“Look, I know you’re expecting great things from the Reynolds Administration, Kevin,” I explained. “We intend to honor our commitment to doubling the NIH budget within the next five years. That will bring funding in real dollars to levels we haven’t seen since the Clinton Administration. Doing so is a centerpiece of our plan for the future.”
Seated across from me was Kevin Williams, the Director of the National Institutes of Health and a personal friend of David’s. Indeed, Kevin’s husband, Zach Taylor, was David’s Science and Technology advisor. Their friendships went way back. In fact, David and Jeremy had a lot to do with Kevin and Zach getting together in the first place. So many of David’s most important appointments and closest advisors were high school friends, myself included. A good many of us were gay but being gay and out in high school was much more of a challenge back then. We tended to stick together and formed lifelong friendships.
“Unfortunately,” I continued, “whereas Clinton had the full support of just about everyone in his day, today’s pharmaceuticals see the NIH as competition for scarce research dollars. Ever since the Obama administration, increases in funding for the NIH have often come at their expense so, naturally, they’re skeptical of our plans. Working out a deal that is fair to the many special interest groups that lobby Congress without ballooning the budget is essential to getting something passed, and this will take time.
“Randy is giving Clinical Center Grand Rounds at this very moment, explaining the new role of the Surgeon General in coordinating healthcare research efforts throughout the federal government,” I continued. Every week, the NIH brought in a highly respected medical scientist or individual to give a lecture to the many researchers that worked at the NIH Clinical Center. This week, it was Randy Bernstein, the Surgeon General, which I suspected Kevin already knew. “By serving as a research czar, Randy will be able to reduce costly duplication of effort, facilitate sharing of common resources and make it possible for funded researchers to take advantage of each other’s expertise. Even without increasing the budget, these things will help our research dollars go further.”
“I understand all that, Altaf,” Kevin began, “really, I do, but what am I supposed to tell the promising new assistant professor at the University of Cincinnati who faces the challenge of getting her first NIH grant? Even with our emphasis on making it easier to get that first grant, her chances are still only one in ten and those chances drop to one in twenty when she applies for her second NIH grant. We’ve never had such a low funding rate.
“The numbers don’t even reflect the increasing size of the U.S. population. With a population that is approaching the half-billion mark, the percentage of people choosing a career in medical research is actually less than it was twenty years ago. Adjusted for inflation, however, our budget is less than it was in 1990. Even doubling it won’t be enough!”
“Believe me, we understand that, Kevin,” I countered. “We just can’t afford to devote more of our GDP to healthcare research. Yes, we’ve made some significant strides in recent years. Our own friend, Sammy Austin, has been cured of HIV, thanks in part to NIH-funded research. Likewise, Paul Manning and thousands of others with Down’s Syndrome now have normal intelligence, thanks to the NIH. NIH-funded research has touched each and every one of our lives and yet Americans seem to have other priorities right now. The investment we have made in the NIH has paid off by saving trillions of dollars that would have otherwise been spent on ineffective treatments, or lost through decreased productivity. We have to sell that rationale to the American people.
“But there is a point of diminishing returns. Throwing more money at a problem doesn’t necessarily speed up the pace of research. Look how long we’ve been trying to find a cure for cancer…”
“We’ve made significant strides,” Kevin interrupted, “and there have been breakthroughs with certain types of cancer.”
“Yes, but given that there are limited resources, doesn’t it make sense to fund only the best and brightest?” I countered.
“My fear is that with such low funding rates,” Kevin responded, “the best and brightest will choose jobs in industry where they have more of a sure thing, rather than take a chance on an academic career path. To a large extent, it’s already happening…”
I didn’t really have a counterargument to that, as I knew Kevin was right, and so I answered, “Let’s focus on trying to double the budget. It may not be as much as we’d like, but it still would go a long way toward restoring our preeminence in medical research. People may have lost sight of the need but, for the most part, they do support America’s role as a leader in the field of Medicine.”
Just as Kevin was opening his mouth to say something else, the door burst open and two men in suits walked in. In that instant, I knew. I had foreseen David’s assassination thirty-five years ago — and now it had come true.
