“How out of hand?”
“I prefer not to comment on that at the moment.”
“Is something going on our readers should know about?” She sounded a bit more like the hard-hitting journalist she aspired to be. “I’d hate to think the government is withholding information from the public.”
“Nothing has been hidden. All of the information we are discussing is currently accessible to anyone who cares to look.”
Julia ran through a mental list of usual suspects.
The quarterly report on housing vacancies?
The mushrooming cloud of national and personal debt?
Another stock market decline?
There were so many possibilities, since nearly every economic trend had been moving in the wrong direction for years. Which would prompt a sudden call for draconian budget cuts?
“Look where?” she asked.
“Again, I’d rather not comment. Except to say I’m surprised how little attention the news syndicates have given to falling fertility.”
The topic hadn’t crossed her mind, but the comment stepped on her toes. “Not true. Just last week I did a column on the topic. And we did that big hoopla last August over the population tipping point.”
“I stand corrected,” he conceded.
“But I don’t understand what fertility has to do with austerity measures.”
“You’ll need to figure that out on your own. Next question,” he said.
Dissatisfied, she reluctantly looked at her list. “What are bright spots?”
“A reference to the process of finding isolated pockets of success or health in the midst of an otherwise dismal situation,” he explained. “You know, like finding the silver lining, only applied to economics. When we identify micro–bright spots we can learn a lot about potential solutions on a macro level, or at least what behaviors to encourage rather than dissuade. The specific subcommittee I chair has been looking hard at pockets of economic strength. I think we’ve identified strategies that will give the ailing patient a health spa membership instead of admitting him to an intensive care unit.”
“That sounds like a speech applause line,” she chided.
“A pretty good one too, don’t you think?”
“Maybe for a speech. But it sounds naïve for national policy. You can’t just tell a sickly patient to suck it up and run the Boston marathon.”
“I’ll grant you that,” he acknowledged. “No one thinks any single idea will turn things around. My proposal will become part of a much larger package.”
She remembered Paul’s concern that the Bright Spots proposal would likely advance a radical breeder agenda. Nicole Florea had said the same. Julia decided to go out on a limb.
“I understand you plan to propose reintroducing child tax credits.”
The statement seemed to jolt Kevin. “Who told you that?”
“I can’t reveal sources,” she said, sustaining the ruse. “But you could confirm or deny that part of my story. Assuming, of course, you’ll go on the record.” She held her breath as he formulated a reply.
“Nice try, Julia,” he said. “But I refuse to say anything about specific proposals. And I won’t confirm speculations one way or the other. Next question.”
The conversation went on in a similar fashion for fifteen minutes, Julia fishing for details while Kevin remained vexingly evasive. After nearly half an hour she had managed to extract few details, none of which could be used since everything remained off the record. Paul would be displeased.
She threw in the towel, abandoning her prepared list of questions. “Come on, Kevin. Can’t you give me anything?”
He leaned back in his chair like a high school teacher hoping to nurture a student’s curiosity rather than give the answers. “What was your reaction to the most recent census?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“Like I said earlier, all of the information is available to anyone who cares to look.”
Julia sensed Kevin was changing the game. “Well, like everyone else I’m a bit concerned about how we’ll deal with so many senior citizens. But on the whole I’m optimistic. Birth rates continue to drop. That should reduce the drain on scarce resources.”
“What kind of resources?”
“Fuel. Trees. Food. Everything.”
“So you think food is a scarce resource?”
“Come on, Kevin. You know as well as I do that millions are starving.”
“Really? Where?” he pressed.
“I don’t know. Africa.”
“What part of Africa?”
“Do you want the ZIP codes?” she objected. “I don’t know what parts. What are you getting at?”
“Did you take Economics one-oh-one?” he asked.
“I did.”
“Then you know about the law of supply and demand.”
“Of course.”
“Are you aware of the fact that it costs less to buy a calorie of food today than ever before in history?”
No, she wasn’t.
“So why do we continue to consider food a scarce resource? I agree there are starving people in the world. But when you get specific about where they starve, you find it invariably the result of war or corrupt leadership.”
“Is there a reason we’re heading down this rabbit trail?” Julia asked.
“Just to say that we don’t have a global food shortage, especially in this nation where more people become obese than go hungry. So, when you say scarce resources, don’t you really mean money?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be trying to find cuts in federal spending if we were rolling in cash. Would you?”
“There. Now we’re back on the main trail,” Kevin confirmed. “In this country we face a financial crisis, not a resource crisis. Just to be clear.”
“Okay. You win. Scarce financial resources then.”
“And you think children cost a lot of money?” he continued. “Money that could be spent on…?” His voice lingered, inviting Julia to complete the sentence.
“Taking care of seniors, for one.”
“So we need more money to take care of our elderly citizens. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I feel like I’m talking to Socrates!” she mocked. “Yes, we need more money for things like health care. Isn’t that obvious?”
