The President

by Parker Hudson

  “Sure, dear, no problem,” her mother smiled. “I know you did just fine.”

  “I think so, but I’m kind of worried about the history exam. Math was easy—I studied too much. Boy, I wonder how Sarah did on English lit—she was really sweating it on Wednesday when I called her.”

  “Well, you’ll have all summer to compare notes on high school—and on college, for that matter,” William said. “Are you both still hoping to go to the University of North Carolina?”

  “Of course. And think how good our resumés will look after a summer of working and making sandwiches! If I live past being around so much fat and cholesterol all day, every day!”

  “You’ll survive,” her father said dryly. “And I hope you have a great time. We’ll certainly miss you around here.”

  “I’ll miss you, too,” Katherine said, rising to leave, “and I really appreciate your setting up the summer for me with Sarah. I’d go crazy here for the whole summer, despite the company. Anyway, see ya after shopping. Bye.” Katherine left the kitchen with a smile and a wave.

  “She’s almost like a new person,” William remarked. “I guess a little freedom and something to look forward to can work wonders.”

  “It does in all of us, particularly at seventeen,” Carrie replied. “How was your tennis?”

  “Trent won both sets, although I gave him some competition in the second set. And I got some advice on how to move our legislative package.”

  “Which was?”

  “It parallels Patti Barton-North’s: find some reason, good or bad, why each senator should do what we want, and then use that reason to get his attention. It’s not particularly original, but Trent thinks he can help us do it.”

  “Is that what it’s going to take, William? Can’t the programs stand on their own merits?” Carrie asked, obviously not happy with her husband’s proposal.

  He waited for a moment to answer, rubbing his hands on his forehead, his frustration with his own political impotence turning at last to anger. He had admitted to himself, in a quiet moment, that he enjoyed sharing thoughts with Carrie again, but what did she know about Washington politics? And she tended to think answers could be simple, when in fact the world was very complex. With a derisive tone he had not used for weeks, he responded, “I don’t know, Carrie. They ought to. But I’ve tried that way and gotten nowhere. Nowhere! Do you understand that? I’m becoming the laughingstock of this town. So maybe programs don’t get passed on their merits any more, if they ever did. Maybe we do have to play ‘hardball,’ as Patti says. At least Trent offered to help, which is more than I can say for some other members of our party! I’m fed up with being a loser, and I’ve about decided to try anything that has a good chance of winning. So don’t come on with some simplistic advice about how things ought to be—I’ve got to cope with how things are, and right now they’re a mess.”

  Carrie frowned and looked down. Here again was the William of the last ten years, putting her down. She was tempted to meet his anger with her own, but she sensed that his was passing, like a wave, so she waited a moment, then said. “William, I know the situation is complex. I just worry that once you start digging into people’s lives, you’ll create more problems than you’ll solve. How deep do you dig, and who gets hurt? You believe in your programs—we know they’re good. Surely they’ll pass if these congressmen really look at them fairly. But, William, please don’t get mad at me. I’m not the enemy—I’m truly trying to help.”

  The wave of anger passed, and William sat back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began speaking before opening them. “Carrie, I’m sorry. I’m just so frustrated. I didn’t mean to get mad at you. I’m just mad at myself and this whole stupid situation. Our domestic program, the key to our campaign, is dead in the water, going nowhere. Nothing. Foreign issues right now seem controllable, but then there’s that bomb threat. Every day it’s there. Neither Vince Harley’s people nor the CIA have been able to figure out who’s behind it or what they want. When will we hear from them again? It’s like an impending doom—we know it’s coming, but we don’t know when, or what we’re supposed to do about it. Anyway, I do appreciate your advice—I just may not be able to accept it. But keep trying.” He then unexpectedly said with genuine affection, “I do feel better after talking to you. Maybe I should let you go to work on those senators! Anyway, I was just trying to get advice on our domestic problems from some experienced hands.”