“What’s going on here?” Kevin asked with incredulity.
“It’s the President, isn’t it?” I asked the men who’d just entered.
“President Reynolds was assassinated less than a half-hour ago,” one of the men confirmed. “The presidential motorcade was attacked — his limo was struck by a rocket-propelled grenade.”
“OH MY GOD!” Kevin exclaimed and then, turning to me, he asked, “You knew about this?”
“I’ve been having premonitions of this day since I was a teenager,” I told him and then I went on to explain the circumstances.
When I was a boy in Pakistan, I had a very close friend — a best friend named Fareed. We used to do everything together, but our biggest dream of all was that one day we’d live in the West.
When we were thirteen, we both became aware that we had become more than just friends, but I was too scared to admit it to myself and, when Fareed asked me about it, I pushed him away. Homosexuality was a grave sin against Allah and I wasn’t about to go against His will. For two years Fareed and I didn’t even talk to one another. I was absolutely miserable. We both were and it was entirely my fault.
Then one day two years later, I had an epiphany of sorts. I met with Fareed after school and we made love all afternoon, but then my mother came home and discovered us in bed. Although my mother was a nurse, she couldn’t reconcile what she had witnessed with the teachings of our faith and so she took both of us to the village imam. Little did she know how unforgiving he would be. He put in place a fatwa and sentenced us both to death by stoning.
Fareed was executed the very next day. He was only fifteen years old. I would have been executed too had my mother not escaped with me to London and then the United States, where we were granted asylum. Only later did I learn that it was my father who orchestrated our escape. A year later I met Randy and we fell in love, but I never forgot my first love.
After another year passed I got a call from my sister, Zara, who told me our father was dying and that he wished to see me one last time. The imam respected my father and honored the request of a dying man, suspending the fatwa as long as my father was still alive. Little did we know that the imam would stoop to poisoning a dying man so that the fatwa against me could be carried out before I had a chance to leave Pakistan.
The night before my father died, Fareed came to me in my sleep and warned me that I needed to leave immediately. I guess his coming to me opened up some sort of portal or something, because that night I had a vision of the future. It was very vivid and real. In that vision, I saw a funeral in Arlington Cemetery. Many people I knew were there including my husband, Trevor and Sammy Austin, Kurt DeWitt, Brad Reynolds and Jeremy Kimball. The only one missing was David — and then I realized that I was witnessing the funeral of President David Reynolds.
For thirty-five years I’ve been having this recurring dream and it has only become more vivid and detailed with time. I have been dreading this day…
“That’s a very interesting story,” one of the Secret Service agents commented. “I’m not sure I believe it but, regardless, we need to secure all members of the cabinet and the President’s inner circle, including you and the Surgeon General. We’re also going to need to take you with us, Dr. Williams, since your husband has a cabinet level appointment.”
“Surgeon General Bernstein’s giving Clinical Center Grand Rounds right now, in the Masur Auditorium.” Kevin noted. “I’ll take you to him.”
<> <> <>
“… Coordinating the efforts of the NIH with those of the FDA, the CDC, the Veterans Administration and the DOD is but the first step in establishing a true national policy on healthcare research. We cannot afford to allow the various federal agencies with whom we have entrusted the charge of bettering the health of Americans to act independently of each other. It is for that reason the Reynolds Administration has reorganized federal healthcare research, effectively making the Surgeon General a health research czar…”
My husband was in the middle of his speech when Kevin and I, along with the Secret Service agents, approached the podium from off-stage so at first Randy didn’t see us until we were practically on top of him. When he spotted us, he registered a look of shock and then, undoubtedly seeing my red, puffy eyes, I noticed his own eyes were watering up. Randy and I had discussed my premonitions at length since we’d been in our teens. He knew the score and had undoubtedly put two and two together and come up with, not just four, but sixteen.
Kevin walked right up to Randy and spoke into the microphone. “If you would excuse the Surgeon General, we’re going to have to cancel the remainder of Clinical Center Grand Rounds…”
Pulling my husband aside, I started to say, “Randy…” but then I broke down and cried. After recomposing myself I continued, “there’s no easy way to say this…”
“David’s dead,” Randy answered for me. I merely nodded, confirming his worst fears.
