The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America by Michael Kurland, S. W. Barton Page A

gone. Not that Miriam had changed her views, but now Kit flatly refused to discuss politics or the administration in any way. Miriam didn’t agree with his position, but he was immovable.
    So she suppressed her feelings and, since politics was the only thing they had ever argued about, they never fought anymore. But it was still there between them. Kit was looking increasingly depressed when she saw him, and he admitted that it was about the job but refused to discuss it. He had several times snorted and left the room in the middle of a news broadcast, usually when something Miriam thought quite innocuous was being discussed. He still didn’t seem overly concerned about the continuing social unrest or any of the other issues that Miriam held close to her heart, but even little unimportant changes in government or things like the interview with the director of the new Institute for an Informed America would get him upset. She had urged him to discuss it, if not with her, then with Aaron, but he was adamant about keeping his mouth closed. “Maybe someday I’ll write one hell of a memoir,” he said.
    So they had peace, and Kit had problems that he couldn’t share with her. And she was happy for the peace, and unhappy for what Kit couldn’t share, and still it was better than fighting.
    Kit came out of the bedroom buttoning his shirt-sleeves and stood in front of the big living room mirror to knot his tie. “What’s the tie for?” Miriam asked, knowing she was fighting a losing fight. “Where are we going?”
    “A man is either dressed or undressed,” Kit said, “and if he’s dressed, he has a tie.”
    Miriam shrugged expressively. “I refuse to argue with a man’s religion,” she said.
    “I had a great-uncle who went insane,” Kit told her. “Spent his declining years in a home for the bewildered up in Massachusetts. Walked around all day stark naked except for a string tie and a top hat.” He paused. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
    “I know better,” she told him.
    “When I graduated from college I went up to see my great-uncle,” Kit continued. “Must have been in his eighties then. I asked him. ‘Uncle Jebedah, why don’t you have any clothes on?’ ‘Why should I?’ he asked me. ‘It’s hot as the other place in here, and nobody ever comes to see me anyway.’ ‘But Uncle,’ I objected, ‘what about the hat and tie?’ He looked at me like I was the one who was crazy. ‘Somebody might come,’ he said. I have never forgotten those words of wisdom.”
    “I’ll scramble the eggs,” Miriam said.
    After brunch, Kit shared the couch with the bulky Sunday editions of the New York Times and the Washington Post. Miriam sat at her window desk editing the galleys of her latest article for Polity . It was almost three p.m. when the phone rang.
    “It’s for you,” Miriam said. “How does anyone know to call you here?”
    “I always leave this number when I’m staying over,” Kit said absently, taking the phone. “They don’t call unless it’s urgent.”
    He took the phone and listened, with only an occasional “Yes,” or “I see,” to break long stretches of silence. Miriam turned in her chair and stared at him, finding herself getting angrier and angrier. How dare he leave her number when he spent the night with her. What did he do, post it on the office bulletin board? This was too much. Why didn’t he just write it on a few phone booth walls while he was at it?
    Kit hung up and looked at her. There was a strange vacant expression on his face.
    “What do you mean leaving my number with your office?” Miriam demanded. “You’ve a hell of a nerve.”
    “They don’t know it’s your number,” Kit said, focusing on her. “It’s just a number. They couldn’t care less where I spend my nights. I’m on the right side.”
    There was something wrong. By now it had come through Miriam’s fog of anger that Kit wasn’t responding to her emotion. Something he had heard on