“And where does the money required for those expenses come from?”
Julia thought the answer too obvious. “From taxes.”
“Paid by…?” Another fill-in-the-blank.
“Taxpayers, of course.”
“Wrong,” Kevin said, as if he were swatting a fly with a magazine. “The money comes from human beings. And the fewer human beings involved in the economy there are, the scarcer that all-important resource called money becomes. In each of the past ten decades this country has followed the rest of the developed world down a path toward depopulation. The same reality squeezing the federal budget is also creating a housing glut, a manufacturing slump, and an overburdened health-care system. Our scarcest resource is not food, trees, or fuel. Our scarcest resource is people.”
The idea struck Julia as sacrilege offending an orthodoxy to which she and her readers unquestioningly subscribed. She started to search for a hole in Kevin’s rationale but stopped when she suddenly grasped his likely motive.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You are considering tax credits for having kids, aren’t you?” She felt herself becoming upset by the possibility. “You want to go back to the days when the federal government stuck its nose in America’s bedrooms. I thought we outgrew that kind of nonsense decades ago. I assume you’ve heard that we had a sexual liberation movement on this planet. Kids are a choice, not an obligation. Women are good for more than becoming baby factories!”
Mid-diatribe Julia remembered Angie. She regretted her statement immediately, the look on Kevin’s face confirming an offense. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”
“No need to explain yourself,
Julia. I understand your position. You think women like Angie are squandering their potential.”
Julia sat silent, owning the accusation.
“Well, I respectfully disagree,” Kevin continued. “A lot of people consider bearing and rearing children a noble and highly meaningful calling. But we can set that aside for the moment. More to the point, both short- and long-term economic trends make it an important national priority.”
She felt the need to pull back, softening the edge of her heat-of-the-moment speech. “You know I think the world of Angie. I don’t mean to minimize what she’s done or any other woman who chooses motherhood. My own sister decided to keep a baby. We share the load raising my nephew. But you don’t really think you can coerce women to have more babies in this day and age, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” he answered. “But I do think we can stop making it so difficult to do so. We can stop penalizing those willing to have children to reward those who don’t. Take a look at the numbers, Julia. Our tax code makes doing what’s difficult harder and doing what’s selfish easy.”
“So people like me are selfish?”
Now Kevin appeared to regret his words. “I didn’t mean it like that. There are plenty of valid reasons people avoid marriage and parenthood. But far more choose childlessness than ever before in human history. The trend lines are clear, Julia. If we don’t see a pretty dramatic fertility jump soon we will look a whole lot like Japan, Russia, and China in a few short years.”
He stood and turned toward the window to gaze like a protective father spotting an approaching storm. “Based on the latest census, I fear we may have already gone too far to turn back.”
Julia rose to her feet to join him, noticing the tip of the Capitol Building Rotunda just above a line of trees a thousand yards beyond.
“You may find this hard to believe. But people like me love our country too.”
“I know,” he said.
They continued staring out the window for several seconds, two doctors conflicted over how to best treat the same ailing patient.
Julia spoke first. “Listen, Kevin. RAP Syndicate is going to run a story on Franklin’s austerity committee, including something about the Bright Spots proposal.”
He looked in her direction. “With or without the facts?”
“With or without your perspective,” she replied. “A perspective I would much rather include if possible.”
He turned back toward the window.
“I have an idea,” she said. “If you agree to give me access to the substance of the discussions before anyone else I’ll guarantee space in my feature to let you make your case in your own words. Nine million readers.”
“All of them ready to throw stones.”
“Probably. But at least they will have a chance to hear your side of the debate. That won’t happen with any other syndicate. You never know, you might just woo some of them to your side. That is your specialty, is it not?”
A deep breath lifted his sagging shoulders. “Deal.”
“Really?”
“Why not? I’ll be fighting an uphill battle anyway. I might as well do it on my own turf.”
“So, can we go on the record?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But if you plan to stay in DC through tomorrow I might just be able to give you the kind of access other journalists would kill for.”
Julia’s face lit up. “Such as?”
“How would you like to sit in on my proposal presentation in the morning?”
Five minutes later Julia stood outside, her hair blowing in the chilly wind as she tapped out a time-buying message to Paul Daugherty.
GOOD NEWS. JOINING MEETING WITH FRANKLIN’S TEAM IN THE MORNING!
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was nearly ten o’clock before Matthew arrived at work, two hours later than he’d intended. Dozens of crumpled napkins scattered beside half-empty mugs of lukewarm coffee told him there had been a morning rush. Had he arrived earlier Sarah would have asked him to clock in before his scheduled shift. Disappointed, he reminded himself it had been a rough few nights and that he’d had good reason to ignore the alarm clock. He’d needed the extra sleep more than he needed the extra money.
