Childless: A Novel

by James Dobson

  He thought for a moment longer. No one came to mind because, as he had told himself repeatedly, Matthew Adams lived in a relational Siberia.

  “Maria Davidson,” he whispered to himself, tapping the name on his screen. He had been sending her anonymous notes for months. Wasn’t the occasion of his academic validation a perfect excuse to cross the line from secret admirer to high school classmate hoping to reconnect? Didn’t people do such things? Sure they did, all the time. Would it be so wrong to send a message suggesting coffee or dinner? Of course it wouldn’t.

  He thought about the invitations he had received to attend their ten- and fifteen-year class reunions—where, he assumed, people went to learn whether the homecoming queen still turned heads and whether the geeky valedictorian had made millions. More to the point, people who never spoke to one another during high school had been known to hook up. Sixteen years can humble the most rigid caste systems, even those defending the popular elite from invasion by mortals like Matthew Adams. So while Maria Davidson declined Matthew’s invitation to the senior prom in 2027, she might give him a chance in 2043.

  Back then Maria had been the hottest girl at Littleton High School, while Matthew had little swagger and even less muscle mass. She had received nine invitations to the prom before Matthew’s. He knew of at least five other guys who wanted to ask her but didn’t have the confidence. He gave himself credit for at least taking that risk. He remembered that she wore a short, dark-blue, open-backed dress. Matthew went alone and spent the entire evening watching her from afar, seething whenever her date’s groping hands touched her barely concealed body.

  Sixteen years later he continued watching from afar, a pleasure that had become significantly easier nine months earlier when she’d accepted his anonymous request to join her “secret admirer” network. Every picture she posted told Matthew she remained amazing. Unlike those of the other former cheerleaders, her photos did not appear doctored. Even if they had been touched up here and there, you couldn’t make here or there look that good unless you started with something great.

  Mustering every ounce of his newly bolstered confidence, Matthew decided to do something he had imagined doing since the day he and Maria threw their graduation caps in the air. Alphabetical seating had put them only ten rows apart, the A’s in row one and the D’s in row eleven, but the distance between them couldn’t have been greater. Today he lived within an easy drive, a gap he could quickly close by sending a note revealing his identity, asking her out, and, he let himself hope, receiving her “I’d love to” reply.

  He opened her unique page and clicked the LET’S CHAT icon just below her smiling image.

  Hello Maria:

  It’s me again. Thank you for your latest post. You get lovelier by the day!

  I’ve never mentioned it in my prior messages, but I thought you would be interested to know that we have met. You and I attended Littleton High together. Class of ’27. More than met, I asked you out. You probably won’t remember me, but I certainly remember you. Who doesn’t?

  Anyway, I have recently experienced a bit of success…

  He stopped typing. Was it unwise to suggest his success had been recent? Yes, women probably liked guys with a longer track record than two semesters of college. He deleted the last sentence to replace it with something better.

  Anyway, I plan to be back in Littleton on business quite a bit in coming months and wondered whether you would be open to reconnecting. Perhaps we could meet for coffee or dinner? I promise I’m safe, although I’m not so sure how safe you are after reading your latest entry. But I’m willing to risk it.

  I look forward to hearing back.

  Matthew Adams

  He sat back to review the draft. His message needed to strike the perfect balance between sincere admiration and playful flirting. Maria Davidson liked, and deserved, both. Pleased, he reached toward the SEND icon. But he paused for one last scan. Then he moved the cursor over the last two words and bounced thirteen taps on the DELETE key, clearing his real identity to replace it with his favorite pen name.

  I look forward to hearing back.

  A Manichean

  Chapter Four

  When his shift ended, Matthew logged into the registrar’s system to confirm his fall schedule, something he had done at least a dozen times before. Like pinches to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, Matthew enjoyed reminders of his good fortune. With only fifty openings in Dr. Vincent’s class he had rushed to secure a spot two minutes after student access to the online registration system was opened. An hour later fifty other students, including three seniors, found themselves on a growing waiting list. He worried those seniors might do some last-minute jockeying to bump him out of his spot. That’s why he went online to check his status often.

  Matthew entered his student identification number followed by a password. An error message appeared. Assuming a typo he reentered the information. Another error message. This time he bothered to read it.

  ACCESS DENIED DUE TO OVERDUE BALANCE.

  CONTACT STUDENT FINANCIAL SERVICES TO SETTLE YOUR ACCOUNT.

  Matthew cursed at the screen and the reminder of the university’s student loan policy. It would carry an outstanding balance within a single academic year, but not into the next. He hadn’t given the matter much thought back when he requested a loan, because he assumed the transition money would be freed up within a few short months. He’d fully intended to pay off the loan by winter break, then by the end of the spring semester, then by midsummer. With less than two weeks until fall classes began, however, he still hadn’t received a dime.

  Matthew quickly phoned the number on the screen.

  “You have reached the Office of Student Financial Services at the University of Colorado.” The recorded voice went on to offer Matthew more options than he could follow, none of which seemed promising. “If you wish to wait for the next available student assistance representative, please remain on the line. The current estimated wait is approximately ten minutes.”

