He had been unable to connect with Dr. Benson, so after leaving one more message for the psychologist, he departed for Reno.
Ninety three minutes later, he handed over the keys to the very dusty PT Cruiser, with a jingle, to a young clerk who didn’t look old enough to shave. Byron leaned across the service counter, telling the fellow in a low “just between us men” voice, “I don’t know if you can get, for instance, employee loaners, but you really need to get yourself one of these babies. Purple PT Cruiser? It’s real a chick magnet!”
His face, suspiciously mischievous in most situations, looked positively devilish when accented by a meaningful wink.
Forty one minutes after leaving the blushing but thoughtful Budget Rental clerk, Byron Hoffstedder boarded his plane.
Both in the terminal, and now in the narrow aisles of the jet, Byron overheard snippets of conversation regarding the previous day’s Presidential address.
“… I’ve heard hedging, I’ve heard bad politics, I’ve heard a lot of things, but…”
“I really admire a thinking man, but how much good is thinking when everyone else in the world has busy hands…”
“It’s bad enough that OPEC has us by the balls, but this business with the new complex…”
“I don’t give a shit about diversity in politics when we have a Chink in office and our biggest threat is his fatherland…or motherland, whatever, eh? President Ling or Lang…whatever. Just a little coincidence, my ass!”
Just his luck, Byron thought. He got to share a row with the idiot in the aisle seat who delivered the last remark. Smashing against the seats in front of them, he sidestepped across the bigot’s legs to get to his window seat as he wondered if this guy was a reincarnation of Archie Bunker; Chink? Even without his personal history with Wing Liang, he would have found the term offensive. Just as a child cannot resist the temptation to poke at a brainless jellyfish on the beach, Byron just didn’t have it in him to leave this similarly stupid creature unpoked.
Once seated, he looked at the man over the, as yet, empty seat between them. His sharply cocked left eyebrow and large charismatic smile seemed to activate a new series of ripples in his face. It was the kind of face you had to respond to even before the mouth spoke. He leaned closer to the man.
“Diversity is a funny thing, you know? And the most diverse group out there is the ‘league of assholes’…that bunch has no ethnic boundaries.”
The man laughed, initially assuming he and his seat-mate were of like minds. But Byron continued, still smiling. “But I guess you would know that, huh? What’s your background? German? Swiss? Mexican? Whatever, eh?”
The man’s smile faded slightly and it was apparent he was trying to ascertain if he’d just been insulted when a lady in the aisle tapped his shoulder with one hand, showing her boarding pass with the other. She needed passage to the seat in the middle. Byron laughed boisterously, plucking ear buds from his pocket to activate a “no talk zone.” Although he didn’t even turn on his MP3, he didn’t figure anyone knew that as he loudly said,
“Oh, and by the way, it’s Liang. LEE-ANG. For those unfortunate enough to not know their own president’s name…”
As the remaining passengers boarded and buckled in, Byron’s mind settled on the President’s address the day before. It was unique, to be sure, particularly in the light of the world situation. “Bert and Dabney” had done a reasonable job of summing up the mounting tension, although they unwittingly omitted the piece about China’s threats for the U.S. to keep their nose out. Of course, the rest of the world didn’t know that part yet, nor did Byron.
Eyes closed, he could feel the grandmotherly figure to his left settle in and tried to ignore the soft, but forceful contact of her spongy right hip as it crept under the shared arm rest, trespassing into his own area.
President Liang had, indeed, given a short address and before his staff members could don their poker faces, it became clear within the first minute that he’d abandoned the speech prepared by his writers.
In his distinctively calm, yet precise manner, the young President had addressed the audience and the camera by stating that because these times were dangerous and unprecedented, that it was a time for unprecedented response. And that response should not and would not be reactive in nature, or unthinking. He was quite succinct when, with a look to his advisors and military row, he stated that if certain types of actions taken in the past had proven unsuccessful, it would be unconscionable to consider those as viable options now. These options included military action, sanctions, and violence. Although those paths may be chosen later, he noted, they would be last resorts. He noted that although the exact nature of these times was unprecedented, the position of the nation was not, and he humbly, but directly quoted Abraham Lincoln, “We shall nobly save, or meanly lose, the last, best hope on earth.” He’d followed with a thoughtful silence, scanning the uncomfortable faces before him.
Eyes still closed, Byron smiled as he remembered the camera pan around the room; the suits were unsettled, heads leaned together as the brains of the nation tried to figure out if the President had lost his mind or if he was simply holding a close hand.
Wing had then looked directly into the camera, stating that he was elected to lead. His commitment was unconditional the day he took office and he vowed to continue to be the man in whom the nation had placed its trust; he would not change under the pressure of circumstance.
“We shall not fail through inaction.” He looked away from the camera to Frank Wallace with this remark, then back at the millions of viewers throughout the nation and world. “But we will not fail through thoughtless reaction.”
He retrieved the only notes he would use throughout the address.
