Whistler's Mother

by Girl Next Door

James K. Whistler knew what she was going to say before she finished descending the staircase.

“Jim, it’s over. This needs to end.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to talk him out of it.

“Sarah, we’ve been over this a thousand times. Nobody wins races by quitting them.”

He saw her blue eyes fill with tears, and it moved him now as it always had.

“Sarah,” he said, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her. “I have a mandate from the people. They want me to be their next President.”

She took his hands from her waist and pushed them off. “Stop it! You don’t touch me like that! And for God’s sake, stop calling me by my first name!”

“Sarah…” James began, until he saw her eyes flash in that all-too-familiar way. “Uhm…Mom. I can’t withdraw from the race. Too many people are counting on me.”

She put her hand to her mouth and started to cry then. Even in the dim light of the basement James could see her housecoat shaking. The poor thing. The stress of this campaign was clearly getting to her. He swept aside the week’s worth of newspapers that were piled on the sofa - Those damn editors thought they were so clever by not including him in their editorials - and sat her down on a dusty cushion.

“Aww, don’t cry darling. We’ll pull through this together,” James held her in his arms and spoke in soothing tones. “This is the hard part. It will all get easier after the election.” James rummaged around in his pajama-shirt pocket and handed the weeping old woman a tissue. “You know,” he said, his eyes focused on the spring sticking out of the sofa cushion, “when we get to the White House, we’ll have all new furniture.”

Her scream echoed around the musty walls, bouncing off the washer and dryer and hitting the chest freezer. “I have the goddamn Secret Service calling me every day, Jimmy! They want me to put you in a goddamn hospital, do you understand? I can’t even go to the beauty parlor any more. None of the women will speak to me! You’ve turned us into freaks, James Whistler! I want this to stop NOW.”

James had closed his eyes and was rocking back and forth on the sofa. His breath was loud and labored. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He inhaled deeply, and when he opened his eyes to look at her he was all smiles and peace.

“I have to work on my speech for the Knights of Columbus, Sarah. Let me know when Tim Russert is on. My campaign manager says our campaign is going to be their topic.”

Shoulders hunched and head bowed, the old woman climbed back up the stairs.