George and Barbara Bush were at their game table, playing gin rummy. It was four-thirty, almost time for dinner. It had been a cozy winter's day in Houston—a hundred and seven degrees, and the humidity was down to ninety-four per cent. But the mood was tense. The Bushes organized their hands in fraught silence, sipping their cocktails, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally, it had to be said.
"I can't help it—I'm sick about Jeb."
"I know."
"He's—there's no other word for it—a wimp; a pathetic, spineless, girly blot on the Bush name."
"Bar, please," George said. "He's a good boy. Remember that sweater he knitted for you?"
Barbara shook some ice into her mouth. She liked the jagged pieces best. "I'm not saying he doesn't have talent," she said, obliterating the cubes with a few brisk crunches. "I would kill to do a cable stitch like his."
"Also, he's not well," George said. "You know what the doctor said."
"My beautiful mind has never heard of P.T.S.D. Are you sure it's real?"
"Yes, and Post-Trump Stress Disorder affects more people than you might think—not just Donald's ex-wives but debate moderators, hundreds of barbers, thousands of people in the service industry, and one poor fellow who saw him shirtless in a changing room at a tall-and-wide shop."
"Gin," Barbara said, fanning out her cards. It wasn't really gin—she had the spades and the clubs mixed in with each other. The black cards all looked the same to her. George knew better than to correct her.
"Well done, dearie!" He signalled Manuel for another sherry. "And look, Bar, debates are tricky, speaking from painful personal experience. If I hadn't peeked at my watch that time, I coulda been a two-termer—"
Barbara cut him off. "Listen," she said sharply. "I think he's coming."
They tilted their heads and listened. She was right. They could hear the sounds that now meant Jeb: worn velvet slippers shuffling over Mexican tiles, constant low mumbling, and occasionally something that sounded like a baby choking.
He walked in, his eyes wide and watery. Every so often, inexplicably, he ducked. He was like Marley's ghost, except for the Andover tennis shorts and the sweatshirt that said, "If you don't like the way we count in Florida, visit one of the other fifty-two states."
He moved through the room, seeing no one, only mumbling. "I'm the front-runner. . . . It's a firewall. . . . I'm not afraid of you, Donald. Who's not afraid of you? I'm not! Say it louder, Jeb! Try to look right at him. Now see if you can look at him for three whole seconds. One, two . . . Man, that's hard. O.K., go again. Who's not afraid of you, Donald? JEB ISN'T!"
Remembering the advice of his assertiveness trainer, he slapped his chest for emphasis. "Ow!" he shrieked.
Barbara, shelling a walnut with her teeth, looked up. "What happened?"
"I hit my 'Jeb Can Fix It' pin and I think it poked my skin."
The clock chimed. Jeb swung around. "Wait! I'm not finished with my answer! Someone said my name, so I'm allowed to speak. Aren't I? Am I? I have core beliefs, like . . . like . . . like only let in the Muslims from Syria who are Christian. Also, we gotta get rid of the inheritance tax. Hillary Clinton, she'll say that's élitist, but it's not, because everybody dies. See? That's a—that's a high-energy, core—um—conservative—uh—” He rubbed the spot the pin had poked.
George spoke kindly. "It's O.K., Jebbie. You're not at the debate anymore."
Jeb looked at him. "Thank you, sir. I hope I can count on your support here in Iowa." He wandered over to a fireside bench, the cushion of which he'd needle-pointed for his parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. It read, “41, 43, 45.” He sat on the 45 and looked up at the painting over the fireplace. It was a triptych his brother George had made of himself, doing a sit-up.
"Jeb's the smart one," Jeb said softly. "They always said it." He curled up on the bench and began stroking his own cheek. "I've got a five-point plan. . . . Core beliefs. . . . I don't want to be the Insulter-in-Chief. I'm going to be the Commander-in-Chief, if that's O.K. with everybody. . . . We can't just be the old-white-guy party. We need young white guys, too, and their hot Mexican-American wives. . . . Look, I—I'm my own man. I answer all my own e-mails. No tutor. Jeb can fix it. I'm totally committed."
"I've seen enough," Barbara said, cutting the deck. "Manuel, take the governor back to bed. Let him hold his picture of Miss Manners. That should calm him down."
After Jeb had gone, Barbara sighed. "Oh, well. You win some, you lose some." She eyed a picture of her handsome grandson, George P., and thought of the future. Once those Latin features had worried her—not anymore. She smiled and dealt.
"We've got others."
