Chapter Text
I didn't always think of River, but when I did it was during economic meetings.
Probably the most arduous of tasks I had to juggle as President of the United States of America was our economic income and market. It was a bore, really, and not because I hated economics. In fact, they interested me. But the problem was that the statistics never changed. Every report gave me the same numbers, the same stipend. And when, once in a blue moon, that stipend dipped a point-zero-one percent, I would lift my head, a glimmer of interest dancing in my eyes. Inside, I was jumping up-and-down with excitement—but I would never tell anyone that. As the face of America, I must keep a powerful and controlled facade.
". . . imports are increasing our economy by two percent, while exports give us an extra sum of five . . . "
I tried to contain a sigh. From across the table, James Sullivan gave me an imperceptible look to anyone but me. I could hear his disapproval in my mind, clear as day: Concentrate on the presentation, Hobart, you're president! But who would want to dedicate their life to this? A sociopath, that's who.
I gave an indistinguishable wince. Perhaps I should've pursued economics wholly. As a sociopath myself, it would've suited me.
"Don't say that."
The sound of my monotonous chief economics advisor faded away, replaced by the familiar voice. I turned my head ever so slightly to see my old friend.
"Don't say that about yourself," River repeated, leaning casually on the side wall. "It's not true."
I let nothing show in my expression or body language that would give even the slightest hint he was there to the others in the room. Another thing I could not express as President: my mental stability.
"Oh, come on. Your mind is just fine."
It wasn't. I'd done the research. I may not be a doctor, but I'm not an idiot, either.
River frowned. "Payton, everything about you is fine. You're not a sociopath, you're not mentally impaired . . . everything about you is amazing."
I couldn't help it: my left eye twitched.
" . . . countries such as Great Britain, China, and Russia are increasing imports of petroleum . . . " the advisor droned on.
I closed my eyes once, briefly, before sitting up straight once more and nodding vigorously, as if I were clinging to every word.
"I'll see you later, Payton." River turned to the door, but looked back. "I miss you."
I closed my eyes and tightened my jaw to hold back the wave of emotion that followed.
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"Sir? Mr. Hobart, here are your reports for today."
I took the monstrous pile of papers without complaint. "Thank you, Klein. You may go."
I didn't wait to see him leave. I simply bent over my work and began to write.
An hour later I was still scribbling intently. I only stopped when I heard a soft knock on my door.
"Come in," I said, my eyes examining my paper for any error.
The door opened. "Payton?" came a soft voice.
I looked up. Standing before me, shrouded in the light coming from the hallway outside, was my wife: Penelope Hobart, formally Penelope Singh. She was a tall and severe-looking woman, yet also softhearted and kind. She had high cheekbones, a pointy chin, and thin lips. A proud, stubborn air surrounded her, and her dark, sparkling eyes seemed to drag out every one of your dirty secrets.
"Payton," she repeated, stepping further into my office. "I— "
"What have I told you, Penelope, about crossing the line?"
I pointed at the blue tape on the floor about five feet from my desk. Penelope, whose big toe was just barely hovering over the line, stepped back with a grumpy look on her face.
"Penelope, we've talked about this," I told her, setting down my pen and leaning forward to show her that she was of my upmost concern. It was psychology rule number one: always act like the person you are talking to is the most important thing in the room. "I need my space when I work, and when anyone, even you, gets in that space, it interrupts my concentration."
"I—I was just— " she stammered.
"I know you mean well," I said sincerely, "but you have to follow the rules I set in place, just like everyone else at the office. I made those rules for a reason, and just because you're my wife doesn't mean you should get any special treatment."
"But— "
"I'm sorry, Penelope, but the answer is no." I looked at her with the sympathy any good husband would give her in this situation. "It would be unfair to my colleagues. Besides, I need you to do something for me."
Penelope stared. A vein on her forehead popped. Her left eye had a bad twitch. But she sighed. "What is it?"
I could tell she was upset. Nevertheless, I picked up a large stack of finished papers and handed them to her.
"Please bring these to their respective owners," I said. "Their names are on the top left corners. And Penelope," I called as she turned to leave, "I apologize if you feel that I am too strict on you, but know that you're hard work as First Lady is truly appreciated."
Penelope huffed as she stalked out of the room.
