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life as metaphor holds few attractions for me, I’ll leave it to others to find symbolism in Cadwaller, the upright envoy, having been the one to leave me with this gun.
    Why am I pretending you can hear me, mother mine? That illusion got kicked away by the authoress of “ Chanson d’automne ” in Roosevelt’s first term. Soon after swearing she’d never write another goddam poemess again, she decided she didn’t give a rap if some invisible old fool whose beard could use barbering was looking down from more than Sistine ceilings. Perhaps it’s because I’m so near death myself, but to my incipiently Alzheimerish surprise—I knew they’d get me in the end—I pine for allies in the cyberspatial ether.
    When the White House switchboard finds me, I need to be able to feel I speak for you. And—why not?—for Kirsten, too. Hell, she’ll never know, any more than you will.
    When the phone rings, I’ll snatch up Cadwaller’s gun from my ancient snatch. As Potus starts burbling birthday congratulations to an old bag he’s never heard of, I’ll interrupt. Yes, I will!
    With what, mother mine? A litany of what he’s done? By now he could’ve heard all that from millions. As countless readers of the Declaration of Independence have discovered with surprise and annoyance, particularized lists of offenses can get tiresome even in indictments written by Thomas Jefferson. Or else, mother mine, should I just say this?
    “Yes, yes. I know who you are. Do you know who I am, Mr. President? I’m Daisy Buchanan’s daughter. Their only child, the last of them. These days I roost on upper Connecticut Avenue like a falcon, and believe me: I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go down at your end. Oh, hell, Potus! We both know you’re going to do whatever you like. I’m just an old lady without even a cat, and I can’t stop you. But before you get on with it, I’ve got one question. Do you expect me, me, me, me! Do you really expect me to put up with thisshit?”
    At which point, at least if all has gone well—can my hand raise Cadwaller’s gun in time? Will he have hung up by then?—I’ll give a screech of fury. That will be my wordless last word before, right in Potus’s ear, I blow the prettiest thing about me at fourteen—my attractively bejangled, hopeful brains—to goddam Clio come.
    In this as in other things, you’re a poor example to follow, mother mine. Your daughter’s always feared she might mimic your big exit one day, though I now feel I’ve got no choice. Face it, an opportunity like this only comes once in a lifetime. It still makes me furious to know my emulation of your final act seventy-two years ago, nine months before “ Chanson d’automne ” appeared in Pink Rosebuds ,will give Potusville’s hyenas the easy out of saying self-destruction was in our genes.
    Like mother, like daughter, they’ll shrug. You bitch! You fat, drugged, forgotten, hopeless bitch.
    As for my favorite young actress, no doubt they’ll say I was just trying to impress her.
    2. The Lotus Eater
    Posted by: Pam
    I’d just turned five when, I’ve been told, I watched my father’s sudden death during a polo match on Long Island. Not the horse’s fault, but it got a bullet behind one twitching ear just the same.
    That suspended play temporarily. Cherished for the high marks he gave insensitivity,Kipling wasn’t yet out of fashion in some circles. Yet the survivors’ flask-rescrewing cries of “Let’s win this one for Tom!” ended up inscribed only in mud. They’d all seen Father reaching across another rider’s mount for the hook when his mallet tangled in the reins.
    Yes, daisysdaughter.com readers: my hatred of Potus is partly Freudian. His prototype’s contribution to the Paris footlocker is a scattering of snapshots whose scalloped edges date them as surely as Elizabethan ruffs. Here he is proudly carside, standing with balled fist in pocket at a garden party or chin out as he quizzes innocent but