Rear-Admiral Roderick Allan Littledale III lay in his bed, silently watching the last few days, hours and minutes of his life pass. He was sat up on pillows kindly arranged by the nurse. Above him was a sign, "DNR", do not resuscitate, warning the medical staff to let him go when his time came. And this, he knew in his heart and lungs, would be soon enough; soon enough.
His life had been good, successful and well-respected; marred by only one lie. Born between the European wars to a tough, ambitious local businessman who had sold agricultural products to midwest farmers. His father, Roderick Newton Littledale II, had taken up politics and reached the heights of town mayor, then had stood, twice unsuccessfully, for the Senate. His family were rich Democrats with little time for the powerful Republicans.
The old man's lips moved, noiselessly, as he gazed into the distance through his window on the outside world, "Just like my son." He had had no time for politics. To him power was weaponry and war. Politicians never got that. They think it is about money, fame, sex and office manoeuvres. The old man knew, from direct experience, that real power was in the industrial machine of war at which the United States of America truly excelled. A smile of confidence and pride stole across the wizened, grey face.
"If I die now, it'll be the best way to close my mind; to sleep for the final time." He allowed his thoughts to wander through ships, submarines, naval yards, Russian underwater blips on a radar screen and the sheer adrenaline rush that had been the tannoy cry: Now hear this! followed by the whoop of the claxon. "Beats waving at a room full of fawning sycophants wearing stupid hats and badges with donkey placards", he thought with satisfaction.
A great life, but one lie. One huge lie that he and his late, beloved wife, Sarah nee Levi, had carried from Scotland to the grave. But not quite, for the old man was still alive, just. Just one lie. He wasn't going to die with it on his conscience; he was going to tell the boy. He slowly reached over for the cord and pressed the button. After a minute a sharply ironed nurse entered,
"Are you comfortable Admiral? Do you want anything? More pillows?"
The old man was still looking out of the window. He breathed deep to draw enough breath to speak. When he spoke it was in a whisper. The nurse leaned close enough for a kiss, her ear to his lips. For moment he saw Sarah, but she was gone.
"Call the boy. I have something final to tell him." She nodded, plumped the pillow one last time, took the call-button from his hand, placing it nearby on the bed-clothes, then strutted out, noiselessly.
Back in his office, Roderick Allan Levi Littledale IV was in a meeting, as he often was. The assistant noiselessly opened the door and walked to the great man's chair, gently and imperceptibly tipping it as he leaned his mouth to the other man's ear. His lips moved silently. The other man nodded affirmation and spoke, "Ladies and gentlemen, I must go now, my father is calling me." He carefully checked that the words had been accepted with due esteem as the others nodded and looked down at their notes. "Mr Secretary, please take the chair."
He rose, retied the lowest jacket button, pulled it straight, feeling the soft Italian fabric against his fit, slim body. He walked out at a carefully practised pace, leaving his chair empty. Once in the outer office he checked his Gucci watch. 2pm. He'd be back for 3.30pm. He led the way down corridors and stairs to the waiting limousine. Police outriders escorted him to the hospital where - as he expected - the media had been tipped off about his imminent arrival.
Cameras jostled with microphone-holding cheap-suit wearers, held back by more police. There was no need to push, as he had decided to approach them for a short statement.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your thoughts and prayers for my family during these difficult days and, perhaps, hours." Was that a tear? "I'd be grateful for your patience as we all wait for events that must happen. Thank you." In his head he was preparing the next speech, "My father was a great man. To me he was the great man ..."
He hated him. The old man hated him back. His grandfather's son, his mother's son he had been called several times. The incestuous imagery had taunted him. The old man was hard and heartless, with love only for his sister, Hannah. She had done right and married a man who became a Colonel. A real man the old man had often goaded him. Even when he had won the election, going where his grandfather had never gone, the old man hadn't phoned to congratulate him until several days had passed.
At least the old man had kept schtum about their fraught relationship. No politician can be successful unless he comes from an impeccable family line. And his had a gold nugget, his mother's parents, omi and opi Levi. How he had played their flight from the anti-democratic Nazis in Austria. His life was packaged as a scene from The Sound of Music movie. Great box office. And he didn't look too Jewish either.
