Washington's POV
As I stare out the window at the luscious fields, I hear the scraping of the door as it slides across the hardwood floor, and the hesitant click of heels. They suddenly stop in a swish of skirts, and I immediately recognize who they belong to even before the visitor announces herself.
"Mr. President," I hear Alexandra's voice ask gently, though it's not a question, "you asked to see me?"
Sighing, I run my hand over my head, feeling a quill and various legal documents dig into my rear. I should get off my desk, but I just can't find it within myself to move. The grass outside sways in the wind as I say dejectedly, "I know you're busy."
Two more steps forward from the pair of heels. Then: "What do you need, sir?" She sounds worried. I wonder why. Maybe she's having family troubles. Then I laugh mentally. The bastard, orphan, immigrant having family issues? Never.
"Sir?" she asks again, another half step forward. I snap out of it.
Finally I turn to her, hauling myself off the desk to face her. In all seriousness, I say, "I want to give you a word of warning."
That gets a reaction. Since she's apparently not close enough to me already, she leans forward, waving her hands, widening her eyes, and defending with a classic, "I don't know what you heard, but whatever it is, Jefferson started it!"
Good God, I'm leaving this country in the hands of children. May he have mercy on us all.
I honestly doubt that, and I voice my skepticism. "Thomas Jefferson resigned this morning," I tell her, praying that she'll take this news like a mature adult.
"You're kidding!" she gasps, dropping her giant stack of papers, throwing a hand over her mouth in shock. Slowly she brings it down, exposing an honest-to-God shark's smile, rows of gleaming teeth bared and eyes shining with bloodlust.
Children. Mutant shark children running my country. This is what we've come to.
She then bends down to collect her writings, her hair flowing around her shoulders in a fluidity that can only be described as chaotic, chuckling quietly to herself, no doubt about her arch-nemesis.
I bring her back to reality with four syllables. "I need a favour."
Jumping to her feet, she salutes and practically screams, "Whatever you say, sir, Jefferson will pay for this behaviour!" It's all about Jefferson now. It's really starting to worry me, if I'm being frank. Obsession never was fulfillment.
She opens her mouth to continue ranting, but I hush her. "Shh. Talk less," I say softly, gently reminding her of days long gone, a simpler time for some, a crueler world for others. For me it was a little of both: constantly under pressure, run ragged by the burden of war, but always knowing my place, my purpose never unclear. I'm wiser now, but less sure.
"I'll use the press. I'll write under a pseudonym, you'll see what I can do to him!" exclaims Alexandra, missing the point as per usual. For such a bright young woman, she doesn't understand the simplest concepts, the most prominent on my list being self-preservation. What's with all this "dying a martyr" business? Can't she see that doesn't help anyone fix anything?
Sighing again, I say loudly and forcefully, "I need you to draft an address." Which means stop talking, you're making things worse.
She totally blows it out of proportion, her eyes agleam when she says triumphantly, "Yes! He resigned, you can finally speak your mind!"
Translation: She can finally speak her mind and destroy Jefferson once and for all. I just can't wait.
"No," I say, making steady eye contact with her and talking so very slowly, like a parent to an extremely intellectually challenged child. "He's stepping down so he can run for President."
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!