"No," he shouted angrily into the mouthpiece, "you'll have it Friday when I'm done," and slammed the red phone back onto its plastic cradle. He snorted contemptuously, then raised his eyes towards the insistent rapping on his office door.
"Yes," he shouted.
The door was opened by a young man of medium build, well dressed and distinctly scrubbed. He was twenty-five, with slicked-back, dark brown wavy hair.
'Harvard or Yale?' wondered the elder man, sitting at his desk.
"Well?" asked Senator Robert Edwards, in his gruff, early-morning, clipped tone.
"Senator Edwards?" an unruffled voice inquired.
"That's what it says on the door young man."
"Good morning, Senator, I'm John Phillips, your Personal Assistant."
"Of course you are," replied the Senator, smiling broadly, remembering the interview they had shared some four weeks ago. Walking around his desk he grasped the hand of his new P.A. His reply had disconcerted the Yale man, who realized that the Senator had forgotten who he was but had made no attempt to apologize.
The Senator's years in office had schooled his thoughts and words providing a verbal vehicle that promoted himself in any conversation. This form of expression, more commonly known as 'one-upmanship,' was usually regarded as everyday dialogue by most politicians on 'The Hill.'
Born in Columbus, Ohio Robert Edwards had wealthy and prosperous parents. From a young age he learned quickly that the pen was indeed, mightier than the sword. First, by writing articles for the local paper, then after graduating from Harvard by writing political speeches for the Governor of the day. At twenty-eight he ran for election using his own political slogan and achieved his goal as the youngest Senator for the state of Ohio.
Two years later he married the state's most eligible, wealthy woman, Harriet Chiddingstone, a family lawyer with her father's law firm of Chiddingstone, Harley Associates.
Harriet's father had once described his only child as, 'an angel sent to defend the devils of this world.'
He had seen her blossom from a lanky, though attractive, blonde girl in her formative years, to a woman well endowed both physically and mentally. At six foot tall and with an I.Q. of 148 she commanded respect. Some men tended to back off when she wore high heels and had her long hair coiffed on top of her head. She looked beautifully aloof, even distant to them.
Few men realized that all she wanted was a little love and attention and provided they were not unattractive they all could have shared something wonderful.
On the other hand, women saw what they wanted to see, a graceful, Scandinavian, blond bimbo. Typical fodder for Hugh Hefner's stable. However, once in conversation with her they found that she conversed exceptionally well on most topics and in an empathic way. Perhaps subconsciously this was her safeguard against alienating them. All the same it had a warming effect on her audience which, through college and into law practice, enabled her to be extremely popular among all her work colleagues.
Robert inherited a gene from his father's side of the family. This gene determined by the age of twenty-seven that he became completely bald but far from being a disadvantage in his career and love life his baldness proved a positive advantage. To his electorate it made him look older and wiser. To women who were attracted to young, socially powerful men his baldness seemed to say, 'Hey, it may have gone from up there but it's up to you to find out if the cupboard is totally bare.'
Robert was socially introduced to Harriet at a tennis club function. Their exchange of glances and warm embrace sent a pleasurable tingle to her clitoris. The effect amazed and startled her.
They sat out most of the dances, just talking and listening. Passers-by commented that it must be love for they seemed never to take their eyes off each other.
They made a stunning couple on the tennis court and in their social circle they became known as 'Bonnie and Clyde.'
Robert 'Clyde' Edwards, due to his elegant clothes style and hard-nosed politics.
'Where did he get the money to pay for that suit?'
'Oh, he robs banks.'
Harriet 'Bonnie' Chiddingstone.
She suddenly enthused over everything anyone did or said. She became, as one young man with Scottish ancestry mused, 'A bonnie lass, a bonnie lass in love.'
The grand wedding was inevitable. Five hundred and sixty guests saw them off on a honeymoon that encompassed two weeks in Hawaii and two weeks in as many European countries that they could tour.
For the first two years they had an exciting, sexual marriage that each partner enjoyed but as time went on parents and friends noticed a change in their attitude, a change that became a rift, then a great divide.
They wanted children.
They had discussed the topic at great length even before the wedding. They tried desperately to create life, perhaps too hard.
It hurt Robert more so than Harriet. He had it all. Money. Position. Power - an attractive wife - but he didn't have a son.
It irked him, like an itching knife wound as it heals.
It was an uncomfortable feeling. In his mind it became an unsociable feeling. A feeling that during the past eight years he had achieved everything he had set out to do but could not produce, mold and characterize his likeness forward - into another generation.
He strongly believed that his accumulated knowledge of life over the past thirty-eight years, should be passed on to a younger mind to enable that mind to have a head start in life.
Medically, Harriet could have children and Robert was quite capable of producing offspring even with his lower than average sperm count.
Every conceivable sexual position, described in the Karma Sutra, had been used. They had enlisted the aid of marriage guidance counseling and coincided their love-making to Harriet's biorhythms but still nothing happened.
A hollowness impinged itself on their lives. It resulted in a stagnant marriage that ultimately foundered - then died.
Each partner, though still living together in the same house, had inevitably found solace with another.
Now here, in his Washington office and shaking his hand, was the epitome of what Senator Edwards carefully considered to be the, 'Clay for his mold.' If he could not produce children maybe he could mold this young man into someone who he felt would achieve greatness. With just a little guidance.
"John, it's good to see you. My secretary phoned in sick so we have a great deal of work to get through today. Though tonight we'll kick over the traces and have some entertainment," he said moving a straight backed, wooden chair, beside the burnished, mahogany desk.
"Coffee?" he asked, moving quickly to the percolator, perched boldly atop one of three metal filing cabinets.
"Yes... Please, Senator. Black. No sugar sir."
"Same here, my boy," intoned Robert, ensuring that John's memory noted the point he was making.