  She paused, uncertain of how much she should suggest. Finally she felt led to say, “I understand, but please be careful. It seems to me that sometimes experience, particularly in Washington, doesn’t always equal good sense.” He nodded, and she continued, “Oh, here are some letters the staff picked out as personal.” She went over to the sideboard and brought them back to the table.

  The White House staff sifted through the thousands of pieces of mail that arrived daily at the president’s residence trying to spot, among other things, those letters that were genuine personal correspondence. Weekdays these were placed in a special basket for the president, but on Saturday any such letters were usually given to the first lady.

  William flipped through the stack on the table. “This looks like it’s from Richard Sullivan,” William said, opening a white envelope.

  “We haven’t heard from them since we moved up here,” Carrie said. “I wonder how Susan and Tommy are doing; Tommy ought to be looking at colleges this fall—he’s the same age as Katherine.”

  The Harrisons had been good friends with Richard and Janet Sullivan when the two men were in law school. They had first met as neighbors in married student housing. After law school Richard received a good offer from an out-of-state firm and had left North Carolina. But the friendship stayed strong despite the two men’s ever diverging political views. Over the years they found themselves in numerous good-natured debates, as William advocated an expanded role for government in curing his state’s ills, and Richard tended to disagree.

  “He’s coming to Washington in three weeks for a legal conference and wonders if we can get together.”

  “That would be great!” Carrie said. “Is Janet coming, too?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “It sure would be nice if we could all get together again—have them over for dinner and a movie,” Carrie said, her tone almost wistful.

  Suddenly William realized that his wife must feel as isolated at times as their daughter did. “Why don’t you call Janet and see if she can come, too? They could even stay here. Call her this afternoon.”

  Carrie smiled. “All right, I will,” she said. “It would be wonderful to spend time with old friends.”

  8

  The moral principles and precepts contained in the Scriptures ought to form the basis of all our civil constitutions and laws.... All the miseries and evils which men suffer from vice, crime, ambition, injustice, oppression, slavery, and war, proceed from their despising or neglecting the precepts contained in the Bible.

  NOAH WEBSTER

  1833

  Wednesday, June 6

  One Week Later

  WAHINGTON—William was sitting alone at his desk in the Oval Office. It was after lunch and he was reading letters that had arrived that day from Mary, Rebecca, and Hugh. I’ve never received letters from all three of them on the same day, he thought again. What a mess. Mary’s a little off-base complaining to me about sex education, but she does make a point about moral leadership. Hugh blasts our affirmative action program for gays, as if I’m supposed to know the details of every video they make. And Rebecca beats around the bush but basically wants me to play God with Bruce’s mother’s life.

  What do they expect me to do? Renounce our first positive steps while our legislative package is still in limbo? That sure makes sense. Here I want to make America a better, more progressive nation, but the harder we try the worse it seems to become. We’ve got to get moving. Bold steps.

  The door op
ened after a knock and Bob Horan, William’s chief speech-writer, put his head through. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, yes, Bob, come in. I was just looking over some notes.” The president put the personal letters away and motioned him to the chair at the side of his desk. “Listen, with Chris out of town today, I wanted to let you know that I’ve okayed that TV interview with Leslie Sloane for next week. Can you give me some quick, good lines on about ten likely subjects? Include the state of our budget package, which she’s already said she wants to talk about.”

  “Sure. When do you need them?”

  “By the weekend would be great.”

  Horan nodded. “Is that all?”

  “There’s one other thing, Bob. I’ve been thinking about some advice I’ve received from several quarters on how to recapture the momentum of our vision and break out of gridlock with Congress. I’m ready to adopt some tried and true tactics, well tested here in Washington. Do you have someone you can trust on your communications staff—man or woman, and if you do, don’t tell me who—who could work with someone on Trent Patterson’s staff to quietly uncover the likes and dislikes of some of our opposition?”

