by Ben Coes
“Dad, I’m almost twelve. I think I can handle it.”
* * *
The motorcade was long, extended, and highly secure. There were eight vehicles in the staff section, all bulletproof and flexed-out with a variety of accoutrements such as run-flat tires and supplemental oxygen. The presidential state car was in the middle of the motorcade. It was a customized Cadillac DTS limousine, with a shell of armor capable of withstanding most armaments below missile as well as protecting against biochemical attacks. A switch in back sealed the interior as tight as a supersonic jet. Another switch kicked a five-hour supply of oxygen into the limo. In the trunk was a container of the president’s blood type.
Multiple Chevy Suburbans and vans were intermixed with the sedans. They carried a variety of FBI and Secret Service agents with enough firepower to start a small war. A half dozen police cars were also in the motorcade. All of it formed a long line that moved quickly north up the Rock Creek Parkway. A missile-laden helicopter glided overhead, high enough to be unobtrusive, low enough to react to any airborne intrusions or on-the-ground situations that the police, FBI, and Secret Service couldn’t manage.
Dellenbaugh was seated at the back of the presidential limousine. Summer was on his left. Holden Weese, his personal aide, was across from him. Dellenbaugh was reading a briefing sheet.
Weese dialed a number into a phone and then handed it to the president.
“Haley and Barbara Lancaster,” said Weese. “From Rochester, New York.”
Dellenbaugh took the phone. He glanced at Summer, then looked at Weese.
“Stephen,” said Weese.
Dellenbaugh put the phone to his head.
“I’m here.”
“White House Control, they are on.”
“Thank you.” Then came a click.
“Hello?”
“Haley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is J. P. Dellenbaugh.”
“I know, sir.”
“Is Barbara on too?”
“No, she’s not. Don’t get me wrong. She supports you, Mr. President. But she hasn’t been well.”
“It would have destroyed me,” said Dellenbaugh. “I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry.”
Dellenbaugh heard the beginning of a low, painful series of sobs on the line.
“I’m sorry … Mr. President,” he whispered in between sobs.
“It’s okay,” said Dellenbaugh. “Go ahead. I’d be doing the same thing.”
Dellenbaugh let him cry for almost twenty seconds, occasionally saying something like, “It’s okay. You go ahead.”
Finally, Haley Lancaster, father of Stephen Lancaster, a freshman at Columbia, stopped crying.
“He was such a smart kid, Mr. President,” Lancaster said proudly.
Dellenbaugh reached out and grabbed Summer’s hand.
“Valedictorian from School of the Arts,” said Dellenbaugh, referring to Rochester’s premier high school. “I hear he also got into Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, and Bowdoin.”
“But he chose Columbia,” said Lancaster.
“I’m guessing he would’ve been a professor someday.”
“That’s exactly what he would’ve been.”
“I spoke with Lee Bollinger yesterday,” said Dellenbaugh, referring to Columbia’s president. “Columbia is going to create endowed chairs for every student who died. I was thinking that the Stephen J. Lancaster Chair for Civil Engineering had a nice ring to it. What do you think?”
“I think he’d be very proud, Mr. President.”
* * *
The motorcade swept into Bethesda Medical Center a few minutes before 7 A.M.
On the fourth floor, Dellenbaugh, his daughter, and a trio of armed Secret Service agents stepped off the elevator where doctors, physician assistants, and nurses were gathered.
“Hi, everyone,” he said enthusiastically.
“Hi, Mr. President,” said one of the nurses. Several other people said hello, while others waved. They all smiled.
“Everyone, this is my daughter, Summer,” said Dellenbaugh.
One of the doctors stepped forward. It was Marc Gillinov, the surgeon who’d performed the surgery on Calibrisi.
“Hi, Mr. President,” said Gillinov, his Australian accent sharp. He glanced at Summer Dellenbaugh, smiling and nodding. “And you must be the vice president?” he said, extending his hand to her.
She blushed and giggled.
