The President

by Parker Hudson

  After the waitress brought their iced teas, Hugh talked about what was planned for the week he’d be away. “We’ll be doing a lot of anti-submarine warfare, which will keep us busy around the clock,” he said. “And on Thursday we’ve got a full vertical replenishment by helicopter scheduled. Most of the guys have never participated in one.”

  “How are all the new people working out?” Jennifer asked, a note of concern creeping into her voice.

  “Fine, I guess. It’s really too early to know. We haven’t been out to sea with our extended family yet. The real test will come at Guantanamo Bay in a few months. I’m not real happy about it, but I’m the last one who can complain. The guy who wrote the executive order is my brother.”

  “Yes,” Jennifer agreed. “You know, I’ve never understood homosexual behavior. But I do understand how men and women behave together. And I’m not crazy about you going to sea and spending twenty-four hours a day with a lot of eighteen- to twenty-five-year-old single women. And neither are most of the other wives I’ve talked to.

  “Honey, it’ll be fine. Women have been going to sea in our navy for several years, now. It seems to work out.”

  “But you told me yourself, before this came up on the Fortson, that a combat ship is different, with less space and tougher routines. And you told me there are quite a few pregnancies every year, which the navy tries to hush up. What’s going to happen when men and women get thrown together for months, working in cramped spaces, away from home, even sharing some danger? I’m a woman. I know. They’re going to be drawn together. It’s natural. I don’t like it. The other wives don’t like it, either.”

  “I don’t particularly like it either, but there’s nothing I can do. I at least had the satisfaction of telling brother William all of that at Camp David. No other naval officer can say that.”

  “Well, you should write him regularly and tell him what’s going on in the real world we live in. And what about this new female officer?” Jennifer continued, her unhappiness and concern obviously growing. “I hear she’s a looker. What’s she like?”

  “Teri Slocum is her name,” Hugh said slowly, trying to sound as clinical as possible when talking to his wife about a woman whom, he had to admit, was a “looker,” and with whom he would be spending the next ten days. “She’s an Annapolis grad and a competent officer. She seems to be real level-headed and is telling her girls—uh, women—to keep as low a profile as possible and just do their jobs. Other than that, I really don’t know that much about her.”

  “Is she good looking?”

  A pause. “I guess she looks okay. But I’m not looking. I’m happily married and very much in love with a wonderful woman who loves me.” He smiled as their dinners arrived. “So please don’t worry about her or about any other women. And, by the way, I hope to spend any extra moments I may have on this trip reading the Bible for a change. In fact, it’s the only book I’m taking this time.” Hugh desperately wanted to change the subject.

  “Yes,” Jennifer said, brightening a little. “Ever since Camp David I’ve read a few chapters from the Gospel of John every day, just like Michael suggested. It’s really interesting. I haven’t read the Bible since I was a kid. But our kids just about drive me nuts sometimes, interrupting me so much. I hope I can get into it, too, this week. I really liked his sermon, but I can’t say I feel any different. Do you?”

  “Not really,” Hugh replied. “He made so much sense at the time. It’s like I don’t want to lose that feeling, but all the business of the day just tears me away from it. Maybe we can both get some time while I’m away this week to get into it.

  “I tell you what,” he continued. “Let’s both reread John and this time take notes, to force us to think about it. Then when I get back, we’ll compare our notes. How about that?” he asked, as their dinners were served.

  Jennifer finally smiled. “You’re on. And I promise not to cheat more than five times by calling Mary.”

  NEW YORK—Later that same Friday evening the maitre d’ at one of Manhattan’s finest French restaurants led Leslie Sloane and Ryan Denning to their seats in a quiet corner. Even in New York, where celebrities were relatively commonplace, the two well-known television personalities turned heads.

  “What a session,” Ryan said after they had ordered their drinks, referring to the meeting that had lasted most of the day. “I hate it that we’re closing yet another overseas bureau. Soon we’ll have only third party sources for what’s happening anywhere in the world.”

  “But the audience seems to want more talk shows, more entertainment ‘news’, and more literal ambulance chasing,” Leslie answered, also miffed by the direction in which their network was headed, away from “hard” news, and toward a mix that blurred the line between news and entertainment. “No one really cares what’s happening in Buenos Aires or almost anywhere else.”

  “But someday we may need to know what is really going on in another part of the world, and we won’t have that capability any more,” Ryan continued as their drinks arrived, and he held his up to toast her.

  “And someday very soon our audience may not know, or care, if there is any difference between what is really happening and what we’re inventing for them,” Leslie completed the thought, touching his glass with hers across the table. “And that’s not only scary—it also gives us an incredible responsibility.”

  Ryan smiled. “I tell you what. Let’s try not to talk about television for fifteen minutes. Do you think we can do it?” He looked at his watch.

  She returned his look. “Frankly, I doubt it, but let’s try.”

  They actually made it for twenty minutes, through the ordering of their meal and finishing their drinks. This was their third “date,” and they shared stories with each other about their college days and about their first jobs. Leslie enjoyed Ryan’s company. He was not just a talking head. He worried about their industry, wanted to do a good job reporting the news, and seemed to have real concerns.