  He swore again, then considered his options. Perhaps he should call back in the morning. No. Some senior might have snagged his slot in Dr. Vincent’s class by then. He decided to wait, enduring the musical selection that sounded like a cross between a traditional Celtic folk song and a sleazy lounge-lizard ballad. Some music major must have landed a big break by convincing the university to use his laptop-produced album for hold music. Not a bad angle. What better way to reach a large captive audience?

  Midway through the third near-identical song Matthew reached for something to occupy his numbing mind. He landed on a recollection that made his stomach tense. With all the excitement over planning his fall schedule, learning he had passed probation, and contacting Maria Davidson, he hadn’t even considered the possibility he might not return to school. He had convinced himself that all would be well. But what if it wasn’t? Would he be stuck in a pointless job for another year, waiting for his money to clear? What if it never cleared? How would he endure the embarrassment? How could he continue to justify his mom’s transition?

  “Transitions are nothing more than suicide by a different name,” Father Richard had said. He called it a mortal sin, Satan’s attack on the very image of God. But Matthew refused to believe it. Matthew preferred the enlightened spirituality of Manichean philosophers to dogma he, like Dr. Vincent, had rejected. He reminded himself, yet again, that death brought freedom from the prison of the body. Spirit was pure and good. The body was bad. It decayed. So even if his mother’s money remained beyond reach it would take nothing from the majesty of her choice.

  As much as Matthew hated to think her heroic sacrifice might have been in vain, he refused to accept the possibility that it had been a sin.

  “Thank you for holding, Mr. Adams. My name is Juanita. How may I help you?”

  The interruption rescued Matthew from his quandary.

  “Hi, Juanita,” he began. “I just tried to sign in to confirm my fall schedule and got a notice that says
—”

  “I see that your account is past due,” she interrupted. “Do you want to settle the balance today?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to get a short extension.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to grant extensions into the new school year.”

  As he’d expected.

  “I understand. I’m sure I’ll have the money in hand shortly. But I’m concerned about losing my scheduled spots in several key classes. Is there any way to—”

  “We don’t reopen scheduled slots until ten days before the start of the semester.”

  Matthew felt a brief flood of relief followed by a rising panic. Classes were scheduled to begin on August twenty-seventh.

  “So I only have a day?”

  “Two days, actually,” she offered generously.

  “Two days, then. Will my schedule be locked until, let me see…August seventeenth?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Thanks.” He ended the call before she could recite her closing script and immediately dialed the number of the only man who could get him the necessary funds that quickly.

  “Cedillo and Associates, how may I direct your call?”

  It always impressed Matthew how professional Carol Cedillo seemed when answering her husband’s office number. She sounded just like an efficient assistant sitting in the downtown law office Benjamin Cedillo didn’t occupy and handling an appointment schedule he couldn’t fill. You would never know Carol was standing in her kitchen, walking through the aisle of a grocery store, or in any of a hundred other locations speaking into a tiny microphone affixed to her earpiece.

  “Hi Carol. It’s Matthew Adams.”

  “Oh, hi, Matty.”

  Matthew grimaced, then smiled. He hated the nickname Carol Cedillo had given him while he was in diapers. A name he let only her get away with using.

  “Is Ben around?”

  “I think so. Hang on a second and I’ll check. He might be watching television.”

  “Sorry to bother him this late in the day but it’s kind of urgent.”

  “No worries,” she said. “I’m sure he would love to talk to you.”

  Not likely, Matthew thought. It had been nearly six weeks since the two last spoke. The conversation had gone badly.

  “There’s nothing else I can do, Matt,” Benjamin had insisted. “Aspen House says they refuse to take any action until the NEXT appeal is settled.”

  “Why can’t you pressure Chuck Kohl?” Matthew had pushed. “He told me he would be happy to co-approve Mom’s procedure.”

  “Which you didn’t get in writing.”

  “Can’t you say we had a verbal contract?”

  “Sure, I can say it. But that would be next to impossible to prove. Your word against his.”

  That’s when the conversation had turned ugly. Matthew questioned Benjamin’s competence before suggesting he hoped to pocket the money himself.

  “Watch yourself, young man,” Ben had snapped back. “You know I won’t get and wouldn’t accept a penny of your mother’s estate.”

  “Then you’re holding things up out of spite. You’re still upset over her decision.”

  “You’re sure it was her decision?”

  Matthew had resented the implication. “Of course it was her decision.”

  “Charles Kohl told me he isn’t so sure about that.”

  “He’s just covering himself. He signed off on the transition, for Pete’s sake!”

  “He signed off on her mental competence, not on whether he thought she felt coerced.”

  “I told you a hundred times, I didn’t coerce her!”

  “I know you believe that. But I can’t prove it, nor could I get anyone at Aspen House to corroborate it.”

  Matthew didn’t remember the rest of the conversation, only the cloud of anxious fury he’d felt when he left Ben’s home office. During the six weeks that had passed since the encounter Matthew had tried to remain optimistic. He’d chosen to believe the man responsible for his mother’s estate would find a loophole of some sort that would release enough money to pay off Matthew’s freshman loan and fund his sophomore year.

