The Second Ghost “Hey, what’s goin’ on here?” demanded Screwdge. “People don’t leave the room until I tell them they can. Where’s José? Why didn’t he take me with him?” A cold breeze suddenly blew over the president, causing him to feel chilly and afraid. “What’s that?” he asked. “What’s goin’ on here? I’m cold! Why doesn’t somebody bring me my overcoat?” A second spirit materialized beside the president, holding an overcoat for him to slip into. When Screwdge had donned it, the spirit also produced a pair of earmuffs and a lovely woolen scarf out of thin air, as if by magic. “There you are, Mr. President,” he said in a very cultured British accent. Dressed in striped pants and cutaway coat, and holding an English bowler, he was in fact the very image of a London diplomat. “Your wish, sir—up to a point, of course—is my command.” “Who’re you?” demanded Screwdge. “You sound just like my friend Tony Blair.” “Ah,” the spirit said, obviously amused. “We all sound alike, don’t we? All but the Cockneys, that is. And you’re so blind and deaf to the subtleties in everything that you wouldn’t know the difference. I expect I could be Michael Caine and you’d still think I was your friend Tony.” “You’re another spirit, aren’t you?” said Screwdge. He pronounced the word as if it were spur-it, possibly because he had spent so many years in West Texas. “What happened to José?” “José? Oh, you mean Mr. Gonzales. I know you spent some time with him—saw a few scenes, and the like. Apparently it didn’t help much. He phoned for reinforcements. Back-up. You know, more troops.” “Are you a reporter? They’re always askin’ about troop levels and that sort o’ thing.” The spirit laughed. “A reporter? Oh, no. Not me, Screwdge. I spent my life in foreign service, not Fleet Street. Codes, secret deals, clandestine operations, that sort of thing. I always read the newspapers, but I never wrote for them.” “Ah,” said the president, brightening at the information. “This is better. I’m used to you guys in your striped pants and bowler hats. I’m used to talkin’ your language.” “Really?” asked the spirit. “Funny. I never noticed. It isn’t as if you ever spoke it yourself.” “Aw, spirit—what’s your name, I can’t keep callin’ you ‘spirit’ (again he pronounced it as spur-it)—don’t make fun of me. I may talk funny, and there’s lots of words I have trouble with—” “I can think of a few,” said the spirit nonchalantly. “I know, but I’ll ask you to remember that you’re talkin’ to the most powerful man in the world here. I may sound like a cowpoke, but I could blow up the whole damn world if I took a notion to. So keep a civil tongue in your head, man.” “Cecil.” “Cecil?” The president was puzzled. “My name is Cecil. My mother read a biography of Cecil J. Rhodes, the great Englishman who did so much to shape the continent of Africa.” “He didn’t do a very good job, in my opinion.” The spirit smiled. “You’re a good one to express an opinion on someone who didn’t do ‘a very good job,’” he said. “What do you think history is going to say about your presidency?” “They’re gonna say I was pretty damn good,” he answered truculently. “I mean, I’m the one who introduced freedom to the Middle East.” “Oh, are you?” asked the spirit. “You planted democracy there, did you? And did it ever occur to you that it wouldn’t grow? That it might wither and die like a cut flower from some third-rate greenhouse?” “At least, I had the idea. It was what I intended to do.” “Ah, yes. You intended. But if you had been smarter, you might have studied the situation a little more and realized that the people of Iraq had to want their freedom before you marched in and handed it to them. Then you might have had second thoughts about all the lives that would be lost and all the votes you Republicans would lose because of your precipitous actions and lack of a follow-up plan.” The president, stung by this criticism, turned around, clasping himself and refusing to listen to any more. “Sensitive, are we?” asked the spirit. “Oh well, I suppose I knew that already. You could never face the truth with your own press corps, so there wasn’t much likelihood you’d face it with me. We may as well get on with it. We have a bit of ground to cover before my assignment is completed.” Screwdge looked around at him shyly, as if to signal doubtful assent. Tentatively, he reached out his hand, expecting the spirit to take it. “Oh, no,” said the spirit, clearly flinching at the proffered hand. “None of that touchy-feely stuff with me, my friend. You Americans are a little too familiar for my taste.” Raising his hand, he appeared to draw the outline of a door on the very air itself, and suddenly an actual door appeared where none had