Oath of Office

by Michael Palmer

  “What about Dr. Filstrup at the Physician Wellness Office?”

  Lou groaned. In terms of insight and verbal sparring, Emily was her mother’s daughter.

  So much for Welcome’s Law.

  Lou’s affiliation with the PWO went back nine years—to the day when his medical license was suspended for self-prescribing amphetamines. He had always been a heavier-than-average drinker, but speed, which he took to handle the sleep-deprivation of working two moonlighting jobs, quickly brought him to his knees. Enter the PWO, an organization devoted to helping doctors with mental illness, physical illness, substance abuse, and behavioral problems. The PWO director arranged for an immediate admission to a rehab facility in Georgia, and kept in close contact with Lou’s caseworkers and counselors until his discharge six months later. After that, a PWO monitor met with him weekly, then monthly, and supervised his recovery and urine screens for alcohol and other drugs of abuse. After a spotless year, his license was restored and he returned to work at Eisenhower Memorial. Three years after that, he was hired as the second of two PWO monitors. For the next year, things went perfectly. Then Walter Filstrup was brought in by the PWO board to head up the program.

  “You know, bucko,” Lou said to his daughter, “sometimes you’re too smart for your own good.”

  Although he seldom went out of his way to discuss his job frustrations with his child, neither was Lou ever one to measure his words. And the kid was a sponge.

  “All right,” he said. “Consider my current position with PWO the exception that proves the law. Now, let’s get out there and see some patients. You ready to stay in school?”

  Emily cocked her head thoughtfully. “For the moment,” she said.

  “That’s all I can ask for. So, let’s not fall behind. In the ER business, you never know when something’s going to come out of left field and slam you against the wall.”

  CHAPTER 2

  With a nurse, the licensed nurse’s aide, and the resident busy with the old man in one of the back examining rooms, Lou handled an ear infection in a toddler, an upper respiratory virus in an elderly woman, and a cracked finger bone in a fifteen-year-old high school shortstop, who was dangerously close to losing an entire limb if he didn’t stop leering at the doctor’s daughter.

  Sixty minutes to go.

  It may have been a case of doing the right thing for the wrong reason, but Take Your Kid to Work Day was proving to be a total success.

  The nurse clinician, a newlywed named Barbara Waldman, appeared behind a wheelchair at the door to the treatment room. The man in the chair was someone Lou knew well—a sixty-two-year-old who lived in various doorways near the Annex.

  “Desmond!” Lou exclaimed, helping the man onto the examining table and out of his tattered air force jacket. “That gang again?”

  Desmond Carter dabbed at his bleeding nostrils with a rag and nodded.

  For most of the homeless in the area, being beaten for sport by any of several gangs who roamed the neighborhood was routine. Usually, though, the attacks occurred at night. Desmond, though black, was known for playing Irish tunes on a battered pennywhistle. When the music business was slow, he cashed in bottles. A Vietnam vet, he was rail thin, but with eyes that never betrayed the hardship of his life. Today, his face was swollen and bruised, with a split lip and the bloody nose. His oily trousers were shredded at the knees, revealing deep abrasions. One shoe was missing.

  “Good to see you, Dr. Lou,” Desmond said.

  “Sorry this keeps happening, my friend. Want us to send for the police?”

  “Ain’t worth it. Just some bandages and fix my nose if it’s broken. How you been?”

  “Doing fine.”

  “Still at the gym?”

  “When I have time. A little sparring, some training when one of the up-and-comers asks for it. Listen, we got to get you undressed and cleaned up. Then we’ll check you over and get an X-ray of your nose and any other part that needs it. Desmond, that gorgeous young woman over there is my daughter, Emily. She’s here helping us out for the day.”

  “Ms. Emily,” Desmond said, nodding and managing a weak, toothless grin. “It’s fine with me if you want to stay.”

  Lou considered the situation and shook his head.

  “Yeah,” Emily said. “You walk around your apartment all the time in your boxers.”

