My
Journal
By
Harriman Nelson
~In
God We Trust~
9
Lee
hadn’t called by the time the evening news recapped today’s events at the White
House. He’d had a busy day, including meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff,
greeting the Secretary General of NATO who would be staying over for supper
(privately) the press said. Lee also had an appointment at Bethesda to select
iris colors for his new prosthetic eyeball in the works, as well as selecting
more temporary glass eyes. The press
showed a comparative photo of iris colors though the ones for the digital
prosthetic didn’t look as realistic as for the glass eyes.
The
press also interviewed Lee’s mother, in a rocking chair on the porch of her
beach front cottage on Cape Cod. She had
aged substantially I thought, no doubt due to her concerns about the stress Lee
was under but that topic wasn’t addressed.
“...What
color do you think the president should choose for his new working prosthesis?”
one of the CNN reporters asked, holding up the color comparison sheet.
“...That’s
a no brainer...his own eye color, well, as close as they can get it. But as we
wait, I think he should add a few more glass eyes just in case that crazy cat
of his sneaks off with it. Then he won’t be stuck having to take the time to be
fitted...if I had a choice, I’d tell him to pick some different colors and add
the same color contact to his remaining eye for them to match...not that he’d
listen to me...think of it, color coordinated eyes to match his outfits. Tuxedo
cummerbunds, boutonnieres, handkerchiefs, shirts, etc.”
“...Has
he worn contacts before?”
“...Once
he tried but he couldn’t stand them, especially as he got a little infection
from it. His own fault he admitted. Didn’t take care of it properly. A long
time ago when he was on the Nautilus. It
was shortly before she was scrapped as a maritime museum.”
I
remembered that eye infection. And it hadn’t been a minor inconvenience. He
almost lost his sight in that eye. He’d been undercover and the change of eye
color had been indicated to go with his temporary surgical procedure to make
him look Asian. Our own sawbones had the dubious honor, having had some plastic
surgery qualifications in his background.
Of course she knew nothing about the whys or wherefores or how serious
the infection had been. By the time
she’d seen him again, his hazel eyes were clear and free of any problem. But it
was no wonder to me that he’d hesitate to ever try contacts again.
“...It’s
been awhile since you’ve visited the president. Has there been a falling out
between you?”
“...Absolutely
not! But frankly, he’s so busy, it’s difficult to find time to just sit with
him, even for lunch or dinner.”
“...Why
not change his mind about not having a First Lady that could free up some of
his schedule? And you’ve already had the job...”
“...We
discussed it. But with the war, well, he doesn’t want to put me or the Second
Lady at risk...and he does have staff to help out with the Public Relations
platform.”
“...Speaking
of platforms, do you know if he’ll run for office once this term is over?”
“...Heavens,
give him a chance to complete this one. Besides, technically, I’m not sure if
those temporary terms would count or not as full terms, so that would have to
be determined if it would be allowed. I’m pretty sure congress would say they
were too short to count, but you never know.”
“...The
next term is a little less than three and half years from now, but what are
your personal feelings about him running?”
“...Personally?
You only have to look at him to see how he’s aged from the stress. I just want
him to be happy.”
“...You
don’t think he’s happy being the most important and powerful man in the world?”
“...I
think he wants to do his duty. Congress pressured him into taking office
remember. But is he happy with the job? Hell no. He’d rather go back to
Seaview. It’s a submariner thing... he can’t though. He knows he can’t. Never
again. But anything would be better than being president, even if he took a job
flipping hamburgers....not that he’d do a good job at that...terrible cook.
Lee’s idea of cooking is nuking a TV dinner or getting take out.”
“...What
do you think about the way he handled the children’s protest?”
“...Pretty
well. Inviting them into the Oval Office, even though some of them told the
reporters afterwards that they still thought he was doing wrong by not surrendering
as per that damn blog....you’d think seeing those operational satellite photos
would have settled that Alaska volcano business. And, come to find out, the FCC
says the blog is owned by Ronald Nelson. Can you imagine? That jerk tried to
kill Lee! Maimed him! Harriman Nelson and his wife too and...well, I’m sure you
don’t want me to go on and on but I will say that I’m sure the good people of
our country know not to believe anything Ronald says. He’s just trying to hurt
Lee.”
A
timer from inside the house dinged.
“...You’ll
have to excuse me now. Oatmeal Raisin cookies aren’t very forgiving if you
don’t get them out of the oven before they dry out or burn. Good day.”
With
that she grinned and retreated into her cottage.
“...And
so,” a new reporter at the anchor desk came into view with a generic
background. “we never learned just how Mrs. Crane’s cookies came out, or if
they are destined to go to the White House...and now in other news....”
I
had no problem believing that shortly Lee would be munching on the cookies.
Oatmeal Raisin were his favorite, though he could down Mrs. Morton’s Chocolate
Chip cookies with almost as much gusto.
Well,
it’s time to hit the hay, but damn it I need some cookies and headed to Chip’s
cabin to see if he had any left from his most recent care package from home.
~***~