Gillinov looked back at the president,
“Someone said you wanted to see me, sir.”
“I heard about the operation,” said the president. “That was a gutsy, amazing thing you did. You saved the life of a good man. A good friend. I wanted to thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
“How is he?” asked Dellenbaugh in a low voice, leaning away from Summer.
“Which ‘he’ are you talking about?”
“Hector.”
“Well, he—”
Gillinov began speaking, but Dellenbaugh interrupted him. “Actually, Dewey,” he said.
The surgeon paused, waiting to see if Dellenbaugh was done speaking.
“Dewey is—”
“Katie,” interjected Dellenbaugh. “I mean, I know those two are going to be fine. She’s the one I should be asking about.”
Gillinov let out an exasperated laugh. Dellenbaugh joined him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a pain in the ass.”
“Not at all, Mr. President. Other than the broken legs, the rotator cuff tear, and the four broken ribs, Katie’s in good shape. She’s probably in the most pain of all three, but she’s also the most out of danger. All I can say is thank God she landed the way she landed. Dewey is continuing to bleed. We went back in today and repaired a small internal hemorrhage caused by the knife. It was tiny, too small for even the human eye to see, but it was growing.”
“And Hector?”
Gillinov shrugged. “The heart is continuing to perform. He’s damn lucky to be alive.”
“Did stress contribute to the heart attack?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Without question. Forgive my bluntness, but if you want Hector Calibrisi to live a long life, make him retire. Make him ambassador somewhere. One more of those, and no fancy surgery is going to save him.”
Dellenbaugh patted Gillinov on the back.
“Thanks again, Doctor,” said the president.
If only our country could afford to have him retire, he thought.
“So can we go say hi?”
“I suppose so. They’re in three adjoining rooms. All I ask is that you not get them too worked up, particularly Hector. No loud noises, movement, anything like that. Same with the other two. Last time I checked, which was an hour ago, all three were resting. Please, if they’re still asleep—”
“Of course,” said Dellenbaugh. “We’ll let them sleep.”
They walked down the hallway with Gillinov and a group of other doctors and nurses trailing behind. Near the end of the hall, they stopped at a door.
“This is Dewey’s room,” said Gillinov. “Go ahead in. Quietly.”
Dellenbaugh nodded and looked at Summer.
“Go ahead,” he said, encouraging her to knock and go in first.
Summer knocked quietly, then a little louder, but there was no answer. Finally, she pushed the door. All three stepped inside. Of the three, it was Gillinov who had the most shocked look on his face.
He turned to a nurse. “Where is he?” he demanded.
The room was empty. Even the bed was missing.
Gillinov looked at the president with a mildly concerned look on his face.
“Mr. President,” said Gillinov, “I have no idea where he is.”
A loud yell came from down the hall.
Gillinov—with Dellenbaugh half a step behind him—ran to the room next door, where the yell had come from. It was empty.
“Get security!” barked Gillinov just as, a moment later, another yell came from somewh
ere farther along the corridor.
Soon the hallway was mobbed with people, led by Gillinov and Dellenbaugh, with security just behind.
“No!” came a loud female shriek from the next room.
They charged into the room—Gillinov, Dellenbaugh, then a pair of gunmen.
Dewey, Katie, and Hector all looked up. All were in hospital beds, attached to various IVs and life monitors. They were set up in a sort of triangle, in the middle of which a garbage can was propped up on a chair. Dewey had a tennis ball in his left hand, his right being covered in bandages. He was about to throw the ball and try to land it. An impressionable-looking male orderly was standing off to the side, watching and waiting in case the ball missed.
“Jones,” said Dewey, talking to the orderly. “What’s the score?”
The orderly looked as if he was going to faint. He made eye contact with the president, then gulped. Then he found Gillinov.
“Um, it’s Hector five, Katie seven, and you, um … well, you don’t have any yet, Dewey.”
“None? I’m glad you’re not the one who operated on me,” said Dewey. “You’re obviously blind. I’ve sunk like twenty in a row.”
