Oath of Office

“I caused you to panic,” Cathy said. “That, Jack, is the number one reason this flu is so bad. I don’t mean to downplay the seriousness of the illness, but we provide better care today, a generally healthier lifestyle, and the ability to fight secondary infections that killed many of the people in the 1918 pandemic. Unfortunately, we also have a twenty-four-hour news cycle that is yellow journalism gone rogue. The idea that this is the worst, most deadly, illness in history — which it is not — is the stuff of pure unadulterated bull hockey. Each new reported case gets thrown up on the crawler at the bottom of the broadcast as Breaking News. Honestly, from a medical standpoint, I’m almost as worried about the flooding in Louisiana and Mississippi as I am about this flu.”

Ryan nodded.

“I’ve gotta tell you, Jack, there is a better-than-average chance more people will be injured in riots than by the actual bug. And that bitch Michelle Chadwick isn’t helping matters.”

Ryan gave his wife a pat on the thigh. “Probably best we keep your feelings about the good senator between us.”

Cathy lifted the sheets, giving the area under them an exaggerated look. “It’s just me and you here, boyo,” she said. “And besides, I’m allowed a little anger at someone who spews that kind of vitriol at my husband. She held a press conference yesterday accusing you of inaction. You. Can you believe it?”

He gave Cathy another pat on the thigh. This one for his benefit. “I’m ashamed to say it, but I think I’m getting used to politics. The garbage still stinks to high heaven, but I can hardly even smell it anymore.”

“Have you noticed that the news isn’t even the news?” Cathy said. “It’s about how social media reacts to the news. Michelle Chadwick is scaring the crap out of the country, Jack. Isn’t it against the law to yell ‘Fire’ in a crowded theater?”

Ryan shrugged. “She’d argue that there’s an actual fire.”

“Whatever,” Cathy said. “But she’s pouring gasoline on it.”

Ryan bunted the subject back to the flu.

“I saw the public service announcement you did with the CDC,” he said. “Thanks for lending the trustworthy face of the first lady to the cause. Should keep people home from work and school if they are sick, and, hopefully, get them to the doctor for a flu shot before they get that way. Say, I have an idea. How about you come work for me?”

“You can’t afford me.”

“I’ll reinstate the draft,” Ryan said. “Nationalize health care. Press all doctors into government service, especially beautiful ophthalmologists.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cathy said and chuckled. “That’ll go over big with your constituents. I specialized in ophthalmic surgery for two reasons. One, I happen to be good at it. And—”

Ryan smiled, finishing her thought. “And GBSs.” Cathy Ryan was an exceptionally gifted doctor, but, as with most docs, he supposed, one of her least favorite parts of med school rotations was what the students called GBSs — gooey butt sores. The list of GBSs was apparently endless, and Ryan had seen far too many photos in medical textbooks over the years. Enough, at least, to understand why his wife had chosen ophthalmology.

Cathy swung her legs off the bed, exposing the arch of her back and the exquisite swell of her hips, now completely free of the sheets. “There’s that,” she said. “But I’m not a big fan of by-the-ways, either.”

“I see,” Ryan said, though he obviously did not.

Cathy held a pink terry-cloth robe across her lap but hadn’t put it on yet. She turned slightly, leaning on one arm while she looked at the still-reclining Ryan.

“You know,” she said, shrugging the robe over her shoulders while she explained. “Patient comes in for something else and then stops kind of like Colombo when the visit should be over and says, ‘By the way, Doc, I know I came in for a sleep apnea, but while I’m here, you think you could set me up with some of those little blue pills my friend Bob told me about?’”

“Sounds smart to me,” Ryan said.

Cathy stood, wagging her head. “You got no issues, by the way, Mr. President. And anyway, the point is, you got this. You don’t need me to work for you.”

Ryan sprang sideways, grabbing the tail of her robe and giving it a tug, pulling her toward the bed.

“Jaaackkk,” she said, as she walked in place, in a halfhearted attempt to escape. “I really do have to go. Don’t you have a meeting about raising taxes or something?”

He held the robe for another half-second, just long enough to let her know he wanted her to come back to bed, but agreed that they didn’t have the time. It was a delicate dance, letting such an intelligent woman know he could not possibly live without her — and then doing precisely that for long stretches at a time.

Ryan shot another glance at the clock. It was a sorry state of affairs that he could feel like such a slacker for staying in bed until six in the morning. He let his head fall against the pillow in time for Cathy to turn and catch him looking at her.

She held the robe closed, tight at her neck, sheepishly drawing back her head. “What?”