been. With a courtly bow and a sweep of his bowler, the spirit permitted the president to step through ahead of him. On the other side of the newly-defined door, Screwdge found himself in an office where four men—correction, three men and a woman—were sitting around a table. The demeanor of the four persons, together with the shelves of books and the yellow legal pads on the table before them, immediately marked the space as a law office. “That’s Scooter!” exclaimed the president, walking toward a slightly bent, middle-aged man at one end of the table. “Scooter, how are you, old man? I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you, but you know how it is.” “He can’t see you or hear you,” said the spirit calmly. “You’re in the present now, it’s true. But that doesn’t allow us to break any of the rules of the spirit world. You might say, he’s real and we’re not, or something like that. He’s actually conferring with his lawyers as we stand here.” “But I meant it. I’m really sorry about what’s happened to him. He was a good guy. I don’t know all the ins and outs of this thing—there’s a lot goes on in the White House they don’t tell me, believe it or not—but I’ve always had a feeling he was coverin’ for Dick. You know, Dick Cheney, my vice-president.” The spirit nodded. He knew. “I’m sure Dick didn’t do anything wrong either. Or my friend Karl Rove, for that matter. They didn’t mean to out that Valerie Plame, the woman it was all about. At least, I don’t think they did. They didn’t tell me, if they did.” The president’s voice was beginning to wind down, like a toy that was losing its energy. He sounded as if he weren’t quite sure of the matter at hand—as if he knew he might have been left out of a very important loop. He regarded Libby and the three attorneys as they chatted. Libby: “What are we really looking at if I’m convicted? Five years? Three? Maybe confinement in a recreational facility for eighteen months?” The three others looked at each other. Only one, a portly man at the other end of the table, looked Libby squarely in the eye. Lawyer: “We can’t say, Scooter. You know how it is. You have to hope for the best and be prepared for the worst. Of course, if you’re willing to turn state’s evidence. . .” Libby paused before he answered. “I know.” It was obvious that he thought of something he didn’t want to express. The woman attorney said, “The president might pardon you, but probably not until he’s going out of office. He couldn’t afford to do it before then. Too much fall-out.” Screwdge brightened. “She’s right. I’ve thought of doing that. In fact, I will do it! Don’t worry, Scooter, I won’t let you swing for this. I’ll take care of it!” The spirit laughed aloud. “He can’t hear you, Screwdge. I wish he could. It might cheer him up a little. He’s taking a big fall for your team, you know. But then, he always knew it would be this way. I mean, the drones have to be willing to die for the queen bee, don’t they?” “Huh?” “Just a little apiary humor.” “Ape— What’s this got to do with Darwin? You believe in evolution?” “No, Screwdge, not apes. Don’t worry, old man. I shouldn’t have indulged myself.” “He will be all right, won’t he?” asked the president, clearly concerned. “He’s a good man, Scooter. I wouldn’t want him to get hurt on my account, or anybody else’s, for that matter.” “That’s commendable. But I’m not sure it’s up to us. Events will simply have to unfold, don’t you think?” Before Screwdge could open his mouth to speak, the spirit was raising his hand and drawing another door in the side of the present. “After you,” he said quietly when the door appeared. This time, the president stepped through the door and found himself in a tiny, poorly furnished kitchen with an elderly man and woman, who were seated in wooden chairs at a small table. Before them on the table stood an empty pharmaceutical vial. “I apologize, Mabel,” said the man, whose face, wrinkled and spotted with age, and framed by a few strands of white hair, was filled with consternation. “It isn’t your fault,” responded Mabel, who looked to be about the same age as the man. Her hair had a dry, frizzled look suggesting it had been permed too many times through the years, and her bare arms were flabby on the tabletop, as if she had once been heavy and had lost a lot of weight. “You don’t have anything to apologize to me for, Sam.” “Yes, I do, honey. I apologize for not having been a better provider. I shouldn’t have worked for a company that didn’t have a decent health-care plan. Then we wouldn’t be facing this dilemma.” “What’s their dilemma?” asked the president, apparently concerned. “It’s a common one,” said the spirit. “You see that medicine bottle? It’s