Adams’ Apples
16 What’s Another Smith?
“HERE’S YOUR COFFEE, MR. SMITH. It’s time to get up and do office things. You know… Ack! There’s a woman in your bed!” Mattie screamed.
“Thank you for the coffee, Ms. Baines. Could you bring a cup for Mr. Smith, too? Oh, I’m Dr. Mrs. Smith.” Elizabeth took the cup from Mattie and offered her hand to shake. Mattie took it uncertainly.
“Isn’t everyone?” she mumbled and fled from the room.
“So?” Elizabeth asked, poking Ramsey in the ribs. “There are other Mrs. Smiths?”
“No, dear. She was obviously referring to the Smith MIBs. Mr. and Ms. Smith. Or Colonel Smythe. Just wait until she finds out the lieutenant’s name,” I said.
“I know Smith is the most common surname in America, but I didn’t think this was going to become a family reunion,” Elizabeth sighed. “Mr. Smith, Ms. Smith, Colonel Smythe, Lieutenant Smith, Dr. Smith, and Ramsey Smith? Really?”
“Excuse me? Here’s a second cup of coffee. Is Mr. Adams’ wife here, too?”
“Yes, she is. There are a couple of other rooms occupied as well. The general and his aide and their hooker are camped out somewhere,” I said pushing myself up enough to take the coffee. Mattie’s eyes popped open wide and she ran from the bedroom again. “I wonder what she’s doing here? I thought everyone in Washington was on vacation this week.”
“Ramsey? I want a baby,” Elizabeth whined.
“Do you think I’m going to agree to you mating with Jack?” I huffed.
“No, of course not. I talked to Dr. Simpson this week and he thinks he’s near a breakthrough on his sperm invigorator. You could start taking it as part of his pilot group. Just a tablespoon a day.”
“Absolutely not. Who ever thought that old quack would have turned into a snake oil salesman? Do you know how many health food stores and vitamin shops are selling supplements to revive the sperm? And not one of them works. Not one shred of evidence. Face it, Elizabeth. Even if by some miracle a sperm was lively enough to catch one of your evasive eggs, he’d be alone! Everybody else would be older and… even Lily would be older. I don’t want to bring a child into this bleak world only to know that one day he’d die alone.”
I got out of bed and took my coffee to the bathroom and started the shower.
Damn it! Doesn’t she know I want a child as much as she does?
Reba Watkins had returned to her maiden name, Dean, when she was divorced. She’d moved back home with Daddy even though she still owned the house he’d given her and Sam. But Daddy pampered her in every way possible. When she told him she wanted a baby and that he would be a grandfather, he was all behind the idea. He wasn’t so sure things would work out as well when Reba and Sam split. Sam had even quit his job at the company and that was a real loss. But when SD Day was revealed (Sperm Death Day), Reba went into overdrive to find a way to become pregnant. She wanted a baby in the worst way and that was likely the way she would get one.
“How do I look, Daddy?” Reba asked at breakfast. Mr. Dean looked up from his newspaper. His daughter was… a redhead.
“When did you do that?” he asked, shocked.
“Last night. I’m going to Washington, DC and get one of those redhead babies.”
“Dyeing your hair won’t make the baby a redhead,” Mr. Dean sighed. Another of his daughter’s crazy ideas. Besides, she needed live sperm to get pregnant and everyone knew the only man with live sperm in the country was that red-haired toothpick… “You’re going to try to seduce Mr. Adams?” Dean couldn’t believe the audacity of his daughter.
“Got it in one, Daddy. Did you see the pictures of his daughter? Redhead. His wife? Redhead. I’ve finally figured out that he only likes redheads. All I need to do is walk in and direct my womanly charms at him and he’ll be mine. I even dyed my pubic hair red so he won’t discover I’m really blonde.”
“I have a feeling he’ll figure that out,” Dean muttered under his breath. “When are you off on this adventure?”
“I have a flight this afternoon. Like, can I have some money?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Take what you need from my wallet on your way out.” Dean knew she’d take it all. That’s why he never kept more than a couple thousand dollars in that wallet. And credit cards she could sign on. It kept the expenses down.