“For those who say we will not survive this crisis through cautious and thoughtful means, I offer you words from others much smarter than myself: First, never forget-- a crisis is an opportunity riding the dangerous wind. Secondly, when it is obvious the goals cannot be reached, don’t adjust the goals, adjust the action steps. Finally, the person who says this cannot be done, should not interrupt the person doing it.
I implore you to consider that this crisis may be at a time and place to provide an opportunity to shift toward a better, not a more destructive world. Our primary goal should be survival of our nation, which cannot be separated from a mutual goal to ensure survival of this planet. Finally, when you elected me, you entrusted me with the role as the one who will do these things.”
After those last words, the room was silent, not only out of confusion, but because they waited for the “other shoe to drop,” for the rest of the speech, and, if nothing else, for the guaranteed eloquent, sensible conclusion. All effective speechmakers end on a forward, if not logical note. All, that is, except a man who was ready to break every mold to ride the dangerous wind.
President Liang had startled the world by nodding, and with a grim, but focused expression, stepped away from the podium and left the room without taking questions.
The scene had replayed in its private screening behind Byron’s eyelids. Although the dipshit two seats down had probably failed to catch the significance of the President’s final words (and for that Byron was grateful), the media and political thinkers of the world had not. Nor had Byron.
The first Asian-American President who had not once previously referenced his Chinese heritage in an official or political setting had, during what could be seen as his nation’s most ominous hour, wrapped up his address with three Chinese proverbs…one was from Confucius, for God’s sake.
Opinions teemed with speculation ranging from those citing the President’s brilliance, to youthful emotionality…to the inevitable bigoted conspiracy theories suspicious of the Chinese man’s true allegiance.
In his last conscious thought, Byron voted for the ‘brilliance’ option, picturing the face of a much younger Wing, and an older, wiser face of the President’s father
_________________________________________
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Johnnie slept so well that she woke up shortly after five in the morning. Even while lingering in the initial almost-awake gauze of awareness, she sensed all was well. No headache, no unaccounted for moments…in fact, judging by the gargantuan crevices in the form of sheet wrinkles which her fingers traced on the side of her face, she wondered if she’d moved at all during the night.
She reached next to her, interrupting a raucous snore with a gentle tug of Betsy’s ear to wake her. This was the first time they had shared a bed since their first meeting; once the hound had awkwardly hefted her three-legged frame onto the bed the night before, Johnnie hadn’t had the heart to make her get down…although she promised her a bath if this became a habit.
In less than thirty minutes, the two were out the door; they were on the road in forty.
Johnnie drove through the nearly dormant heart of Cheyenne to rejoin Interstate 80, promising herself this would not be her last visit. Some places just speak to you, she thought; and some speak nicely.
She had talked to her brother just before going to bed the night before, and while he seemed eager to see her, he was also adamant that she get to his home by that evening. He had to leave town on business the following day and, without expounding on the reason for his insistence, he made it perfectly clear that she really ought to speak with him privately before meeting with their mother, Mary.
Rather than weave more mystery into her already weird life, she chose to interpret his as a brotherly concern with a focus on their mother, not herself. He had seen their mother many times since she had and she thought that, perhaps, he wanted to prepare her to deal with Mary’s having aged… or maybe Mom was wasting away from disease…or more likely, that she was in the early stages of dementia. Now that was believable, she thought, although it had crossed Johnnie’s mind that their unorthodox Mom had probably been a bit crazy for some years now.
After about an hour on the road, Betsy apparently decided she had seen all there was to the Wyoming-becoming-Nebraska landscape, a common assumption for drive-through travelers. It may have also been that she could no longer see out of the passenger window due to the magnificent collection of nose prints in the form of blobs and swirls. Whatever her motivation for choosing to lie down, the dog flopped over, which was probably easier than easing down with her precarious sense of balance. Once on her side, she rolled onto her stomach and sniper-crawled until her significant noggin landed on Johnnie’s right leg. Wondering if they made lap-bibs, Johnnie grimaced as she felt the goo ooze from Betsy’s lax lips...were they lips?...onto her bare leg. Man’s best friend, maybe, she thought smugly as she gave the dog an affectionate rub.
Comforted as she was by the thought of having her own version of man – or woman’s – best friend, she revisited her previous day’s notion of finding a human travel companion. She really liked being alone; it was just her way. But she was also sick of worrying about that other thing which only seemed to happen around strangers. She wanted the luxury of running again, of going out for a drink. And, she admitted with reluctance akin to one admitting they needed to join a twelve-step program, she needed to share her burden. She had completely unloaded on Dr. Benson and the relief had been tremendous. Although he’d acted in his professional capacity, he had also been genuinely caring and interested…his message via Jerod Stass had verified that. She couldn’t help feeling that talking it out with someone else and even gaining their input may help her work through this mess. With that thought, she glanced at her image on the mirror attached to the sun visor, asking, “Who are you and what have you done with me?”
