Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [51]
“I’d be delighted, Mr. President, and I appreciate the invitation. As a matter of fact, it would really work out well. Mags and the kids extended their visit with her mom in California for a week, but they’re doing fine. They’ll be back on Saturday night.
“Wonderful. I’ll look forward to seeing you, Clayton.”
Troubled, McCarty hung up the phone. Burkmeister had made every effort to decouple his official life from his private life, and the location of a meeting signified the nature of the visit: official calls in the Oval Office and private calls on the second floor. The two did not mix.
This would be the first McCarty had seen of the president since he had entered the hospital over a week ago, and he didn’t know what to expect. Coupled with the president’s melancholy voice, it gave him an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake. He threw himself back into his work. It was the easiest way to distract himself until it was time to take the short walk over to the White House.
When he arrived that evening, he was promptly escorted to the Center Hall on the second floor, through the Yellow Oval Room, to the door of the president’s living room. The butler, Randall Whitehead, a longtime fixture at the White House and a person Clayton had come to know and like, knocked on the president’s door and then opened it. “Thanks, Randall,” said Clayton as he walked in to greet the president.
Clayton was shocked as he set eyes on the frail-looking man sitting in the green leather chair by the crackling fireplace. Burkmeister, dressed in casual clothes—a navy blue V-neck sweater, blue shirt, and dark gray slacks—motioned for Clayton to come over. Though looking exhausted, Burkmeister got up and greeted Clayton with a warm smile.
“Many thanks, Clayton, for filling in for me so well in my absence. I know it has been a rough week or so for you, and I don’t know how you could’ve done it any better than you have.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Clayton, “You’ve assembled a great cabinet, and I would be taking compliments under false pretenses if I claimed responsibility for the work that they’ve done in your absence. We’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re back.”
After an awkward silence, Burkmeister said, “Get you a drink, Clayton? Scotch straight up, if I remember right?”
“Yes sir, I’d like that,” McCarty said, hoping the drink would steady his nerves. What’s this all about? he wondered.
Burkmeister walked over to the minibar, looked out at the rain, and poured a healthy shot of Chivas Regal. Then, thinking about the news he was about to lay on Clayton, he made it a double. He walked over to Clayton, handed him his drink, and motioned him toward a chair facing him.
“How’s the family, Clayton? You said they were out in California?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Maggie and the kids are visiting her mother. She had her gall bladder removed two weeks ago, and Maggie’s there for moral support. The kids are playing a little hooky and love seeing Grandma whenever they can.”
“That’s nice. How old are the kids now?
“Melissa is eight and Amy is five,” he answered with as much cheer as he could muster. Whatever he wants to talk about, he’s having a hard time saying it, Clayton thought as Burkmeister nodded with a faraway look in his eyes.
After an awkward silence, the crackling fire and a little thunder in the background the only sounds, Burkmeister finally looked Clayton in the eyes as he groped for the right words.
“Clayton, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just come right out and say it. I’m dying, Clayton, and the doctors have given me three months or so to live.” There, I’ve said it and it’s on the table for discussion, Burkmeister thought with relief.
Clayton’s mouth opened as he stared at the president in stunned silence. Sensing