FORTY-SEVEN
Arne Haugen slept till 1040 hours, wakening at the insistence of his urethral sphincter. He noticed, when he got out of bed, that Lois's side was empty. The door was open into the private north hall, her way of telling him that she'd gone herself to prepare their breakfast. He relieved himself, showered and shaved, then dressed. Walking into the Center Hall, the smell of bacon frying led him into their private dining room. Lois was in the adjacent Kennedy Kitchen, and he looked in on her.
"Hi, Babe. How did you know I was up?"
"I went in to wake you and heard the shower." Grinning, she pointed at a dishtowel humped over something on the counter. "I baked bread last evening. Your favorite—anadama. It's been awhile."
He went to her and kissed her.
"Kissing the cook is always a good idea," she told him, shrugging loose, "but there is good timing and bad timing. Right now I have to check the bacon." She took the frying pan from the hot burner, and after a moment raised the lid. "Done," she said, then peered under another.
"As boss of the kitchen," she added, "I hereby direct you to pour the juice and get something agreeable on television."
Something was bothering her; a slight acidity underlay her bantering this morning, something he seldom felt. He thought he knew why. When they'd first moved into the White House, he'd told her they'd be out by Labor Day—possibly by the Fourth of July if things went well enough or badly enough. And domestically they were going well enough, but he was talking in terms of "the end of the year."
Last October, of course, he hadn't known about weatherwar and seismic war. And he had a better idea now of what might actually be accomplished, and what it would take. And who could he trust to follow through on the programs he envisioned? The education reform he'd soon be springing on them?
After he got back from Zurich, he'd take a few days off and they'd vacation in the mountains at Camp David. Spend weekends there as often as possible. She'd feel better about things then.
So, obediently, he went pitcher in hand into the small dining room, where as always, places had been set by one of the domestic staff the evening before. He poured cider, returned the pitcher to the refrigerator, then checked the television computer for eleven o'clock programs, settling for the Boston Symphony on Public TV.
While he was adjusting the volume, Lois came from the kitchen with a plate of bacon and a platter of fried eggs. Firm-yolked, he was sure, though sunnyside up. By the time he'd poured coffee, she was back again with sweet anadama toast, covered to stay warm.
He held her chair for her while she sat down.
"My! What a gracious gentleman," she teased. "If only my husband could see you; maybe he'd learn a thing or two."
He nodded. "That's what all my girlfriends tell me. At the table or in the boudoir. Ah well, when a girl marries a cedar savage..."
He sat down and stared at the platters. "Do we have breakfast guests I haven't heard about? That's enough to feed a logging crew!"
She shook her head, still smiling, but softly now. "I decided to overlook the calories—that both of us would really splurge on our favorite breakfast."
By the time she'd said it all, her voice had begun to falter, and Arne Haugen had gone watchfully sober, not asking, letting her tell him in her own time.
"Fan ta'n!" she burst out. "Haugen, ja' har rili gått och gjört da nu." ("Damn it, Haugen, I've really gone and done it now!") Tears had begun to flow, and he stared, waiting for what would follow.
She dropped the Minnesota bondspråk. "Arne," she said, "I have cancer. Of the lymph system. And it's not operable. Colonel Singleton did a scan yesterday, and it's metastasized; it's spread to a lot of different places. He called a specialist over from GWU, and I'm to go there today for extensive examinations. So they'll know what they can do about it.
"They said my symptoms hadn't been typical for my age; that they should have shown up sooner." She tried to laugh then. "You've told me how young I've stayed. Now look!"
The president stared at her, his vision blurring till he could no longer see the tears flowing down her cheeks. She went on.
"And honey ... I don't want to go away from you!"
She broke down then, crying quietly but hard, her body shaking with it, while he sat miserably, unable to think or even wipe his face. After half a minute he heard her giggle, then hiccup. His hand found his napkin and he mopped at his eyes. She was grinning shakily at him.
"I didn't plan to tell you till we'd finished eating. Now go ahead and enjoy your breakfast!"
She broke down again, and getting up, her husband walked around the table and knelt beside her, circling her with an arm, holding her against him. Saying nothing till her weeping had eased again. "You and I have never had a genuine crisis in the family before," he said quietly. "We'll just have to get used to it. We'll handle it all right, you and I."
