“I’ve never wished I had,” she admitted. “My mom didn’t take us to church, and most of my churchgoing friends outgrew religion. To be honest, I was surprised that a bright, popular kid like Angie stuck with it. She seems more religious now than she was then.”
“More how?”
Julia thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I get the feeling she lets her religion spill over.”
Troy looked intrigued. “Spill over?”
“It’s hard to explain. The times I attended church with her she got pretty emotional. I remember how it would weird me out, all the singing and tears and praying for this and that. But Angie was a very caring person. She was never ashamed that she cried at the drop of a hat.”
“That’s Angie all right,” he agreed.
“I figured church was part of a package that included taking in stray cats and befriending lonely kids. I never expected religion to spill onto her choices about”—Julia stopped short of mentioning motherhood—“real-world matters.”
“Were you one of those lonely kids she befriended?” Kevin asked.
The question smacked Julia’s memory. In truth, she had been. A brainy girl with no figure invited into the popular crowd by a curvy cheerleader who seemed too eager to invite her to church but also too kind to let her eat alone in the cafeteria. Julia was the fatherless girl who borrowed confidence from her friend’s daddy whenever invited to stay for a dinnertime ritual unknown in her own house.
“How was your day, Julia?” Angie’s father always asked.
“You’ll do great,” he encouraged.
“Hold hands for grace,” he decreed.
Those were the fleeting moments of her youth when Julia felt at home. But they were also the times she resented whatever God hadn’t cared enough to give her what he or she had given Angie. A God who she decided probably didn’t exist.
“Wasn’t every kid lonely at one time or another?” she answered.
“I guess so. I know I was,” Troy confessed.
“Anyway, like I said, I’ve never wished I were religious.”
The entire conversation lasted the time it took a pimply-faced teen to prepare three ice-cream cones. Julia received two of the treats, grateful for the interruption. They walked toward the table, where Kevin was holding Leah while Angie relished a mischievous smile.
Julia’s eyes shot a wipe-that-matchmaker-look-off-your-face warning toward Angie. Then she noticed her beckoning phone.
“Excuse me a second,” she said to Troy while tapping the glowing screen.
“Hi, Aunt Julia.”
“Jared? Is something wrong?”
“I need to talk to you,” he began.
She remembered his message. “Oh, Jared, I’m so sorry. I got your message late last night. I intended to call first thing this morning but…well…it doesn’t matter. Are you OK?”
Troy appeared embarrassed, standing too close to avoid eavesdropping.
Julia muted the call. “Sorry. My nephew. Minor domestic crisis.”
He nodded.
“Go on, I’m listening,” she said into the phone.
For the next sixty seconds Jared vented into Julia’s ear, prompting the occasional tidbit of perspective or wisdom he would only take from his aunt.
“You don’t hate your mother, Jared. You’re just upset…She does care. She probably wasn’t thinking. Nothing more…You know that’s not true. And what does it matter what they say anyway?…I promise to talk to her about that when I get home. OK?…Everything’s gonna be fine, you’ll see…Listen, I’ve gotta run. We’ll talk when I get home. Your mom loves you, Jared. So do I.”
She ended the call.
“You seemed to handle that well,” Troy said, reminding Julia he had been listening. “You must be a terrific aunt.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said with some embarrassment. Julia raised her phone. “Julia’s crisis hotline, at your service.”
She felt admiration through his smile.
During the rest of the meal Julia managed to direct the conversation toward clues that might prove useful to her feature story. Kevin let slip something about a Tuesday-afternoon subcommittee meeting. Troy cryptically mentioned a first-draft report that would be on the congressman’s desk in the morning. No title was mentioned, just that it included “revised projections that look better than expected.” For the most part, however, the conversation steered clear of politics or religion in order for the adults to attend to cones threatening to drip and children needing a nap.