“Reba Smith?” the TSA agent asked looking at her ticket. He was jetlagged, having flown from Chicago just in time to start his new job in Los Angeles. This airport was busy and he’d needed a job, even though he could scarcely keep his eyes open. “ID, please.” She handed him her driver’s license. He looked up at her.
“It’s real,” she said.
“It says, ‘Fake ID for entertainment purposes only.’ This can’t be real.”
“Of course it is. They all say that.”
“They do?”
“Who would put the words ‘Fake ID’ on a fake ID? It doesn’t make sense. If it were fake it would say something like ‘Real ID’ or ‘Genuine ID’ or THE ID, you know, like the names people use on Twitter.” Reba smiled at him with her brilliant white teeth. The contrast with her red hair hurt his eyes. He’d never seen a redhead who was so tan. He looked at the ID and the ticket again. They matched. And he was certain it wasn’t a fake ticket, so the ID must be real as well. California sure did things strangely. He handed them back to the woman and waved her through.
Back at Blair House, Colonel Smythe was gratefully sipping on a Bloody Mary and trying to remember what happened the night before. And where the sexy young woman sitting on his knee had come from.
“I think someone slipped something into my drinks yesterday,” the colonel said. “I just don’t remember what I did.”
“Oh dear,” Kitty said as she snuggled up to him. “Should we take you to the hospital and ask for a rape kit? I don’t know where they stick the speculum in a guy.” Smythe twitched involuntarily.
Lieutenant Smith yawned and snapped another picture of the couple. He sent it to me. From his angle, the picture showed the colonel’s hand under Kitty’s short blouse. I had quite a library of interesting photos now. It seemed Kitty and the lieutenant had been conspiring all day yesterday. It was obvious why now. I didn’t think we’d have any more problems with the colonel.
“Mattie, it appears we’ll have quite a family here for Thanksgiving dinner,” I said. “See if you can arrange for a full traditional dinner on Thursday. You have the dining room occupied, so unless you move your office to the conference room, we’ll have to eat in the main dining room on the first floor.”
“Yes, Mr. Smith. How many should I tell them to expect?”
“There are nine of us here right now. You’ll be joining us, of course, won’t you?”
“If… If you want me to, sir.”
“Of course, of course. And I don’t trust the Smiths not to come back and surprise us. Better make the reservation for an even dozen. I’m sure we can find another Smith somewhere. Make the reservation in the name of Smith,” I laughed.
There was a knock on the door. No one moved. The knock was repeated.
“Isn’t anyone going to answer the door?”
“I don’t think I’ve heard anyone knock before,” Jack said. “They always just barge in. Or the Smiths let them in.”
“Um… Is it my job to open the door?” Mattie asked.
“I’ll do it,” I said, not putting down my Bloody Mary. I opened the door a crack to look into the deep blue eyes of a tall thin blonde. She smiled at me. Holy shit!
“I’m Sheila Meilleur. I was told this is the residence of Mr. Adams. I’m from the Department of Collection, Donation, and Harvest. May I come in?”
“Is this where we say, ‘I gave at the office’?”
“Not yet,” she smiled.
“Come in. May I get you a drink? We started at breakfast.”
“How kind of you. A mimosa, please,” Sheila said as she removed her fur jacket and crossed to the living room where everyone was gathered.
“Oh, a girl like me!” Kitty said, standing to rush to Sheila and hug her. As Ramsey looked the newcomer over, he noticed her eight-inch platform heels and revised his height estimate accordingly. Those were certainly stripper shoes. And though Sheila was easily four inches taller than Kitty, her skirt was no longer and showed all four inches were leg.
“You aren’t part of collections, are you?” Sheila asked.
“No. I’m a plant to create a scandal.”
“You wouldn’t hurt Mr. Adams, would you?”
“No. We kind of turned the whole thing on Colonel Smythe. But you’re going to be a good boy and not be a bully around Jack and Ramsey, aren’t you Humpty-baby.” Kitty returned to her seat on the colonel’s lap.
“Whatever you say, Kitty. They’ll never let me into the officers’ club again.” He shook his glass and Mattie took it to make another Bloody Mary.