She nodded, then kissed him, their wet cheeks touching. "Well," she said, "I'd better go wash my face. Maybe I'll feel better then."
***
After a few minutes they actually ate a bit. She was to see Colonel Singleton after lunch, and they'd ride the half-dozen blocks to the university hospital in Singleton's personal car, to avoid notice if possible.
"And sweetheart," she said, "you've got a lot of things to take care of downstairs. For a lot of people. We'll let the doctors take care of me."
After a little bit he did go downstairs. The Secret Service men could tell something was wrong. So could Martinelli, and so could Milstead when he came in. But once the president got underway, he worked as well, and as rapidly as usual, although his family crisis was never far from his consciousness.
At mid-afternoon he stopped at Singleton's office and left a message for the doctor to call when he got back. Half an hour later Singleton called, and Haugen had him come to the Oval Office. Treatment would be immunotherapy, the colonel said. She'd be in the hospital for at least a week; perhaps as long as two.
Only time would tell what the treatment would accomplish, but the first lady was in most respects an unusually ealthy woman. Certainly her case was far from hopeless. Dr. Hummerick, at GWU, was one of the best in the evaluation and treatment of lymphomas, and he estimated that the odds were perhaps thirty percent for a complete remission. The least they could hope for was a considerable palliation, and perhaps years of not uncomfortable life continuance.
Well, the president told himself when the doctor had left, thirty percent's not bad. We'll see how it goes.
Meanwhile though, death seemed more serious to him now than it ever had before.
***
That evening, as he and Lois often had, he invited Father Flynn to supper. And told him. Flynn hadn't heard yet; remarkably the situation hadn't leaked, not even her hospitalization! Partly, the president told himself, because the White House Press Corps was no longer located inside the White House; that and the loyalty of the staff.
When he and Flynn had finished dessert, Haugen excused himself to call Liisa. "Hi, honeybunch," he said. "How're you guys doing?"
"Just fine. It went up nearly to zero in Grand Forks today! Up to minus three degrees!"
Haugen laughed. "Don't feel too bad," he said. "Think of it as minus twenty Celsius."
She made a rude noise at him.
"How's Ed?" he asked. "Can he pick up the other phone?"
"Just a minute, daddy." He heard her call out, away from the voice pickup. "Ed, the President of the United States wants to talk to us both."
Her husband picked up the phone in his office, an old-fashioned instrument without visio, and Haugen told them about Lois. "If it's practical," he said, "I'd like to fly the two of you to Washington tomorrow for a few days. Lois would really appreciate it; she was feeling pretty down today."
It was Ed Ruud who replied. "Geez, Arne, it would be awfully darned awkward for me to go tomorrow. But I could batch while Liisa goes, and fly there myself on Friday night for the weekend."
"Sounds good. And I was hoping Liisa could be here while I'm in Zurich," Haugen added, "meeting with Premier Gurenko."
"Sure, daddy. I want to be there."
"Absolutely, Arne. Jesus Christ! We both want to do all we can to help."
"Thanks, both of you. I'll wire you the money tonight. It'll help your mom, and take a lot of pressure off me."
When he'd disconnected, he phoned a money-order, enough to more than cover their costs, then settled down to talk with Flynn again.
"Lois would like to see you too," Haugen said, then grinned. "But it's best not to arrive in clerical garb. We wouldn't want her to think you were there to administer the last rites."
Flynn winced at the attempted humor. "Of course." And I'll pray for her, he told himself. She'd appreciate it, even if she didn't expect it to do any good.
Neither man said anything for a while. Then Flynn broke the silence. "There's been a lot of suffering this winter," he said. "South Africa and Iran torn by war, the rest of the world by depression, hunger, fuel shortage. And now we've had weatherwar." He shook his head. "It amazes me when I read the public opinion surveys; I wonder if morale here is really that good, and if people really are that optimistic."
"I haven't read one since the weatherwar started," Haugen replied. "Morale may not be so good right now." He paused for a moment, then looked at the priest with surprising intensity. "But it'll bounce back. And d'you know why?"
Flynn shook his head.
"Because they feel, most of them, as if the country has direction now, that it has goals, that it's going somewhere they want to go. Even if they don't know just where that is, any more than I do. And they feel as if they're part of the movement. When you feel like that, hardships are likely to temper you, strengthen you instead of breaking you. Especially hardships you share with the rest of the country.
