The Third and Final Spirit “God!” said Screwdge when he was alone. “This is my worst nightmare. In fact, it is all of my nightmares rolled into one. I’m going to have to lay off those zesty enchiladas cook has been making for me.” He turned, and beheld a slender young black girl of perhaps thirteen or fourteen. She was wearing a red party dress with alternating panels of red, green, and gold in the skirt. Her feet were adorned by white socks and a pair of shiny, black patent-leather shoes with straps across the insteps. Her hair was plaited into three pigtails, with a small green ribbon at the tip of one, a red ribbon at the tip of the second, and a gold ribbon at the tip of the third. Her eyes were round, dark, and glistening. Her skin was smooth, and her teeth were large and very white, radiant against her dark face. She would probably grow to them eventually, but for now they looked a little over-sized. “Well, hello,” said Screwdge, obviously relaxing before such a young and probably inexperienced spirit. He didn’t like children, but at least they constituted a smaller threat than adults. “And what’s your name?” “I’m Esmerelda,” she said sweetly, shifting her weight from one inturned foot to the other and rocking slightly as she clasped her hands in front of her and raised them shyly to her mouth. “Esmerelda, eh? That’s a mighty fancy name for such a little girl.” “It isn’t my real name.” “No? Why is that?” “Oh,” she said, still rocking on her feet, “I liked it better than my real name.” “What’s your real name?” “It’s Esmerelda now.” “Oh.” The president laughed. “My name is President Screwdge.” “I knew that. But that isn’t your real name either.” “What do you mean?” “It isn’t your real name. My daddy said your name is ‘Stupid Idiotic.’” The president, abashed at this, looked suddenly lost and incompetent. “That isn’t very nice,” he said. She smiled innocently. “My daddy wasn’t always a nice man,” she said. “Where is your daddy?” asked Screwdge. “He lives in Mississippi,” she said, “with my mama.” “Oh? And why aren’t you with them?” “I died.” He studied her a minute, then said, “Do I know you from somewhere, Esmerelda? You look sorta familiar to me.” She nodded and said “Uh-huh.” “Well, where was it? Did you ever come to the White House?” “No, sir.” “Did I meet you when I was campaigning in Mississippi?” Again she shook her head. “It was after Hurricane Katrina, when you came to Hattiesburg.” “Oh,” said the president, shrinking a little, as if he found the mention of the hurricane distasteful. “Hattiesburg.” “Yessir. You posed for a picture with your arm around me.” “But— but that wasn’t long ago, Esmerelda. What happened? Why did you die?” “They told you that when you put your arm around me for the picture.” “They did? What was it?” “I had cancer.” “Why, that’s a shame.” “You didn’t think so then.” “I didn’t? What do you mean?” “You just said, ‘That’s nice,’ and patted me on the head and went on smiling for the photographers.” “Did— did the hurricane wipe out your folks’ house?” “Yessir. We was livin’ in a tent when I died.” “You mean, you weren’t in the hospital?” “No, sir. ‘Twarn’t no hospital left in our town after the hurricane.” “Why, that’s terrible, honey. You should have told me. I could have gotten you and your family to Memphis, to the big children’s hospital there.” “They did tell you, sir.” “I— I— ” The president was stymied, and didn’t know what to say. He had clearly missed a signal that day in Mississippi. “Are you supposed to take me somewhere?” he asked. “Yessir, if you’ll kindly grasp my hand.” This time Screwdge reached out eagerly to take the spirit’s hand. “Let’s go, sweetheart. This time you’re the boss.” Esmerelda reached up and tugged the pigtail on the left side of her head, the one with the red ribbon on it. There was no whoosh and sudden departure, as with the first spirit. There was no magical drawing of a door that opened onto some important scene, as with the second spirit. Instead, there was a languid, gentle movement through a lilac-colored cloud that smelled like grapes and hyacinths and lilacs all combined. “I like this,” said Screwdge. “So do I,” said the spirit. “This is fun,” he said. She giggled. “What’s this?” said Screwdge when the cloud thinned away and they were standing on solid ground again. “Looks like a funeral. Somebody’s being buried.” “Yes,” said the spirit. “Looks like somebody important. Definitely a state funeral. Look at all the limousines. And the honor guard. And the airplanes flying overhead. That woman over there, the one with her head down and the veil over her face—she looks familiar. Do I know her, Esmerelda?” The spirit nodded. “Mama?” The president recognized the sad figure as that of Barbara Bush. Her famous white hair was almost completely hidden by a black hat and veil. Then he saw the other women beside her. “Laura? My daughters? And that’s me beside them. God, I look old! My hair is white. Who— who’s died? Oh no! My dad! It’s my dad! My dad is dead and they’re burying him.” He moved instinctively close to the mourners, reaching out to touch them, but they did not notice. “Oh yes,” said the spirit. “You saw. They laid him in the rotunda at the capitol for several days. You went over every day and knelt by his coffin. There were always photographers there to take your picture doing it.” “Photographers?” The thought was obviously repugnant to the president. “Couldn’t I ever get away from them, even at a time like that?” Esmerelda looked at him sympathetically, but said nothing. