BLACK PRESIDENT- Chapter 82. John-the-imposter ALMOST gets caught by his mother--His concept of 'painting the White House black' almost sinks his ship.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oney_Judge

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Two weeks later, President Jackson Little delivered his historic State of the Union speech at Washington’s Congressional Hall, covered by all major networks and print media. By the end of speech just about every lobbyist in Washington was up in arms. In under an hour, Little had threatened their military armament accounts – challenged every corporation that produced military goods – and questioned the validity of the tobacco industry, prison construction, auto manufacturers and various ancillary corporations; insurance companies, pharmaceuticals. And he threatened the funding for states and city services across America through time-tested taxation. No one, it seemed, was spared.

The turmoil was frantic. Senators and Congressmen were facing lit-up switchboards and clogged-to-crashed e-mail accounts. Many people’s lives were so imbedded in the culture of ‘the now’ that even at its most imperfect it was all they had to cling to. Change, any change was just too scary to contemplate. Most Americans couldn’t conceive of losing the little bit they had.

But not everyone felt this way. Many of the calls into the White House were ones of a congratulatory tone. A good portion of the listening audience voiced their support, that someone had finally defined problems in real terms. Some of the educators who called him spoke in support of the high school principal who carried a bat through the hallways to indicate he’d had enough and would fight back again disruptive elements at his school. And now the American President was carrying a bat too!

When Rudy’s call came on his cell phone, John Little took it immediately. “Rudy! Hello! What’d you think?”

“Mr. President, your brother John couldn’t have done it better. Of course John was always the creative one, the arty one, so his speech would have been a hard act to follow!”

John chuckled at Rudy’s sense of humor, their little private joke. Since only Rudy knew that he was one and the same, Rudy’s comments were perfectly double-edged. John asked for more feedback while he had the chance.“I know I probably went too far, but I’m not sure how many more opportunities I’ll get. Not everyone can tangle with both the military and prison systems and get away with it!”

Now it was Rudy’s turn to laugh. “Yes, you did stick it to them pretty good. But what I liked best was your attempted return to the ‘50s, setting the inflation clock back 60+ years. That, my boy, was masterful! Anyway, really a good speech. You know I’m ready to help in any way I can. What’s next?”

John was pleased his step-father supported his call to arms. “How about you and mom coming to dinner with us tonight. I can dial up some good steaks, even supply some decent veggies. Say around eight o’clock?”

“You’re on. Sarah will be pleased. See you then.”

An hour later, John again found himself worrying about his mother detecting that he wasn’t his brother, Jackson. Luckily he still looked a little banged up from the assassination attempt, and could still use that somewhat, to shield the truth. But certainly, as it had at every previous meeting since the explosion, the topic of “losing John” would be brought up. He hoped he could handle that intense moment, again get teary-eyed, channel his feelings of loss for his brother into a proper display of emotions for himself.

Sitting there in an armchair in the front parlor of the second floor living quarters of the White House, John waited for his “wife” – Cissy – to return from picking up her daughters at her mother’s house. He knew she would surely have listened to his speech on the radio. John knew that living in the gilded cage of the White House had historically had an effect on its presidential inhabitants. If you weren’t conservative upon entering the edifice you would certainly become so, after a few months of enjoying maids, butlers, houseboys, cooks, cleaners and chauffeurs at your beck and call. With a full staff, not to mention a security staff of twelve heavily armed personnel, it made a person want to play their part in the full-dress ensemble. With all that attention, it felt like nothing but perfect manners were acceptable. And when you are exhibiting such polite behavior, it’s hard to upset the applecart.

He remembered how difficult it had been for him and his brother to tolerate blacks in “service” capacities. Black men and women on various White House staffs, wearing their official black vests against freshly starched white shirts, black pants and black skirts, appeared so slave-like that it had unnerved them. Jackson had said that when he saw a black man carrying a polished silver tray, supporting coffee pots, cups and saucers, sandwiches, walking formally past Revolutionary War portraits and furniture, it felt like a flashback to the late 1700s, when all the inhabitants of the “Big House” had legions of slaves back on their plantations. He said it was like living inside a movie set, and he’d wondered how a colored man could be both the help and THE MAN at the same time.

When Cissy finally arrived home, bursting into the second-floor residence as the kids ran off to play, she jumped onto her husband and planted her lips hard against his. “Unbelievably great speech, my dear,” she said, moving her mouth to his cheek, and then neck. “Great ass-kicking!”

When she lay her head onto his shoulder for a hug, John Little felt more of own identity slipping away. There was so little of John Little left that he couldn’t really be sure who he actually was anymore. He tried to suppress his sadness for Fran and his own kids. How were they doing, he wondered?

————

In Dallas, a group of middle-aged men had watched President Little’s speech, and as soon as the liquor was served and the maids had departed, they got down to business.

“More than twice we’ve tried to kill that nigger and each time we’ve failed. What will it take, gentlemen, to assure that our contracts will be extended through 2025? Once they start cutting staff and workers, it will be a steep climb back. This guy has got to go.”

