A Creed for the Third Millennium by Colleen McCullough

  'Oh!' gasped Martha, so suddenly everyone turned away from Mama to look at her.

  'Oh?' asked Dr Christian, smiling at her lovingly.

  But she knew the love for what it was: a father for his youngest child, a brother for his baby sister. So she drew closer to Mary, who sat alongside her on the couch, and when Mary offered her a hand to hold she took it convulsively and held on to it tightly. 'Mrs Kelly,' she managed to say. 'Isn't it nice about her baby?'

  'Yes, it's very nice,' said Dr Christian, and got up. He looked at his mother. 'Don't mourn the dead, Mama. The little Mouse is right. Rejoice for the living.'

  He opened the front door, not boarded up yet, and went out onto the porch, closing the door behind him too quickly to permit of anyone's following him, a sure signal that he wished to be alone.

  It was very still and very cold, but it was dry. Too many changes. He took the icy wood of the porch railing in his hands and leaned on them, watching his breath billow out from his mouth like the balloons in a comic strip. Not often these days did his family intrude upon his thoughts, but tonight was an exception. A reminder that though he had huge responsibilities to the community at large, he also had a responsibility for those beloved people sitting inside. I am receding from them, he thought; as fast as I go towards the faceless many do I leave them behind. Why can we not stay the same? Why is change? They are afraid, and they are sorrowful. They have reason for their fear and their grief. Yet I cannot summon up the old intensity of affection for them, I am too drained to bear with them as patiently and gently as I should!

  The beast, the thing inside: it had the bit between its teeth and it dragged at him remorselessly. His hands left the railing and went up under his sweater, plucked at his shirt and the meagre chest that shirt harboured as if they could physically locate and tear away the thing that plagued and tore him so. He thought he would weep to ease his pain, and closed his eyes. But there were no tears.

  God in Cursing: A New Approach to Millennial Neurosis saw the printed light of day in late September. A carton of complimentary author's copies was dispatched to Dr Joshua Christian the day after the first batch of the first print run was packed in the huge printing plant Atticus owned outside Atlanta, Georgia. Atticus also owned a plant in southern California, which supplied the west of the country.

  It was the most extraordinary sensation to pick up a well-bound and beautifully laid out book and see his own name on it, Dr Christian discovered. He had never in his life experienced anything quite so unreal. The expected delight was just not there, for delight would have indicated reality, and about this book there was nothing real.

  Of course he would have ample time to get used to the fact that the book did exist before he was obliged to embark upon his publicity tour, for publication day was scheduled sometime late in October. The ensuing weeks would see the book presented to booksellers across the nation by the Atticus salesmen (who had been busy with bound galley copies for six weeks already), after which it would be shipped off to bookstores in the specified quantities. The ensuing weeks would also see copies bestowed gratis upon the various people whose duty it was to read the book and review it for television and radio and newspapers and magazines and journals.

  From the moment the book arrived in Oak Street, Holloman, life itself began to become unreal for Dr Christian. He had no time of grace allowed him at all, for on the day after he received his advance copies, his sister buzzed him in his office.

  'Joshua, I don't know whether I've got a really crazy patient on the line, or whether it's a genuine call,' Mary said, voice sounding odd. 'Maybe you'd better pick up and sort it out, okay? He says he's the President of the United States, but he doesn't sound crazy!'

  Dr Christian lifted up his telephone receiver a little gingerly. 'Joshua Christian speaking. May I help you?'

  'Oh, good!' said a deep and familiar voice. 'My name is Tibor Reece. I'm not usually in a position where I have to announce who and what I am myself, but there are very good reasons why I'm phoning you in person, Dr Christian.'

  'Yes, Mr President?' What else did one say?

  'Dr Christian, I have read your book and I am impressed. However, I'm not phoning you in person just to tell you that! I have a favour to ask of you.'

  'Of course, Mr President.'

  'Would it be possible for you to come down to Washington for a couple of days?'

  'Yes, Mr President.'