“Why don’t you tell us why you are visiting?” Ramsey asked as he handed her the mimosa.
“Well, I don’t really start work until next week, but I thought I should stop by and introduce myself to Mr. Adams. That must be you, right?” she asked pointing at Jack. “And you could only be Mrs. Adams! Oh, I’m so glad you are both here. Will you be staying through the collection process?”
“I… uh… Lily and I, that is, will be going back to Orlando this weekend so Jack can work. Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth stood and took Sheila’s offered hand as she squinted into the woman’s eyes. “Yes, Evelyn. Sheila is not a threat. She’s just here to do a job.” Elizabeth nodded and Sheila beamed.
“One I’ve done thousands of times before,” she said. “But I’ve found that in a situation like this, it is much better to meet in advance so we are both comfortable during our appointments.”
“Why don’t you join us for Thanksgiving dinner, then,” Elizabeth smiled. “We’re collecting quite a party. Your last name isn’t Smith by any chance?”
“Well, that is what they put on my badge, but I tried to tell them my last name is Meilleur. They just said to take this and be quiet. Washington is such a strange town.” Sheila sat between Elizabeth and the colonel where Kitty was continuing to cement her influence over him.
“That will do,” I laughed. She’d taken my seat next to Elizabeth, so I settled into the love seat next to Mattie. My administrative assistant stiffened and pressed her legs tightly together as she focused on taking notes. “So, what do you do for the Department of…” I glanced over at Mattie’s notepad and she underscored a few words. “…Collection, Donation, and Harvest?”
“It is my job to see that the harvest of Mr. Adams’ sperm is optimized. I’m told that we are to collect a specimen four times a day, every three hours from nine until six,” Sheila said.
“I object!” the colonel yelled, nearly dumping Kitty on the floor. She stroked his cheek and he reassured her. “You can’t harvest that many times a day on a continuing basis. You might succeed the first day, but the last specimen would be weak. And you’ll need to build endurance slowly, like we train troops. Probably only once the first day or two and then working up to twice daily. Collection periods should not be closer than six hours apart.”
“Wow, Colonel. I didn’t expect you to defend Jack’s production and refractory period so vehemently,” I said.
“I might not know how to fight a battle, but I know my sperm. The more frequent the collection, the weaker the output. Mr. Adams not only needs the period between donations to be longer, he also needs a good diet for healthy production. He should be on vitamins and a testosterone supplement.” He looked at the shell-shocked donor in question. “Jack, I know I come off sounding a bit on the overbearing side, but this is for your own good. If we let them proceed with this schedule, you’ll be worthless in a week and need a week’s vacation to recoup. Much better to keep the equipment producing steadily if more slowly than to rev the engines and burn out.”
“Um… Thank you, Colonel.”
“I have to agree,” Sheila said. “I’ll depend on you to convince the department head, um… Marcia Forager. I’m sorry to say it, but based on my first meeting with her, I’d say she’s a real ball-buster.”
“We’ll make her see sense. I know her kind,” the colonel said.
“What is it exactly that you do?” Evelyn asked Sheila when she could get her alone. Lily was providing a distraction as the blonde bounced her up and down.
“Well, it’s good you should know,” Sheila said. “I oversee the entire process. Mr. Adams will come to the clinic at the appointed time to make his donation. You just can’t imagine what it does to a man to have to suddenly perform on a schedule. I’m sure your relationships are more spontaneous. But to show up at nine o’clock and be expected to provide a sample by nine-fifteen is often too much stress on a man and even leads to performance dysfunction. My job is to make sure the room is comfortable and welcoming. I make sure he has food and drink and offer visual stimulation. I have other means of stimulation at my disposal as well, but critically, it is my responsibility to capture the specimen and get it directly into the cryogenic chamber for preservation.”
“You’re going to masturbate my husband,” Evelyn said flatly. Sheila sighed.
“If that proves necessary.”
“Okay.”
“You’re okay with it?”
“You’re a professional. I know you’ll be quick and efficient and that you aren’t trying to take him away from me. Just send him home to me when you’re done. He has a daughter who needs him.”
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