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “He was a great dad,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I loved him. He was such a gentle man. Strong but gentle. I wanted to be like him, but I never could. Whenever I tried to be strong, I came across as crass and unfeeling. Oh, Dad, I’ll miss you.” “I miss my daddy too,” said Esmerelda. Screwdge looked at her a moment, then back at himself and his family at the graveside. “Poor mama,” he said. “She was his right hand. She never wanted to outlive him. I remember her saying that.” “Your daughters are pretty,” said Esmerelda admiringly. “They’ll miss him too,” he said. “He was a good grandfather.” “Did you listen to your father?” The president hung his head and looked sad. “No, not very much. I guess I resented him because he was always so successful. I was sort of a rebel.” “Even after you became the president?” “Especially after I became the president. He didn’t think we should invade Iraq, but I wouldn’t listen. ‘You had your time,’ I told him. ‘This is mine.’” He paused. “Now I wish I had listened.” “This is making you sad. Let’s go.” She reached for his hand and he let her take it. With the other hand, she grasped the pigtail on the right side of her head, the one with the green ribbon. Again there was the lilac cloud and the smell of lilacs, hyacinths, and grapes. And again they floated away together in an altogether pleasant experience. When they emerged from the cloud this time, they were standing in front of a large, impressive looking building. Across the doorway to the building, a sign engraved in stone read, “George W. Screwdge Library.” “This is my library!” exclaimed the president. “The one my friends built down in Texas. Man, doesn’t it look great! And it’s huge, Esmerelda— really huge!” “It sure is,” she said, shielding her eyes against the sun and looking up at the building. “But who are all those people out at the street?” Screwdge asked. “Maybe they’re protesters,” said the spirit. The two stood and watched hundreds of people of all ages parading back and forth on the sidewalk with placards held aloft. It was a quiet, orderly demonstration, but the very size of it indicated a seriousness of purpose beyond anything Screwdge would have expected outside his library. He walked toward them in order to read the signs they were carrying. One said, “Screwed by Screwdge.” Another read, “Not ALL Texans Honor This Place.” Yet another proclaimed, “Screwdge and Benedict Arnold—They Don’t Belong in Our History Books.” “I don’t understand,” said Screwdge in a bewildered voice. “I didn’t know this building had even been built yet, and yet here are all these people demonstrating against me.” “Remember, Mr. President,” said Esmerelda, “this is the future. These are things that haven’t even happened yet.” “But they will happen? Is that the message? Do they have to happen this way, or is it still possible to change them?” Esmerelda smiled one of her biggest smiles, and her eyes were dancing. “You’re gettin’ smarter, Mr. President,” she said. “I would say that most people can change the future if they want to. But you have to really want to.” Just then, the president noticed another imposing building on the other side of the street. It was just as large as the library dedicated to his memory. A stately sign at the corner of the lawn read, “The Other Side of the Story.” “What does that mean?” he asked. “‘The Other Side of the Story.’” “Let’s go look,” said Esmerelda, taking his hand. Inside, they walked down a big hall. An archway on the right proclaimed “The Real Story of the 2000 Election.” Within that room, they beheld displays of voting machines, enlarged photographs of ballots with hanging chads on them, maps showing voting districts all over the U.S., posters reminding people of the challenges to the vote in Ohio and Florida, and a group of life-size statues representing the Supreme Court as it deliberated on the Democrats’ appeal to overturn the decision awarding the Florida electoral votes to Screwdge. In one alcove of the room, there was a continuously-running film of the