IT’S PAST TEN AT NIGHT, Saturday night, the staff is gone, the house is quiet, and Mary is waiting in the library for Sturges to get back from his trip to Fargo. He called and said he was running a little late and she should go to bed, but she wants to stay up and see him. She filled a glass with whiskey so he could have a drink after his long drive—she wiped it down so there’d be a clean palette for his fingerprints. She’s gotten some troubling news—the latest round of internal polling isn’t looking good. Voters have mixed feelings about Mary. They see her as a strong leader but also as somewhat outside the mainstream. Her opponents have succeeded in painting her as a risky choice, someone who could lead the state off a cliff. The race is still winnable, the earlier influx of pioneers is keeping it close, but . . . well, she’ll explain it all to Sturges. He’ll understand.
And now she hears the front door open, quietly, as if someone is trying to sneak into the house. Then she sees Sturges crossing the entrance hall, again quietly, with measured steps.
“Darling,” she calls.
He whirls in shock, then walks slowly into library. “I thought you would be in bed.”
“No. I decided to stay up. You look pale, darling. Is everything all right?”
“. . . Oh yes, fine. Just a little tired, it’s a lot of driving.”
“It is a lot of driving. And we’re not kids anymore. Remember when we were kids? Our honeymoon in Bermuda?”
“We must get back there,” Sturges says sadly. He’s sweating now, on his brow, and the house isn’t warm. And his whole body looks so tense. And the house is so quiet.
“How did the phone banking go?”
“Well, it went well. The volunteers are terrific. Just super.” His enthusiasm seems so forced and desultory, and he looks so distracted, so worried, spooked.
Mary says nothing, but pats at her hair. “Have a seat, darling. There’s something we need to discuss.”
Sturges’s eyes open wide and he inhales sharply. To cover his anxiety he looks down and rubs his hands together. Then he sits down, unable to look her in the eye. “What’s that, dear?”
“I poured you a drink.”
He reaches for it and takes a sip.
“It’s the latest polling,” Mary says, and Sturges sighs and his body relaxes.
“It could be better,” he says.
“It will be better. I believe we have momentum.”
“Oh, so do I. We have momentum.” He keeps looking down at his hands.
Outside, the prairie wind gusts and the house creaks in response. Through the doorway, the darkened entrance hall is visible, full of shadows and the kind of heavy wood furniture no one wants anymore, and heavy maroon velvet drapes and matching upholstery. It’s like a mortuary from the 1940s. And then the wind stops, and quiet settles back over the house like a shroud.
“The thing is, there’s something that could stop our momentum. In fact, it would basically ensure that we would lose.”
“What’s that?” Sturges asks, finally looking at her. But he can’t hold her gaze.
“It’s this.” Mary picks up her phone and taps it. Then she turns the screen to Sturges. There he is. In his motel room in Fargo. With Derek. He looks for a second and then turns away. Mary keeps playing it. She keeps playing it.
White-hot shame pours over him like molten lava and now he’s suffocating in his shame, his whole body covered with prickly heat and panic and dread and . . . sadness. A terrible sadness.
Mary finally puts down the phone. She sits there looking at him. The man who married her under false pretenses. Well, it’s time to pay the piper. Just like Mary paid Wendell to hack into Sturges’s computer and learn of his liaison with Derek. Who was only too willing—for 5K in cash—to do her bidding.
There’s a long pause filled with quiet and the final acknowledgement of what they’ve both known for many years. And then, when they speak, it’s in low, intimate tones.
“Our opponents have gotten hold of this. They’re threatening to release it,” Mary lies. Sturges winces. She loves the power of her lie.
“I’m sorry,” Sturges says finally, simple and heartfelt. He struggles to keep from crying. That’s pretty pathetic.
“If this comes out, my chances of winning the election will be zero.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. Like a broken record.
“There’s only one way to salvage this situation,” Mary says. “To salvage our dream.”
“I’ll hold a press conference and come clean and ask for forgiveness,” he says, his voice high as he fights to control his desperation and fear.
“Do you really think that would help? Do you really think the voters of this state want to have a First Man who’s . . . homosexual?” She watches as he struggles to retain his composure. Her voice remains calm, composed. “Well, do you? Answer me!”
Sturges shakes his head as tears start to stream down his face. Then his body starts to quiver, almost to convulse.
Mary reaches for a small vial and opens it. She shakes out a pill and places it on the side table between them. “It will all be over in less than sixty seconds. It will look like a heart attack. I’ll come down in the morning and discover your body. You were down here having a nightcap, weren’t you? Carney Mortuary will come and, as per your wishes, you’ll be cremated. I’ll be a brave widow, stalwart in my grief, never forgetting my responsibility to the people of this state. Who will then elect me as governor.”
The pill sits there between them as Mary waits serenely and Sturges cries and shakes.