The Practical Spy

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The house smelled of cauliflower when Orson entered. He enjoyed the smell and knew it well. Cook had been boiling the vegetable as a prelude to mashing, a great substitute for mashed potatoes. He suspected she added milk, but he wasn’t certain. A plucky woman, Cook, she ruled the roost, at least her kitchen.

  Occasionally she would try something from her Russian heritage, such as kulebiaka – fish, rice and mushrooms enclosed in a pastry. Very delicious and a great family favorite.

  Orson found the Georgetown Townhouse much as he had left it, the twins growing day by day, now being burdened with small portions of reading and mathematics.

  During cocktail hour they chatted and bickered about Salinger. Should his dirty linen be exposed in public? Did he actually possess dirty linen? Then going over his four published works, zeroing in on Holden Caulfield. What would his unpublished tomes reveal, if anything. The topic was endless. Someone said it may be time to embrace the complex reality of adult life in all its grime and vulgarity and self-contradiction, all its phoniness and squalor.

  There would never be an end to talk about J.D. Salinger. Is everything autobiographical? To join the life and the fiction, the secluded lifestyle. But at the White House, day-to-day drama was in full view. Particularly as the election season approached and the Foundation money increased.

  A reporter had asked the President how money would be raised for the Foundation when she was out of office. “I’ll go on speaking tours. I’ll travel the world. Our good works will be a beacon to the one percent to open their deep pockets. But in reality, if the money we have now is invested wisely, the interest alone will bankroll myriad good deeds. That doesn’t mean we don’t want more.”

  Orson remarked to the President that the task he had done in the Middle East might have been done by telephone.

  “You are my gadfly. You brought them all together and perhaps jolted them back to reality. Perhaps Israel will be more motivated to seek a two-state solution, faced with what many believe will be a chaotic bloodbath. Perhaps you have set them seriously thinking about the future. Perhaps not. Time moves on like a slow freight, or an express train.”

  “They claim to be in serious negotiations,” Orson insisted.

  “What a façade that is. Honest plans have been stalled more than once by hopeless negotiations. But we will have other concerns, domestic concerns, that need our attention.”

  Orson cocked his head and asked, “When you say ‘we,’ is that like royalty, or does it embrace someone else?”

  “Of course we are here together, Orson. You, me, Katrina, the twins and our extended family. It is a wide world, chock full of wonders.”

  Orson wondered what she was getting at, but changed the subject.

  Tony Morgenson, her chief political operative, who headed a small staff a few blocks from the White House, had been after her to announce her intentions. Campaign contributions had fallen off since it was widely rumored that she would retire to the life of a do-gooder.

  “I’ve broadcast the fact that a donation to your campaign is a donation to the party, but indecision seems to dry up funds. You know that old saying about getting off the pot,” Tony said.

  “The party needs money,” the President responded. “Let’s plan a grand fundraiser, a glorious dinner, with all invited, and I will make my announcement. But let’s try for a record cash crop.”

  “That’s a large order. But I’m guessing we can rope members of both parties into this bash.”

  “One would think so. It will take a bit of planning and a very large room. Lots of green roast beef, or rubber chicken. But that, such is in the mill will create some excitement.”

  Tony guffawed. “You bet it will, Madame President. You bet it will.”

  Only her announcement would still the clamor from both parties and independents, the list of candidates lining up to succeed her in office was increasing on an almost daily basis. Most were as confident as General Custer as he led his troops into the Little Big Horn.

  The big night finally came and a glitzy turnout of gladhanders it was. There was food and there was bonhomie plus libations to oil conversations. Party dignitaries took the podium before the President. They were preceded by two or three Hollywood and TV stars. One scantily clad female drew oohs and ahs from the crowd, speculating whether her remaining attire might peel off.

  Finally Madame President faced the microphones.

  “Reliving the campaign that brought me to this high office today, I recalled my platform, campaign promises, often promptly ignored following an election. A few of mine were immigration reform, voter rights protection, gun control. I’ll do name tags rather than bore you with details. Combat sexual harassment in the workplace and the military, minority and women’s rights, peace in the Middle East, homeland security, fiscal and tax reforms, tweaking health care.

  “There were more, but I failed to jot them down. I’m speaking without notes, without a net. (A riffle of laughter and applause.) My major thrust, possibly not a promise, was to attempt to govern, with a little help from my friends in the Congress and Supreme Court, without fear or favor. My goal at times was to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted.

  “Looking back over my record, again without notes, I feel I have made progress. Sometimes that’s all we can hope for. Progress. I feel I have promises to keep. Many of you know the next line to that passage. Promises to keep. At this time I wish to announce that I will seek a second term as president of these United States. God bless America!”

  With that, she returned to her seat. Half the crowd rose to its feet and cheered wildly. From the other half came an audible moan.

  Seated near the back, Orson whispered to Katrina, “There goes our hacienda in the pampas, or was it a villa in Tuscany, or a chateau in Provence, maybe a pineapple farm on the big island?”

  “How about a townhouse in Georgetown, a final roosting place.”

  ###

  About the Author

  Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

  His first novel was “Murder on the French Broad,” available only in a print edition published in 2010.

  Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

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