“It was a rocket-propelled grenade, just like in my most recent dreams,” I added.
“Perhaps if we’d warned the Secret Service or the FBI,” Randy suggested.
“We did warn David,” I pointed out, “and it was his decision to continue with his life as if nothing had changed. He and Jeremy had been having premonitions for years themselves.
“What could anyone have done differently?” I asked. “We never had a clue as to where or when his assassination would take place and, realistically, would the FBI or the Secret Service have acted based only on a hunch?
“Fareed told me that this was David’s destiny and that it needed to happen. He said it would change the world. We’ll just have to console ourselves with that…”
As we walked off stage, I heard Kevin speaking into the microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I have to give you some terrible news…”
<> <> <>
I couldn’t believe what we went through, just to get Randy, Kevin and me back to Washington. We didn’t have that far to go since the NIH is in Bethesda, just over the district line in suburban Maryland, but we might as well have been in the state of Wisconsin rather than on Wisconsin Avenue from the way the Secret Service was handling things. The bottom line was that we didn’t know who was responsible for David’s assassination but, given that rocket-propelled grenades are not available to the general public, we had to assume there was a terrorist connection. Everyone in the government was considered vulnerable but the members of David’s cabinet and his key staff were being considered as potential assassination targets, should David’s assassination turn out to be part of a broader plot.
Rather than send an armored vehicle to drive us on the already traffic-choked streets of Washington, the Secret Service decided to secure the entire Red Line of the DC Metro to allow for our safe passage back to the White House. Securing the Red Line meant stopping all trains, evacuating all the platforms along the route and sweeping them for explosives. Amazingly, this was all accomplished in just over an hour, but I shuddered to think of the mess we’d made for commuters who were trying to get home, particularly in light of the day’s events.
Once everything was secure, the trip into The District only took about ten minutes, since we didn’t need to make any stops along the way. We got off at the Farragut North station, which was the one closest to the White House. By not passing through Metro Center or Gallery Place, we avoided the need to shut down all the other lines, bringing the entire Metro system to a halt. A hidden, secret elevator accessible from both the Farragut North and Farragut West Metro stations took us directly to the Underground White House, deep under Washington.
While Kevin went off in search of his husband, Randy and I decided we’d better try and find Kurt DeWitt to see how we might check up on our children. The Underground White House was bustling with activity but it wasn’t long before we ran into Kurt’s husband, Trevor Austin, who was David’s National Security Advisor and longtime friend from back home.
“Trevor!” I exclaimed when I saw him. We literally fell into each other’s arms and embraced tightly.
“I can’t believe it’s real!” Trevor cried. “I just can’t believe it.”
“None of us can,” Randy agreed as he took Trevor from me into his own arms.
Just then, Sandy Kimball-Reynolds walked by, her eyes downcast. When she spotted us, her eyes lit up just a little bit and she said, “Hi Uncle Altaf. Hi Uncle Randy.”
Letting go of Trevor, Randy reached out and grabbed Sandy in a bear-tight hug. As he did so, I said, “Your pop was one of the kindest, bravest, most dedicated men I’ve ever known. More than that, he was a wonderful father. I know nothing can make up for your loss, but you and Josh were very lucky to have him all these years. His legacy will live on in all of us, but particularly in the two of you.”
“Thanks Uncle Altaf,” she replied as Randy released his grip on her and she let go and grabbed me in a hug. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I just can’t believe it.”
It was a good several minutes before Sandy let go of me. We all had tears in our eyes.
“We need to check on our own kids,” Randy noted as Sandy started to walk away.
“They’re already here,” Sandy said as she turned back to face us. “They’re in the game room.”
“We’d better go check on them,” I suggested to Randy and then we headed in the direction from which Sandy had come.
Randy and I were currently fostering six children, all of them boys ranging in age from thirteen to seventeen. We also had one young man staying with us who’d recently turned eighteen and, although no longer needing foster care, we continued to provide for his needs as he finished up his education. We’d raised more than twenty kids over the years, all of them gay teens who’d been rejected by their own parents, simply because they were gay. Of those, only two had been girls and the rest had been boys.
