The President

by Parker Hudson

  Bruce twirled his fork in the fettucine, then looked up at her. “Yes, I guess I can. And I can tell how your parents’ deaths have really affected you. But I’m not looking beyond my mother’s operation right now. Maybe some day I can be that person for you, but at this moment I’m still focused on my mother, which I hope you can understand.”

  She leaned forward, put down her wine glass, picked up a piece of bread, and said, “I do understand, Bruce, and I certainly don’t mean to sound uncaring in the least. But, you know, your mother’s operation isn’t the only event in our lives. Whatever happens, we’ll have done all we can for her, and we have to think about the future.”

  Bruce looked down at his own half-finished plate, then returned her gaze. Quietly he remarked, “You’re still unhappy that your brother told the surgeon general to write that letter, aren’t you? I mean deep down inside. You don’t think my own mother should have this operation, do you?”

  She pursed her lips and looked at him with obvious concern. “Bruce, you know that I’m the one who asked my brother to do it. You’re right that I feel it’s wrong to bend the rules for personal gain,” she held up her hand as he started to talk, “No matter how correct the motives are. I mean, the flip side is that there are only so many available brain tumor operation slots each year, and by your mother taking one, someone else is being pushed out. But it’s done, we did it, and I just hope it all goes very well.”

  “Well, you know how I feel about all those other unnamed people. This is my mother, and I’ll be forever grateful to your brother for helping her.”

  “But, you see, that’s just my point. When he and other politicians do these things for people, they become grateful for a long, long time. In the old days the system was far from perfect, but people pretty well knew whether they had the resources to pay for a procedure and accepted it. But now theoretically anyone can persuade a politician to help, yet there still aren’t enough operations to go around. So we have an underground network developing of people who can ‘fix’ an operation, either for money or for personal political gain. I’m not saying that your mother’s not important, or that’s what happened here. But if we’re going to use a point system, then we should set it up and leave it alone. We’ve been over this before, Bruce, and I really don’t feel like another fight.”

  “Okay. Okay. I just meant that I appreciate what your brother did, and I’ll try to help him if I can in the future. Anyway, the operation is set, and I’ll be leaving for Boston on Sunday night. So let’s just leave it that your brother is a nice guy.”

  “Yes, he is a nice guy,” she said and smiled, signalling a truce. “Sometimes he may just be too nice.”

  NEWYORK—Following her interview with the president that afternoon, Leslie Sloane had spent two hours at the studio reviewing the segments for initial editing recommendations. Just before five she took a cab to Union Station to catch one of the new high speed Metroliners to New York. Only two and a half hours later she was at Grand Central Station where Ryan met her for the brief taxi ride to his apartment.

  This was her fourth weekend in a row with Ryan in New York. Each time their routine had been similar, but this week they at least waited until they made it to his bedroom to begin their embrace. As he urged her onto his bed, she smiled, ran her fingers through his hair, and asked, “Oh, Ryan, where is this going? I love it, but we can’t keep on like dogs and cats. Is there a relationship here or just weekend sex?”

  Propped on one elbow, he traced patterns on her body with his free hand. “I don’t know, Leslie,” he honestly replied. “But can we talk about it later?”

  She smiled again and took his hand in hers. After a long, deep kiss she pushed him back a few inches and said, “Okay. Later. But I’m just warning you that sometime this weekend I want to talk. Agreed?”

  “Absolutely. No problem. Any time starting about an hour from now,” and he kissed her again.

  “How many segments do you plan in this one-hour performance?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, laughing. “But we’re definitely live, so hold on tight and we’ll find out.”

  Ninety minutes later they were sharing food and champagne—their own Friday night tradition—in the kitchen. She was sitting on the island in the center of the room, dressed only in one of his blue cotton shirts. He sat on a stool facing her, sipping his champagne.

  “So the interview with the president went pretty well?” Ryan asked.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees and smiled. She turned her head slightly toward him and said, “Yeah, I think so. We’ll look at the finished product on Monday, but I think we captured both his vision and his frustration...You know, Ryan, he’s really a good guy...and that’s not always true of career politicians.”

  “I’ve only been around him a few times, but he seems to be.”

  “He wants the best for the country, and I think he has the vision to do it, if people like us keep giving him chances to accomplish it, and, frankly, sort of hold his feet to the fire—build up an expectation in him and in the country that the things he wants to do are right.”

  Ryan, wearing a black silk robe, leaned back and put his feet up on the counter. He took another sip and then said, “Nice guys don’t always finish first, Les. He seems to have some pretty tough opposition. Along with building up his goals, maybe we ought to look into what his opponents want, and portray them for what they really are.”

  “It’s funny, Ryan. I was thinking the same thing on the way to the train station. Most of those old guys are do-nothings, and many of them are closet fundamentalists—I know from their abortion votes—more concerned with ‘values’ and ‘salvation’ than with real issues like jobs, rights, and housing. It might be interesting to do some ‘Up Close and Personal’ studies on them. Who could do them?”

  “I think Bob Whalen would be good. He used to have your post, and he’s got a little gray hair, for credibility. And he’s 4.0 on the issues.”

