Fatherless: A Novel (22 page)

Kevin paused
at his own front door, watching the vapor of his breath dissipate in the chilly midnight air. He would have preferred walking
through its threshold five hours earlier, the excited squeals of children greeting their daddy to put the icing on the cake
of an already amazing day. He imagined his darling wife waiting up for him, eager to hear about the big presentation. He would
have given her a long kiss in self-congratulation on a job well done mixed with gratitude for a better-than-expected outcome.

He knew, of course, that Angie and the kids would be sound asleep. So he stood beneath the dim glow of a single bulb, exhaling
long streams of misty joy into its light, a contented boy rewarding himself with small marvels.

Thank you
, he prayed in silence, smiling upward before reaching to unlock the door.

As expected, he entered a dark house. Placing his tablet on the entry table he moved toward the kitchen, hoping to find a
snack worthy of the moment. He opened the refrigerator to find the usual assortment of condiments, dairy products, and fruit.
Nothing exciting like leftover cake. Retrieving the half-empty carton of milk he opened the pantry to seek a perfect accomplice.
A box of Tommy’s favorite sugar cereal sat seductively at eye level. It was normally off-limits to Dad, but Kevin decided
tonight was different. This day deserved the simple reward of crispy flavor doused in fresh milk.

While relishing his third mouthful Kevin noticed the lovely form of his wife glowering in his direction. Her arms were crossed
sternly like those of a cop catching a burglar in the act. A guilty smile forced a drop of milk from the side of his mouth.
She laughed quietly and approached.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His eyes moved up and down to admire her thin nightgown. “I bet I can think of something.”

A tiny dimple showed beneath a slight blush. Angie slid behind Kevin and wrapped her arms around his back. “It went well today?”
she asked.

“Very well.” He moved the bowl aside and turned around on his bar stool to face her, slipping his hands around her waist and
pulling her body close. “So well I wanted to celebrate. I figured you were asleep so I settled for this bowl of contraband.
But you look much more appetizing!”

“Behave,” she pretended to protest. “First tell me what happened.”

He patted the stool beside him, inviting his wife to sit.

“I was given fifteen minutes to make my case and fifteen for questions,” he began. “But the questions and discussion stretched
into two hours!”

“Is that good?”

“I didn’t think so at first. There were lots of objections that became arguments. By the time I reached my allotted time I
figured the whole proposal was going down in flames. But rather than cut off the discussion to call for a vote, Anderson kept
extending our time. He would look toward Franklin—”

“Senator Franklin was there?” Angie interrupted.

“He was.”

“Did that make you nervous?” She reached over to rub Kevin’s arm.

“At first. I wanted to work through any committee objections before he saw it. But then I noticed Anderson making eye contact
with Franklin moments before each time extension. A slight nod cued Anderson to keep the conversation alive.”

“For two hours? I thought you said Anderson was a schedule stickler.”

“Exactly! I figured there was only one possible reason Anderson kept the conversation going. A quick vote would have killed
my idea. Franklin must have wanted me to overcome each objection.”

“Did you?”

“Enough of them to win the day.” His voice had a mock braggadocio’s tone. “You’re looking at a boy who spent his day defeating
giants!”

“Like Trisha Delisha?”

“She was the most vocal. No matter what I said she shot back a hostile, usually harebrained complaint.”

“I still don’t understand why that woman is in the coalition.”

“I’ll tell you why. She will become important when the time comes to go public with the austerity proposals. Franklin is no
dummy. He knows the medicine will go down much easier if presented by a spoonful of sugar like Trisha Sayers.”

An icy glare told Kevin Angie didn’t appreciate the analogy.

“Anyway, we got nine votes. That’s two more than we needed to include the bright spots concept in the final bundle of proposals.”

“Bundle?”

“I expect Franklin will want to present three or four big ideas to address the crisis, each targeting a different economic
segment. That’s how he’ll garner a broad base of support.”

Both sat quietly for a moment, Angie’s fingers squeezing Kevin’s in a show of pride in her husband’s accomplishment.

“What about the transition idea?” she asked.

“They cut me off at the knees on that one weeks ago. Trying to reduce transitions was a bridge too far.”

“I thought the whole idea was to replicate what happens in bright spot regions.” Her words seemed pregnant with concern.

