The Inner Circle

12

It was late when Dr. Stewart Palmiotti’s phone began to ring. It was late, and he was comfortable. And as he lay there, toasty under his overpriced down comforter and protected from the December cold, he was perfectly happy to feel himself slowly swallowed by his current dream, a piano dream involving old childhood Italian songs and the pretty girl with the bad teeth who he always sees at the supermarket deli counter.

But the phone was ringing.

“Don’t pick it up.” That’s what his ex would’ve said.

That’s why she was his ex.

This wasn’t just some random call. From the ring-high-pitched, double chirp-this was the drop phone. The phone that could go secure with the flip of a switch. The phone with the gold presidential seal on the receiver. The phone that was installed in his house two years ago. By the White House Communications Agency. And the Secret Service.

The drop phone was about to ring again, but as Palmiotti knew, only a schmuck lets the drop phone ring twice.

“Dr. Palmiotti,” he answered, sitting up in bed and looking out at the late-night snow that had already blanketed his street in Bethesda, Maryland.

“Please hold for the President,” the White House operator said.

“Of course,” he replied, feeling that familiar tightening in his chest.

“Everything okay?” whispered Palmiotti’s… girlfriend? Girlfriend wasn’t the right word. Girlfriend made them sound like they were teenagers.

Palmiotti wasn’t a teenager. He was forty-eight. Lydia was forty-seven. Lost her husband to… she called it cancer of the soul. Meaning he was screwing the overweight girl from the dry cleaners.

It took Lydia two years before she would date. She was happy now. So was Palmiotti. He was happy and warm and ready to dream.

And then his phone rang.

Palmiotti didn’t like being on call. He had given it up years ago. But that’s part of the job of being personal physician-and one of the oldest friends-of the most powerful man in the world.

“Stewie, that you?” President Orson Wallace asked.

By the time they entered their freshman year at the University of Michigan, Palmiotti and Wallace had called each other by first names, last lames, nicknames, and most every good curse word they could find. But it wasn’t until Inauguration three years ago that Palmiotti started calling his friend sir.

“Right here, sir,” Palmiotti replied. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

The President doesn’t have to choose his physician. Most simply go to the White House Medical Unit. But a few, like George H. W. Bush, who appointed a dear family friend, understand that sometimes the best medicine is simply having someone to talk to. Especially someone who knows you well.

“I’m fine,” Wallace replied.

“If you’re fine, don’t wake me up in the middle of the night.”

“Wait. You got Lydia sleeping there, don’t you?”

At that, Palmiotti paused.

“Don’t lie to me, Stewie.” The President laughed. “I got satellites. I can see you right now. Look out your window and-”

“Orson, this a doctor call or a friend call?”

This time, Wallace was the one who was silent. “I just… I think I did something to my back. It’s bothering the hell outta me.”

Palmiotti nodded. His predecessors had warned him as much. Most calls from the Oval would be stress-related. “You want me to come over and take a look?”

“Nah. No. That’s silly. It can wait till tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah-absolutely,” the President of the United States said. “Tomorrow’s just fine.”