We loved all of the children we fostered over the years as if they were our own, although some of them hadn’t made it easy. Dealing with teenagers can certainly be a challenge and all of ‘our’ kids were in their teens. Well almost all. One of our current brood we’d acquired when he was just nine years old. His parents, both devout Mormons, found him dressing up in his mother’s clothes. How any parent could turn their backs on a child so young was beyond our comprehension. There was no doubt little Frankie was effeminate but that certainly didn’t necessarily mean he was gay. Not even he really knew at that age. When his plight came to our attention, we didn’t even hesitate.
That was four years ago — four of the happiest years of our lives. Frankie was like a ray of sunshine, brightening up our home. It was hard to imagine how someone who had been through what he had could still have such a cheerful outlook on life, yet he did. He brought so much pleasure, not only to us, but to all our other foster children. Yes, we loved all our foster children equally, but we loved Frankie like no other child. As it turned out, Frankie was indeed gay and he had even found a boyfriend whom we adored.
If there were anyone among our foster children that we would want to adopt, it would be Frankie, but we could never adopt just one child without adopting all of them. Although Randy and I certainly weren’t poor, there was no way we could have put our kids through college without the money the state gave us as foster parents. So far we’d paid for every one of the thirteen kids who wanted it to get a college degree. Four of them went on to graduate school, five of them to medical school, three to law school and one to seminary. We had three additional kids in school right now. Yes, the checks from Social Services were critical to our being able to take in the number of children that we had.
Upon entering the large game room, we found ourselves in the midst of pandemonium as there seemed to be at least a couple dozen kids there, most of them in their teens. The President’s son, Josh, was intently playing some sort of video game with one of our kids, Aaron. Another group that included two more of ours, Willie and Blake, were playing a game of air hockey on a real table — not just a computer simulation of one.
Frankie was sitting in a corner quietly talking to his boyfriend, Mike Carrolton. It was then that I remembered that the Carroltons had just left town for a trip to Europe and Mike was spending the next two weeks at our house. I made a mental note to myself to contact the Carroltons to apprise them of the situation sometime after midnight, when it would be after six in the morning there. Finally, Tyrone was off in a corner playing his guitar. There were many other kids present, the sons and daughters of cabinet officials, but that left two of ours unaccounted for.
Going up to our foster kids, we spoke briefly with each one, giving them a reassuring squeeze or a loving hug and making sure they were all right. Frankie seemed to be the most disturbed of any of them. His eyes were red and puffy and it was clear he’d been crying. This was a bit surprising, as he’d had very little contact with the President or his family over the four years we’d been fostering him, but Frankie himself did a wonderful job of explaining why he was so upset.
“He was such a wonderful man,” he said. “He did so much good for the world and he gave me hope. He was an outstanding president and he showed everyone that a gay man can do great things. No one ever really gave much thought that he was gay, which is the way it should be but now everything’s changed. If he was killed because he was gay, I don’t know what I’ll do. Yes, it mattered that I knew him personally and I’ll miss him as a family friend, but I can’t help but think about the future that was lost today.”
Frankie was an amazing boy who knew what it’s like to be mistreated because of being gay but, as always, he thought of the bigger picture. Randy and I spoke all the time of how Frankie would undoubtedly go far.
“Have you seen Win and Kyle?” I asked Frankie, as we had yet to find them ourselves.
“They’re in the gym playing a little one-on-one with the Taylor-Williams boys,” Frankie replied, and so we went in search of the facility gym. Kevin and Zach had three sons. Kevin Alan Junior and Zach Adam Junior went by their middle names to avoid confusion with their dads. They were both sixteen, being fraternal twins, and were fathered using a surrogate. Aaron, who was thirteen, was conceived via the Watanabe procedure not long after David and Jeremy had had their two by the same means.
This being one of the few times we’d been in the Underground White House, we weren’t entirely familiar with the layout and there weren’t any signs telling us where we could find the gym. Along the way, we ran into Jeremy, who looked like he was in a daze. With his eyes downcast, he didn’t see us until we were upon him.