John Pierson, a senior NSA advisor to two presidents and the man known for getting things done couldn’t help interrupting. “The guy’s a nut job. He should be locked up. Impeached!”

“But John,” said Peter Thompson, one of the largest arms manufacturers from Tempe Arizona and Ohio “the polls show his popularity soaring over 60%. All our attempts to blow him outta there have only increased his appeal. People actually feel sorry for him, even though the economy has tanked. Remember them calling Reagan the ‘Teflon President?’ Well, suddenly a Black President has reversed the polls almost overnight. And yet he sounds like a lunatic to me, too. so I don’t get it.”

The three men in the room sat silent. Then Thompson said what they were all thinking, “Mark my words, we’re in danger of losing the whole shebang.”

———

Sarah appeared more fragile than usual as Rudy helped her into a dining room chair. My mom is getting old, thought John as he positioned his chair against the table. He knew that as his wounds healed and his bandages were removed, it was more risky to be in close quarters with his mother. Even though she’d played the “guess who’s John, guess who’s Jackson” game when they were kids, he believed she had a well- honed sense of the subtle differences in her almost-identical twin sons. Beyond Rudy knowing the truth, John felt it would be very dangerous if anyone else beyond his step father uncovered the truth – that the President of the United States was an imposter. A woman as weak as his mother could make a terrible mistake, if she ever discovered the truth.

“Come on, you all, have a seat!” said Sarah, pleased to officiate over the meal like the head of the family should do. At least she could still stand up on her own, get out of a chair by herself, not like her grandmother, Bela, towards the end.

“Go ahead and eat, my dear ones.”

Sarah tried to control her emotions as she watched her son and his wife unfolding their napkins, selecting utensils, cutting the perfectly cooked filet mignon and preparing their baked potatoes. Her grandkids (almost grown!) sat nearby at an adjoining table. She caught herself feeling sad that John’s kids and wife weren’t there. They’d been invited, but Fran had given an excuse. The usual, “children’s homework” and “out too late on a school night” sort of thing. She must be suffering something terrible, thought Sarah, with her husband and the father of their children being killed like that.

She peered over at her son Jackson, and scrutinized his face as he began eating his steak. Proud and handsome just like John, she mused. Both sons so Kennedy-like. Strong jaw lines, sculpted ears, eyes, nose, mouth. Jackson still wore a bandage across the chin, and another patch on the forehead where he had fallen, but other than that, she thought, he seems OK. What had surprised her, though, was his speech. She couldn’t help mentioning it.

“Jackson, honey,” she began, waiting for him to make eye contact. “Are you really going to paint this building black? Make the White House black like you said on TV?”

John Little just smiled as he chewed his food. “You’re not kidding, are you?

“That sounds so much like something I heard John say a long time ago. You mustn’t let John’s crazy ideas make you look foolish.” Rudy immediately stopped eating, pulled his napkin up from his lap and wiped his mouth.

“I’m sorry. Now I’ve said it,” said Sarah, getting herself worked up a bit. “Just don’t want them history fellas to write you up as a weirdo or something.”

John looked over at Rudy and could detect the tiniest of a head shake.

“Now don’t let your mom get your goat, Jackson,” said Rudy. He could see that John was beginning to rise to the bait, and he did his best to cut that off before it even began. He knew it spelled potential disaster. John-as-Jackson blinked his eyes a few times, which caught Cissy’s attention. Before Cissy could interrupt, John spoke up.

“Yes, mother, I guess it is something that John would have thought up and, in fact, he did make a comment about doing just that. So maybe his spirit lives on in me. We brothers often felt like just halves of a whole person. A lot of twins we’d talked to said the same thing. Remember how we could sense you’d be hiding behind a door? Well, I guess that sixth sense helped us avoid harm, for awhile.”

When his mother didn’t respond, John kept talking, not mincing words. “There are some enemies out there who will keep trying to put this Little Presidency out of business. So I may have to say some pretty strange things and do some even weirder things in the coming months. Some of the things I say may be pretty shocking, but I need to make sure I can keep this country on course.”

Cissy paid close attention to how her husband responded to his mother. She had never known Jackson to be so forthcoming before. Usually, it was his tactic to sidestep her comments, smile a little, just placate her in some manner. He’d throw in a joke, then make up some seemingly-valid excuse for leaving the room if she became too pressing. And he’d finally pull the “National Security” card if needed. Those magic words had been his parachute for bailing out. So what had changed? She thought back to his speech and the hard line he had taken regarding racism in America. Later she had even re-read over that part in the Washington Post, entitled, “President Jackson Little Challenges Racism:

“On another front, I want to remind you that racism is not dead. We live in a country where men and women of color have fewer rights, less earning power, fewer opportunities, with their children having more trouble in school, more unemployment, fewer chances of becoming college graduates, and so on. Beyond all the statistical tally, blacks in America also have greater difficulty with self-esteem. And why wouldn’t they? Some negativity is fostered right from their own black neighborhoods.