  She was pleased to learn that, like her, he believed the nation should work hard to solve its many domestic problems as quickly as possible. He shared her passion for helping the downtrodden in America. And he agreed that the media, and particularly the press, had a large role in, and a big responsibility for, shaping that future.

  As their appetizers were served Ryan asked, “What’s your latest reading on the president?”

  She took a bite out of her stuffed mushrooms, then said, “In my opinion, his ideas for rebuilding America are exactly what we need, but he may have a very hard time getting them enacted. For example, he always said his budget proposal would be out of balance at the beginning, and it is. But the other side isn’t buying it, big time.”

  “Can they stop it?” Ryan asked, taking a spoonful of his onion soup.

  “I think they probably can, Ryan. Maybe in the House, and almost certainly in the Senate. It’s not just that Harrison’s people are new to Washington and for the most part aren’t used to wheeling and dealing. They’re actually doing a pretty good job on the mechanics. It’s more fundamental. The innovative fix he’s proposing includes big spending, and the other side is diametrically opposed to the progress he wants to bring to the country because of the short term deficit. It drives me crazy that they can’t see the beauty of the president’s plan.”

  “How is the president reacting?”

  “They’ll only speak off the record, but both Ted Braxton and Bob Horan are worried that the gridlock is starting to get to him.”

  “Already?”

  “Apparently so. They’ve seen—we’ve all seen—some days when the president seems really short tempered and almost depressed. He was like that just before he and his family went to Camp David. When he came back, he seemed to be his old confident self for a few days. But the last part of this week, from all accounts on the inside, he’s been almost withdrawn.”

  “Anything you can report on?”

  Leslie took a sip of wine. “No. It’s too soon. A
nd I don’t want to go with that story unless it really becomes obvious. Remember again what we did to our man last time. Let’s not add to Harrison’s woes. He’s the best chance we have to implement real change in the country. If we kill him off, we may not get another progressive thinker in the White House for a decade or more.”

  “But what if his mental state becomes news?” Ryan asked.

  “Then we’ll report it,” Leslie answered. “But for now, it’s not.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do.” Leslie returned his smile, but it was obviously forced. “Look, I know the White House. I’ll report it. But there’s no sense in causing some guy making minimum wage at a fast-food restaurant to worry unnecessarily about his president. Especially when that president is trying to help him.”

  “So you know better than that average man what he should hear and see on the news?” Ryan raised an eyebrow and gave her a devilish look.

  Leslie paused. “Actually, yes, and you know it just as well as I do. We both make those decisions every day. So does everyone else in the news media, particularly with the networks. Don’t play Grand Inquisitor with me. We have to do it. The future of this nation is too important to leave to the average man.”

  “Or woman?” Ryan asked. His smile broadened.

  Seeing him grin, Leslie realized that he had been egging her on. She paused again. “Well, maybe the average woman could handle it,” she answered with mock seriousness.

  “Well, just let me know when you deem that the president’s mental state is news, and those of us in New York who make the final decisions will let you know whether you’re right or not.”

  “You jerk.” She laughed.

  For the rest of their meal they had a lively discussion about books, movies, and people they both knew. When the waiter came to their table with dessert menus, Ryan glanced at his, then looked at Leslie. “I’ve really enjoyed being with you tonight. You’re a wonderful woman. Why don’t we skip dessert here? There’s a bakery near my apartment that stays open late on weekends. We can pick something up and take it to my place.”

  Leslie paused once again. She was torn. Finally she said, “Not tonight, Ryan. Thanks. I’ve got to get up early and head back to D.C. to find out what happened today. I’m substituting on ‘The Week in Washington’ on Sunday morning. But I’ve had a great time, too. I hope you’ll ask me again.”

  Her tone and the expression on her face let him know that the next time his late-night invitation might actually be accepted. “You can count on it,” he said.

  ATLANTA AND BOSTON—It was late Friday night when Bruce called Rebecca at her apartment. She was sitting in bed reading, waiting for his call. “How’s your mother?” she asked.

  “Not good.”

  She could hear that his voice was cracking and very tired.

  “It hasn’t been a good day. She apparently does have a brain tumor. It’s operable.” He almost whispered the next sentence. “But she doesn’t have enough points, Rebecca, to warrant an operation.”

  “Oh, Bruce, I’m so sorry.”

  “I never heard about ‘points’ before this afternoon when this sniveling little twerp of a doctor told me that my mother didn’t have enough points to rate an operation. Can you believe that? My mother doesn’t rate on some bureaucrat’s chart, and so now she’ll die. What are points, Rebecca?”

  “It’s...they’re these points that get assigned by the government. I have to deal with them every day. Ever since they passed health reform several years ago there has to be some way to decide who gets which procedures. Theoretically everything is available to everyone, but of course, in practical terms, that’s impossible. So the government has a book of points. It includes age, family responsibilities, other diseases, things like that. The doctors on the committee fill out a form, add up the points, and then look up the proposed procedure. If you have enough points, you get it; if not, you don’t. It’s very cut and dried.”

  “Well, I think it’s terrible,” Bruce rasped.