* * *
The house was wonderfully quiet as the Tolbert clan enjoyed its Sunday afternoon siesta. Julia debated whether to rest or read. She chose both, slipping under the sheets with her tablet in hopes of drifting off between pages. She opened the Santos journal. The next entry Jeremy had included picked up the story five years after Antonio’s diagnosis.
August 29, 2031: I just got Antonio to sleep. He’s been crying all afternoon and evening. Last night he was so excited about today. But when I arrived at the school they told me he couldn’t attend, that the budget for special student assistance had been slashed in a late round of cuts. They blamed conservatives who voted to reduce education funding.
Jeremy was four and a half when he started prekindergarten, so we expected Antonio to go the year before last. They told me then that the kindergarten program could not accommodate his needs, that I should wait another year. I’ve been holding on by my fingertips ever since, the hope of Antonio spending six hours per day in a classroom motivating me to scrape our way through another twelve months.
I guess I’ll need to find another source of hope. Quitting isn’t an option.
I called Nina. She said she could continue coming to the house at 2 p.m. when I leave for my shift at the store. She’ll stay until Jeremy gets home from school. I know I’m abusing her goodwill, that she and Marcos could use her second income. I don’t know what I’d do without my sister’s support.
Tomorrow I’ll research remote education programs for Antonio. He’s really smart and wants to learn things Nina and I can’t teach. I only hope today’s news doesn’t crush his spirit.
Julia thought about her nephew and Maria back home. What hope would Jared have if he were told he couldn’t attend school? How would her sister have managed a career if Julia had not been her backup during Jared’s early years? What if Jared had required twenty-four-hour attention year after year after year?
She continued reading, noting the next entry included a picture link, which she tapped. It was a shot of Sylvia and Jeremy standing behind eight-year-old Antonio sitting in a tinsel-strewn wheelchair. Another woman knelt beside Antonio, probably Aunt Nina.
December 25, 2031: I’m sitting next to our small tree enjoying the flicker of lights. Jeremy and Antonio are still sound asleep. They didn’t get to bed until nearly one o’clock in the morning when we returned from midnight Mass.
Julia paused her reading, wondering why on earth a woman in Sylvia’s situation would go through the hassle of dragging two boys to church at midnight on Christmas eve.
I expect Jeremy to wake soon and, remembering the day, shake his brother. I told Jeremy Santa might bring a very special gift for Antonio this year. He begged me to say what it was, but I told him I couldn’t since Santa doesn’t make guarantees. Truth is, I didn’t receive confirmation until last night when our priest showed me the chair. He said he finally found a donor. I suspect it was Father Mark himself, but know he’ll never say.
We no longer hope that Antonio will be able to walk, and he has become too heavy for me to continue carrying everywhere. More importantly, he needs some sort of independence. He will be so excited! Finally able to steer himself around unaided. This particular unit includes an upgrade option for when Antonio’s deterioration continues, an attachment that would let him control the chair with a single finger using a tiny touchpad that works with both hands or either. It can also interface with a tablet in case Antonio loses his speech.
A few
months ago I brought my son to the school where we were both reminded of his defects. Today he will receive a small measure of dignity. It may not be the kind of healing Nina has prayed for, but I gratefully take what we can get. This is going to be a wonderful day!
While other kids got the latest digital toy, Antonio got a wheelchair. Hardly a moment Julia would call wonderful. Certainly not one for which she would express gratitude!
No longer sleepy, Julia continued reading confessions from a woman’s life that could not have been more different from her own. For the next hour the years flew.
2032: Sylvia lands a slightly higher-paying job doing cleanup work for a start-up research lab funded by a federal grant for genetic technology. Jeremy earns mostly B’s and C’s in sixth grade, which Mom considers outstanding in light of the time he spends helping Antonio every weekday afternoon. Nine-year-old Antonio has become a voracious reader, devouring every article and e-book he can find on dinosaurs or robots. Especially robots.