“Politics is about getting what you can,” he said. “I got half of what I wanted. Franklin will propose a package that includes
tax credits for new parents. That’s a pretty big win that should make it easier to choose parenthood.”

A slight delay. “I’m sure it will. And you should be proud.”

“But?” he prodded.

“Well. I just wonder whether one bright spot trait will have much impact without the other. Are you sure increased fertility
alone will help? I mean, it took both of us to make a baby. Neither of us could have created a child alone.”

Kevin looked into Angie’s eyes, trying to decipher whether she was seducing him or instructing him.

“Isn’t it the combination of the two trends that creates economic strength? One without the other seems, I don’t know, like
a single spouse trying to create half a baby.”

The comment sobered Kevin’s celebration.

How could I have made such an obvious mistake?

It was a serious leap in logic to assume high fertility accounted for 50 percent of bright spots’ economic growth. It had
never occurred to him or to Troy, who usually thought of such things, that both were crucial parts of a single whole. One
without the other might be useless.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he confessed dolefully.

Angie patted Kevin’s shoulder. “Well, let’s not worry about that now. Just because you have another battle to fight tomorrow
doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate today’s victory.”

She moved him sideways on the stool and climbed onto his lap to wrap her body tightly around his torso while touching the
tips of their noses together.

Their eyes met, hers sparkling with invitation, his submerged by apprehension.

“I should probably call Troy,” he said.

She took his hand and placed it on her thigh. “I think that can wait.”

He kissed her mildly.

“Kevin Tolbert,” Angie said while leaning away. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

She pressed her lips severely to her husband’s while guiding his hand higher.

Julia traded
her empty glass for a tiny pillow and neatly folded blanket. She had never been more grateful for an upgrade in her life,
which must have shown in her eyes as she thanked the flight attendant.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“Long day,” she responded. “Actually, long week.”

He smiled politely and offered a refill. She declined, hoping to use the three-hour flight home to drift into blissful unconsciousness.
As soon as Julia had found and occupied her first-class seat she felt the physical and emotional toll of the past few days.
Much of the adrenaline masking her tension ebbed, her body finally granting itself permission to enjoy a brief reprieve from
the stress of tiptoeing around a strained friendship, fighting desire for a charming gentleman, and maneuvering into a confidential
meeting of Washington insiders. A nap was just the thing she needed before tackling her next high-adrenaline task: beating
Monica Garcia to the editorial punch.

She recalled the sting of her rival’s presence at the austerity coalition meeting, wondering whether Monica had made the same
deal with Senator Franklin that Julia had made with Kevin, preemptive access in exchange for fair representation. Or had Monica
simply seduced her way into the good graces of a Franklin staffer, posing as an eager intern who would make a nice addition
to the growing harem? Either way, the game had changed.

As the alcohol began inviting her body to relax, Julia reminded herself of her opponent’s limited journalistic experience.
Monica could report the basic facts of a story well enough. But Paul wanted an article carefully nuanced yet unflinchingly
damning. Pulling that off would require more than naked ambition. It would take a Pulitzer-winning intellect.

She wanted to compile a mental list of story elements but her brain refused to help. Julia found the audio symphony channel
on the screen embedded in the seat in front of hers and closed her eyes while the London Philharmonic washed gentle waves
of beauty over her restless mind.

Five minutes or an hour later Julia felt herself gasp desperately for air, her limbs flailing frantically to counter the pull
of a waterless undercurrent. As before, it drew her downward. As before, the shadowy figure of a man stood unable or unwilling
to rescue her from a vortex she didn’t understand but knew to be evil.

Joyless laughter invaded her sleeping ears. At first she assumed it came from the figure fading in the distance, the man toward
whom she pleaded. But then she realized the sound rose from beneath. It was a vile and indulgent laughter, the kind that might
accompany the foul breath of a gluttonous man raping an innocent child or devouring a cannibal’s feast.

“Don’t leave,” she screamed toward the barely visible man in the distance, her heart pounding in her throat. “Please help
me!”

He made no move beyond extending a hand she could not possibly reach.

The texture of leather chafing the fingertips of her right hand woke Julia from the nightmare. Opening her eyes, she saw her
arm reaching toward Seat 2B eighteen inches ahead, the face of its occupant swiveled toward her in apparent irritation over
her disruptive thrashing.