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When five o'clock came, I left the White House to grab my daily sandwich from the shop a few blocks away. As always, I was met by reporters. They'd seemed to have memorized my schedule.
"President Hobart, what will your next move be to recover from the Subprime Mortgage Scandal?"
"Sir, what do you plan to do in retaliation for the 9/11 attacks?"
"Is the government any closer to catching Osama Bin Laden?"
I answered a few, then shook them off. Sliding into the limousine waiting for me, I hid behind the tinted windows.
Moments later, my best senior advisor joined me. He collapsed into his seat as my chauffeur drove off.
"Afternoon, Raymond." I said in greeting.
He grunted. "Those press are getting worse by the day. Have they memorized your schedule?"
I nodded. "Absolutely."
Raymond raised his brows. "And you're not going to do anything about it?"
I stared at him with barely disguised horror. "What? Of course not! The people need to feel as if their president is open to answer their questions at any given time."
"You're weird sometimes, Hobart." Raymond leaned forward dramatically. "Your approval ratings are off the chart. Take a knee on this one! The public isn't going to flip if you dismiss a few mere paparazzi."
"And that proves my point even more," I argued. "I cannot treat reporters as mere, just like I can't treat the people as mere. That's why I have such a high approval rating, and I'm not going to go back on it."
Raymond leaned back. "Whatever you say. . . . "
While we had been talking, our chauffeur had been driving, maneuvering through the rush hour traffic. Finally, we pulled up next to the Potbelly Sandwich Shop.
"Thirty minutes boss," he told me as I reached for the door.
I nodded and stepped out.
I liked to present myself as a normal man sometimes. It was psychology rule number two: people tend to respect those who look and act like them. And since I couldn't look like the entire population of the United States of America, I did my best to act like one of them.
We waited in line at the counter. As usual, business was booming. You'd be surprised by how many people could make up excuses just to get a glimpse of the president.
When we got to the register, the man behind it grinned. "Mr. Hobart! Mr. Raymond! Welcome back!"
"Hello, Chip," I said fondly. Chip worked here nine hours a day, six days a week. I, being a regular, had grown on him, and vice-versa. I actually missed him on Sundays.
"The usual, I presume?" he asked.
I nodded.
Raymond said, "Yes, thank you."
We waited in silence for our food to be made. Soon, we had two meals: a Turkey Club for me, and a Mediterranean Salad with fat-free Vinaigrette dressing for Raymond.
We thanked the workers and headed to our regular seats in the back which, by an unspoken rule, were left empty for us. Once in a blue moon, an oblivious tourist would claim our seats, but then a costumer would jump to their feet and announce that we may have their table, almost knocking their chair over in excitement.
There was no such drama today. We sat at our table and engaged in conversation.
Another unspoken rule: never talk about the office at Potbelly's. For one thing, a lot of the information was classified, and for another, it ruined the whole point. By eating here, I was presenting myself as a normal person; talking about official government business would not do well for that image.
"So, how is Penelope?" Raymond asked, taking a bite of his salad.
I furrowed my brows. My sandwich lay untouched on my plate. "Why?"
He shrugged. "She's been acting a little strange lately. I've been wondering if something happened."
"I can assure you, nothing of the sort is true. Penelope is just fine."
I knew I sounded defensive, but I couldn't help it. Penelope had been acting strange lately and, as much as I wanted to think I was wrong, I had a feeling I was the cause of it.
"Besides," I continued, "if there is anything wrong, we will work it out. That's what couples do, right? I'll—We'll fix it, whatever it is."
Raymond peered at me through his glasses, munching on his salad. "Okay."
I suppressed a sigh. Raymond was highly intelligent, something that came in the job description of being one of my senior advisors, but he could be so blunt at times. "Okay."
We lapsed into silence. I stared at for a bit longer, trying to think of what else to say, but nothing came to me. Finally, I picked up my sandwich and began to eat.
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After dinner, we returned to the office. On my desk were some more papers and a note. I looked at the latter first: German president Joachim Gauck to call @ 6:00p.m.
I sighed and tucked it away. The amount of papers on my desk were enough to keep me up until three in the morning, at least. Add a call to that, and sleep was looking dubious.
I looked at the clock; I had ten minutes. I would hardly be able to read a paragraph of the stacks of documents on my desk, much less finish a paper. Instead, I reached into a drawer, took out a file labeled 'Germany', and waited.
