by Doug Walker
CHAPTER FORTY
Brooking had assembled the group in the Oval office. Camus, German, Jairo Ducote and the president pro tem of the Senate, Adam Coll. He reminded them that the goal of the meeting was to explain and lead to the passage of end-of-life legislation.
“That’s been tried before,” Jairo said with a negative twist. Coll voiced agreement. Camus and German sat quietly by.
“You’ve all heard of starter wives,” the President began.
“Damn right,” Jairo interrupted. “No man is infallible. You might pick a wife and let some emotion like fleeting love get in the way. Anything could happen. But the experience is a wholesome one. It teaches a man to be more careful on the second try, seasons him so to speak.”
Renee Camus made a sudden movement and seemed about to speak. Brooking anticipated that she would say something unpleasant to Jairo that might cast a pall over the session. So he spoke first. “The legislation I have in mind might be called starter legislation. It will be quite simple. It will be difficult, but not impossible to get through the two houses, that’s the challenge for Jairo and Coll, both with impressive records. If it gets to my desk, I sign it, and it faces possibly years of battle through our system of courts.”
“Well, tell us what you have in mind,” German said.
“Simplicity. Probably the only possible method to lead to a good death after a good life. At least the only one I could think of. Please feel free to add or detract. The fight begins here.”
“And ends in the Supreme Court,” Camus said.
“Very likely,” Brooking agreed. “If it gets that far.”
“I’m sure they’ll wrangle over this in committee, but here goes. A person growing older, looking toward a feeble old age, would be able to have what amounts to a living will. That simple document would state that if they reach a point where they cannot communicate effectively, where they need assistance in eating or going to the bathroom, that they be euthanized.”
“Killed,” Camus said.
“Exactly,” the President agreed. “This document must be signed by the person involved and also by either a doctor or a nurse plus a lawyer. All three signatures must be notarized by an independent party. That is, not one associated with the law firm. This document must be filed in a courthouse with the clerk of courts, plus copies to the individual family members if they exist. Also with the lawyer.”
Brooking paused and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not too well organized on this. But these are my thoughts. Now, if the time comes for the execution of the will, and it would be hoped before that time comes the individual would die of natural causes, three medical people, including at least one doctor and one nurse, must sign, plus one lawyer. And this paper must also be filed with the clerk of court.”
Ducote said, “That sounds similar to other proposals I’ve heard of.”
Brooking agreed. “It is along the same line. But the problem is growing more intense each year. Through diet, exercise, better medical treatment, health care, we’re causing our population to live much longer and thus become more vulnerable to the tragic snares that stalk old age. And there is no federal remedy.”
“Many people would not class euthanasia as a desirable remedy,” Coll tossed in.
“Of course,” Brooking said. “This is just an option not a mandate. No one will be forced to go this route. It’s simply there if you want it. On that basis I think the bill might squeeze through. Do the four of you agree?”
There were nods of assent. “Then, Curt, do you think you can have such a bill drawn up and present it to the Congress?”
“I can. But is that the way to go? Might it not be better to quietly solicit several co-sponsors from both houses and have them introduce it?”
“It’s a chicken or egg thing,” Brooking said. “Everyone would learn at some point that the bill originated in the White House. So let’s be up front about it. This is a bill from the administration and the President is asking that it be approved.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The meeting was breaking up and Renee Camus lingered behind. Sidling up to the President, she said, “I’d like a private word with you.”
“Anytime,” he replied. “Let’s have coffee.”
A few minutes later they were settled in a couple of comfortable chairs away from the impressive desk. Brooking remarked, “One nice thing about being President, you can get a cup of coffee anytime, day or night.”
“How many people have you bothered at midnight?”
“It’s just a theory. What if I asked for an anchovy pizza or lamb roast at 3 a.m.?”
“I think you’d soon be the talk of the town. Do you mind if I call you Bruce?”
“No. That’s my name. What’s bugging you?”
“Bugging is a somewhat crude expression. What’s on my keen mind might be more appropriate. I’ve made hints that I’d like to be your partner, so it comes out.”
“My quick come back is scraping the bottom of the barrel. You want the second spot on the ticket this November? The convention’s just around the corner.”
“You know damn well what I mean.” She wasn’t angry.
He pretended to be thoughtful, yet he did know exactly what she meant. “You might say I’m a lonely person. You might also say it’s lonely at the top. But I have a lot at stake in this presidency. I don’t want it to blow up in my face.”
“I know that. We both work in the White House. We see each other. We’re alone at the moment even. I’m talking discretion. There were rumors about you and Tina and for good reason, your college days. You’re a healthy man in his prime. Such rumors offer you a certain cachet. They illustrate that you’re a man of the world, a man of affairs. Yet there’s no proof. They remain saucy, spicy rumors. The best kind.”
Brooking laughed out loud. “Perhaps we should simply plant the rumors without foundation.”
“I’d prefer the foundation. You need a partner and so do I. Let’s do it.”
“Okay.”
