Three-Minute Fiction Round 9: Tell Me

NPR All Things Considered Flash Fiction Contest

This time the rules are simple: 600 words or less and it has to be about an American President, real or imagined. The judge of this round is author, Brad Meltzer.

TELL ME

“Tell me.”

“Sir, we can wait…”

“No. Now.”

“Yes, Sir. There have been three more explosions reported since… well… Paris.”

“Good God.” He sighed heavily.

“Details are spotty, as yet, but it appears there was one at a train station in Barcelona, another at an apartment block in Riga and a third in Venice. Combined with the hotel in Paris and Trafalgar Square, that’s five separate explosions. In each case an international political figure or diplomat appears to have been the target.“

“Where is the Secretary of Defense?”

“In the air over the Atlantic. He will land in less than an hour.”

“Call the Cabinet together. We’ll meet in one hour.”

“Sir, under the circumstances...”

“Call the Cabinet. And we will not talk about Alice except as a casualty.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Benjamin Daniels turned and walked slowly, purposefully, toward the bedroom he had shared for three years with his wife, Alice.  

Joe stood, as always, next to his door. “Hello, Mr. President. Do you need anything?”

“No, Joe. I will only be a moment. I’d like not to be disturbed.”

Joe said “Yes, Sir,” to the closing door.

The minute he heard the door catch, Benjamin melted to the floor. The pain that he had held down since he heard the news from Paris erupted in his chest. His sobs came so powerfully that he made no sound. His contorted face hanging down, he knelt on all fours.

He knew he had 15 minutes at most to break down. When he reappeared in the Cabinet Room, he could not look wounded or weepy.

I’ll give myself 5 minutes. 5 minutes to think…Alice! How could you?

He wept in earnest now, still on his knees. He knew Joe could hear him. But Joe was paid to keep quiet about everything he heard come from behind that door.

How could she have a lover? How did I not know?

It’s my fault. I pay no attention to her. We haven’t had a conversation longer than 30 seconds in months. She needs me. No. She needed me…she is gone. She is gone. With her lover.

He laid down on his side with his knees drawn up.

With her lover… in a hotel… in Paris.

He covered his face with his hands, wracked with sobs, trying to regain control.

I can’t lay here. My clothes will wrinkle. I don’t have time to re-dress.

He stood and moved to the window seat.

I am a widower.

He felt the wave coming again. He looked at his watch.

No. Time is up. No more.

He stood and stepped up to his full-length mirror.

I should have taken off my jacket before I…

He took it off now and laid it over the back of the chair. He untucked his shirt, unfastened his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and re-tucked his shirt in tight. He straightened his sleeves and collar. Then he walked into the bathroom to wash his face.

The smell of Alice’s perfume stopped him in his tracks and he nearly lost his resolve. He splashed his face, patted it dry and fled the bathroom.

He retrieved his suit coat, slid it on, smoothed it out and looked at himself hard in the mirror.

No more. No more now.

Joe was right where he left him. “Sir.”

“Goodnight Joe. I likely won’t be back tonight.”