Exactly ten minutes later, the phone rang. I answered. "Payton Hobart, President of the United States of America . . . "
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For most people, the weekend was a glorious time. But for the President, there wasn't a single moment of rest.
I flew to Germany from Friday to Sunday to discuss things with the German President, a three-day-long trip that wasn't worth it. On Sunday evening, we had yet to come to a conclusion that satisfied the both of us. I flew back to America without a signature.
When I landed, I was met with an angry face.
"Where have you been?" Penelope growled, her arms crossed.
I blinked. "I was sure one of my advisors would let you know. . . . "
She scoffed. Then, with a wary glance at the crowd gathered and the reporters covering my return, she looped an arm through mine and strode with me to my limousine, a fake smile donning her face. The reporters went crazy, snapping picture after picture. The crowd whooped and cheered.
"I don't want them to tell me, I want you," she said through her teeth. "You can't just leave without telling me, your wife, where you're going, and expect some random advisor to let me know!"
Where was this coming from? "I'm sorry Penelope, but as president I can't always— "
"No," she interrupted. "No more excuses. I have tried to be patient. I have dealt with all your flaws. I helped you achieve your dream. But despite that, despite everything I have done for you, I still feel unneeded."
"You're not un— "
"But it was you who made me feel that way, Payton! But you were oblivious. You cast such a big shadow, I faded into the background. Everyone loved you. Everyone adored you. But they didn't care about me."
Her dark eyes found mine. "I thought I didn't care about them, either. I thought that as long as you put me first, as long as you needed me, I would be okay." Her expression darkened. "But I was wrong. You don't need me, and you never will."
We stopped, fully facing each other in the middle of the landing strip. "What are you saying?" I asked, dreading the answer.
She gave me a flat, remorseless look. "I'm saying I want a divorce."
I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut. I gaped, staring, and for the first time in a long while, my mind was blank. It was as if my brain had decided to take a vacation and was tanning on a beach in California.
At last, I was able to choke out, "That—that's not true! I do care about you, and I do need you!"
The crowd seemed to have noticed that something was wrong. At their distance, they couldn't hear us, but they hushed all the same. Meanwhile, the flashing camera lights increased; the reporters were practically buzzing with excitement.
Penelope lifted her chin. "You deny it, but deep down, you know I'm right."
I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped. Unbidden, the image of River swam hazily in my mind.
Before I could say another word, she turned and left, her head held high, walking confidently down the landing strip, like a model on the runway.
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The news of Penelope's and my divorce spread like wildfire, so fast that by the time I got back to the White House that very same day, the whole office was gossiping about it.
Everywhere I went, stares followed me. Some were sympathetic, others curious, and others downright accusing. The latter mostly came from the reporters, whom accosted me at the first chance they got. I no longer had an easy way out of the White House for my five o'clock sandwich at Potbelly's.
"Mr. Hobart, Mr. Hobart!" they cried as soon as I strode out the doors, wearing dark shades to cover my eyes.
Surrounded, I was forced to stop. Immediately, a cascade of questions fell upon me.
"Mr. Hobart, what was it that made your wife leave?" one reporter asked, waving a microphone in my face.
"What do you think you'll do without her?" another one shouted.
"Do you think you're a bad husband?" a third cried.
I couldn't help it. "I'm not a bad husband!" I protested.
Encouraged by my response, they raised their voices. "Mr. Hobart, how do you feel about her now? Do you think you'll ever remarry? Who will replace her as first lady?"
Finally, the Secret Service came to my aid. They were able to wrestle their way through the crowd. But as I hid behind the tinted windows of my limousine, I wondered what the reporters would do if I told them I still yearned for some random, high school nobody.
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Raymond didn't join me for Potbelly's on that Monday. He claimed he had some "important business to attend to", but I knew what it really was: he didn't want to be cast in a bad light.
I waited in the line of Potbelly's alone. When I got to the register, I was greeted by an unfamiliar face.
"Hello, Mr. Hobart. What can I get you today?"
I furrowed my brows. "Where's Chip?"
The lady behind the register paused. "What, that annoying kid with the hat? He's sick today."
My spirits plummeted. I don't know why the news hit me as hard as it did, but I realized Chip meant more to me than I thought he had. He was certainly better than this bland, expressionless, and frankly rude lady.