“Jeremy,” I said and I took the young widower and my high school friend into my arms.
“You foresaw this, Altaf,” Jeremy said as he cried on my shoulder. “We both knew it was coming, yet we were powerless to stop it,” he continued.
“It was meant to happen, but that doesn’t make it any easier,” Randy replied.
“Only time can do that,” I agreed before passing Jeremy off to Randy for a hug.
“Jeremy, can you tell us where we can find the gym?” my husband asked as he hugged Jeremy. “Two of our boys are supposedly playing basketball there and we’d like to be sure they’re OK.”
“This place is quite a maze,” Jeremy said with a chuckle. “The gym is on the other side of the cafeteria…”
“Cafeteria?” I asked.
“Because the full cabinet and their families may need to stay here in times of crisis, there’s a small cafeteria in addition to the Presidential dining room,” Jeremy explained. “Anyway, if you follow the signs to the cafeteria, when you get near there, you should see a sign directing you to the ‘Recreation Center’. The gym is within the rec. center.”
“Good enough,” Randy replied, and then clasping Jer on the shoulder, he added, “Thanks — and we’ll get through this together.”
“I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for my kids, my family and my close friends.”
As Jeremy went on his way, we went in search of the cafeteria and, upon finding it, made our way to the rec. center, which was much larger than we were expecting. Included in the center were a swimming pool, a small bowling alley, another game room, a tennis court, two handball courts, a weight room and a gym with a regulation basketball court. Sure enough, our two boys were in the midst of what was no longer a game of one-on-one, but a full-fledged game of shirts versus skins. Our boys and the Taylor-Williams boys were skins. The shirts were the sons of the secretaries of Housing and Human Services, of Defense and of Labor.
Rather than interrupt the game, Randy and I stood to the side and watched. The kids seemed to range in age from about thirteen to maybe nineteen or twenty, but the teams were fairly evenly matched and everyone got to play. I was used to seeing our boys without their shirts all the time but it had been a while since I’d seen the Taylor-Williams boys shirtless — not since last summer — and I was amazed at how much they’d matured in the last year. They were all much taller and more muscular than I’d remembered. The boys were growing up!
As we watched, Kevin and Zach entered the gym and joined us to watch. They were both tall but Zach was tall enough to have been a basketball player himself. Neither of them was athletic, however. They were both musicians and played professionally with the Washington Chamber Orchestra when they weren’t at their day jobs. Kevin played cello and Zach played piano, harpsichord and organ.
Before I’d met Zach, I used to think that David was the most handsome boy I’d ever seen, with Jeremy being a close second, but Zach had stunningly good looks that had only improved with time. Not that I’d ever been tempted to stray from Randy — Randy was my soul mate — but we both agreed that Zach was handsome enough to be a movie star.
When we were young, both Zach and Jeremy had long, shoulder-length hair. Whereas Jeremy had cut his blond hair short for the Olympics and kept it on the short side afterwards, Zach had kept his brown hair long — almost to the bottom of his neck. Although a lot of middle-aged men with long hair looked too old for the style, Zach sill looked youthful — more like someone in their early thirties than in their late forties. With his piercingly vivid green eyes, his long, angular clean-shaven face and his perfect teeth, he was simply stunning. A few years back, GQ had called him the sexiest man in America and I could certainly understand why.
Even with his looks and what must have been a constant stream of suitors, male and female, Zach only had eyes for Kevin. They’d been a devoted couple since they were fourteen and I’d known them since I met them at David and Jeremy’s, and Trevor and Kurt’s double wedding. Even as handsome as they both were, they impressed me as being two of the least assuming people I’d ever met. They still were, in spite of their positions of power.
Randy and I both gave Kevin and Zach a hug when they approached us — it was clear they’d been crying, as had we all.
“They’re certainly growing up,” Randy said, nodding to the basketball court and echoing my own thoughts.
“They are at that,” Zach agreed.
“It’s amazing how much Alan and Adam look like the two of you did at their age,” I added. It was true, but ironically it was Zach Adam Junior who looked just like Kevin and Kevin Alan Junior who looked just like Zach. As might be expected, Aaron was a hybrid and, at thirteen, already quite tall for his age.