2033: Antonio’s medical needs intensify after he loses movement in both legs and much of his left arm. A concerned doctor tries to encourage Sylvia by telling her about a recent court decision expanding the scope of those eligible for assisted suicide to disabled minors. Father Mark blows his stack when he finds out. Antonio spends his days fiddling around with an outdated robotics software program he received from a member of their parish, a retired engineer who learned of Antonio’s interest.
2034: Sylvia worries about Jeremy as his grades drop and his attitude sours. Marcos and Nina try taking him to their church, introducing him to the youth minister, and praying for him. Nothing seems to help. Father Mark says it’s normal for teen boys to push away from their mothers, that they need a strong male influence to help them navigate body changes and build a masculine identity.
2035: Antonio finds a free online program he can do from home to reach his goal of completing seventh-grade material a full year ahead of his eleven- and twelve-year-old peers. But he loses most of his capacity for speech. They can’t find a donor to fund an auxiliary voice device in such difficult economic times.
2036: A great year. Sylvia receives a pay increase after her company goes public and receives an infusion of research funding. She and the boys get involved in the Lowman presidential campaign, even volunteering to provide basic e-marketing labor from home. Antonio becomes proficient at single-finger-motion typing. He starts a journal labeled ANTONIO’S MUSINGS. Despite declining mobility he seems in good spirits, especially on election night, when he feels like a small part of history.
2037: Sylvia loses her job after the gen-tech market crash. The Santoses are forced to move in with Nina and Marcos for six months while she pieces together part-time work. Thankfully, the store where she used to work creates an opening to hire her back. The income drop forces Sylvia to move into a low-rent apartment in an even less affluent school district. Jeremy hates his new school and is nearly suspended for fighting. He claims self-defense, so only receives a warning.
2038: The economic downturn hits the Santos family hard prompting another move. Sylvia receives some help from a fellow parishioner she dates now and again, a retired engineer who has taken an interest in Antonio’s education. She wants the relationship to become more serious but understands his reluctance to take on a disabled adolescent and an angry Jeremy trying his best to flunk out of high school. They remain friends, however, and he helps on occasion when the month outlasts her paycheck. He also keeps Antonio stocked with a series of dated software licenses.
2039: Congress responds to the economic crisis by passing the president’s Youth Initiative. Sixteen-year-old Antonio, losing interest in his studies and robotics, shifts his focus to economics. He follows the national debate with great interest, becoming visibly angry when religious conservatives criticize the president’s motives. Sylvia wishes Antonio would spend his time on more productive concerns, apply his impressive intellect to learning a useful trade. She knows he is capable of making a great contribution to the world despite his physical limitations. He ignores her pleas, says she’s just a biased mom. True. But she still worries. Meanwhile, Jeremy takes a job in the same store as his mother after a near-miss graduation from high school. Minimum wage, but better than nothing.
2040: Sylvia becomes serious with another man. With Jeremy picking up part of the financial burden she is able to cut back from sixty to fifty hours per week, giving her a small margin for social activities. She had almost forgotten the rejuvenating effect of simple pleasures like eating out, watching a movie, and holding a man’s hand. But it all ends abruptly when the man honors Antonio’s request for a ride to the brand-new transition clinic that has opened up a mile down the road. Antonio returns from the consultation eager to play his part, serve the common welfare, and give his mom a life. Sylvia refuses to ever see the gentleman again.
As Julia swiped the screen to read Sylvia’s last few entries she heard a timid knock on the door, followed by the sound of a child’s voice coming through the gap at the floor.
“Aunt Juwia. You awake?” Tommy in search of a playmate.
She pulled back the sheets and moved toward the opening door.
“Yes Tommy, I’m awake. Are you?”
He didn’t know how to answer.
“Give me a minute, OK?”
He nodded eagerly.