"What do you want?" she repeated impatiently, seeming to be bored out of her mind.
"Um . . . " I looked at the menu. In a small voice, I said, "I'll take some Chili soup. And an Oatmeal Chocolate Chip cookie, please? Thanks." The last part was barely audible.
The lady bustled off. She returned a little while later with my order and, with my food held tightly in my arms, I started to head to my usual table out of habit—but it was occupied.
Helplessly, I looked around. Every table was full. Nobody stood and offered me a seat. They were all too busy whispering, gossiping about the latest juicy drama: my own.
Gulping, I turned and left the shop.
For a while, I walked aimlessly. People passed in a blur around me. The chili burned my hands. I finally stopped at a park, slumping in a bench and slowly opening my soup.
It was at that moment that I realized I had forgotten a spoon.
I stared at my soup blankly, unsure of what to do. I half wished River would appear and give me a hallucinated spoon. Would I be able to eat with that? Likely not.
I put the cover back on my paper soup bowl and set it aside. I then started nibbling mindlessly on my cookie, lost in thought.
Penelope left me. That was it: the sad, pitiful truth. And now that I was without her, I realized how much I needed her. Who would distribute my reports now?
But more than that, I realized how much I would miss her. I would miss her smile, her energy, even her stubbornness. I would miss the way she could read people with a single glance, how she could hook you in and never let you go, and the proud look she always wore. I would miss her, and everything about her.
My phone rang. Setting my cookie and thoughts aside, I looked at the number: it was Raymond.
"Approval ratings are down by seven percent," he told me, his voice heavy. "You've lost your lead of a ninety-five percent in presidential history, but it can easily be brought back. You're at eighty-eight right now. What do you want to do about it?"
I didn't reply right away. Again, my mind was blank. It looked like my brain wasn't going to come home from California for another day, at least. "Uh . . . "
"Did you just say 'uh'?" The disbelief in Raymond's tone was unreal. "Payton, I say this to you as a friend—are you okay?"
Raymond was not my friend. Raymond had never been my friend. But nevertheless, I gathered my wits and said, "Thank you, but I'm fine. I was just distracted, that's all. Now, about my approval ratings . . . "
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Penelope moved out in the next week.
She changed her name the next.
The grand halls of the White House seemed empty without her. While there were plenty of servants and staff running around to tend to their various tasks, they felt far and distant, as if I knew a secret they did not (which, actually, was true—as President I had to know a lot of secret government work). Penelope and I had had no kids, no pets—nothing but ourselves. The fact that I'd lost my one of my few, true companions outside of work hit me harder than I thought it would.
Sure, I had my old high school friends, but we'd drifted apart over time. McAfee had found a beautiful girlfriend and now worked as a representative of Montana. Infinity had disappeared—she had started a new life in Rome. Skye had become an activist. Alice, my ex-girlfriend, had run off with a new boyfriend. The only person I glimpsed at all was James, but as he was only an assistant to my communications senior advisor, I rarely saw him.
River had a mouthful to say on the subject of my divorce. "She doesn't know what she's missing. I mean, I know I'd marry you in a heartbeat if I wasn't, you know, dead. And once I did marry you, I would never let you go. I mean, you would have to pry my cold, dead hands off you before you could even think about leaving the house— "
It was infuriating, yet also slightly endearing. Of course, therein remained the problem of his death years ago. He was just a hallucination.
Now, I sat at my desk, filling out report after report. It had become such a habit to do this that, by now, I could let my mind wander as my pen scribbled away.
Soon, a knock on the door interrupted my progress. I lifted my head. "Come in."
It was Raymond. I felt a twinge of disappointment in my chest—I was half hoping it was Penelope. "What is it?" I asked.
"Turn on the TV," was all he said.
I did.
"—WJLA reporting that Osama Bin Laden, leader of the terrorist group al-Qaeda and perpetuator behind the devastating attacks on the Twin Towers, was killed by US Special Forces in Pakistan this afternoon. The operation—which lasted forty minutes—was made by twenty-five Navy Seals, one of whom is here for comment."
Raymond muted the TV and grinned. "Approval ratings are up by four percent."
I smiled. "That's great. That's really, really great."
Raymond frowned at my tone. "You're not still down about Penelope?" he asked.