empty. There are several more in the drawer over there that are almost empty as well. Mabel has a lot of medical problems. She’s a diabetic. She has also had cancer and still takes medicine for that. The diabetes makes her heart fibrillate in an odd pattern, and they have to give her pills for that. It would take an M.D. to give you the full particulars, but suffice it to say that she’s like a lot of older citizens in your country who need chemical assistance merely to stay alive.” The president seemed to stand taller. “I’ll have you know I passed a prescription drug amendment to Medicare and Medicaid—the first ever.” “Yes, your friends in Congress did. But it isn’t really much help to somebody like Mabel and Sam, now, is it? I mean, that famous ‘doughnut hole’ in the middle of the coverage. Whoever thought that one up, Screwdge, some congressman with a doughnut hole in his head? Sam and Mabel can buy about a third of the medicine she needs every year without its killing them. But then they hit the doughnut hole and have to start paying out of their own pockets, and they don’t have it, my self-confident little friend. They’re sitting there now, wondering what they’re going to do. They’ve been eating only two meals a day for the last eight months, trying to save enough to cover Mabel’s drug bill when the coverage stops protecting them, but it isn’t enough. Sam is feeling miserable about it. He loves Mabel, you know, whether you understand that sort of thing or not. He feels that he has let her down.” “But it isn’t his fault,” said Screwdge, looking concerned. “He didn’t let her down.” “No. But he feels as if he did. He even said the other day that they should have moved to Britain when they were younger, and now they wouldn’t have this problem.” “Britain. You have socialized medicine in Britain. Socialized medicine isn’t as good as the American system. I’ve always heard that.” The spirit smiled indulgently. “Maybe. But Sam and Mabel aren’t so sure. Neither are a lot of older people who can’t afford to eat and buy their medications too. At least, in Great Britain, we take care of all our citizens, from the cradle to the grave.” The president adopted a petulant look. “It isn’t my fault. I wanted a better health-care plan. I can’t help it if those bozos in Congress couldn’t come up with anything better than this.” “They said it was because you’d spent so much money on your war in Iraq. They couldn’t afford anything better at the present time.” Screwdge was silent before this accusation. The spirit looked at his wristwatch. “Oh my. Time’s flying, Screwdge. We’ve got to be getting on to our next appointment.” “Appointment?” echoed the president as the spirit sketched in another door and they walked through it into yet another scene. “Hey!” said Screwdge. “I don’t want to be here. This is a court room. And it must be in Iraq, because there’s that monster Saddam Hussein sitting over there. This is his trial, isn’t it? I wanted him caught, understand, but I never wanted to be in the same room with him. This is going too far, mister!” “Sorry,” said the spirit. “Out of my control, I’m afraid. These things were appointed before either of us was born. I’m just a facilitator, as they say.” “Facilitator, my foot! Well, you can just facilitate me right out of here!” “Sorry, your excellency, but it doesn’t work that way. We have business here. Whatever you may think of him, Saddam Hussein was the sovereign ruler of a country you invaded. That means you’re related to him and what happens to him, whether you want to be or not. You can’t just stroll down history lane, knocking over the landmarks and then claiming immunity from the consequences. Listen to what they’re saying.” A Muslim woman was sitting in the dock, being questioned by the prosecutor. She appeared very diffident, as though she was not born to be giving evidence in such a public place. “And then what happened, madam?” asked the prosecutor. “Then they came and took my little boy, my Josef, away, and I never saw him again.” “Did you hear from him or about him?” She looked at Saddam, then back at the prosecutor. Her eyes filled with tears. “I heard that they tortured him in the prison. They cut him with knives and pulled out all his fingernails. They placed a burning cigarette in one of his eyes. They—” She paused and looked down at her lap. “They took away his manhood.” The prosecutor waited respectfully, then said, “They castrated your son?” She continued to look at her lap, but eventually nodded slightly, in the affirmative. “See, spirit?” said the president, encouraged at her testimony. “See? I did the right thing, invading that creep’s country. He’s a monster. Everybody knows he’s a