The Tolbert household was coming back to life and inviting Julia to emerge from her cocoon.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“The congresswoman will see you now.” The receptionist appeared to be in his late twenties. As he opened the door for Julia she breathed deeply for one last scent of the cologne that had been teasing her senses throughout the five-minute wait. Julia had stolen a dozen glances at the man’s form-fitted suit and alluringly perfect smile. She wondered whether he had been hired as eye candy to give the ten-term representative something to look forward to each morning before facing a barrage of lobbyist pitches and mind-numbing debates with fellow congressional blowhards.
“Julia Davidson!” Nicole Florea was already standing. “To what do I owe the honor of meeting one of my favorite columnists?”
It hadn’t occurred to Julia that a member of the Western State Coalition might be a fan. But then she remembered the relationship with her editor. Any friend of Paul’s must also be an advocate of progressive ideas regardless of party affiliation.
“The honor is mine, Madame Florea,” Julia began.
“Please, call me Nicole.”
Julia had seen still pictures and press conference footage of the congresswoman for years. Standing close, however, she appeared much older. Any publicist worth his salt would have carefully screened photos and clips to release only the most flattering images of a woman who had passed her prime a decade or two earlier. Even a dramatically older population considered aging taboo, especially for women. Repeated cosmetic surgeries and a costly hair enhancement routine could not hide a slightly arched stature or a voice diminished from what it had been when the now-seventy-one-year-old politician took the political world by storm.
After the usual pleasantries Julia asked permission to record their conversation. It was a journalistic courtesy that, if refused, would either banish a politician from much-needed coverage or free the reporter to speculate on why he or she had declined to comment on whatever issue dominated the day’s news wire. Nicole readily agreed.
“I understand you want to discuss Kevin Tolbert.”
The question surprised Julia. She hadn’t mentioned Kevin, nor had she intended to. Had Paul given the congresswoman a heads-up?
“Well, actually, I wanted to get your thoughts on Senator Franklin’s fiscal austerity coalition,” Julia explained. “They’ve been pretty secretive, but we’ve heard something about pending proposals that seem—”
“Crazy?” Nicole interjected. “That’s why I mentioned Kevin Tolbert. He’s the ringleader, and I don’t like the direction he seems to be taking things.”
Her int
ensity surprised Julia. Nicole Florea had always come across as consummately evenhanded, as one willing to hear all sides before drawing conclusions or giving public comment. In this instance, however, she seemed thirsty for blood in the water.
“He’s inexperienced and arrogant,” Nicole continued, “and he has no business contributing to such an effort, let alone leading it.”
“I thought Senator Franklin was leading the coalition.” Julia tapped her tablet screen to find the specific quote. “Here it is. ‘He claims to have invited a variety of leading voices into a dialogue in order to surface the best solutions to our mounting fiscal crisis.’”
“Humph.”
“I’m surprised you aren’t one of the participants,” Julia said, altering Nicole’s expression from one of angst-filled resentment to one of ego-massaged satisfaction.
“Too much on my plate already,” she said. “I don’t have time for secret meetings that are unlikely to surface any new solutions.”
“Can I ask why you’re concerned about Congressman Tolbert?”
“Like I said, his ideas are crazy!”
“I know what you mean.” Julia pretended to know more than she did in hopes of opening the congresswoman’s spigot. “Do you think he’s got a breeder agenda?”
“Without question,” she nearly shouted. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not party to the specifics, but I know a renegade when I see one. Kevin Tolbert is a renegade.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to understand a bit about your part in getting the president’s agenda passed.”
“My part? In all modesty, I played the quarterback,” she boasted. “Ask anyone in this town and they’ll tell you. The Youth Initiative was dead in the water before I got the Western State Coalition on board. The Eastern and Northern states supported the concept immediately. But the Southern states mounted a pretty ugly attack, accusing President Lowman of sacrificing human dignity on the altar of financial stability, trying to save his own political neck by lynching senior citizens, blah, blah, blah. You know the script.”
Fatherless: A Novel Page 18