“I’m sorry,” Julia said dimly while locating herself. “A bad dream.”

She turned left, grateful to see a vacant seat. Turning right, she spotted a blinking wing light cutting through an oppressive
external darkness. She found and tapped a faint blue icon on her armrest to kindle the overhead lamp. It took a moment to
notice Mozart’s Serenade No. 12 rising in her ears, the Chamber Orchestra of Europe attempting to calm Julia’s palpitating
heart.

She picked up the tablet resting beside her and quickly retrieved the document she had begun after visiting Maria’s therapist.

She had captured and ignored the notes like an unpromising lead on a story she didn’t want to write.

The dreams reflect self-doubt and a declining career
, she told herself.
They have nothing to do with deeper conflicts or mysterious messages from my subconscious psyche
.

Or did they?

Julia added three words.

While she stared at the phrase a slight shiver provoked her to squeeze the pillow tightly. Tapping a
TO DO
icon on the screen Julia reluctantly added “See Dr. Moreland again” to her list, a small action that gave her the sensation of retaking control.

Julia searched for something to occupy her mind for the remaining ninety minutes of the flight home. Three taps later she
weighed two options, the final journal entries of Sylvia Santos or the first of her son. She chose the file titled
ANTONIO’S MUSINGS
.

Antonio wrote two dozen entries that first month, some longer than others. Each provided a brief window into the mind of an
adolescent boy trapped in a mostly inept body. Julia learned that he loved an outdated robotics program he had received from
his mom’s friend, which sat idle after he lost his ability to steer a mouse. There were several comments she found surprising
but would have considered typical for any other adolescent boy. Inappropriate sexual daydreams about the few girls his brother
brought by the house. He shared how it felt when they recoiled at his appearance, politely shaking his twisted hand while
looking away to avoid eye contact. A few entries described life’s small pleasures, such as the taste of a banana-fudge milk
shake and the thrill of launching into the next book in his favorite fantasy series. His vocabulary and breadth of knowledge
suggested a keen intellect, perhaps someone who would have been a terrific copy editor or research assistant. They were abilities,
she discovered, he would put to use in short order.

Julia remembered the national excitement over Lance Lowman’s campaign. He had managed to corral the enthusiasm of a nation
giddy over what turned out to be a short-lived economic boom. Even those living near the poverty line joined his bandwagon,
eager to accelerate the upward momentum. Lowman promised a decade of growth if his party took power. He would remove cumbersome
regulations to help the market capitalize on burgeoning gen-tech innovations, which, in turn, would lift all boats by raising
the water level of every segment of the economy. He also promised to reduce taxes that had mushroomed thanks to rapidly expanding
entitlement spending. Clearly, the Santos family believed every word.

Julia scanned several pages reflecting Antonio’s weekly tally of messages sent and donations generated. Then she camped on
an entry the now thirteen-year-old considered the most important of that year.

That post-election euphoria set up the downward tipping point of Antonio’s short life. Within twelve months circumstances
began to undermine whatever sense of significance he had gleaned from Lowman’s victory. The gen-tech market crashed, throwing
his mom out of work and forcing the family to live with his aunt and uncle for six months. Jeremy hated the place. Got into
fights at school. Resented any input or guidance from Uncle Marcos who was “Not my father!” Antonio wished he could talk to
his brother about what both of them were feeling. But one sentence in an English accent every two minutes could not keep up
with Jeremy’s rapid-fire venom that was poisoning the household and breaking their mother’s heart.

Julia found only four quick journal entries from 2038, each suggesting Antonio had become increasingly pessimistic about life.

Julia filled in details with recollections from Sylvia’s journal. The family had moved into a low-rent apartment in a rough
school district where Jeremy continued to be mired in resentment. Things improved slightly when Sylvia began dating a man
from church who helped out financially from time to time. But the relationship went nowhere after the man spent time at their
apartment observing life with a severely disabled boy and an older brother angry with God and the rest of the world.

“Who could blame him?” Antonio wrote with resignation in November.

Antonio seemed to rediscover his Musings journal along with a new fixation in the early part of 2039.

She continued reading, several entries providing progress reports on what would come to be called the Youth Initiative.