  “Good. I’m sure a couple of those a month as special assignments would really help.” She held out her glass for a refill from the bottle on the floor. A moment passed and then she continued, “You know, the president was kind of funny this afternoon. Just as we started he seemed sort of down, a little vulnerable. Like his parents’ murder and all this opposition has really gotten to him. It flashed in my mind for an instant that he was going to smile and say, ‘Leslie, I’m glad you came by today so I can announce that I resign. I’m going home to North Carolina this afternoon.’”

  They both laughed. “That’s a bit bizarre, Les. What were you smoking in the White House?”

  “I know. But it just flashed across my mind when he started off talking about how awful things are. But then just as quickly it was like he threw a switch inside himself and recovered. From then on he was fine—inspired even. But for those few moments I felt that I was looking into his soul,” she grew serious, “and he seemed really worried. Isn’t that strange?”

  “I guess that’s even more reason to keep ‘holding his feet to the fire,’ as you said a minute ago, on his goals.”

  “Yes. And you know what else? For some reason it also made me curious about his family. I mean his sisters and brother. We see them, like at the funeral. But what are they really like? What do they think of his programs? What are they like on the inside? Are they winners or quitters? I thought that along with the pieces on his opponents it might also be good to build up his family a bit.”

  “Sounds okay to me, at least to get started.”

  “And, Ryan, I don’t know why, but I’d like to do those stories myself.”

  He rocked forward on the stool and picked up the bottle. “Oh, yeah? Well, what sort of quid pro quo can I expect for supporting that assignment?”

  She turned toward him on the counter and smiled. “Oh, I think I can find a way to make it worth your while.”

  WASHINGTON—The heat and moisture hung in the summer night until well past midnight, spawning thunders
torms into the early morning hours. William Harrison tossed and turned in bed, once again unable to sleep. Despite his physical exhaustion, his mind raced in maddening circles, back and forth between his congressional problems, the loss of his parents, John Dempsey’s frightening phone call, the bomb threat, his lack of leadership, Carrie’s sudden faith, Hugh’s letter, his readings of the founding fathers, Bob Horan, the Sullivans’ strength, and even for some reason the Ukrainian boy at Camp David. Round and round these and other thoughts swirled, as the heavens seemed to be warring right outside his window.

  Once he almost stopped breathing when he thought about John Dempsey telling the press about his affairs. What if he lost Carrie, Robert, and Katherine? He actually shivered at the thought. I really love Carrie more than I have in a long time, he thought, and I don’t want to hurt her or lose her. I was such an idiot... Or am I now just sorry that I got caught? I wish I could go back and undo it. But I can’t and it’s there and the whole world might soon know. What if Dempsey can’t control it? Who else already knows? Why did I do it? What a fool! Just then a huge bolt of lightning lit the sky, and thunder crashed almost instantly. He wondered if Madison or Lincoln had ever heard the sound of artillery so close in the midst of their own wars.

  Finally he rose in the dark and once again picked up the briefing book with the writings of the founders, which had remained untouched on his table since the phone call from Raleigh about his parents. As the stormclouds finally subsided in the distance, he read.

  Much sooner than he wanted, he and Carrie were awakened by his alarm clock. Even though it was Saturday, he had scheduled briefings all morning on Mexico and South America, where he was headed in ten days. And since the staff was working on the weekend, he had to be on time.

  William felt awful, but he reminded himself that the afternoon was free to enjoy with Carrie and the Sullivans, and he hoped that the weather would not affect their scheduled tennis game. As he shaved in the mirror he thought that there was now something different about Richard and Janet which was really unusual. He finally had to admit it was the strength of their faith. He had seen this same quiet strength and confidence earlier in Mary, Graham, Carrie, and now his oldest and dearest friends. Where does it come from? Does it really come from God? Richard seems so different... He’s so...so at peace. I wonder how he got there? Do you just ask for it, like Mary says? It sounds too simple... but look at Richard. Something has happened to him...just like Mary...just like Carrie. Is it possible that it’s real? He shivered again.

  Three hours later he finished his last briefing in the West Wing, checked with the national security officer for an abbreviated world situation update, then returned to their private residence in the main building. He looked outside and saw that the heat from the midday sun was already turning the weather ominous, a large black cloud forming to the southwest across the Mall. He found Carrie and the Sullivans sitting in the living room.

  “Oh, hello, dear,” Carrie smiled as William came in. She noticed the bags under his eyes but didn’t say anything. “We were just talking about lunch. It looks like another thunderstorm is brewing, so I doubt we’ll play any tennis—the courts are still wet from last night. What do you want to do?”

  William greeted their friends, looked out across the White House lawn, and said, “I’m not feeling one hundred percent anyway, but I think a light workout would do me good—maybe a sauna, too. Might perk me up. How about you, Richard? What about a late lunch after we work out in the gym downstairs?”

  “Sounds great—I could use the exercise. Can Carrie and Janet join us?”

  “You two go ahead,” Carrie said. “I’ll be much happier showing Janet some of the amazing old things that are stored away in nooks and crannies in this place. Is that all right?” she asked, turning to her guest.

