Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

“Thirteen is such a great age,” Darlene said wistfully.

She had been warned by friends early on that after Lisa hit first grade, the years would fly by instead of crawl. Now her baby was a busy college sophomore, moving ahead with her own life, and all Darlene had of those early years were photographs and memories.

“The divorce has made me miss time with Em,” Lou said. “That’s the hardest thing in my life.”

“You said the divorce wasn’t your idea. I would imagine there’s some guilt roiling around that.”

“Her mother’s a really good egg, who just ran out of gas after a couple of self-destructive years on my part. She’s married to a decent-enough guy now, and is as happy for my recovery as I am. Whatever guilt I still feel toward Em I make up for by allowing her to drink Diet Coke when we’re together.”

“The beverage industry loves my husband, but they sure don’t like what I have to say about their products.”

“Is it hard for you?” Lou asked, “the spotlight?… The constant scrutiny?”

Darlene tried to shrug off the question. “It’s gets tiring,” she confessed.

“I’ll bet.”

“We can’t be normal. For starters, most couples can have a slight argument without making the front page of the tabloids. We can’t risk a cross word or look outside of our bedroom. When we began this journey, Martin made me a promise. He said the responsibilities of the country wouldn’t eclipse his responsibilities as a father and husband. I never questioned his resolve. But now, I’ve realized my own naivety.”

“In what way?”

Darlene found herself liking the way Lou was looking at her-steady but relaxed eye contact, with no hidden agenda or preoccupying thoughts. She tried reminding herself that he had the advantage of not having to compartmentalize his life the way Martin did. But in the end, she felt unwilling to fight her attraction to the man.

“Before Martin took the oath of office,” she said, “I read everything I could about being a First Lady. There’s no provision in the Constitution for the president’s wife. No formal job description, either.”

“You were a doctor. It must have been hard for you to go from having a very clear set of guidelines to none at all. Maybe you could start doing some version of medical practice.”

“Believe it or not, I never even considered that.”

“Well, like you said, there’s no job description for what you do.”

A pleasant silence followed, which became prolonged enough to begin to feel edgy.

“Well, it’s time,” she said, clearing her throat and checking her Movado-a wedding present from Martin. “How about we go visit Dr. Humphries and see what he has to offer to untangle this conundrum.”

“Great idea.” Lou paused a beat. “Can you make another wish on the Philadelphia skyline?” he asked, eyes fixed ahead.

“Sure,” Darlene said. “Nothing in the rules of wishing says I can’t.”

“Then how about just wishing that everything becomes clear … on every level.”

Lou had imagined Dr. Oliver Humphries would be a small-framed, skittish fellow with oversized glasses-something akin to some of the arthropod phylum he studied. To his great surprise, Humphries looked nothing like a bug, but rather, possessed an uncanny resemblance to the rock star Sting. The entomologist’s two-toned hairdo was cut short on top, with dyed-blond spikes held straight by a vigorous application of gel. One of Humphries’s ears was pierced, a silver dragonfly dangling from a small chain, and a silver stud could be seen depressed into the side of his left nostril. Even more distinctive were his muscular arms, which featured an array of brilliantly drawn tattoos incorporating insects of all types-flying, crawling, stinging, and praying.

They were in Humphries’s modest office on the second floor of the Bio-Life Building. Photographs of the scientist on expedition to every conceivable climate adorned the walls, along with half a dozen framed degrees and testimonials, including a doctorate from UC Davis.

“Well,” Humphries said, “I guess your friends from the Secret Service found me no threat.”

“Actually, they were quite interested in you and wanted to stay and hear what you had to say,” Darlene replied.

Humphries pushed aside a stack of papers and several magnifying lenses, and slid a spiral-bound notebook in front of him. Lou’s immediate sense of the man was completely positive.

“So, then, let’s talk termites,” Humphries said as he studied what Lou assumed to be notes taken from their phone conversation.

“Were you able to find any documented examples of flesh-eating termites since we spoke last?” Lou began.

Humphries drummed his fingers on the desk and pursed his lips. Despite the gold band on the professor’s wedding finger, Lou imagined his offbeat good looks acting like pheromones on the coeds in his classes.

“To be honest, Dr. Welcome-”

“Lou, please.”

“And Darlene. I’m a pediatrician, so I should be able to understand anything the ER doc over here understands.”

“To be honest, Dr. Lou … and Dr. Darlene,” Humphries said. “I didn’t look very hard.”

“Because you found one?” she asked.

“Because they don’t exist. At least not naturally.”

“Could they have been another sort of flesh-eating insect?” Lou asked. “An unusual species of the Dermestid beetle perhaps?”

Humphries’s eyes brightened. “I admire anyone who comes to my office prepared. The skin beetle is a good guess, but unfortunately, all known species are scavengers.”

“By that you mean they don’t live off live flesh?” Darlene interjected.

“That’s correct. The Dermestid beetle is often used in taxidermy and some natural history museums to clean animal skeletons. There’s also a medicolegal aspect to the beasties’ handiwork, helping forensic investigators determine time of death. But I’ve never come across any accounts of this particular beetle consuming live flesh. Besides, they don’t fit the description of the insects you saw, Lou. The adult beetles have oval-shaped bodies, concealed beneath hard scales.”

“What about mutation?” Lou asked.

Humphries pondered the question. Darlene caught Lou’s sidelong glance and nodded her excitement.

“A mutation that transforms a detritivore into an omnivore…” His voice trailed away in thought.

“Detritivore?” asked Darlene. “Like detritus ?”

“Precisely. Your Latin hasn’t deserted you, Doctor. Organisms that obtain nutrients from decomposing organic matter. Garbage eaters. It appears that everything I read about your intelligence is accurate.”

“Why, thanks, Oliver,” she replied with her ice cream-melting smile. “I’m afraid I’m much more used to reading about my waistline or makeup or wardrobe than my intellect.”

Humphries took a moment to compose himself and continued. “In any event, I can’t fathom an environmental factor that would cause such a mutation. I’ve studied entomology for most of my life and have been to every continent except Antarctica studying bugs-termites especially. I’ve discovered at least two new species, but never encountered anything close to what you’ve described. It’s one of the reasons I was so eager to meet with you. If such an insect were naturally occurring, well … it would certainly generate a lot of buzz in the industry.” The entomologist chuckled.

“Nicely done,” Darlene said, picking up on the play on words before Lou. “But you just said ‘naturally occurring.’ What about a nonnatural environmental shift of some sort?”

“Something man-made?”

“Yes,” Lou said, perking up at the thought. “A man-made airborne contagion of sorts.”