Matthew had spent much of the prior two days battling his mother’s unsettled nerves. It had started Sunday. He’d known it was risky leaving her alone for the time it took him to meet with Father Tomberlin. Something must have disoriented her, causing her to forget his predeparture instructions.
“Donny won’t be here to stay with you, Mom,” he had explained. “I promise I won’t be gone long. I’m going to visit Father Tomberlin.”
Her face lit up at the mention.
“You remember Father Tomberlin, don’t you?”
A nod told him that she did.
“What time is Mass?” she asked.
Matthew didn’t bother reminding her of Father’s retirement or that he no longer led Mass at St. Joseph’s. Nor did he see any point explaining the real purpose of his visit.
“I’m not attending Mass,” he replied. “I’m just going to talk to Father Tomberlin. I should be home before two o’clock.” He showed her a small clock as his finger mimicked the hour hand moving from the eleven to the two. “I left you a sandwich on the kitchen table. Just remove the cellophane wrap when you get hungry. OK?”
The sandwich remained untouched when Matthew arrived home, the first of two instructions forgotten.
“If you need anything or feel scared just say, ‘Call Matthew’ and the phone will ring me. If you forget that, just press my image on this screen,” he had said, pointing to a large digital tablet sitting beside her chair. “One tap and I’ll be on the line with you in five seconds.”
Also forgotten, evidenced by the puffy eyes that greeted him when he found her whimpering in the corner of her bedroom. She had apparently searched every inch of their tiny home dozens of times over the prior two and a half hours, eventually giving up at the mistaken realization that her son had gotten lost, or had left her, or had died.
Matthew spent the rest of Sunday holding his mother’s hand in a tangible guarantee of his promise never to leave her alone again. It didn’t work. She spent much of the night crawling in and out of bed, reliving her frantic search for a son who might vanish at any moment. It wasn’t until Monday evening that she seemed back to her normal, semi-befuddled self. That’s when he made an even bigger blunder.
He raised the subject while sitting beside her as she watched television, a hesitant child broaching a difficult topic. Unable to look her in the eyes, he muted the television during commercial breaks to toss fragments from what he had intended to be a carefully crafted, coherent script.
“I took a big step today, Mom,” he began, eyes fixed on the screen. “I submitted my application to the University of Colorado.”
She looked toward Matthew, pleased at the reminder of her dream for him.
“I’ve always said you should be a professor.” She sounded like her old self, a proud mother flattering her faultless son.
“I know,” he continued. “You convinced me it was a good idea to see if they will admit me on probation. I got pretty solid grades at Front Range Community College.”
“I remember. They’ll accept you. And you’ll do great.”
“Anyway, if I get accepted we’ll have some pretty important decisions to make.”
She said nothing. The corner of his eye perceived a head nodding in oblivious agreement.
The commercial ended, triggering Matthew to un-mute the sound. He would use the ten minutes of onscreen drama to decide how he would word the second of four points.
“Did I ever tell you how much tuition costs?” he asked, muting the next commercial. They both watched gorgeous mimes promote a new perfume or luxury automobile.
“What’s that?”
“Tuition. I was looking into how much it will run for tuition, tech access, on-campus housing.” He sensed her head turn toward him. “All of the expe
nses of going to college full time.”
“On-campus housing?” A slight panic rose in her voice.
He pretended not to hear. “So the total, near as I can figure, will run about sixty thousand per year. A quarter million for the full degree. Then graduate school.”
“Why would you need on-campus housing?” she asked. “Can’t you live at home?”
“Sure I could,” he backpedaled. “I’m just checking into all the options. You know, in case.”
Her breathing slowed back to normal. “I see.”
He raised the volume in the middle of a second commercial, pretending interest in the ad because he wasn’t quite ready to raise point three.
“I got an auto-reply message from the college financial aid office that included tips on how to pay for school,” he continued ten minutes later, the dancing light of silent images bouncing across his tentative face. “My job might cover about ten percent of the cost if we can wean you off of some of the more expensive medications.”
She didn’t react. It had been some time since she’d known which daily pill treated which ailment. Matthew would know what was best in that arena anyway.
“They don’t really offer many four-year student loans anymore,” he continued. “The whole austerity budget thing pretty much eliminated that option. And we can’t expect any kind of academic scholarship since I’ll be lucky to get accepted on probation as it is.”
As he’d hoped, she seemed to recall an offer made years earlier. “What about the money your grandfather left us? Can’t we use some of that?”
“That’s a possibility,” he responded. “But we currently use that money to live.”
The program returned on cue. In ten minutes Matthew would ask his mother the hardest question of his thirty-three years. He used the time to mentally rehearse his rationalization.
SPIRIT GOOD. BODY BAD.
“Jesus…was a death-embracing mystic,” Dr. Vincent had said. “The Manichaeans taught that the physical body is evil, a prison cell keeping us from our true nature…We decay.”
Fatherless: A Novel Page 21