election coverage, edited in such a way as to suggest that Screwdge hadn’t really won the election at all, but had received it as the result of a lot of skullduggery on the part of clever assistants who were bent on securing a Republican presidency. “This— this isn’t right,” sputtered Screwdge. “I won this election fair and square. Didn’t I?” The question had been addressed to Esmerelda. She hunched up her shoulders and gestured as if to say, “Don’t ask me, I’m just a kid.” Crossing the hall, they found an arch that announced “The Real Story on WMDs.” Inside, there were numerous life-like displays, including a holograph show of Secretary of State Colin Powell displaying the famous sketches of mobile chemical vehicles to the United Nations assembly and another of Condoleezza Rice holding up aluminum tubes that she said were like the ones the Iraqis were using to make nuclear missiles. “I am sick and tired of this,” spat out the president. “I have told people repeatedly that it was all an intelligence mistake. And it wasn’t just our people who were at fault. The British thought so too. And so did the U.N. I don’t want to go to my grave with this carved on my tombstone. Won’t they ever let up?!” Esmerelda looked sorry for him, and shook her head slowly in sympathy. Other rooms off the hall featured the truth behind the big phone- and wire-tapping controversy, in which the president claimed he had the authority to conduct secret surveillance on U.S. citizens and others said he did not; the widespread circle of corruption that touched such figures as Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist, House Majority Leader Tom DeLay, Representative Randy Cunningham of California, and numerous members of Congress who had received large contributions from a man named Jack Abramoff; the leaking of CIA agent Valery Plame’s name to columnist Robert Novak; the embarrassing FEMA debacle related to Hurricanes Katrina and Rita; the public furor over the Dubai Ports deal; the tumultuous pre-election scandal over Congressman Mark Foley; and the running stand-offs against the impudent heads of state in Iran and North Korea. “The most corrupt and ineffective administration since Grant and Harding,” proclaimed one of the displays in the scandals room. The president could only shake his head and sputter, “These things happen! It wasn’t my fault! I’m an honest man. How dare they represent my administration this way?!” In the FEMA room, Esmerelda was delighted to find her own picture in one of the photographs showing President Screwdge shaking hands and embracing hurricane victims. “See!” she said to the president. “I told you that’s where we met. Oh, that awful shirt and those ugly shorts I was wearing! Why couldn’t I have had on a dress like this?” “Honey,” said Screwdge, “I can’t stand any more of this. This is awful. Who would have put up a museum like this, right across the street from my own library? Why did people let them?” Esmerelda shrugged. “They say it’s a free country. Isn’t that what we’re trying to do for those people over in Iraq, Mr. President? Make them free so they can do whatever they want to?” “I suppose so,” he grudgingly admitted. “But people should have respect for the presidency. Democracies won’t work without respect.” She smiled, one of her big, infatuating smiles. “My daddy used to say that people will respect you when you respect yourself. I figure maybe he was right.” “But I just can’t believe it. No other president has ever been treated this way. There isn’t an anti-Lincoln house across the street in Springfield from President Lincoln’s house. There isn’t an anti-Reagan museum across from President Reagan’s museum in California. There isn’t even an anti-Nixon place across the street from his museum, and if there was ever anybody who might have deserved it, it was probably him.” “Well,” drawled Esmerelda, trying to look on the bright side, “maybe you’re just special, Mr. President. If yours is the only one they’ve treated this way, then people are gonna remember you.” Screwdge appeared bewildered and completely beaten. “I’ve got to get away from here,” he said again. “This is awful. It makes me sick. Spirit, you’ve got to get me out of here!” “Well, okay,” said Esmerelda, reaching out to take his hand. “If you insist.” This time she reached back and grasped the pigtail behind her head, the one with the gold ribbon on it, and they began their trip through the wonderful lilac air, smelling the seductive smell of the lilacs, hyacinths, and grapes. It was a longer trip than usual, and Screwdge was really enjoying himself by the time they reached their destination. When the lilac-colored fog had cleared around them, they were standing in another graveyard. It was a beautiful, rolling acreage, with rows and rows of little white monuments. “It’s