Renee’s turn to hesitate. “Okay. Is that all you have to say. Just Okay.”
“Well, yes. I thought you could set up the assignation.”
“Another crude term. There could be a soulful joining, or something like that. A little something made in Heaven.”
“Without benefit of clergy.”
“Of course. Like the dawn of time, a man and a woman, cast together on the beach of life.”
“Any ideas?” Brooking questioned.
“I have a wardrobe in my office. So I can actually spend the night and pop up in my office in fresh attire.”
“Far better than looking wrinkled, wasted and strung out.”
“I’d say so. Your input?”
“Tarot is a confidante. I’d trust him with my life. We bring him in on the plan and he will figure how to get you from hither to yon with minimum interference. You know this is really a wild and lunatic scheme.”
“I know.” Renee was full of smiles. “I’ve also suspected Tarot and you of some sort of conspiracy. I suppose you don’t want to tell me about it.”
“You suppose right. Care for more coffee?”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The President had flown to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, New York. He was reviewed the long gray line and addressing a convocation. What to say had puzzled him, how to address and encourage our future military leaders.
They were mostly men with a scattering of women. He mentioned the plight of man given to pain and elation. A creative, destructive and restless creature. He asked the question: Does man seek happiness?
“Some,” he continued, “might prefer a police state, electrified fences, barbed wire, secret police, where happiness means to do the right thing. The right thing being what the state dictates.
“Yet our heroes are those who have fought the good fight, stood against repression. The Kennedys, Martin Luther King, Jr., Jesus Christ, Galileo, Socrates – - martyrs all, defenders of the good.
“But what is evil
and what is right and wrong? At war with Japan it would be wrong, in fact criminal, to be friendly with a Japanese enemy. Yet now it’s the right thing to do.”
He spoke without notes and, he soon realized, without adequate preparation. He was right about one thing, the corps of cadets were eager for his speech to end. He brought it to a quick conclusion, ending with, “God bless our military, God bless America.”
Stirring applause.
A day or two later Tarot spirited Renee into the residential quarters on one of her regular visits.
“I’ve been thinking of ratcheting up our social life,” she said. They were finishing up plates of fried chicken and slaw, drinking sweetened iced tea instead of wine.
“You mean you’re going to move in with me?” Brooking said.
“No, silly. I thought we could have someone over for bridge. It wouldn’t be back street like this, but openly social. You do play?”
“In college. We’d be partners?”
“No. I would have Percy, but I have a woman in mind, Mona. She’s a real estate agent about our age, divorced. What do you think?”
“We’d play here?”
“Yes, seems easiest. No messy Secret Service dogging our footsteps.”
“You know I play a simple game, no code words. If I bid one club it means I have a few clubs and maybe twelve points. I make no attempt to hide the strength.”
“You seem to know what those things are.”
“I know something. I know there are forty points in the deck, and if me and my partner have thirty of them we’re likely to win.”
“I could instruct you in the finer points.”
“I don’t want to know them. Good cards win, bad cards lose.”
She rolled her eyes. “There is distribution and there is skill.”
“I’ll skillfully try to remain sober during the game.”
“We’re on then?”
“Why not.”
They played on a weekend. Mina was an attractive, sophisticated lady. Percy, to Brooking’s surprise, was a burly, strapping fellow with a head like a bowling bowl almost totally devoid of hair.
Renee had told him that Percy worked as a curator at the Smithsonian and that he was a Brit.
“You know of course that the Smithsonian was founded by a grant from another British subject, James Smithson.”
“I do,” Percy replied. He was a jolly fellow and seemed at ease with the President.
“I must thank you and your nation. I believe that was in the mid-1830s and we now have almost twenty museums and several research centers, to name just a few of the benefits.”
The four of them enjoyed their game, each pair winning a game and Renee and Percy finally taking the rubber, much to Renee’s satisfaction, although Percy didn’t seem to care and the loss didn’t depress Mona.
They feasted on lamb, rice and a salad, plus three bottles of a California red wine.
Brooking was relaxed and slept like a sated duck. For appearances sake, Renee had to leave the White House with the other two.
Brooking woke up early, pre-dawn, feeling better than he had for some time. The weather was wonderful; he could hear birdsong through an open window. The weather in Washington could be fine year round, maybe sweltering in mid-summer, but still good. There was very little snow. If snow covered the streets the city virtually shut down. It took only a few deep South drivers to spin out and screw up the entire traffic grid.
Penny, who grew up in Washington, told the President that her Mom told her if she were sitting in the school room and saw two flakes of snow falling to grab her books, get up and come on home, regardless of what the teacher said.
On this morning Brooking called Tarot and suggested the two of them go jogging. Tarot cautioned against it, but the President insisted.
They fled the White House grounds to Pennsylvania Avenue, waving to a startled guard, and headed for Georgetown. The President was feeling great – free at last. He felt he could run to the Beltway, but slowed down a bit near Foggy Bottom.