  He’d also tried to urge things along on two fronts. First he badgered the receptionist at Aspen House, a process he stopped after the third visit because Aspen House threatened him with a restraining order. His second effort was much more creative and far less sensible. He delivered several handwritten letters to the federal judge overseeing the NEXT appeal. It couldn’t hurt to let the man who seemed to control his economic fate know the real-life ramifications of the court’s decision.

  “Hello, Matthew.” Benjamin’s voice lacked its customary warmth.

  “Hi, Ben,” Matthew said hesitantly. “How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, you know, I’ve been out back rolling in the pile of money I’m earning from your mom’s estate.”

  Matthew winced at the dig before swallowing his pride. “Look, Ben, I apologize for losing my temper, OK?”

  He took Ben’s silence as permission to continue.

  “Listen, I only have about a week left before fall semester starts and they tell me I can’t officially enroll until the balance from my freshman year is paid.”

  More silence.

  “Anyway, I was hoping we could figure out a way to release some of Mom’s money before—”

  “Not gonna happen, Matt.”

  “Look, Ben, I said I’m sorry.”

  “Fine. I accept your apology. But this has nothing to do with what happened between us. Aspen House won’t budge. End of story.”

  “So my money just sits in an account forever?”

  “Not forever. Just until sometime in September.”

  “What happens in September?” Matthew asked.

  “Opinions on the NEXT appeal will be issued.”

  “By Judge Santiago?”

  Ben seemed surprised by Matthew’s recall. “That’s right. Judge Victor Santiago is the presiding judge. I forget the other two judges’ names.”

  “Coates and Howatch,” Matthew reminded him.

  “Right again. I’m impressed.”

  Matthew decided not to tell Ben about the letters he had sent to Judge Santiago’s office. “It’s an important case to me.”

  “I bet it is,” Ben said wryly. “Nothing gets people interested in the law like the risk of losing cold, hard cash.”

  “I’m not just interested because of the money,” Matthew lied. “This case could determine the future of the whole transition industry.”

  “It could. Probably won’t, though. I’m guessing they’ll overturn the ruling against NEXT and everything will go back to normal.”

  “Including my inheritance?”

  “If the Tenth Circuit Court decides in favor of NEXT I’m confident Aspen House will come around. Until then they’re like every other transition clinic in the country, worried about an avalanche of wrongful death lawsuits.”

  Matthew found the whole legal mess confusing. How had a voluntary transition turned into a wrongful death case anyway? Why had a judge ruled against NEXT? Why had the court granted some dead debit’s brother so much money? And what had made that case prompt so much debate in Congress over the president’s Youth Initiative?

  Whatever the reasons, the director of Aspen House had gotten nervous when Ben requested a digital copy of the neutral consent form after Matthew’s mom transitioned. One day Chuck Kohl said he would send it. The next day Aspen House said he was no longer an employee. The request should have enabled Ben to tie up a last-minute detail for Matthew’s inheritance. It had instead generated dozens of delay tactics and one large unpaid student loan.

  “I can’t keep waiting for some court’s edict,” Matthew said tensely. “The semester starts in a few weeks.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Matt. Until that case gets resolved I simply can’t release the money.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” Matthew hated to ask. “What happens if they decide against
NEXT?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “If they uphold the decision against NEXT then all bets are off. The state of your mother’s estate will most likely be decided by some judge using criteria on which I won’t even try to speculate.”

  “Wait,” Matthew said. “Are you saying I might not get the money at all?”

  “It’s a possibility. Remote. But possible.”

  Matthew suspected Ben took silent pleasure in the prospect, his voice betraying a hint of smug condemnation. The eighty-one-year-old lawyer had never liked transitions. He mocked the idea that snuffing yourself out just because you’d passed your prime was in any way noble or heroic. A devoutly nonreligious man, Ben never called transitions a sin as Father Richard had. He just resented them for making anyone over seventy-five feel guilty every time he enjoyed dinner at a nice restaurant or took a leisurely vacation. He intended to live as long and comfortably as possible, blissfully callous to the growing economic crisis facing the younger generation.

  He seemed even more callous to Matthew’s personal economic crisis.

  “Selfish jerk,” Matthew said after ending the call.

  Three heads turned in his direction.

  “Sorry. Not you,” he said toward the trio. “I was talking to a stubborn old debit.”

  Each nodded in knowing solidarity. The young, after all, must stick together in a world increasingly plagued by aging parasites.

  Chapter Five

  It was late. Jennifer McKay had wanted it that way—to avoid…notice.

  Tyler Cain stood between the massive white pillars of the Byron White United States Courthouse. He’d entered much taller buildings in downtown Denver, but none that evoked such grandeur. An echo of pride accompanied the clack of his heels as they ascended the massive marble stairs that led to the public entrance. Tyler had once been part of the justice system. He had a legitimate claim to the sense of satisfaction he should never have taken for granted or traded away for spite or easy money.