a military cemetery,” said Screwdge. “I— I’ve been here before. I know this place.” He looked off to the East and saw the distinctive skyline of Washington, D.C., a few miles away. “This is Arlington Cemetery!” Again, he and Esmerelda were eavesdropping on a funeral service. This time, it was obvious that it was a military funeral they were observing. A lonely caisson stood at the little road, and a flag-draped coffin lay in the midst of a cluster of mourners. Several yards away, a bugler was playing the sad, drawn-out notes of “Taps.” Two smart-looking U.S. Marines were removing the flag from the coffin and folding it with extraordinary precision into the tight little triangle that would be presented to someone in the family. The president shook his head. “I’ve seen this too many times,” he said. “You never get used to it. In fact, it’s harder every time.” “It makes me very sad,” said Esmerelda. Instinctively, Screwdge began moving closer to the mourners, as he had so often done on similar occasions in real life. He forgot that they couldn’t hear him, and was about to say a word to the middle-aged woman receiving the flag when something about her made him realize who she was. “No!” he said. “It can’t be! Spirit— spirit (he was still saying spur-it), how can this be?” Esmerelda watched him in silence. “It’s— it’s Jenna. My daughter Jenna. Is that her— her husband in the coffin?” Esmerelda shook her head. “No, Mr. President. Her husband is standing beside her. That’s her son.” “Remember,” said Esmerelda quietly. “This is the future, Mr. President. Things that will be, not things that have been or things that are.” “But— where? How? How did this happen?” The spirit shook her head, so that her pigtails wafted gently around her head. “I know it’s hard to believe,” she said. “But the war in Iraq is still going on. It isn’t called a war any more. You declared that the war was over when the Iraqis ratified their own constitution and elected their own government. You said now we just had a ‘presence’ there. You know, soldiers to guarantee the peace, to back up the Iraqi military. But by then the whole Muslim world was upset with us, and the bombings have never stopped. Jenna’s boy—he was just one of thousands who have died over there, Mr. President. I’m sorry.” Screwdge stared at the sight, at the bare coffin being lowered, at his daughter standing there in a dark veil, at the man beside her, at his own figure, and Laura’s, behind them. He almost didn’t recognize himself and Laura, they were so old and stooped. “My grandson,” he said. “My own grandson. A grandson I haven’t even met yet. My daughter’s boy.” Esmerelda nodded slightly, displaying deep sympathy. “God forgive me, spirit, I didn’t realize. My own grandson. How do people bear things like this? All those brave men who have died. I don’t know how the families have stood it.” Esmerelda lowered her gaze. “It hasn’t been easy for the Iraqi families either.” Screwdge’s eyes seemed to enlarge in horror, as if he were seeing the truth nakedly and undistorted for the first time. He opened his mouth to speak, but no utterance came out. He raised his right hand to his face, as if groping for reality or trying to find something to say or do. “I— I— ” he stuttered. And then it happened. He broke down and cried. His face turned into a grimace, and out of some deep well of pain a terrible groan floated out. That was followed by a cry of agony, as if his soul were in unbearable torment. And finally came the tears. Not just a few tears, but a torrent of tears. The shrieks accompanying them were fierce and wrenching, and it seemed as if his whole body would shake to pieces under their relentless pressure. Young Esmerelda watched in sympathy, but did not move. Her head moved slightly from side to side, as if in pity beyond her years. But she said nothing and did not leave the spot. At last, long after the coffin had been lowered into the grave and the echoes of all the cannon salutes had died away, even after the funeral cortege had wound its way from the cemetery, the desolate figure of the president, now appearing to have shrunk and inwardly collapsed, gave a final shudder, and the weeping stopped. He felt totally, absolutely spent. Every fibre of his being ached with remorse and brokenness. There was stillness. At last, into the stillness, Esmerelda injected her small voice of hope. “Remember, Mr. President,” she said, “this is the future. It can still be changed—if you want it to. It’s up to you, sir.” He looked out toward the city, and could barely see it for the tears now drying in his eyes. His eyes felt tired and achy. He wanted to lift his hand and rub them, but he couldn’t find the energy to do it. Suddenly, he collapsed to the ground, like a corpse from which all the spirit had been removed. |