Tom Clancy - Jack Ryan 02 Patriot Games

Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games

God, it'll be nice to have two arms again, Ryan observed.

Two more weeks, maybe three, Cathy reminded him. And keep your hand still inside the damned sling!

Yes, dear.

It was about two in the morning, and things were going badly -- and well. Part of the Ryan family tradition -- a tradition barely three years old, but a tradition nevertheless -- was that after Sally was in bed and asleep, her parents would creep down to the basement storage area -- a room with a padlocked door -- and bring the toys upstairs for assembly. The previous two years, this ceremony had been accompanied by a couple of bottles of champagne. Assembling toys was a wholly different sort of exercise when the assemblers were half blasted. It was their method of relaxing into the Christmas spirit.

So far things had gone well. Jack had taken his daughter to the seven o'clock children's mass at St. Mary's, and gotten her to bed a little after nine. His daughter had slid her head around the fireplace wall only twice before a loud command from her father had banished her to her bedroom for good, her arm clasping an overly talkative AG Bear to her chest. By midnight it was decided that she was asleep enough for her parents to make a little noise. This had begun the toy trek, as Cathy called it. Both parents removed their shoes to minimize noise on the hardwood steps and went downstairs. Of course, Jack forgot the key to the padlock, and had to climb back upstairs to the master bedroom to search for it. Five minutes later the door was opened and the two of them made four trips each, setting up a lavish pile of multicolored boxes near the tree, next to Jack's tool kit.

You know what the two most obscene words in the English language are, Cathy? Ryan asked nearly two hours later.

'Assembly required,' his wife answered with a giggle. Honey, last year I said that.

A small Phillips. Jack held his hand out. Cathy smacked the screwdriver into his hand like a surgical instrument. Both of them were sitting on the rug, fifteen feet from the eight-foot tree. Around them was a crescent of toys, some in boxes, some already assembled by the now-exasperated father of a little girl.

You ought to let me do that.

This is man's work, her husband said. He sat the screwdriver down and sipped at a glass of champagne.

You chauvinist pig! If I let you do this by yourself, you wouldn't be finished by Easter.

She was right, Jack told himself. Doing it half-drunk wasn't all that hard. Doing it one-handed was hard but not insurmountable. Doing it one-handed and half-drunk was... The damned screws didn't want to stay in the plastic, and the instructions for putting a V-8 engine together had to be easier than this!

Why is it that a doll needs a house? Jack asked plaintively. I mean, the friggin' doll's already in a house, isn't she?

It must be hard, being a chauvinist pig. You dodos just don't understand anything, Cathy noted sympathetically. I guess men never get over baseball bats -- all those simple, one-piece toys.

Jack's head turned slowly. Well, the least you could do is have another glass of wine.

One's the weekly limit, Jack. I did have a big glass, she reminded him.

And made me drink the rest.

You bought the bottle, Jack. She picked it up. Big one, too.

Ryan turned back to the Barbie Doll house. He thought he remembered when the Barbie Doll had been invented, a simple, rather curvy doll, but still just a damned doll, something that girls played with. It hadn't occurred to him then that he might someday have a little girl of his own. The things we do for our kids, he told himself. Then he laughed quietly at himself. Of course we do, and we enjoy it. Tomorrow this will be a funny memory, like the Christmas morning last year when I nearly put this very screwdriver through the palm of my hand. If he didn't enlist his wife's assistance, Ryan told himself, Santa would be planning next year's flight before he finished. Jack took a deep breath and swallowed his pride.

Help.

Cathy checked her watch. That took about forty minutes longer than I expected.

I must be slowing down.

Poor baby, having to drink all that champagne all by himself. She kissed him on the forehead. Screwdriver.

He handed it to her. Cathy took a quick look at the plans. No wonder, you dummy. You're using a short screw when you're supposed to use a long one.

I keep forgetting that I'm married to a high-priced mechanic.

That's real Christmas spirit. Jack. She grinned as she turned the screw into place.

A very pretty, smart, and extremely lovable high-priced mechanic. He ran a finger down the back of her neck.

That's a little better.

Who's better with tools than I am, one-handed.

Her head turned to reveal the sort of smile a wife saves only for the husband she loves. Give me another screw. Jack, and I'll forgive you.

Don't you think you should finish the doll house first?

Screw, dammit! He handed her one. You have a one-track gutter, but I forgive you anyway.

Thanks. If it didn't work, though, I had something else planned.

Oh, did Santa come for me, too?

I'm not sure. I'll check in a few minutes.

You didn't do bad, considering, his wife said, finishing off the orange plastic roof. That's it, isn't it?

Last one, Jack confirmed. Thanks for the assist, babe.

Did I ever tell you what -- no, I didn't. It was one of the ladies-in-waiting. I never did find out what they were waiting for. Anyway, this one countess... she was right out of Gone With the Wind, Cathy said with a chuckle. It was his wife's favorite epithet for useless women. She asked me if I did needlepoint.

Not the sort of thing you ask my wife. Jack grinned at the windows. And you said...

Only on eyeballs. A sweet, nasty smile.

Oooh. I hope that wasn't over lunch.

Jack! You know me better than that. She was nice enough, and she played a pretty good piano.

Good as yours?

No. His wife smiled at him. Jack reached out to squeeze the tip of her nose.

Caroline Ryan, MD, liberated woman, instructor in ophthalmic surgery, world-famous player of classical piano, wife and mother, takes no crap off anybody.

Except her husband.

When's the last time I ever won an exchange with you? Jack asked.

Jack, we're not in competition. We're in love. She leaned toward him.

I won't argue with you on that, he said quietly before kissing his wife's offered lips. How many people do you suppose are still in love after all the time we've been married?

Just the lucky ones, you old fart. 'All the time we've been married'!

Jack kissed her again and rose. He walked carefully around the sea of toys toward the tree and returned with a small box wrapped in green Christmas paper. He sat down beside his wife, his shoulder against hers as he dropped the box in her lap.

Merry Christmas, Cathy.

She opened the box as greedily as a child, but neatly, using her nails to slit the paper. She found a white cardboard box, and inside it, a felt-covered one. This she opened slowly.

It was a necklace of fine gold, more than a quarter-inch wide, designed to fit closely around the neck. You could tell the price by the workmanship and the weight. Cathy Ryan took a deep breath. Her husband held his. Figuring out women's fashions was not his strongest point. He'd gotten advice from Sissy Jackson, and a very patient clerk at the jewelry store. Do you like it?

I better not swim with this on.

But you won't have to take it off when you scrub, Jack said. Here. He took it from the box and put it around her neck. He managed to clasp it one-handed on the first try.