Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Thirty-Two: One Last Time

Laughing derisively, she says, "Ha! Good luck defeating you, sir!"

And here we go. "I'm stepping down. I'm not running for President."

The world stops. Everything pauses. Then Alexandra coughs, chokes, hits herself in the chest to dislodge whatever she's swallowed - part of me wishes darkly it's her tongue - then rasps out a disbelieving, "Wait, what?"

"One last time," I say kindly, patting her on the shoulder. Her face is ashen, her eyes have dulled. "Relax, have a drink with me!" I pour her a small measure of alcohol, which she downs in lightning speed, hands trembling. That's not a good sign. "One last time, and if we get this right, we're going to teach them how to say goodbye, say goodbye. You and I..."

"No, sir, why?" she begs at last, breaking out of her coma to plead that I stay, that I prove my decision to her somehow. Too bad. That's not what matters right now.

Pressing on, I say, "I want to talk about neutrality."

"Sir, with Britain and France on the verge of war, is this the best time--"

"I want to warn against partisan fighting," I continue, drowning out her weak protests with my own, stronger words. What I'm getting at is this: don't bring your personal lives into politics! (Take notes, magenta southern gentlemen and female immigrant politicians who shall remain nameless.)

She sputters out, "But--"

"Pick up a pen, start writing!" I chastise her, prodding her teasingly in her side with the tip of my finger. It strikes me that this is the first time I've actually had to tell her she has to write. Usually Alexandra just does it out the goodness of her heart. "I want to talk about what I have learned, the hard-won wisdom I have earned!"

She jumps into the fray, still trying her very best to persuade me, or guilt me. "As far as the people are concerned, you have to serve!" I raise my eyebrows, and she shrinks a little, saying in a smaller voice, "You could continue to serve..."

"No! One last time, the people will hear from me. One last time, let's take a break tonight! And then we'll teach them how to say goodbye, say goodbye. You and I!"

"Mr. President," she's regrouped, and says now, less emotionally and more intellectually, "they will say you're weak."

Typical. She thinks that we are measured by what the world sees as bravery, instead of what really counts, like knowing when your turn is over, to let someone else take control. It's knowing that never letting go can just end up hurting everybody.

"No. They will see we're strong!" I say, trying my best to open her eyes to the way the world should really work, but I'm not sure she's getting the picture.

She tries again, grasping at straws, begging desperately right in my face, "Your position is so unique!"

I lean forward, grasping her slender wrists and saying gently, "So I'll use it to move them along!"

Then she breaks, something I've seen only once before. Leaning her head against my chest, Alexandra mumbles in the most childlike voice I've ever heard from a grown woman, "Why do you have to say goodbye?"

I almost lose it. The desperation in her voice, the quiet edge of fear, the hopeless abandonment filling the room with every passing second makes me want to give in, to snap and cry and do whatever it takes to bring back the Alexandra that I know and love: arrogance, confidence, determination, humour, intensity, ferociousness, courage, to name a few.

Gently I stroke her hair, the smooth silk flowing down her back in a cascade of dark water, whispering softly to her, hoping she'll understand why I'm doing this. "If I say goodbye, the nation learns to move on. It outlives me when I'm gone."

She doesn't say anything, only holds me tighter, and I continue, "Like the scripture says: 'Every man shall sit under his own vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.' They'll be safe in this nation we've made. I want to sit under my own vine and fig tree, a moment alone in the shade, at home in this nation we've made. One last time..." I trail off, and my hands stop their soothing patterns on her back.

"One last time," she echoes, pulling away from me at last. We make eye contact, and an understanding passes between us. Picking up a quill from off my desk, she raises it up to me, like a toast, before bowing her head and walking off to her office to draft my farewell address.

--

Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects that I may have committed many errors. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will view them with indulgence; and that after forty-five years of my life dedicated to it service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.

I anticipate with pleasing anticipation that retreat in which I promise myself to realize the sweet enjoyment of partaking in the midst of my fellow citizens, the benign influence of good laws under a free government as I trust in our mutual cares, labours, and dangers. 

"One last time."

--

"George Washington's going home," I hear the people whisper in the streets, awe and fear filling their voices. Life as they know it is changing yet again. It's for the better.

Alexandra came by last week, after we'd finished the address. She'd grasped my hand in a firm handshake, whispered, "Teach them how to say goodbye," then enveloped me in the tightest hug I'd ever gotten. 

I remember how I'd said in response, "You and I! I'm going home!" I then gave her the same warning I'd given to her during the war. "History has its eyes on you!" Not me. History is done with me, finally.

Walking down the streets, I am finally at peace. I know in my heart I've made the right decision. Whether or not the nation will recognize that is yet to be seen, but I know it's the only right thing to do.

Teach them how to say goodbye! 

Teach them how to say goodbye! 

Say goodbye! 

One last time!