  'Thank you, Dr Christian. I'm sorry to disturb your work, and I'm afraid the confidentiality of this matter makes it impossible for me to organize transport for you, or invite you to stay with me as my guest. But if you are willing to get to Washington under your own steam, I will arrange for a room to be held in your name at the Hay-Adams Hotel - it's comfortable and close to the White House. Can you bear with me through all these inconveniences, Dr Christian?'

  'Of course, Mr President.'

  There was an audible sigh of relief from the telephone. 'I will contact you at the Hay-Adams on — say — Saturday?'

  'This Saturday will be fine, Mr President.' Did one have to keep on saying 'Mr President', or could one say 'sir' occasionally? Dr Christian decided that he would risk the occasional 'sir' when he met the President. Otherwise how could one behave but stiltedly?

  'Thank you very much, Dr Christian. A further favour, if I may?'

  'Certainly, sir,' said Dr Christian bravely.

  'I would greatly appreciate it if you kept this matter to yourself. Until Saturday?'

  'Yes, Mr President.' No use pushing his luck with the 'sirs'.

  'Thank you again. Goodbye.'

  Dr Christian sat, flummoxed, looking at the receiver he still held in his hand, then he shrugged, cradled it.

  Mary buzzed on the intercom. 'Josh? Everything okay?'

  'Fine, thanks.'

  'Who was it?'

  'Are you alone, Mair?'

  'Yes.'

  'It really was the President. I have to go to Washington, but he doesn't want it spread around.' Dr Christian heaved a sigh. 'It's Thursday afternoon, and he wants me down there by I presume Saturday morning. But the matter's confidential, so there will be no travel priorities for me this time. Do you think you can try to find me a seat on tomorrow's train?'

  'Can do. Would you like me to come with you?'

  'Good Lord, no, I can manage! But I guess I shouldn't say anything to the rest of the family, so what excuse am I going to find for a rush trip to Washington?'

  'That's easy,' said Mary dryly. 'Tell them you're going to see Dr Carriol.'

  'Why didn't I think of that? What a clever puss you are!'

  'No, I'm not clever. It's just that sometimes, Joshua Christian, you are dumb!' And his sister cut off her end of the intercom with an angry squeal that hurt his ears.

  'Well, I've sure done something, but I do wish I knew what,' he muttered.

  The confidentiality of the matter may have prevented the President from inviting Dr Christian to stay at the White House, but the arrangements made for his accommodation in Washington were very nice, and when Dr Christian presented his Totocred card for vetting, it was waved away. He had walked from Union Station using a street map, and was in his room waiting for Tibor Reece to call by midday Saturday.

  The call came through about two o'clock, and something in the President's voice told Dr Christian that this was not the first such call. Oh, dear! However, there were no overt or covert reproaches; the President just sounded extremely glad to find Dr Christian had arrived.

  'I'll send a car to pick you up at four,' said Tibor Reece, and hung up so quickly Dr Christian had no time to protest that he wouldn't mind the walk

  Nor did he have much chance to inspect the White House, for a servant conducted him swiftly through various corridors to what seemed a private sitting room; in retrospect his chief impression was one of disappointment It couldn't compare for beauty or elegance with any of the European palaces or even stately homes he had toured via videotape during his schooldays. In fact,
he thought it rather sterile and dreary. Maybe the brevity of its changing tenancies and the conflicting decorating ideas of its First Ladies precluded its acquiring either beauty or elegance? There was certainly nothing to rival the ground floor of 1047 Oak Street, in his humble opinion anyway.

  President Tibor Reece and Dr Joshua Christian did look very alike; each man recognized the fact in the moment of meeting. Their eyes were level, a welcome and most unusual occurrence. And their hands felt good intertwined, broad-based, long-fingered. Smooth-skinned, but still working hands.

  'We could be brothers,' said Tibor Reece, gesturing to a chair opposite the one from which he had risen to greet his guest. 'Please sit down, Doctor.'

  Dr Christian sat, deciding that the President's remark was not one he cared to comment on; he declined a drink, accepted coffee, and said nothing while the coffee was brought and dispensed. However, he was not at all uneasy, and his host sensed this gratefully; so often the President had to exert precious energy he could ill afford to squander in putting a guest at his ease.

