Chapter 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.”