“The use of the word ‘nigger,’ pervasive in songs and on-the-street conversations, is doing nothing to help the problem. When you and your friends call each other ‘nigger,’ you are not ‘owning’ the word’ as I’ve heard supposedly learned blacks say. What you’re actually doing is maintaining the chains around your neck, placed there hundreds of years ago by our dear white forefathers, including the esteemed first Presidents of our great nation.

“Our founding fathers were slave owners. George Washington was a rich landowner, owning 500 slaves when he died. He lied to his house slave, named Oney Judge, telling her if she stayed with him and Martha then she would be freed after her White House duty. But she could never have been freed by Mr. And Mrs. Washington, because there was an ongoing lien on her, as property of Martha’s family. The man you’ve been told about, who supposedly said to his father, ‘I cannot tell a lie, I chopped down the cherry tree,’ lied to Oney to keep her enslaved. Ultimately, she ran away, hid out, and remained free, though poor, to her death at age 83. Who writes history? Certainly not the bedraggled unfortunates.

“To honor the memory of Oney, and all the members of my particular race of post-slavery individuals, I have decided to repaint the White House. Starting within a few weeks, painters will arrive on the grounds of the White House and begin applying coats of black primer, followed by a final black matte finish coat. It will temporarily become known as the ‘Black House,’ in memory of all the men and women of color who have lived and died to make America what it is today.”

That speech! Cissy had been so proud of all the points he’d hit on the issues, but now she had to agree with his mother about the “black house” portion of it. Maybe a little bit too much, like “art-school-John.” But at least it had made its point, whether of not Jackson actually acted on the color change or not. Maybe, she wondered, the latest attack on his life had made him a bit more ‘radical.’

Between bites, John-as-Jackson had continued to defend himself against his mother’s negativity about repainting the White House. John enjoyed refreshing everyone’s memory about the slaves who built it, stone by stone, and how the slave population had serviced their past cliental, as “property of the Presidents.”

“America was a slave-holding country from the beginning, with slaves constructing this very building,” said imposter John, starting the history lesson. “They called it “big house.” Now, that might have propelled people toward labeling it “White House.” After all, Whites ruled, felt themselves superior to blacks, and considered us nothing but property. And has anything really changed?”

Rudy looked over, but said nothing. He hated being made conscious of his skin color, but certainly had sympathy for the topic. Sarah just kept eating. Being lectured by her kid wasn’t one of her favorite activities. John could be so tactless, she thought to herself, momentarily confused about who was speaking.

“So I don’t see why I can’t make a statement about such a big part of this country’s Black history?” added John. “Anyone who is Black, right now, has received low self-esteem lessons from a parent for generations!”

Rudy could tell that John was getting in too deep and made some kind of grunt from across the table, but his stepson was in no mood to be distracted.

“Remember, mother, when you got so mad when I took the $5 from that white lady who hit our bikes? Still can’t figure out how you found my loot!”

Seconds after John spoke he suddenly realized it had been only him, not Jackson, who had been caught with money. His mother never knew that Jackson too was involved in getting paid off by the White woman! So instead of pursuing the topic, he suddenly let things fall flat. He was so shocked at his blunder that he didn’t even make an attempt to change the subject. Would his mother catch the precise reference? As the milliseconds passed he hoped not. Then she spoke.

“That was John. Don’t you remember?”

As if on cue, Rudy purposely knocked over his water glass, the liquid spreading rapidly across the tabletop. “Oh shit! Sorry.” said Rudy, aware that Sarah would probably take offense at the ‘shit’ part of it. And she did. But luckily his actions had instantly sent the table into a cleaning and clearing of plates and silverware operation..

“Rudy! No need to swear in another’s presence. For heaven’s sake!” Sarah backed up her chair carefully, to avoid the drips, as a maid and waiter quickly descended on the scene, napkins and towels in hand. Rudy helped too. Soon after that, Sarah and Rudy departed, Rudy waving John and Cissy off as he indicated he could manage helping his wife along all by himself. But before Rudy was out of sight, he took a quick glance back at John. When a man carries a secret that could basically destroy an entire nation, it’s just too much to bear. Rudy believed he saw the tiniest nod from John as they left the room.

As soon as Rudy and Sarah reached their residence, climbed the marble stairs, entered the parlor and shed their warm coats, the bike story was revisited. Sarah was still bugged about Jackson’s misspeak. “I just don’t understand how Jackson could have forgotten it was John I caught? John with his hollowed-out National Geographic.”

Rudy kept silent, waiting for his wife to reconstruct the logic. He knew if he tried to defend John she would just argue back and make it worse. But if he waited, she’d end up maybe patching together the illogical logic. Before he take any additional action his elderly wife spoke again.

“Hope his mind hasn’t been damaged from all those explosions and such.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” Rudy quickly blurted, risking all. “He’s been shook up so much lately that it probably joggled his grey matter, made him forget who he is!” With Sarah not responding immediately, Rudy saw an opening and took it. “I’m tired, honey. What say we hit the sack?”

With her affirmative answer, the evening finally ended.

That was WAY too close! came to Rudy’s mind as he brushed his teeth.

————