  Had Barbara Waldman been chewing gum, she would have swallowed it.

  “You have your hands full with that one, Dr. Welcome,” she managed.

  “Listen, Em,” Lou said, “I don’t think so. Why don’t you wait in the lounge until we get Desmond taken care of.”

  He missed his daughter’s glare as she left the room.

  Nurse and doc gently stripped the vet down and helped him into a pair of disposable scrub pants and a johnny. He had absorbed a pounding, but it was hardly the first time. His abdominal wall was a road map of scars—the result of wounds, Lou had learned, that had led to two Purple Hearts.

  Lou clenched his jaw. He had encountered more than enough violence and depravity to have developed something of an immunity, but in truth, he knew he would never be inured—especially when the victim was a guy like Desmond Carter.

  He was preparing to examine the man when he heard the soft clearing of a throat from the doorway. Emily was standing there, hands on her hips, looking incredibly like her mother.

  “Dad, you know how much I hate being treated like a baby,” she said. “I’ve seen street people before and black people, and even hurt people. It’s okay for me to watch—I promise you. You’re not protecting me from anything.”

  Lou looked up at the ceiling and then the wall—anyplace but at his daughter’s wonderful face. He had been outmatched by her from the day she was born. Besides, exposing her to Desmond Carter this way seemed right. Still, it was probably something he should discuss with Renee. He envisioned his ex after the fact, arms folded, tapping her foot in exasperation, and heard her reminding him that she did, in fact, have a cell phone.

  Better to ask forgiveness than permission, he decided.

  “Barbara, does Desmond have a record of an HIV test?”

  “Negative test drawn here four months ago,” she said.

  “Em, you can come in,” he heard himself say. “But stand over there by the wall. Barbara, how about getting her into double gloves and a gown. Might as well give her a face shield as well.”

  Swimming in her gown and looking like a teenager from outer space, Emily inched forward and watched as Lou packed both Desmond’s nostrils and explained what he was searching for in each segment of his physical exam. He could see her eyes widen at the man’s scars.

  “Desmond, are you sure about no police?” Lou asked.

  “Next time, maybe. I got a caseworker. I’ll tell her.”

  Sure.

  “Barbara,” Lou said, turning to the nurse, “how about ordering a chest film and nasal bones? Maybe get a CBC as well. Then we’ll do whatever we have to, to fix that schnoz.”

  “Okay. Then I’m going to stop in the back and see if Gordo and Roz are all right with that poor old man. I think they’re going to transfer him.”

  “No problem,” Lou said.

  Moments later, the receptionist appeared at the doorway.

  “Dr. Welcome, there’s a Dr. Filstrup on the line for you—he says it’s urgent.”

  Lou suppressed a smile.

  An urgent call from Walter Filstrup. That had to be an absolute first. He probably wanted Lou to pick up some tuna on his way home and drop it off at the office.

  Largely because of the documented strength of his recovery, and the way he related to clients, Lou was well regarded by the PWO board. But he was hardly ready to take over as director. And the truth was, there were few beside Filstrup who seemed interested in the job.

  From day one, he and Filstrup were like a cobra and a mongoose—actually, more like a cobra and a baby goose. The wellness office was a small one as physician health programs went, leaving
the opinionated, bombastic therapist with only a couple of minions to boss around … chief among them, Lou.

  “Em,” Lou said, “Barbara will be right back. Linda, please patch Dr. Filstrup over to the doctors’ lounge. I’ll talk to him there.”

  The phone was ringing as Lou entered the lounge.

  “Welcome? It’s me.”

  Lou cringed at the sound of his boss’s voice. “I’m a little busy right—”

  “Welcome, listen. You’ve really blown it this time.”

  “I left the seat up in the office men’s room?”

  “You’re not funny. In fact, you’re never funny.”

  “Walter, what is this all about?”

  “It’s about your darling client, John Meacham, the man whose license you single-handedly got restored.”