  'You're not a drinking man, Dr Christian?'

  'Only a good cognac after a meal, Mr President. But I don't define that as a drinking man's habit. We got into it at home to warm up for bed.'

  The President smiled. There's no need to apologize, Doctor. It's a very civilized habit.'

  And so within minutes they established a calm and mutually respectful rapport, more through their frequent silences than through the chitchat custom dictated. Finally the President sighed and put his cup down.

  'Nitty-gritty time, Dr Christian?'

  'Yes, sir, I think so.'

  But Tibor Reece said nothing more for a moment, sitting with his hands clasped and frowning down at them. Then he made a little shrugging movement with his shoulders, and glanced up quickly.

  'Dr Christian, I have a personal problem of some import, and I'm hoping you can help me. After reading your book, I am sure you can.'

  Dr Christian said nothing, merely nodded.

  'My wife is very disturbed. In fact, after reading your book I'd call her a classic case of millennial neurosis — all her problems are caused by the times we live in.'

  'If she's very disturbed, sir, it may be that there's more to it than neurosis. I say that only because I can't allow you to hope I'm a universal healer. I'm only a man.'

  'Granted.'

  The President embarked upon his tale, never once stopping to remind Dr Christian of the matter's confidentiality, though as he proceeded his disclosures became more and more harrowing, more and more humiliating. And more and more potentially dangerous to himself, if he had judged his man wrongly. In actual fact he was not relying entirely upon his own judgment; Dr Judith Carriol had investigated this man with exquisite thoroughness, and nothing had uncovered a tendency to betray patients' confidences, or innate lack of principles.

  Tibor Reece was a desperate man. His domestic blisses were nonexistent, conjugal relations were nonexistent, a proper degree of love and care for his daughter was nonexistent. And his wife's self-preoccupation was ever increasing. The possibility of a nationwide scandal was something he had lived with so long it did not concern him nearly as much as the purely personal aspects. Clearly what he really wanted was a healed wife rather than a cowed one.

  'What do you want me to do exactly?' asked Dr Christian when the story was told.

  'I don't know, I honestly don't know. For tonight, just stay to dinner, huh? Julia is always home on Saturday and Sunday nights.' He smiled wryly. 'This is a Monday-to-Friday town, everyone splits for the weekend, even Julia's boyfriends.'

  'I'd be glad to stay for dinner,' said Dr Christian.

  'She will take a fancy to you, Doctor. She does to any new masculine face. And you do look a bit like me.' He laughed, the sound of a man who did not laugh enough. 'Of course that may mean she hates you on sight! Though I doubt it. It wouldn't be in character. I shall arrange to be called away at the end of the main course, to give you an opportunity to be alone with her, and I'll stay away about half an hour.' He looked at his watch. 'Good God! It's way after five already! My daughter and I always meet here around five-thirty every day.'

  The girl came in on the echo of his words, escorted by a woman uniformed like a British nanny. The woman did not stay, she merely bowed with great dignity to the President and went out, shutting the door firmly behind her. And there was the girl, too tall, too thin, too like her beaky sunken-cheeked father ever to be called attractive, though time and a good course of ballet or gymnastics might improve her carriage and her figure. Her name was Julia, too, but her father called her Julie; she was about twelve or thirteen years old, definitely pubescent, and already close to six feet in height. Poor thing.

  She behaved with gross immaturity, her antics more in keeping with a two-year-old. Her father had led her by the hand to his chair and placed her on his lap, where she sat playing with his tie and singing to herself tunelessly; it seemed she did not see Dr Christian sitting watching, for she ignored him as if he wasn't there. She didn't speak. However, every so often she managed to sneak a quick glance at Dr Christian, a furtive, purposive and calculating glance out of eyes that were unmistakably intelligent. The first time he caught that gaze Dr Christian scarcely believed what he saw, but immediately he arranged himself so that he could watch her from under lids ostensibly directed elsewhere; for the instant her eyes encountered his, she had switched the intelligence off. And after several minutes of playing this game, Dr Christian began to wonder if she might be a borderline case of autism. Certainly she was psychotic rather than retarded. Years before, he had come to the conclusion that the rich and the famous and the socially prominent were often less well served in the way of medical attention than many far less fortunately circumstanced people. So he wondered if the girl had ever actually been competently examined and tested, and he itched to send her to the Mouse for a couple of days. No one in the world tested better than the Mouse.

