The Threat

“And when Ted Koppel hit him with the question, he said he’d thought long and hard about what to do. Fight in a war he didn’t believe was right? Go to Canada, desert his country? In the end, he’d told his draft board that if his number came up, he’d just have to go to prison. He stood by that choice now. No teleprompter. No prepared remarks. And it came across.”

Dan remembered the coverage, and remembered wondering at the time whether it hadn’t just been a clever evasion. And whether a guy with an attitude like that should even want to serve as commander in chief. But the incumbent had been no hero either, snuggled into a deferment his wealthy daddy had arranged. De Bari was the first Italian American to make it to the top, as remarkable in his way as John Kennedy had been. “Bad Bob” (a nickname from his firefighting days) had scored with ethnics, Catholics, fellow Westerners, and the unions. But the recession — punishing, endless, grueling — had put him in office. The other candidate had seemed embarrassed about it, but not really concerned — an impression that had doomed him at the polls.

“So what’s going on across the river?” he asked, admiring her long bare legs as she bustled here and there.

She told him about her ongoing feud with the comptrollers. “The force just isn’t getting the money they need. I don’t mean for weapons or force levels. I mean what keeps people in — health, housing, the no-glamour issues.”

“So put it in the budget.”

“I tried to, but what we keep getting back is ‘We’re already putting too much into defense.’ I wish the service chiefs were focused on the issue. Or just more responsive when you point out that a sizable percentage of our junior enlisted are on food stamps.”

“They ought to listen to you,” Dan said.

“Why should they? A woman. Never served in uniform. Working for a president who didn’t either.” She frowned into the distance. “But it’s not just me. They’ve never liked the fact civilians get to tell them what to do. I just have to get used to that.”

The phone rang and she answered it while he set the table. When they sat down it was full dark, and kids were rattling down the sidewalk on skateboards. The salmon was just right, the young asparagus tender.

After dinner they went to look at beds. He saw pieces he could live with, but they all seemed flimsy and overpriced. Especially considering his daughter was starting college that fall. Finally Blair asked him what he thought of one suite. He said he didn’t have an opinion.

“Dan, this is your house too. You’ve got to have some idea what you want.”

“It’s furniture, hon. As long as it keeps your ass off the carpet, who cares what it looks like?”

Which only seemed to irritate her more. They left without buying anything. It occurred to him that they usually did. As if she too wasn’t sure and had doubts about the life they were trying to build.

* * *

But they made up on the way home. That was one thing he liked about her — she didn’t hold a grudge.

That night they made love in the new queen-size for the first time. Or, more exactly, tried to. But cervical injuries didn’t help erectile function.

At last he gave up and rolled off. They lay facing away from each other. His neck burned. His arms pulsed as if he were gripping a power line. He smelled her scent and hair spray, his own stale sweat … He wondered why women even bothered with men, exactly what they got out of it.

When she turned back her fingers slipped around him, dropped between his legs. But it was still no good.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “It’s just not going to work. I can do something else, though.”

She didn’t answer. His fingers traced the curve of her hip, of her cheek.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry too. I thought it was supposed to come back.”

“Well, it did there for a while.”

“You said the doctor told you things would improve. The nerve pathways, or whatever.”

“That’s what she said. But it just sort of … it’s there, then … it isn’t.”

“Well, don’t let it get to you.” She groped for the sheets. “I married you, not your dick, okay? It’s not a big deal. Just give it time.”

In the light that came through the blinds he could see her face close as she kissed him good night. Some might say her nose might be a little large. But not him. He put his hand against her cheek. “You’re so beautiful.”

She murmured, “But there’s something else going on, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean: I thought you’d like living together. But sometimes you don’t seem to. Like that remark at the furniture store.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Then why’d you say it? It’s as if the harder I try to make things nice, like a home, the more it threatens you.”

“Well — I’m here. Aren’t I?”

“But are you committed to it? Sometimes I’m not sure you are, Dan.”

He told her he was, but actually he was trying not to groan. The pain felt like augers drilling down all the way to his wrists. He rolled out at last and took a pill. Drank some water and came back to bed.