  “You mean stuff they don’t want anyone to know? Their personal lives?”

  “Well, if some of that turned up, so be it. We could start in a more positive vein, looking for potential carrots instead of sticks. But frankly,” the president said, “at this point I wouldn’t turn down any news that helped us change a stubborn mind. Do you agree?”

  The speechwriter thought for a moment. “Is there a tape machine in here?”

  “No. You know I wouldn’t do that” The president was honestly incredulous at the suggestion.

  “Just checking. Yes, as a matter of fact I do have someone who could quietly work on such an assignment He’s very loyal and has no fear.”

  “Great. Here’s the man to contact in Trent’s office. And here’s a list of senators and congressmen who aren’t very excited about our vision for America.”

  Horan took the two sheets of paper from the president and scanned them. “John Dempsey? Are you sure?”

  “Unfortunately, very. Bob, listen: we never had this meeting, okay? Just have your guy report directly to you. If he asks why you’re doing this, tell him it’s your idea, and you’re checking for leaks and sources for unauthorized disclosures. If anything interesting turns up, good or bad, report it directly to me, one on one, and we’ll figure out how best to use it All right?”

  “Anything to cut loose those old windbags who’re screwing up what we came here to do. Of course it’s all right. I’ll start today.” Horan stood up to leave.

  “Thanks, Bob. Wait just another minute. I do have one other thing to ask you.” When his guest was seated again, the president continued. “This may seem a little naive coming from me after all our years together, but is it simply equal treatment that gays really want, or a positive affirmation that the gay life style is, well...normal?”

  Bob Horan was obviously surprised by the question. After a pause, he said, “There’s no difference, William. Do you see a difference?”

  William studied his advisor for a moment. Does he really believe there’s no difference, or is this his politics talking He replied, “It does seem to me that there is, Bob. In one case gays are simply treated like anyone else, legally and socially. No personal discrimination. In the other, gays want everyone to agree with them that their lifestyle is normal, embraceable by anyone. And basically they won’t take no for an answer, forcing that opinion on everyone around them.”

  “But without the second, there will never be the first,” Bob answered. “Look what happens with rental apartments, or Boy Scout leaders, or church ministers. You say non-discrimination, but until gays are recognized as completely normal, we’ll be discriminated against in those and many other situations. It’s up to all of us who know the truth to push it in front of everyone else, to force them to accept it.”

  William started to nod his agreement, then had a visual picture of his son ten years earlier camping overnight with two gay Scoutmasters, and his intended “Okay” became a “Mm.” He thought a little longer. “Bob, is it that homosexuality is completely normal, or just that those who practice it should not be harassed?”

  The younger man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mr. President, what is this? Are you backsliding on an issue so clear and so important? Are you saying I’m not normal?”

  William didn’t know what to think or say. He’d asked his first question from genuine ignorance, reacting to his brother Hugh’s letter; but now he was stuck. The actual truth was, he had to admit, he didn’t think homosexuality was normal; he certainly wouldn’t want either of his children to be caught up in what seemed like an unhappy and unfulfilling life style. But he’d bought into the rhetoric for so long, considering another down-trodden minority being discriminated against, that he couldn’t very well reverse himself. He had always meant that he just wanted homosexuals to be left alone, but now it seemed he had to endorse their behavior as completely normal, which he frankly found difficult to imagine. How did I get into still another mess? He tried to buy time to think.

  “Bob, of course you’re normal. It’s just that I got a letter today from my brother in the navy—he’s on one of the two ships with the manning experiments, and apparently they’re having some tough times with the videos and other teaching aids that push the concept of homosexuality on everyone.”

  “Well, they need to straighten up,” Horan said forcefully. “Look, either homosexuality is normal, or it’s not. Something can’t be sort of normal. And if it’s a normal lifestyle, then it needs to be accepted and defended in every situation—with churches, children, the armed forces, marriage, television, movies, legal contracts—everywhere. I’ve fought for years for these rights, and I don’t want to hear now after we delivered ninety percent of the gay vote to you that you’re waffling on us. Are you?”