I sighed. "Of course I am. I cared about her."
He shook his head. "You've got to let her go. Look at the bright side: now you'll be able to focus even more of your efforts on being the best president America has ever seen!"
With Penelope, I was able to focus on being the best president America had ever seen. Without her, I was even more distracted. I decided not to tell him that, though.
"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Raymond."
He smiled and left, closing the door behind him.
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Years passed.
My approval ratings were again off the charts. Reporters no longer swarmed as I left the building. Five o'clock dinner went on as usual. Chip was back and healthier than he'd ever been before. And yet still, life for me felt . . . off.
It had been months since I'd last seen Penelope. River was appearing more and more often. Now, when I entered the meeting room for an economic review, he was already there, waiting for me.
As I sat at my desk, taking a call, Raymond entered. He had an uncharacteristically anxious look on his face, tinged with annoyance and disapproval. I knew at once it must be important.
"I'm sorry," I told Sweden's Prime Minister, "could you hold for a moment? I need to discuss some urgent matters with my advisor. . . . It will only be a moment, I promise. Yes. Thank you."
I set down the phone. "What is it, Raymond?"
He bit his lip. "Turn on the TV."
I did. Raymond connected a few cables to it, and the television flickered on to a recording of WJLA, the official news station of Washington.
"Gabriel Fernandez, an eight-year-old boy, was murdered by his mother and her boyfriend under suspicion for being gay. Sam Ford with the story."
The camera switched to show a friendly-looking black man. He looked like someone who smiled a lot, but he wasn't smiling now. "Thank you, Leon. Gabriel Fernandez, and innocent boy, died in the hospital yesterday after suffering endless abuse from his mother and her boyfriend. At their hands he was beat, bit, whipped, burned, starved, and a whole realm of other horrors. He was found, gagged and bound, in a cubby closet with severe, blunt-force trauma to the head. Unfortunately, he died of the wound in the hospital.
"Possibly the most shocking and horrendous part of this report was the fact that all this was done because his mother suspected he was a homosexual. Jennifer Garcia, Gabriel's first-grade teacher, says she reported signs of abuse on numerous occasions, but no one helped."
The camera switched to a woman. Jennifer Garcia, Gabriel's first-grade teacher, read the caption. "It's just horrible," she sobbed, tears running down her cheeks in streams. "I can't get the picture of him out of my head. He was such a sweet kid. He would always help me when I needed it. I can't believe they didn't take that kid away from them. Why didn't they get him away from them?"
The camera slid back to the reporter, Ford. "The mother and her boyfriend now await trial, where they are facing life in prison or worse. Leon, back to you."
Leon's face appeared back in the frame. "Thank you, Sam. The case is being treated as the worst child abuse story of the decade. No doubt many new laws will be made to protect future children. But what will President Hobart do?"
The recording stopped there, but I continued staring at the TV in horror.
"News all around the country is calling to you," Raymond said. "You'll have to give a statement. Poor kid, right?"
I nodded, but didn't say anything.
"Anyway, set the IRS documents aside for now," he continued. "I have a feeling this will blow up. And with the whole homosexual business, Liberals will be furious."
I nodded again. "Thank you."
Raymond left, leaving me sitting, frozen, at my desk. I felt detached. Pieces of the news report kept drifting through my mind.
" . . . all this was done because his mother suspected he was a homosexual. . . . Jennifer Garcia, Gabriel's first-grade teacher, reported signs of abuse on numerous occasions, but no one helped. . . . But what will president Hobart do?"
I stood and started to pace. "But what will president Hobart do?" I didn't know any more than they did.
"You could tell them about me," said a voice.
I groaned. Whipping around, I leveled River with an accusing stare. "Go away."
He just smiled.
I sighed. "You really think I should?" I asked, running a hand through my hair anxiously.
His smile widened. "Oh, definitely. Could you imagine the public's reactions? Granted, your approval ratings would probably go down— "
"What? Why?"
"Homophobes, of course! But you'd go down in history as the first gay President of the United States of America!"
I shook my head. "No. If I'm going to run this country, I will run fairly. I will not use my sexuality as a way to attract more voters."
River's eyes sparkled. "There's the Payton I loved."
I turned away from him. Loved, not love. "But what will president Hobart do?"
Fresh tears slid down my cheeks.