The Second Coming by John Dalmas

And there he was, a study in remorse. It did not touch her. Her voice was as hard as her face. “What do you want, Senator?”

“Madam President, I have an apology to make.”

“To whom?”

“Well, you to start with, you being right there on the phone. For the hateful, unconscionable things I said yesterday to the press. And another one to your masseuse, when I can get hold of her.

“I guess you know I’m not used to saying I’m sorry. I wouldn’t even admit to myself that I ought to, till last evening I got a call from Carl McGrath, down in Port Charlotte. You know old Carl. He didn’t chew me out or even criticize, but he caused me to look at what I’d said.

“Then, when I got home, Addie met me at the door and said ‘Honey, we’ve got to talk.’ She’s the one made me look at how your masseuse—hell, I don’t even know the lady’s name—how she had to feel. Anyway, by the time Addie was done, I was ready to call you right then, but she said, ‘No, wait till morning; she’s prob’ly in bed.’ So here it is morning, and here I am, hat in hand.”

He looked as if he were peering out of the screen at her. “Whether you’re willing to accept this or not, I’m going to apologize publicly, to the press. Eat me some well-earned crow.

“And something else. Carl said something like, ‘That woman is trying to steer the country through its worst internal dangers since the War Between the States. She doesn’t need insults just now.’ Those weren’t his exact words, but that’s what they amounted to.

“Anyway, I didn’t sleep a whole lot last night, but I did a lot of thinking. And I’m going to suggest to my Republican colleagues that they vote yes on your Balanced Budget override. Because I am. It’s a dangerous precedent, and it troubles me deeply. But the times are dangerous too, and it seems to me the risk is justified.”

Florence Metzger stared. “Senator, I’m glad I don’t have a weak heart, or they’d be swearing Charles DeSales in as president this morning. Now I have something to tell you, but first I want to introduce you to someone.” She beckoned to Andrea, who’d been listening wide-eyed. The therapist came around the desk, and the president angled the pickup to show her.

“Senator Woodrow, I want you to meet my therapist, Andrea Jackson. She came in early today and tendered her resignation. I haven’t accepted it, but if she insists, there’s not much I can do about it.”

Riley Woodrow peered earnestly from the screen. “Miz Jackson, I would consider it a favor, to me and my conscience, if you would withdraw your resignation and accept my abject apologies.”

Her voice was even quieter than usual. “Senator, I will do both. And I thank you for—for being the sort of person who can do what you’re doing.”

The president turned to her. “Anything else, Andy?”

“No, ma’am.”

Metzger readjusted the pickup. “Senator,” she said, “You have just saved me not only a good therapist, but someone who’s not afraid to disagree with me when I ask her opinion.

“Now, what else I need to say is, I owe you an apology, too. So I suggest we meet the press together, and apologize mutually. It will do the whole damned country good to see and hear it. We can set a good example, maybe even start a civility trend.”

31

Thick drizzle filled Jenny Buckel’s headlight beams as she swung her elderly Toyota into the parsonage driveway. Six or eight degrees colder, she told herself, and North Carolina would be having a white Christmas. At least a white December 23rd. According to the radio, the Smokies were already white. By morning Barlow might be too.

She pushed her door open, then poked her umbrella out and opened it before getting out herself. She’d leave her suitcase in the luggage compartment with the rest of her stuff. She hadn’t told Steven she was coming. He’d have wanted to know why, and she didn’t want to talk about it via a computer or telephone.

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