  Confused, afraid to lose another key support group, and wishing he’d never received the letter from Hugh, William managed to smile and reassure his speechwriter, “Oh no, Bob. I’m just as solid as I ever was. Of course you need your rights protected. And I understand about the affirmative action. I guess I’m just a little old and slow to catch on to what really has to be done for the country’s best interest.”

  Horan waited a moment, studying his boss, then nodded, apparently satisfied, and rose again from the chair. “Good. We need your strong leadership. I know sometimes the right thing is hard, but it’s got to be done. Maybe someday I can meet your brother and explain it to him. On that other subject we discussed, I’ll talk to my guy and get back to you in a day or two.”

  William stood up and offered his hand “Thanks, Bob. I really appreciate your help with this problem. And, again, I’m totally with you.”

  After his advisor left, William returned to his chair behind the big desk, picked up Hugh’s letter, and swiveled around toward the light from the windows as he reread it.

  What is the answer? Hugh makes it sound so gross, so bizarre. But Bob seems so normal; should he be discriminated against? How would I have felt about him as a PE instructor for Robert in junior high? Not so good, I guess, if I’m honest. Isn’t that discrimination? Why can’t he just be happy with quietly doing most things? I guess that’s not good enough. Is homosexuality normal? How on earth do we get ourselves into these situations?

  William put the letter in his lap and rubbed his temples, an excruciating headache now added to the dull pain which had been there all day from his lack of sleep.

  He jotted down a note to have Barbara ask an aide to check on the questions raised by Mary and Rebecca; after failing to resolve Hugh’s problem, William wasn’t feeling particularly adventuresome with his two sisters’ concerns.

  He heard Barbara’s knock on the door and then she opened it for General Vince Harley. William rose and motioned for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to join him as they took chairs by the firepla
ce. “Thank you for coming on short notice, Vince,” William began as they took their seats. “I wanted just the two of us to meet, without a commitee around, because I respect your military experience and your judgment, and I want your personal assessment and advice on this nuclear bomb threat.”

  The general glanced briefly down at his hands, which were folded in his lap, then looked up to answer his commander in chief. “Mr. President, since this threat first appeared at Easter, we’ve spent the last two months following up on every lead, every connection, and every informant we’ve got. It now looks like that mess in Columbia gained initial credibility from a tip passed on by someone who yesterday turned up dead. Something like that has happened in virtually every case.”

  “But in Oklahoma City they began making arrests the day after the explosion.”

  “Yes, sir. And we’ve got many of those same agents working on this one. But the operative word there is the day after. Then there’s the chance for identifiable physical evidence. About the only way to stop a terrorist before the fact is to infiltrate his organization or the organizations that supply him. Frankly, sir, starting about thirty years ago, successive administrations have all but eliminated our resources in those kinds of covert activities. The best and brightest thought back then that satellites could do everything, so they began cutting out the people. Satellites can do an awful lot, sir, but they can’t attend meetings in back alleys or listen while someone fears for his life and tells what he knows. And, in all candor, your administration’s upcoming military budget will virtually eliminate our ability to field those critical assets. So in a sense, I’m afraid we’re reaping what we’ve sown over many years.”

  William reflected on the general’s words and then asked, “So, Vince, what do we really know?”

  Harley cleared his throat. “The most substantiated lead is still the very first one, from several years ago, that a single nuclear device was somehow stolen from a depot in Ukraine and then sold through a mafia figure to a small former Soviet republic. That was the lead that Thompson was revisiting, before the fax even arrived, when he was killed. He had learned that the mafia leader supposedly involved in the sale was himself killed in a mysterious car accident a week later. Thompson went to Odessa, hoping that a shipment had been made. There the trail, weak as it was, ended completely. Just like all the rest.