He was walking by the time they neared the White House on the return trip. Several early risers greeted the President, and he stopped to shake hands and spend a few minutes chatting. About that time a pair of Secret Service agents, who had been alerted by the guards on the gate, came fast-stepping along. Nearing the President they slowed down and assumed their nonchalant protection mode.
“Do your job,” one well wisher suggested, “Lower taxes, protect social security, bolster the armed forces. I fought for this country and you have my vote.”
“God bless you,” Brooking said and moved on toward the gate. He whispered to Tarot. “This is great campaigning, let’s do it every day.”
At his desk, after a light breakfast of uncooked oatmeal and bran sopped in half and half, Brooking addressed the problems of the day with German. “Inequality, the gap between the rich and the poor, accelerating for at least three decades, and how to fix it. Solution?”
“No silver bullet. Just keep preaching and plugging along.”
“We have to promise the voters something. Something they don’t have now. But I guess that would be simply plugging along. There are still many roads and bridges that need to be repaired or replaced. Yet some state legislatures are actively attempting to reduce their state’s gasoline tax, which would take funds away from needed highway repairs. Schools and colleges have slipped over recent decades. They need more than a quick fix.”
“Our economic history tends to run in cycles and we’re on the upswing now,” German said. “This trend toward happy days will create the political will to do better, to tweak the tax structure and place the money where it’s most needed while eliminating waste.”
Brooking smiled. “Well said, Curt. Spoken like a true politician. But how can our economy grow more rapidly and more sustainably while being fair to all levels of society. The economic gap between those at the top and those in the middle has been growing for years. And why is this?
“For one thing American schools have failed to turn out the people with the advanced technology and skills to meet the demands. Adding to this, our immigrants are largely unskilled. Then there is a growing anti-worker, anti-poor feeling among our more conservative politicians. The conservative movement cannot be ignored.”
“Truth to tell,” German said, “we’ve been heading in the wrong direction for some time in view of the division between the rich and the poor. If there comes a time that the country accepts that division as normal, we will be in deep trouble.”
“We’ve been talking on the negative side,” the President said. “Of course it does exist, but we’d better walk on the sunny side between now and the election.”
During the next few days the routine hummed along, campaign fundraisers were planned, campaign ads were developed, and some discarded as too negative. Brookings attended a fundraiser in Philadelphia coupled with a conference on the plight of rust belt cities.
It seemed that former northern manufacturing centers that had lost their industrial base were short on college graduates. Graduates who had been raised in those cities were leaving them like rats deserting a sinking ship, leaving for greener pastures. College graduates, like birds of a feather, seemed to flock together. The education deficit was hurtful.
The only answer seemed to be self-help – those metro communities in trouble needed to buckle down and help themselves. Brooking offered federal guidance. He would make certain departments aware of the problem and, working with the cities, attempt to get them pointed in the right direction.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Brooking had just enjoyed a lunch of a toasted cheese and bacon sandwich at his desk when Renee Camus burst in unannounced. Judging by her appearance, she seemed to be in a bit of a huff.
“Do you read the social columns in the Post?” she demanded.
“Not usually.”
“Well you are featured in social column in the Post,” she fumed, walking around his desk to confront him toe
to toe.
“Is this some sort of sin, or shameful thing?” he questioned.
“You were at a dinner party in Mona’s Georgetown townhouse, weren’t you?”
“I was indeed. Mona called and suggested I get out in society. You know, since my wife’s death I haven’t done much along that line. She was trying to help.”
“Help my ass. You were her partner.”
“I suppose that’s true. There were three other couples, eight people in all. Mona said she would have included you but there was no place for a single woman. Although I mentioned that you could have brought Percy.”
“She knows damn well Percy’s gay. And she knows exactly what she was doing. So what do you have to say for yourself?” Renee was still steaming.
“I think what you’re getting at is that you and I are a couple and that I might be considered untrue by attending such an innocent party as Mona’s companion. Of course that’s foolish on several levels. First, I am the President and should attend Washington social functions. It would seem odd if I didn’t. Secondly, Mona would have no idea that you and I are more than colleagues. So I think that lays that to rest.” Brooking was pleased with himself at the simplicity of his explanation, much like he was dealing with a child.
But his explanation simply seemed to fuel Renee’s outrage. “She’s a woman, isn’t she? She knows fucking well what’s going on. And you’re just a dumb fish who fell for it.”
“Really, Renee, I’m not a fish. I’m aware of what’s going on in the world.”
“Well, what do you think I am? Your bitch? That you can enjoy sex with me in secret, then go out and charm your Georgetown beauties?”
He was taken aback by the violence of her speech, delivered a few inches from his nose. “On reflection, perhaps I am a fish. Do you think I fell for something hook, line and sinker?”
Renee calmed down and said, “Perhaps you did.”
“What’s to become of me?”
“Repent and sin no more.”
“Mona said she has a friend who owns a fairly large sailing vessel. She suggested I might want to join her on a weekend cruise on the Chesapeake. What do you think?”
Renee seemed delighted by the prospect. “You go on that sailing trip and you’ll never smile again.”