Dewey lofted the ball. It bounced off the far rim of the trash can and ricocheted. It landed front and center on the blanket on top of Calibrisi.
Several people gasped.
“Asshole,” coughed Calibrisi in a raspy voice. He noticed Summer Dellenbaugh. “Ah, excuse me, sir. It’s just that … well, it’s the third time he’s hit me.”
“That was interference,” said Dewey. “I should get another shot.”
Dellenbaugh shook his head. “To think I was actually worried about you assholes.”
“Dad,” said Summer.
“Sorry, honey. Don’t tell your mom.”
Dellenbaugh signaled to the orderly, who paused for a moment, then tossed the president a ball. Dellenbaugh stood near the door. With the ball in his right hand, he made a few practice motions toward the garbage can, which was in the middle of the room.
Summer looked at Katie and rolled her eyes.
Katie glanced at Dewey.
“I thought only you and Rob were this immature,” she muttered to Dewey.
“We’re all this immature,” whispered Dewey. Then he spoke louder: “Now don’t miss, Mr. President.” Dewey waved his left arm through the air, trying to distract Dellenbaugh. “Just relax and realize that if you don’t sink that shot, World War Three is probably going to break out. Maybe a stock market crash too, followed by a major recession.”
Dellenbaugh grinned midtoss said, “Dewey, this is how it’s done,” then hurled the ball. It sank dead center inside the garbage can. He glanced arrogantly around the room, just as the ball bounced out and landed a foot away, then rolled toward the corner.
Everyone laughed uproariously.
Dellenbaugh looked at Dewey. He had a pissed-off look on his face, the look of a friend who just missed a shot. It melted away. He stepped to him.
“Hi, Dewey,” he said, leaning down and hugging him. “Thank you.”
Dewey said nothing. After Dellenbaugh stood back up, he looked at Summer.
“This is Summer.”
“Hi,” said Dewey.
Summer blushed. She stepped forward and extended her hand. Dewey grabbed it with his left hand and gently shook it.
“Hi, Mr. Andreas.”
“How old are you? Wait, let me guess.”
Dewey scanned Summer from head to toe, then nodded knowingly. “Sixteen,” he said.
Her mouth went agape, but before she could say anything, he spoke: “No, wait. Seventeen?”
Summer giggled and shook her head.
“Twenty-two? Oh, my God, you do not look twenty-two years old. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of short.”
Summer burst out laughing.
“So you made your daughter come along, huh, Mr. President?” said Calibrisi struggling slightly.
“Actually, he didn’t make me,” Summer said. She had not let go of Dewey’s hand. “I wanted to come and thank you, all of you.”
Calibrisi smiled, as did Katie.
“I know I’m only twelve, but everyone knows about what happened. My whole school was talking about it. They were asking me what my dad was going to do and I didn’t know what to say. And then you stopped them. It was so amazing. I was so proud. They announced it over the intercom. We all went into the gym and the headmistress, Mrs. Boynton, told everyone. It was very brave of you to climb into that building like that. I’m sorry you got hurt. I just wanted to say thank you, just as a person. Not as my dad’s daughter but as an American citizen.”
For several seconds, the room was quiet.
Dewey, whose face had remained cool, with a blank expression, suddenly smiled. He reached out and handed the tennis ball to Summer.
“I bet you’re a better shot than your dad,” he said.
Bashfully, Summer took the ball. She glanced at the garbage can, then looked at her father.
“Sorry, Dad,” she said as she tossed the ball. It struck the outer rim of the can, bounced to the other side, and then was thrust up into the air above, where it seemed to hover, as if suspended. A moment later, it dropped into the can.
EPILOGUE
BANGOR ACRES
HERMON, MAINE
THANKSGIVING DAY
“Two passes, please,” said Dewey.
The man behind the counter was doing a crossword puzzle. He looked to be in his seventies, with deep creases on his face, thick glasses held together with green duct tape, and a baseball hat whose logo was illegible due to the layers of dirt and oil. He finished penciling in a word and then, with a look of mild annoyance, glanced up at Dewey.