  “He’s a terrific guy and a terrific doc. I had coffee with him the day before yesterday. He’s doing fine.”

  “Well, today he shot seven people to death in his office and then turned the gun on himself.”

  Lou sank onto the arm of the worn leather sofa, unable to take in a breath. “If you’re messing with me, Walter,” he managed finally, “I swear, I’m going to hang you by your thumbs.”

  “Turn on the news. Any news.”

  “You sure it’s our client?”

  “Your client. In case you forget, I never thought he was too tightly wrapped, and I told you that on more than one occasion. I kept pushing to get rid of that touchy-feely social worker therapist you were using, and to get him to a psychiatrist. But no.”

  “Walter, stop it! This isn’t the time. Tell me again. John killed seven people in his office and then killed himself?”

  “Not exactly. They’re all dead. He isn’t.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  “DeLand Regional.”

  “As soon as I can get relief here, I’m going out there. I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. And believe something else, too. All those supporters you have on the board may not be so supporting after this.”

  Rather than make a disastrous situation even worse, Lou set down the receiver. Surprised when his legs held him up, he stepped numbly into the hallway, headed back to Emily. Ahead of him, facing into the treatment room, her arms folded severely across her chest, her magnificent profile as motionless as marble, was Renee.

  Lou moved in next to her. Barbara Waldman had clearly not yet returned, and Emily was alone in the room with Desmond Carter. She had moved to the man’s bedside and was holding his hand.

  Renee’s disapproving expression would live forever in the Take Your Child to Work hall of fame.

  At that moment, Emily looked up. “Mom!” she cried with unbridled glee. “Guess what? I’m going to be a doctor!”

  CHAPTER 3

  The First Lady of the United States, Darlene Mallory, snapped her flip phone closed and glanced over her shoulder at her chief of staff, seated directly behind her. That look was more than enough for Kim Hajjar to know what had transpired.

  “He’s not coming, is he,” Kim said, leaning forward and whispering in Darlene’s ear.

  “No, he’s not. Try to look happy.”

  “You mean as opposed to looking like I want to wring your husband’s presidential neck?”

  Strictly for any paparazzi who might be watching, Darlene forced a smile and nodded. “I’m getting tired of this, Kim.”

  “I know, hon, I know.”

  “Last week he announced his intention to begin his reelection campaign.”

  “No surprise to anyone.”

  “Except me. He never even spoke to me about it.”

  Kim hugged her friend. It had been six years since she had agreed to join her former Kansas State roommate, then Senator Martin Mallory’s wife, in Washington. During that time, the two women had grown closer than ever. The press cared little about First Lady appointments, but what coverage they devoted to Hajjar never failed to mention that she was the first Lebanese White House chief of staff, and that she was a former beauty queen. They seldom touched on her master’s degree in sociology. With cameras watching Darlene’s every move, having an aide with whom she could communicate almost telepathically had proved invaluable.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better push on with this,” Darlene said, sighing.

  “Does Martin know how much press is here covering this event?”

  “I believe that’s why he’s not coming. The kids are going to be so disappointed. The director says they’ve worked really hard on their song.”

  “I’ll schedule them to sing at the Rose Garden next week when you and Martin are welcoming the President of Ireland.”

  “Do you think Martin will be upset if we do that?”

  “I don’t think he’ll care. In fact, he may blow off President Callaghan the way he did these kids. The position sounds important, but in Ireland it’s largely ceremonial. Still, Callaghan being a woman, Martin may not want to withstand the flak of standing her up.”

  Darlene smiled even though her insides were knotted up. “What would I do without you, Hajjar? Put yourself in for a raise.”

  “That’s just what I need to do. I can see the headlines now: ECONOMY DESCENDING DEEPER INTO DUMPER. FIRST LADY CELEBRATES BY RAISING STAFF PAY.”

  “Okay, no raise. I’ll think of something, though.… Well, the director’s got a what-are-we-waiting-for expression. I suppose I need to move on.”

