90 - Washington, D.C.
The hundred-fifty pound, eight-foot-tall solid oak door to the Lincoln bedroom in the family section of the White House flew open with such force that it spun on its hinges until the inside door handle crashed into the horsehair plaster wall. Catherine Quaid was so startled she dropped the towel she had just wrapped around her dripping body after stepping from the bathtub in the adjacent bathroom.
Lawrence Quaid stomped into the bedroom and stared at his now-naked wife. He hesitated. It was some time since he’d seen Catherine with no clothes on. Her daily jogs helped her retain her physical condition better than her husband had his.
He paused for no more than a few seconds, however.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he screamed at her, approaching to within a foot. She took a step backwards at his onslaught.
“I know where you were today, at that March,” he said, his voice maintaining its force. “Do you have any idea how much damage you would have caused me?”
He stood still, then scanned the unfamiliar room. He’d only been in the bedroom once since his wife moved there, and that visit ended in screaming. He stopped suddenly when he saw the yellow six-pointed star lying on her dresser.
His gaze locked on the crumpled object. After a moment of silent thought, he turned to face his wife again. He no longer shouted.
“Catherine, don’t you realize that I am in the crisis that will define my Presidency?” he said, no indication of anger left in his voice. He was almost pleading.
“There is an atom bomb loose somewhere in the country. It’s in the hands of madmen. They’ve shown us they’re willing to do anything to intimidate us, to intimidate me.
“Catherine, if I don’t stop them, if they use that bomb before we catch them, I’ll go down in history as another President who let the United States be attacked on our own soil. I’ll be the greatest failure of a President since Taft got stuck in the White House bathtub.”
The stunned woman suddenly realized that she was stark naked. She reached to the floor and retrieved the towel, then wrapped it around herself.
She looked helpless, standing in front of him, dripping on the carpet, wearing only a towel with the White House symbol on it. Quaid missed her terribly at that moment. He reached forward and placed his hands lightly on her hips.
She pulled away as if his hands were dipped in acid. Her sudden movement surprised him, draining what temporary tenderness he felt toward his wife.
He walked toward the door, still swinging on its hinges, but turned before leaving the room. “You won’t be seeing Agent Bergantina again,” he snapped. “And if you come to me with any stories about your new agent grabbing your tits, I’ll wish him better luck than I have at that.”
“Don’t you have anything to say?” he asked his wife.
Catherine Quaid drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, collecting her thoughts, trying to control the angry words that were fighting to fly from her. Finally, with her husband no longer encroaching on her physical space, a remnant of the love she once felt for this man won out. She spoke softly, gently.
“I think, Lawrence, that you need to worry less about history and more about what you are doing to good people in America right now,” she said. “The wonderful man I’ve loved and admired all these years would not send troops to break up a peaceful demonstration.
“That man would not create, there is no other word for it Lawrence, would not create concentration camps, would not tolerate torture, would not do away with laws that for hundreds of years have been the foundation for liberty and freedom.
“Lawrence, I know you don’t think of yourself as a bad man. But, and I hate to use the analogy but it is the only one that comes to mind, Lawrence, do you think Adolph Hitler thought of himself as bad either? Can’t you take a step back and look at what you are doing? Forget about history. Just do the right thing now. History will write itself.”
The President was taken aback by what his wife said. He’d trusted her judgment throughout every moment of his political career. It occurred to him more than once that she would have made a better President than he could ever be.
As President Quaid paused in the doorway to the Lincoln bedroom, however, the image of the Washington monument surrounded by a cloud of dust tilting at an impossible angle, then falling like a shiny white redwood tree onto the National Mall filled his mind.
Then that image was replaced by a vision of a mushroom cloud rising across the Ellipse over the Capital Building.
I can’t let that happen, he said to himself.
“Catherine,” he said brusquely. “As always, I will consider your suggestions with all seriousness. Good night, dear.”
At least he closed the door softly when he left.