"That's why people put up with me, though probably not many have sorted it out for themselves. Our goals pretty much coincide. And that's why Congress hasn't shut me down yet, and why the media haven't really tried to scuttle me. I really honest-to-god believe I've been the man for the time."
Again neither man spoke for a bit. He's right, Flynn said to himself. And that's been the key to what he's accomplished. He's a product of this nation, and through him it...
The president interrupted the priest's thoughts. "Stephen," he said, "I have something to confess to you. I don't feel as if it's a sin, but I murdered some people the night before last. Or maybe murdered isn't the right word, but I ordered some people killed: a room full. At least a dozen, and almost certainly more."
The statement startled Flynn, but he said nothing, merely nodded attentively. Then the president told him what had caused the west coast earthquakes—no surprise to Flynn, really—and what had happened to Pavlenko and his Politburo.
"It wasn't revenge," he went on. "I can tell you that with total certainty. It was a kind of war. I felt justified in cutting off the man who'd decided to escalate and attack with earthquakes, and might decide to escalate again. In a way what I did was de-escalation, but it was also a coldblooded ambush of a kind. No pun intended."
The president paused, examining. "The only one I really wanted to get was Pavlenko. The others just happened to be in the room with him, at the hour when I knew where he was—where he could be hit. But it was probably a good thing I got them all. It set it up for Gurenko."
"And it's possible to do that kind of thing now?" Flynn said. "Reach across the world and snuff lives out like that?"
"I'm afraid so. In this case though, it may have saved a lot of other lives."
"It's not this case that dismays me," the Jesuit said. "It's the instrument that dismays me."
"Me too," the president answered. "But there it is. I believe it was fore-destined, the day that man became man. It was inevitable that we'd learn to do this—do all these things.
"And it seems to me that humankind needs the same sort of mental breakthrough—or spiritual breakthrough if you'd rather call it that—that we've made in physics and engineering. A breakthrough comparable to nuclear fusion, scalar resonance, the GPC, the superconductor."
It struck Haugen then that that's what the Christian churches claimed had happened two thousand years earlier: the great spiritual breakthrough. But it hadn't worked, or hadn't seemed to. "Ultimately," he continued, "good government, decent government, can't solve our dilemma. At best it provides an environment in which it can be solved. And really, when I look at it, that's mostly what I've tried to do as president—provide the environment.
"And preaching can't solve it. Humankind's been preached at for longer I'm sure than any church that's still around."
The Jesuit nodded, and caught himself at it. There was cynicism again, the cynicism that sneaked too often into his heart, his mind, about the efficacy of the Church and the salvation of man. Yet there was also the Revelation to John, that troublesome book. Unless God changed his mind, someday the world would be destroyed. And all men would not be saved. We must strive to save them all, he thought, but we must accept our failures as well as our successes.
The president wasn't done yet: After a moment's thoughtful silence he went on. "Eddie Wing's received three different research proposals," he said, "on what the Soviets call psychoenergetics; pretty much what the science fiction writers call psi. And remotely, I might even see a tie-in with the underlying field the GPC actually draws on.
"And there's hardly a snowball's chance in hell that any of them would be approved by any 'proper' university or 'well-administered' foundation, where the powers-that-be are too afraid of their reputations to fly anything like that." He paused thoughtfully. "Or maybe there is a chance, barely, with all the wild activity in physics lately. But I'm not betting on it. I've told Eddie to go ahead on all three.
"I'll be keeping close track of what they find, and I want you to. Look at it for tie-ins with religion, any religion; you're schooled in that."
The priest nodded. "Of course, Arne. I'll be glad to." For God works in strange ways, he added silently, through strange and often secular instruments. The Jesuit felt a chill flow over him, perhaps on omen of sorts. And this is a good man, he told himself. Perhaps through him I have an opportunity here to do something very large in the service of God.
They talked of other things then: the economy's steady upward creep, the problems and successes of the new legal system, Haugen's ideas on education and what his task force was doing with them, and what might be accomplished in Zurich. And after a bit they said good night, the priest going to his room.
The president headed for a few more hours at his desk. There was so much to accomplish, sometimes it was hard to stop working and go to bed. Maybe I should get more sleep, he thought. My energy level isn't what it ought to be.