He was greeted quietly by the hospital director, the medical doctor in charge of the cancer ward, and the nursing staff as he passed. He walked up the stairs and corridor to the final door where he knew his father lay, close to the end. He opened the door and closed it behind him firmly keeping everyone else out. He pulled a chair from the wall, untied his lower jacket button, and sat beside the bed, facing the old man, whose face was still turned to the window.
"Hi, dad. How are you today? You asked for me?" He knew that it was only because his sister was now living in Israel with her husband Aaron, on duty with the IDF, that he had been sought for. But he was wrong.
"Dying. Dying", the old man gasped. The son looked at the pictures on the wall. Submarines in Holy Loch, Scotland. The Windraker yacht his parents had crossed the Atlantic in on that long shore leave when he had been born. How they had loved that boat. Out every weekend, it seemed, cutting through the choppy or becalmed Clyde waters. The old man had loved been greeted by the locals at Tarbert and Lochgoilhead as, "Admiral".
He felt the slight queasiness of seasickness at the photo of the yacht moving rapidly through the waters at a rakish angle. He turned back to the old man who was now looking at him. His eyes were rheumy and his skin was like a slack sail. Windless.
They sat in silence for several minutes. The young man checked the ward windows to ensure no-one was watching, then checked his watch.
"Dad, I'm a busy man, as you well know, I can't stay long."
"It's OK, son, I won't be long."
The words hung in the air, speaking mortality into the passing moment. The young man thought: I wonder if I'll be able to cry?
The old man was still looking at him. He began to whisper. The young man leaned in, his ear near the old man's lips, or just close enough, discretely turning up his concealed hearing aid.
"She. You mother wouldn't tell you."
The old man gasped for more breath. For a moment the young man looked at the call button, but saw the DNR notice instead.
"She told me never to tell you. But I can't die with this on my conscience."
The old man lay back. His head sagged sideways. The younger man hadn't moved at all. He was staring at and through the window. His heartbeat increased. Scandal he thought. Surely not the rumour. Or had his sister had an affair. Or was he swapped at birth. Movie plots and newspaper headlines of fallen politicians came and went in his mind. The young man thought, how much will this cost to cover up? Its always the same, sex, drugs or rock'n'roll. Even his straight-laced father. But, he was wrong.
The old man slowly raised his head again.
"The sea-voyage from Scotland to New England back in 1964. When I was based at the Holy Loch, in charge of the sub refitting and refuelling ..." His breath was shorter with the effort. Time ticked on at the young man's left wrist. A blind moved as his Secretary looked in; a discreet signal.
"Dad, what about it?"
The old man was tiring. The young man was becoming impatient. He had left important matters of state for this nonsensical ramble about a long-gone yacht. He reckoned, I'll wait five more minutes, call the nurse, squeeze the old man's hand, kiss his forehead, then leave with a public tear wiped away by my hand.
"It's a lie", the old man added. "You weren't born on that crossing. Sarah's pregnancy was another phantom. She was never pregnant."
"Dad, what are you saying. This is nonsense. Now, I have to go." He pressed the call button and waited for the nurse and doctor to come in. Then he took the old man's hand, leaning over to kiss his forehead. The old man gripped his hand with surprising strength and pulled him to him. A beautiful scene, the young man thought. But the old man spoke directly, his lips touching the younger man's left ear,
"She pulled you out from a basket floating on the Clyde. You were an abandoned baby. Sarah insisted we keep you. When we got to America we registered the birth. Your mother so wanted a child, and she had decided that you were hers, sent by God, like the Moses of her ancestors. She loved you."
The old man's grip weakened, but he held on. Years of holding back had weakened him, and his love for his son. Now he had peace. Now he could go.
"Dad. Dad! You mean I am not an American? I'm just some child you and mother found floating past your yacht!" The young man released the old man's hand, letting it fall on the bedclothes. What did he care? What was he going to do now? The nurse and doctor stood stunned, before she remembered her role and checked the old man's pulse and breathing.
"He's gone", she whispered. But their thoughts were on what the younger man had said, "You mean I am not an American."
The door to the room opened and his Secretary came in. He leaned close to the sitting man, just tilting the chair back enough to catch his attention, moving his lips towards the other man's ear. With the hearing aid still on high the whispering voice boomed,
"Mr President, we think it's time for you to go now."