  “Absolutely. You guys go exercise, and we’ll look for items for a garage sale, in case the federal budget really needs help.”

  “What a great idea. I bet we could raise millions,” Carrie responded. “Come on, and I’ll show you two huge closets you won’t believe.” She turned to the men and said, “We’ll have lunch about two, back here. Okay?” Ten minutes later William showed Richard the small but well-equippedgym that had been built into the basement of the White House. There were ample windows along one wall at ground level, providing plenty of natural light for the twin stationary bikes, stairclimbers, assorted weights, and the universal gym. Around a corner and out of view of the windows was a changing area with two benches, several full-length lockers, a sauna, and shower.

  “Nice set-up,” Richard said, noting the rich paneling, built-in televisions, and obligatory telephones.

  “I’m not sure what this area once was, but we only made a couple of changes. It’s all compliments of a previous ‘tenant,’” William said, smiling, as he walked over to the locker area to change his clothes.

  After some stretches William was soon riding one of the bikes, while Richard started slowly on the neighboring stairclimber.

  “So, how’s your law practice?” William asked.

  “I’ve got no complaints. Besides the usual corporate work, the real estate market is picking up a bit, and of course there are always enough people angry at each other in our society to keep us pretty busy. We added a few young attorneys from this year’s law school crop, and three older guys moved over from another firm to do medical malpractice defense. So it’s fine.”

  “And Janet’s work?”

  “She’s really happy. Soon after we gave our lives to the Lord, we had an interesting run-in with her network over the suitability of a particular show. It turned out all right, and Janet was asked to serve on a joint network committee on violence and family programming. With a pledge from her network that it was truly committed to the process, she agreed to serve. Now she’s this year’s chairperson, and she spends a lot of time in New York working to improve what we all see on TV. And of course she loves her local station. So all in all, things are going great for her.”

  William rode for a kilometer in silence, reflecting as he had in the early morning hours about the differences between their two families, watching as the sky outside turned dark as ink and wispy fingers of low trailing clouds swirled in the increasing turbulence, seeming to reach down for the White House roof.

  “What about you, William?” Richard finally asked, his climb picking up speed. “How are you liking this fairly unique job?”

  William started to say “fine” but stopped as his lips formed the word. He was just thinking for the hundredth time that week about the bomb threat and about John Dempsey’s phone call the previous evening when Richard asked his question. Something seemed to shift inside him.

  He slowed down his pedaling to a more comfortable pace but kept looking out the windows at the quickly gathering storm. “Richard...what a question. I’d like to answer you as my best friend, like I would have done twenty years ago. Is that possible? Can this be just between us?”

  Richard noted the change in his friend’s voice and said, “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  “Frankly, just about everything, if I take the time to admit it.” He raised one hand as he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Richard was about to speak. “No, don’t say something nice. I really mean it. Let’s see. Where do I start? Katherine hates living with us here. My parents have been murdered by three guys from ‘good’ families who were apparently just bored one afternoon and out looking for a car to steal. Our domestic program, which we worked so hard on, is going nowhere in the Senate, meaning that I may preside over three more years of complete government gridlock, while we sink deeper into debt every day. Mary, Rebecca, and Hugh—all of whom you’ve met while visiting in Raleigh—are writing me detailed letters about how our society is a mess as a result of our policies. Foreign leaders genuinely ask us to solve all their problems, but we can’t even educate our own children. There are threats to our nation I could not have imagined before we got here. And, to top it off,”
his voice cracked, “after being a jerk to Carrie for years, I love her more now than I have in a very long time, but some mistakes I made in the past may soon become public knowledge, which will hurt her deeply, not to mention hurting the kids, and perhaps even cause her to leave me, and for good reason.”

  He had stopped pedaling halfway through the list, and now he finally turned to face Richard, who had stopped exercising. “So that’s why I can’t sleep at night, and I read about our Founding Fathers and their faith and their strength, and I feel like a ten-year-old playing at being president, wearing some adult’s shoes which are way, way too big for me. And I can already see,” he wiped his eyes with his hands, then ran them over his cheeks, as if it were sweat that was making them wet, “that this is all going to be a failure. The whole thing, Richard. This administration, our policies, and my family. All failures. Big time. All because of me. And very soon,” he concluded and turned back to face forward, again wiping his eyes with the towel on the handlebars.

  Richard didn’t know what to say, so he stepped off the stairs, picked up a towel, and walked over to the windows, not wanting to embarrass his friend by looking at him while he silently cried. Finally he said, watching the first bolts of lightning against the dark sky, “I’m so sorry, William. I had no idea.”

  The president stepped slowly off the bike and walked over to the water dispenser for a drink, taking his towel. He wadded up the paper cup, threw it away, and faced his old friend, who turned to meet his eyes. A bolt of lightning hit nearby, and both men flinched. After the thunder, Richard asked in a whisper, “The ‘mistakes,’ William, were they recent?”

  William turned and said, “I think I need to sit down for a minute.” He walked over and sat on one of the benches in the locker area, straddling it and wiping his face. Richard followed and straddled the other bench, so that their knees almost touched, and they faced each other.