The gnat-voice faded. He put the receiver back to his ear.
“Janet, if you have something to tell me, do it.”
“Timothy. He’s in the hospital.”
His breath caught, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He broke his leg. Poor baby, those skates are just murderous, murderous, I don’t know why they all think they have to have those terrible skates . . .”
“How bad is the break?”
“He’s in a cast!”
“How bad is the break?!”
“He’s . . . he’s coming home tomorrow.”
“He’s not in traction or on antibiotics?”
Another sob. “No.”
“Then there’s probably nothing to worry about. I’ll FedEx him a get-well card and call him once he’s home. Okay?” He started to hang up, then said quickly, “What’s his doctor’s name? And what hospital?”
She told him and he wrote it down. Timothy wasn’t a poor baby. He was sixteen, born the second year of his first senate term. Steven had been born a year earlier. Before that there had been miscarriages, one after another, year after year. Janet had wanted to quit trying, but By disliked failure. One of the two things he’d wanted out of marriage was a son. He’d sent Janet to clinics and paid for her doctors, by the dozen. She, of course, said it could be his fault, which was ridiculous, as it had proved to be in the end. He had succeeded, just as he always did. Two boys in a little over a year. An heir and a spare, wasn’t that what the nobility said?
After Tim’s birth, Janet no longer had any excuse for her appearance, and he’d given her the ultimatum. Lose fifty pounds, change her hairstyle, take a course in public speaking, and learn how to dress. She’d gaped at him like a halfwit, thirty-three to his thirty-seven, and looking fifty. All she could do was whine about his using her as a brood mare, not caring anything about her as a person. He’d said fine, he didn’t care about her as a person, but he was willing to take care of the brood mare and the colts.
He gave her very generous terms and no battle over custody. So long as the boys were children, let her deal with measles and chicken pox and ear infections and schoolwork. He intended to found a dynasty, but he’d do his part later on, when the time came for the right schools and meeting the right people. He wanted no gossip, no imputations of being unfair. Out and out feminists would never vote for him anyhow, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to lose the sympathy of conservative women by mistreating his ex-wife. A lot of them lived on alimony, too.
Janet’s lawyer had suggested she take the offer and not make waves. By had given her no cause for a counter-suit, except for that one semipublic embarrassment, he had been careful and extremely discreet. After the divorce, he’d stayed discreet, but when he began thinking about the presidency, his advisors said a Hispanic wife might draw the voters. He had just the girl in mind: Guadalupe Roybal, descendent of first settlers of New Mexico, someone to help him court the state’s La-Raza-proud Hispanics right along with its Anglo aristocracy. She had flawless light olive skin and a wealth of curly brown hair, she spoke fluent Southwest Spanish, and usually unaccented English.
Moreover, she knew what was expected of her. Being married to Janet had taught him an invaluable lesson: finding a wife was just like filling any other staff position, it required a detailed job description. There would be no children. Since he was twenty-five years older than she, she balked at a tubal, but said she would “handle the matter herself.” Within her generous allowance she was to stay healthy, elegant and well dressed. She was to bone up on Hispanic issues, use the name Roybal-Morse, stay out of any situation that could look even faintly compromising, and stick with him at public functions, keeping him out of any hint of trouble with the female kind. It was all agreed to, written down, signed and witnessed.