monster. He gassed his own people. He put people in prison for no reason. He deserves to die for what he did.” The spirit regarded him thoughtfully. “Because he was responsible for so many deaths and so much torture?” “Damn right,” answered the president. “And what about yourself?” asked the spirit. Screwdge stared at him. “What do you mean, what about myself?” “I mean, sir, what about you? You are now responsible for a lot more deaths than Saddam Hussein ever caused. And a lot more torture, according to some reports. You’ve been to the military hospitals, seen the young men with their arms blown off, or their legs and buttocks. Aren’t you in some sense responsible for them and the agony that’s going to dog them the rest of their lives? How are you any better than Saddam Hussein?” Screwdge looked as if he had been slapped in the face with a wet towel. “Why— why, it’s different,” he sputtered. “It’s very different! He meant to hurt all those people. I didn’t. I didn’t really want anybody to get hurt.” The spirit cocked his head as if to question the veracity of the president. “Oh?” he said. “You started a war without waiting for the weapons inspectors to finish their work, and you didn’t want anybody to get hurt? What kind of rock did you crawl out from under, Mr. President, that you thought you could wage a war without wreaking death and destruction and suffering on thousands of people? Innocent people, in many cases. People who never wanted a war. People who don’t understand politics and oil and economics and all the things that led you and your advisors into this war in the first place? Really, sir. I knew you weren’t the brainy sort, but I expected better of you than this. Don’t screw around with the spirits, Mr. Screwdge.” The president opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. He closed it and opened it again, but still no words would form. Just then, Saddam Hussein diverted the attention of everybody in the courtroom by standing and shouting at the judge. “You call me a tyrant,” he said. “I only did what any ruler in my place would have done to preserve order. You see what a difficult, unruly nation this is, with one faction vying against another. The real tyrant of this world is George W. Screwdge, the president of the United States of America, who uses the vast power of his nation to terrorize the peoples of this region. Ask the president of Egypt, the king of Saudi Arabia, the rulers of Iran and Syria. They will tell you. George W. Screwdge is the evil one!” The president’s face was immediately flushed with rage. He strode toward the box where Saddam stood, shaking his fist at the former dictator of Iraq. “Sorry, Screwdge, he can’t see you,” said the spirit. Screwdge turned and marched toward the judge’s desk, pointing his finger at Saddam and saying, “Judge, he’s the evil one. Ask anybody in my country and they’ll tell you. You should put that man to death for his crimes. If you don’t, future generations will say you didn’t do your duty.” “No use, Screwdge,” said the spirit. “He can’t hear you either.” “But it isn’t fair,” whined the president. “He gets to say what he wants, but I don’t. Why isn’t somebody voicing my point of view?” “Sorry,” said the spirit. “It really is your point of view, isn’t it?” “What does that mean?” The president had an ugly twist to his face. “It means that everything in this world is about point of view, isn’t it? I mean, you adopted the point of view that Saddam had weapons and could destroy the free world. Your point of view led to the war. In fact, there are people who insist that you foisted your point of view on them, when they didn’t really feel like going to war. Saddam is entitled to his point of view too. And it is his point of view that you invaded his sovereign country without the right to do so, and you, not he, ought to be in the dock today for doing it.” “Balderdash!” the president exploded. “Poppycock and balderdash! I won’t stand for this kind of insolence. Spirit, I want out of here right now. Take me home. I don’t care what happens to me, I don’t want to be here.” The spirit reached into the air and, in a familiar gesture, drew a doorway. Once again, he bowed courteously, and the president strode through the opening into a murky region beyond. “I’m afraid, sir, it’s obvious,” said the spirit when they were alone, “that you have grown weary of yours truly. It’s just as well, for I fear I have done all I could for you. Now it is up to the third spirit.” He bowed low again, reaching the arm with the bowler in his hand across his middle until it almost touched the ground. “By your leave, sir,” he said, and was gone.
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