As John Adams swan
dived into the Potomac for his daily afternoon nude swim, he thought of the
trials waiting for him back at the office.
France was threatening war, the State of the Union was approaching, and
of course, the Jefferson situation. “No!” Adams sputtered aloud. He turned onto his back, kept effortlessly
afloat by his rotund belly, attempting to force his mind elsewhere. Adams lost
this inner struggle and relived the torrid scene from the previous evening.
Adams had been working
late, when he developed a hankering for Abigail’s butterscotch cookies. They
had been a comfort to him during the Revolution and achieved notoriety when old
wooden tooth Washington temporarily nominated King George for VP while in a
cookie induced sugar haze. Adams set aside his quill and ambled towards the
residence.
Finding the parlor
empty, Adams climbed the narrow passage to the bedroom. Hearing hushed voices,
he quickened his pace. Seeing the door ajar, Adams burst into the dimly lit
room. In the small bed he found his wife Abbey, naked, her cheeks crimson and
hair mussed. She quickly covered herself with the linens that swirled around
her. “Johnny!” she shouted, “what are you doing home so soon babe?” Adams
heaved, pounding on the bureau enraged. “He’s here! Where is he Abbey?!”
Abigail, now mummified in bed sheets, walked over to John, placing a hand on
his shoulder. “Johnny, come on, I told you that whole thing was over. Months
ago. Now what’s wrong, what do you need?” She looked into his eyes and Adams
was immediately ashamed. Why did he always think the worst? This was a woman
who inoculated the entire town of Braintree against small pox for heaven’s
sake. She slipped up once. Months ago as
she said. Work had been stressful; democratic civilizations don’t build
themselves, and Adams had been neglecting her. It was only natural for her to
seek companionship from another. But Jefferson. His bitter rival. That hurt.
However, Adams was willing to try again if Abbey was, and frankly, with divorce
laws not yet on the books, what could he do? Adams sighed. “I’m sorry Abbey, I
heard voices, and then finding you in bed like that…” Adams trailed off. Abbey
quickly responded. “Well, I was, uh, rereading some Dickens, and it just got away
with me…” The two embrace, but as Abbey begins to unbutton the president’s
topcoat, Adams spies a curious item on the bedpost. He wriggles out of Abbey’s
stronghold and reaches for the offending object. “A powdered wig?!” He throws the silver poof at his wife, who
has the decency to look regretful. “Where is that red headed fiend?!” Not
waiting for an answer, Adams stormed out of the room and down the stairs. Wild
eyed and panting for breath, he turned to see a half clothed Jefferson gingerly
climbing out the back window. Adam sunk to the hardwood floor beneath him. A
fully dressed Abigail soon appeared. “Would like anything to eat, dear?” she
asked sweetly. Now that Adams knew his wife had been giving her cookies away to
all the Founding Father’s on the block, he had lost his appetite. He shook his
head and went back to the office, where he slept fitfully, wondering if
Hamilton ever had to put up with this crap.
The Potomac soothed his
aching back and troubled mind. Why
didn’t he marry Dolly Madison when he had the chance? Adams would forgive
Abbey, just once more. He then dipped underwater and began to devise how this
new nation would survive the growing threats from across the sea.