  “It can be,” Rebecca agreed, “and I have to counsel people every day who are denied operations because of it. But supposedly it insures a ‘fair’ distribution of the medical resources in our country. Remember, they used to be decided by how much money or how much insurance you had. Now the government insures that everyone is treated exactly the same. But of course there’s still the private alternative. Does your mother have health insurance to cover the operation?”

  “No. She and Dad paid for it for years, but when health reform passed, they canceled it. Of course no one ever told her she might need it! No one ever told her she wouldn’t be good enough to rate an operation!” It sounded to Rebecca like Bruce was crying.

  “I know it’s hard, Bruce. And I’m so sorry.”

  “If anything happens to her, who’s going to look after Dad?”

  “Did you tell them that?”

  “Yes, yes. They said if Dad were already in a facility because of his emphysema, then that would earn Mom more points, so she would qualify. But because she’s been taking care of him at home to save money and to make him happier, his condition is not considered serious enough, and so she can’t qualify. It’s insane!”

  “It’s the government.”

  “Well, whoever or whatever it is, it’s terrible.”

  “I know, I know. Stay up there as long as you have to, and I’ll be here to help any way I can. Oh, I’ve got that list of specialists if you’d like to write them down.”

  “I do, but it’ll wait till morning. I’ll call you back. Good night. I’m glad you’re in my life!”

  “Me, too.”

  RESTON, VIRGINIA—Saturday was warm and sunny, just right for the tennis game Francis Palmer had scheduled with Congressman Trenton Patterson at his country club in northern Virginia. Ever since the problem with Trent’s secretary, when the congressman’s wife had demanded that he leave their townhouse in Georgetown, Francis had been able to play tennis with his fellow Pennsylvanian and newly minted bachelor almost every week.

  They were playing singles on a clay court, and when they took a break at 3-2 under the shade of a small pavilion between the courts, they found themselves alone.

  Seated next to the congressman in a white outdoor chair, Francis Palmer wiped his face with a towel and asked, “Trent, hypothetically speaking, how would you like to wind up with a million untraceable, untaxable, but very spendable dollars, for not doing much of anything?”

  “Sounds fantastic, Francis,” Patterson grinned, “but it also sounds like a bribe.”

  “No, just call it a little off-shore consulting. The money would never even come here, so why report it? And all that’s involved is helping to support something that the rest of the world thinks is A-okay. I wouldn’t be proposing it if I didn’t think it was golden.”

  “This isn’t hypothetical, is it?” the congressman asked, looking at Francis. “You’re serious.”

  “Very.”

  The congressman paused and looked around carefully. Sensing what he was thinking, Francis opened his arms to reveal a sweat-soaked tennis shirt that anyone could see through. “Hey, we’ve known each other a long time. This isn’t a sting. I’m not wearing a wire. This is real. A million bucks, tax free, for you, and a big chunk for me. All you have to do is be generally supportive of a particular policy and vote for a single bill. No one will ever know. And you’ll have a million dollars in your name in an overseas account that no one can trace. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

  Congressman Patterson thought again and wiped his own face and hands in the heat. “Well, tell me more about it. Just hypothetically, of course.”

  WASHINGTON—That evening President Harrison and his daughter, Katherine, were walking down the hall of the East Wing of the White House. They were headed for the small movie theater where their guests from North Carolina were waiting for them with the first lady. After their dinner William had been called to the West Wing to read an overseas cable, and Katherine had g
one with him. Now they were walking back together.

  “It looks like I’m going to be able to spend at least six weeks this summer with Aunt Mary and Sarah in Raleigh. I’ll hate to leave you and Mom, but I’ll be so glad to be out of this place!”

  “It’ll be great for you to be back in Raleigh again,” her father agreed. “I hope you have a wonderful time.”

  “I will. Sarah and I are getting jobs at a sandwich shop. Won’t that be a hoot—me making sandwiches!” Katherine was known for not eating anything with fat in it, if possible. “I’ll be rolling in mayonnaise! Ugh.” Her father laughed.

  “Dad, thanks for getting those Secret Service people to be a little more flexible. It’s not great, but it’s better. I know you’re trying. And the summer ought to be terrific.”

  He reached out and gave her a hug with one arm as they walked. “I’m just sorry you had to hit me with a two-by-four to get my attention.”

  They walked on. “You know, Mom is really getting into the Bible since Camp David. She like seems to enjoy it. And you know something else? I haven’t seen her drink since we got back. Have you noticed?”

  “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t paid much attention. Now that you mention it, though, I haven’t seen her drinking at all.”

  “Also, Mom seems somehow more patient, too. Anyway, we’re going to church tomorrow morning. I’d really like it if you’d come with us.”

  William could tell how much it meant to her. “We’ll see, honey. Maybe I can. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, but maybe I can make it. Did your mother put you up to this?” he asked, teasingly.

  “No, Dad. I just want you to come with us. Like a family. Like at Camp David.”

  It was Sunday night and William was working in his private study in the family quarters on the upper floor of the original part of the White House. Carrie, sitting around the corner in their bedroom, had just told Katherine good night and now picked up the telephone next to her own comfortable chair. She dialed her sister-in-law in Raleigh.