The game wound down not long after that and soon we had five very sweaty teens approaching us. It wasn’t lost on any of us that our Kyle was holding hands with Adam. We of course knew that Kyle was gay but we’d had no idea about Adam.
“How’d you guys do?” Zach asked as they reached us.
Laughing, Aaron said, “I have no idea. We started out just playing for fun and, by the time the game got serious, we’d all lost track of the score.”
“It looked like you guys were pretty evenly matched,” I commented.
“Yeah, I think we held our own,” Win agreed.
Adam started to color up and then he said, “Zach — Kevin, I’m not confused anymore. I’m definitely not straight — I’m not even bi. I’m definitely gay — one hundred percent gay.”
“All it took was one kiss from Kyle,” Aaron teased his poor brother, which only made Adam color up even more.
“Actually, yeah,” Adam admitted with a smile on his face, and then turning to Aaron, added, “Just wait ’til you get a boyfriend, bro.”
“Both of you are gay?” I asked in surprise.
“Apparently so,” Zach replied for both of them. “Aaron came out to us when he was eleven,” he added. “I’m sure a lot of parents would have questioned it, but I knew I was gay at that age, so why wouldn’t he?”
“I wish I had a boyfriend,” Aaron interjected with a sigh, and then Alan surprised the hell out of us when he added, “Me too.”
“All three of you are gay?” Randy asked in obvious surprise.
“It looks like our household is going to look a lot like yours,” Kevin answered with a smile
“Speaking of which, Kyle?” I asked.
“Sorry Altaf. Sorry Randy. We thought it’d be better if Adam told his dads first, rather than hearing it from you guys.”
“That’s understandable,” Randy replied. “We just like to talk to our boys’ boyfriends before they become too involved with each other.”
The way both boys became beet red, it was apparent they already had been intimate. Some might consider fifteen and sixteen to be too young but Randy and I both felt strongly that a lot of people’s hang-ups with sex arose because their parents made them feel guilty for doing what comes naturally. The key was to balance their need to explore their sexuality and to express their feelings of love for each other with the difficulties teens have in handling intense emotions and, of course, the need for safety. Learning to do so was a part of growing up.
“No need to be embarrassed, Adam,” Zach chimed in. “Kevin and I were even younger than you guys when we became sexually active.” It was evident that Zach and Kevin felt much as we did. Zach continued, “I’m sure Randy just wants to be sure you’re being safe.”
“That, and to reassure you that we’ll respect your privacy,” Randy added. “Kyle has probably already told you that we’re pretty open about sex in our household but I know how hard it can be to talk to parents. As they say, the only stupid question is the one that wasn’t asked. You can come to us with any questions or concerns you guys have about sex, or about relationships.”
“And we keep an ample supply of condoms and lubricant in the house,” I added.
“Altaf!” Kyle exclaimed as he turned beet red yet again.
“Ah, the joy of having two doctors for your dads,” Win said with a laugh.
“One doctor dad is enough,” Aaron added, and we all laughed.
“Not to change the subject,” I asked, “but are you guys all right?”
Judging from the suddenly somber looks on all their faces, David’s assassination had hit them harder then we might have thought. It was Gary who said it best.
“I remember once when great-grandma Williams told me about the Kennedy assassination,” he began. “She was just a little girl when it happened, but she remembered every little detail about that day, from the way the principal came on the P.A. system and made the announcement, to the way her teacher cried, right in front of the whole class. She talked about watching throngs of people on TV lining the route and watching the President’s flag-draped coffin make its way to Washington. She even saw Ruby shoot Oswald on live TV!
“That one event left an impression with her that lasted eighty years. It marked her for life — so what I guess I’m saying is that although we’re all right, we’re not OK. Our lives will go on — but they will never be the same again.”
The author gratefully acknowledges the invaluable assistance of David of Hope in editing, Low Flyer in proofreading and Ed in beta reading my stories, as well as Gay Authors, Awesome Dude and Nifty for hosting them. © Altimexis 2012