effort to help the grief. My heart was aching every time I went into the kitchen, or sat on her favorite sofa, or got into our bed. Because it reminded me of her, you know, and that hurt. So, yes, it’s fair to say I’m not processing the loss of my dear Anya with the efficiency you’d expect from someone you, Debby, believe to have been so good and strong during his time in the White House. A rare exception you are.”

  “No, no. What you feel is absolutely normal. You’ve been brave, actually. Moving away from the environment you used to share with her may have been a good idea. It works for some people.”

  “What’s your next question?”

  “OK.” Debby consulted her tablet. “Do you find yourself avoiding being alone? Some people find that solitude intensifies their anxiety.”

  I think she knew the answer to that question. I raised my hand and waved it in the air, gesturing to my house.

  “Of course, Anthony. You’ve chosen to be alone. The answer is no.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Have you been sleeping well?”

  “Like a baby,” I lied. I wasn’t prepared to tell her about the imaginary snake in the chest. I might be losing it, but I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself.

  Debby checked her tablet. “Did you say you’re sharing your feelings with somebody or expressing yourself in another way?”

  I looked at Mohe. We both smiled. He’d been very patient with me lately. A good friend. Solid as a rock.

  “Well,” I said, turning back to Debby, “I share stuff with my good friend here. Sometimes I talk to Vicky. Also, I’m planning to write my memoirs.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’ll be in line to read them!”

  “Thank you, Debby. Is this going to take much longer? Traveling for hours, eating Slovenian food, drinking a little wine, and then talking into the evening tends to make me feel tired. I’m not exactly a young chap, you know.”

  Debby offered me a warm smile. Hopefully, she was satisfied by now.

  She put away her tablet. Good sign. Then she looked to Mohe, like he was somehow responsible for my well-being, and said, “I believe President Anthony Morris is a very mentally healthy individual.” Then she looked at me. “And one sweet man.”

  “That’s so gracious of you. Now, I must thank you and excuse myself.�
��

  We all stood up. I shook Debby Hastings’s hand.

  “It’s been very nice to meet you,” she said.

  “Likewise.”

  Mohe turned to Debby. “Would you mind waiting? I’d like a moment alone with Tony.”

  “Not at all,” she said, and sat back down on the couch.

  I knew Mohe would ask me for an explanation. There was no question that I’d been acting strangely. We walked to my home office, which was a small room at the end of the corridor next to the kitchen. There were two leather chairs separated by a round mahogany table. We sat down, ready for business.

  Mohe started. “You go for a checkup without consulting me first?”

  “Oh, well. What can I say?”

  “I’m your fucking doctor. If it were an emergency, I’d have understood. Not the case. You’re fine, thank God. Then you ask for a mental exam?”

  “I admit this…may seem out of place.”

  “What’s going on, Tony?”

  “It’s about my memoirs.” I was choosing my words carefully. I didn’t want Mohe to miss anything.

  “What about them?”

  “I got a thorough checkup, mind and body, because of you.”

  “Me? Why would you do that?”

  “Because you’re my witness, damn it.”

  “To what?”

  “My mental sanity? I wanted you to be completely convinced that I’m still a sane man.”

  “Jesus. Have I ever given you reason to believe I question your sanity?”

  “No… But there’s a chance you will once I start writing.”

  Mohe shifted his large body on the chair and scratched his beard. He stared at me in a not-so-amicable way and said, “We both know there are things to be shared and things to be buried. I’ve always trusted your discernment.”

  “My discernment’s all right. Ask Debby. What may have changed are my criteria. You know, what I think needs to be shared with the public or not. That was the whole point of today’s medical adventure, so you know that I’m conscious of what I’m doing.”

  “And what you’re doing is…?”

  “Writing down my memories.”