Shuddering, she felt a stream of drool slide down her leg onto the seat; and she searched her mind for a solution. On one hand, she knew it was pure fantasy to think she could pluck Major Benson from his job and life just to get her through this challenging time. Although she could take him up on his offer to call, that wouldn’t solve her need for a chaperone till she figured this thing out. On the other hand, she knew it was unrealistic to think there were actually souls out there who could put their lives on hold to become a vagabond with a certified crazy veteran until she found her happy ending. But on the other hand (and she was running out of hands,) realism didn’t seem to be a necessary criteria for decision-making these days.
The phone rang and Johnnie jumped to answer it. She didn’t question who it was or even glance at the caller ID. The only thing that truly entered her mind right then was the urgency to extinguish the ringing before it woke the sleeping giant who would have surely smeared streams of yuck across her entire thigh if she’d lifted or moved her head.
“Hello!” She answered breathlessly.
“So. What are you wearing?” asked a deep, sensual voice.
She felt the color drain from her face, wondering if she should be afraid or pissed off… The silence was apparently all James could take before terminating the charade with a laugh that resonated perfectly across the miles and into Johnnie’s realm of recognition.
It wasn’t until awhile later that she realized the irony of a call from Sandy at that exact moment. It also never occurred to her how improbable it was to get a phone signal in no-man’s-land, or that she may have broken the law in that state by even answering the phone while driving.
“Sandy Sanders, you are an asshole.” She said, flooded with relief and, what a surprise, happiness.
“And for your information, I am wearing very little, other than a slobbering canine and a smile. Thank God I’m out in the middle of nowhere…I could be breaking a local law for being in public like this.”
“Well that’s an image I may need counseling to overcome!”
Surprising herself, Johnnie told him with no forethought, “I’m so glad you called. It kind of made my day.” Silence.
Now that was awkward, she thought, panicking just a bit as she carefully shifted her bum while steering with one hand and holding the phone with another. Betsy, thankfully, didn’t budge.
“Well, I’m happy to be of service…it’s what I live for, you know.”
Johnnie involuntarily rolled her eyes upon hearing his sarcastic statement. She smiled a little crookedly; sarcasm was, after all, her specialty.
Her glee was short-lived when he uttered the dreaded “T” word, the one that set about instant panic these days.
“And I really need to thank you, again.” And he continued before she could go through the instant scurry of mental questions as to what she’d unwittingly done.
“Thanks to you, in a mere forty-eight hours, I’ve been liberated. Remember I told you yesterday that your departure made me realize that even I could blow this Popsicle stand?”
Releasing the air she hadn’t realized had taken up temporary residence in her lungs, she relaxed and stayed quiet, assuming his question had been rhetorical.
“You aren’t going to freakin’ believe this, but before I could even call a realtor to see what I had to do to unload this place, one called me. She told me she understood I may not be interested in selling, but she was representing some guy that specifically wants to buy my pub. My pub. He’s apparently ‘starting a new chapter’ in life, and I guess he wants to run a bar. But not just any bar. I’m meeting with her today to discuss his offer… She told me not to take this too lightly; guy’s already got the financing approved. He’s even picked a name for the bar if I’m willing to sell. Funny, huh?”
Johnnie had ceased to breathe again, face frozen, eyebrows stuck in the “up” position. That familiar “you have entered the Twilight Zone” feeling fleeted down her spine, then she quickly exhaled before she got light headed. Breath in, breath out, she told herself.
“Not as funny as you think,” she said, not necessarily to him as she smashed the phone between her face and shoulder so she could switch hands. The one on the steering wheel had cramped with a death grip as he’d explained the bar deal. The deal that would free him.
“What was that?” He asked. Apparently her face had sm
ushed into the transmitter; she was relieved he hadn’t caught her thinking out loud.
“Yeah, funny, but good for you, huh?” she reworded her unheard statement. Tread lightly, she cautioned herself. “So…let’s get funnier…so what if this just happens. Like that. Say this dude hands over the cash and you are free…and homeless. What are you going to do with yourself?”
She felt like a predator, but based on the frequent rate of coincidences in her life, she decided that if she couldn’t beat it, maybe she could work with it?
“No idea. And, frankly, Scarlet,” he said, “I don’t give a damn!”
Scarlet. Really? she mused. Wasn’t she just thinking of her? He continued.
“Johnnie --- One, I think I mentioned it, but I was in the service and got out for disability – with quite a bit of rehab and, well, some benefits. Maybe I can tell you the whole story someday, but the bottom line is, I didn’t want out. But I didn’t have any choice and there I was. I had to do something, and I didn’t really have family to go back to, so I just randomly picked here, and found this place. It’s been a journey, but I didn’t really choose any of it. I don’t know why you made your change …. Maybe you can tell me someday, but you doing it…well it woke me up. Kind of saved me, you know.”
No, no, no. She thought urgently, he was not going to fall in that category.
“No, Sandy, I didn’t save you. You just saw an opportunity and you’re saving yourself.” There. That was more likely anyway, and she just wouldn’t tolerate that burden with him, besides, this felt different than all the other “saving” nonsense.
The connection was starting to become sketchy with occasional static and breaks.
The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy) Page 19