“Eighteen holes or nine?”
“I thought there were only nine holes,” said Dewey.
“No, there’s eighteen all right.”
“When did you guys put in another nine holes?”
“We didn’t. You just play the same ones over again.”
Dewey glanced at Daisy.
“We’ll play nine,” he said.
“It’s the same price either way,” said the man.
“What’s the point in—” Dewey started to say, then stopped. “We’ll play nine.”
“Okey dokey.” The man leaned a little to his left so he could see Daisy, who was standing just behind Dewey.
“One adult and one child,” he said with a thick accent and a shit-eating grin. “That’ll be twelve dollars.”
Dewey threw down a twenty as Daisy laughed.
Dewey leaned forward and whispered, “Keep the change. Get yourself some breath mints.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, pushing eight dollars back to Dewey. “Last girl I kissed was in 1978. That jackass peanut farmer was president. Enjoy it while you can, hotshot.”
Dewey escorted Daisy to the rack of putters near the first tee, a sorry-looking collection of dented, rusty, bent, duct-taped clubs all of which had seen better days.
“Any advice?” she asked, looking at the row of putters.
“Personally, I like to go with something with advanced perimeter weighting and a solid, forgiving feel,” said Dewey.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a jackass?”
Dewey ignored her and picked up a dilapidated putter with a crust of rust and a torn handle.
“As for you, you’re new to this. An amateur, so to speak.”
Dewey eyed the putters and removed one that had, at some point, been a woman’s putter, a pinkish handle still visible. It appeared to be in pretty good shape, except that it was bent in the middle at an almost ninety-degree angle. With a little effort, he bent it back.
“This has a nice balance between length and loft,” said Dewey, handing it to her. “I think you’ll do well with it. If I’m not mistaken, Hobey’s the one who originally bent it after he and I had a slight scoring dispute a few years ago.”
Daisy was shaking her head and laug
hing.
Dewey and Daisy were the only ones on the course, which, like the putters, and like the old man behind the ticket counter, had perhaps passed the zenith of its splendor. A few of the holes still had plastic carpeting, though it was well-worn and had tears, stains, and missing sections. Most of the holes were plywood with a coat of paint on top. As for the obstacles—a sadistic-looking clown with a tunnel through its left shoe, a replica of a Mississippi River steamboat with a ramp that led to a mazelike curving ball chute on top, a hole with mirrors on both sides intended to create some sort of visual challenge—they too looked like the only thing keeping them from the local landfill was the lack of someone willing to bring them there.
At the second-to-last hole, Daisy stared at the obstacle, nothing more than a two-by-four painted brown that led to a pile of wood.
She looked at Dewey with a quizzical look on her face, as if to say, What is it?
Dewey shrugged.
“Last time I played there was a plastic pig lying there,” he said. “You had to hit the ball into its mouth, then it came out its—the other side. Someone must’ve stolen the pig.”
“Maybe we should skip this one?”
Dewey nodded. “Sure, but you sort of need it. I’m beating you by a fairly hefty margin.”
“Beating me? I didn’t know we’re keeping score.”
“Of course we are. Bangor Acres. You gotta keep score.”
“And where have you been keeping score, Dewey?” she asked. “I don’t see any scoring sheet.”
Dewey tapped his temple. “Up here.”
“Right,” she said, laughing. “Like I would ever trust you to keep score.”
“You don’t trust me? I’m offended.”
“Dewey, first of all, you’re terrible. I can’t believe I believed you were this great golfer. Then I find out it’s miniature golf, which is a joke, and you’re not even good. It took you five shots to get it around that red squirrel thing back there.”
“That was a lobster. And that was my mulligan.”
“Oh.”
They came to the last hole. After a short straightaway, a beat-up windmill spanned the end of a plywood straightaway. The mildew-covered shingles of the windmill were covered in seagull excrement.
“This is the windmill?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?”