  “You’ll be great as usual.”

  Darlene stood, smoothed her skirt, and gave the press corps her A smile. She had chosen a baby blue suit for the ribbon-cutting ceremony, which was in celebration of the grand opening of D.C.’s new Boys & Girls Club. The suit had cost $120 at Macy’s, and it sold out from every department store the first day she had worn it in public. Thanks largely to Kim’s tutelage, she now knew what colors best flattered her fair complexion, light brown hair, and hazel eyes.

  Her brief speech would focus on her two favorite topics—raising her daughter, Lisa, now a sophomore at Yale, and working as first a pediatrician and then the president’s wife to improve the nutrition of all citizens of the world, especially children.

  Unlike some First Ladies who embraced the guilty pleasure of fashion, Darlene did not, and whenever the cameras weren’t rolling, she favored the dungarees and plaid work shirts that were the mainstay of her wardrobe at K State.

  “Once a farmer, always a farmer,” she had been oft quoted regarding her background as a wheat farmer’s daughter.

  To the left of the two rows of folding chairs where they were sitting, a broad blue ribbon stretched diagonally across the glass doors of the gleaming new building fluttered gently in the breeze. The Young People’s Chorus stood off to one side on metal risers, waiting patiently to sing their song, “The Face of the Waters.” Kim had researched the piece and passed on the information that it was about creation. It was a fitting anthem, thought Darlene, considering that once again, she needed to create an explanation for President Mallory’s absence. Politics aside, his recently unpredictable behavior concerned her the way it would any loving and devoted wife.

  Martin’s nosedive in the popularity polls was one of the most historic drops in presidential history. But before the economy tanked, he had touted this particular Boys & Girls Club as a symbol of America’s renewed community spirit, and a shining example of the effectiveness of his controversial domestic spending policies. Now, with the country’s fortunes in free fall, the costly modern steel and glass structure might well become a symbol of his administration’s fiscal excesses.

  Darlene crossed to the lectern and spoke to the crowd of several hundred. “I’m afraid I have just received a call from my husband. He is tied up in an emergency meeting and regrettably will not be able to attend this magnificent grand opening. However, he is making arrangements for the Young People’s—”

  “Is he scared to show his face in public?”

  Through the glare of the afternoon sun, Darlene could not see the face o
f the man heckling her, but he was certainly close by. Too close. Kim must have sensed Darlene’s concern, because she immediately went into attack mode and began scouring the crowd for the potentially dangerous protester. The large Secret Service contingent did the same.

  Meanwhile, Darlene continued with her address. “The president wanted me to let you know—”

  The heckler wasn’t finished. “What’s next?” he called out. “Will our tax dollars buy a new football stadium for the Skins?”

  By this time, Kim had spotted the man and alerted Secret Service agents to his location. The agents acted quickly to cull the protester from the crowd. Darlene was used to hecklers, although their numbers seemed to be increasing at every one of her appearances. It made her sad that the outburst may have eclipsed the real story of the day, which was the children. Perhaps it would turn out for the best that the president had chosen to stay home.

  Immersed in a forest of angry pickets, most of the anti-Mallory protesters that day were kept at bay behind a sawhorse barrier set up across the parking lot. Darlene estimated their number might be half as many as those attending the ceremony. In addition, signs with unflattering epithets for the president and his administration were nailed to nearly every tree in the area.

  The kids were getting a serious lesson in civics, American style.

  Undeterred, Darlene smiled and was about to start speaking again when she felt a tiny tap on her right arm. She looked down into the wide, tear-filled eyes of a boy, no more than seven or eight. The child was dressed splendidly in a green and blue striped tie and V-neck pullover sweater.

  “Please,” he said. “I promised my mommy and daddy the president would be here. Please.”

  Darlene laid a hand on his tiny shoulder and swallowed at the orange-sized lump in her throat. Kim immediately sized up the situation and led the child back to his parents.