  'Mr President,' he said after sitting observing father and daughter for perhaps ten minutes, 'I wonder if it might be possible to see your house? I'm afraid I didn't look too closely at anything on my way in, and this is likely to be my only opportunity. Would it be too much trouble for someone to show me around?'

  Tibor Reece looked intensely grateful. He picked up the telephone at his elbow, and within two more minutes had Dr Christian organized, though on Saturday evening there were no professional guides on duty.

  'Let's take it very slowly,' said Dr Christian to the housekeeper appointed as his escort. 'I want to take the lot in!'

  Thus it was close to seven o'clock when he returned to the sitting room, after driving the Presidential housekeeper to the brink of despair by poking and prodding and marvelling and questioning with interminable thoroughness as he wandered from one room to another.

  Julie had gone. Julia had come.

  The First Lady's conduct followed a pattern Dr Christian recognized at once, for he had encountered women like her many times before. No sooner was he ensconced on one end of a couch to which she had directed him than she was ensconced on its other end, body twisted to face him, one leg tucked under her, the whole pose designed not so much to reveal her physical charms to him as it was to irritate her husband, who from where he was sitting could not see precisely what or how much she was displaying to the guest. And whatever Dr Christian said, she purred in answer, and whenever possible would emphasize her delight in his dismally undistinguished conversation by leaning across the vacant cushion between them to touch him lightly on the arm, or the cheek, or the back of his hand. In the days when people had smoked she would have made great play with his lighting of her cigarette, and use the hand that held it to punctuate her pleasure in him; to himself Dr Christian thought with amusement that when smoking disappeared from the spectrum of human pursuits, so too did a lot of most illuminating body language.

  A very beautiful woman, Julia Reece. Almost albino blonde, with rather prominent pale-blue eyes, a
fine fair skin, and a magnificent white bosom left generously on show, but not to the point of indecency in a President's wife. She too was overly tall (which meant genetically the child probably hadn't had a chance), but she was Venus-shaped, a tiny waist separating the voluptuousnesses of chest and hips, and long lovely legs. She dressed well, very expensively too. And she was about fifteen years younger than her husband.

  If President Reece had expected his dinner guest to shine verbally, he was doomed to disappointment. Though Dr Christian held his end of the table discussion capably up, he said nothing even the most biased of auditors could have termed brilliant, witty, profound or original. The presence of so unsympathetic and jarring a woman as Julia Reece he found not so much inhibiting as enervating; she possessed the disastrous habit of saying exactly the right thing to kill decent talk. Poor Tibor Reece! Either he had experienced an elderly man's fascination with young girls at a precocious age, or he had been caught like an unsuspecting fish. Dr Christian thought it was probably the latter; Julia could conceivably behave very differently.

  The consomme came and went, the salad came and went, and the roast chicken main course came. The promised urgent message was served just before the roast chicken remains were whisked away; Tibor Reece rose to his feet with an apology and a promise to Dr Christian that he would return in time for coffee and cognac.

  Which left Dr Christian alone at the table with Mrs Tibor Reece. He sighed to himself, feeling depressed.

  'Do you really want dessert, Joshua?' she asked; she had called him Joshua from the moment of introduction, where her husband had preferred to retain his title and his last name, not because of any lack of warmth, but because to do so was a small courtesy Dr Christian for one deeply appreciated.

  'No,' said Dr Christian.

  'Then let's go back to the sitting room, shall we? I don't suppose Tibor will get back, he rarely does, but we'd better give him an hour, for form's sake.' This last was said in conspiratorial accents.