by Martha Carr
“You really want the prize tonight, don’t you Maureen?” said Ginger. Maureen stuck her tongue out and hissed, “Yes,” as two two’s turned up. Yvette unwrapped a miniature Hershey bar and slid it into her mouth.
“How’s it going with Lance?” asked Maureen. Lance was Yvette’s six year old son.
“I can’t complain,” said Yvette, “but I’m not sure what to do. His teacher says he’s way too far ahead of everyone else in the class and wants to jump him to second grade. But it’s already March. He’d be starting in the middle of everything and wouldn’t know a soul.”
“Did she just mention it?” said Wallis.
“No, and good point,” said Yvette, laughing. “She mentioned it last December before the new semester started, but I suppose I don’t want to do it so I dragged my feet. I’m going to keep up my passive resistance till summer, I think. Sure, he’s making her come up with lesson plans just for him, but he’s small for his age and she should do the heavy lifting here, not Lance.”
“How’s Fred doing?” asked Yvette, turning to Maureen.
“Worried about the economy, which is a good thing. He seems to need something to worry about and when he can’t figure out what it might be he starts to look at me,” said Maureen, letting out a snort of laughter.
“What does your husband say about Lance?” asked Maureen.
“He’s so busy at work. He asked me what I was doing and when I said I wasn’t all that interested, he stopped asking. I’m all for waiting to see how this plays out.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” said Wallis.
“Yeah, just say no,” said Ginger. “How’s Ned getting along? He’s running ahead of his teachers, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but the teachers don’t seem to be aware of it, which is how Ned likes it. Ned’s better at playing his own game and does just enough to get the A’s but not so much they’ll notice he’s not getting challenged.”
“That’s okay with you?” asked Maureen. “Oh, Bunko, Ginger, good for us.” Maureen made five notches on the notepad.
“Sure, it’s fine. Ned’s naturally curious and he’s not going to stop himself from learning and if he feels he needs to be under the radar then so be it. He’ll find his way.”
Wallis thought of Paul and some unseen force’s interest in him and she let go of a shudder.
“You cold?” asked Ginger. “You want to use my sweater?” she said, reaching around to peel the fuchsia cardigan off of the back of her chair.
“No, no, I’m fine. Just thinking about some of the cases I see.” Getting a little better at lying quickly, thought Wallis.
“Yeah, that must be hard not to take home,” said Maureen. “I don’t think I could do it. I’d be yelling at people all the time to straighten up and fly right.” The women chuckled.
“Twenty one!” said Ginger. Maureen vigorously rang the bell.
“Okay, who’s my next partner?” said Maureen, pushing herself up and moving over to the next table.
“Maybe you’ll win for having the least tonight, Maureen,” said Yvette.
“A prize is a prize,” said Maureen, pulling a chair out a little further at a nearby table.
“Did you hear about Blazney?” said Maureen to her new table partners. Wallis looked up, trying to catch what she was saying but couldn’t hear her over the general chatter.
Dot, a newcomer to the neighborhood who looked younger than her forty years sat down across from Wallis. “Two holes, good going Wallis,” she said, glancing at the file card by Wallis’ place.
Ginger took the chair Maureen had left as Julia settled into the empty folding chair.
“Hello again,” said Wallis.
“Glad to be back,” said Julia.
“Are we on three’s?” asked Dot, looking around.
“Yes!” yelled Angie who was around the corner.
“Are we ready?” asked Ginger, raising the bell. “Yes,” several voices yelled out in unison and the bell rang, signaling the start of another round.
The sound of dice hitting the table mingled with the delighted sounds of hitting the right number and the good-natured moans of scoreless tosses.
“Oooooh, traveling,” said Dot, surprised at her own luck of tossing a straight line of three’s. Angie hopped up from her seat, pulling off the bracelet made of strung together dice and handed it to Dot.
“Congratulations,” she said, smiling, as she turned to go back to her seat.
“Traveling!” shouted Bridget sitting two tables over. She looked around eagerly for where the bracelet had gotten to. Angie turned back to Dot who was slowly sliding the bracelet back off, trying not to look disappointed.
“It didn’t even have time to cool off,” said Angie, smiling at Dot before handing the bracelet over to Bridget and retaking her seat.
“Did I tell you?” said Julia, “Roger’s been offered a scholarship to Sutler, right out of the blue!” Roger was Julia’s tall, curly haired twelve year old son. Wallis liked him. He was easy to get along with and would talk to her about what was going on in his life. Wallis always felt privileged to get a peek inside of any middle school life.
“Really? Somebody just called you up and asked if Roger wanted to go there?” asked Ginger. “Wow, you must be living right.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly out of the blue,” said Julia, talking a little too fast. Wallis felt a sense of dread coming over her, sensing what Julia was about to lay out before her.
“Sam and I have been talking to this group for a few years,” she said.
“Group?” asked Dot.
“Yeah, like the Masons, except they’re called The Stewards. They do good works for children. They’ve been around for hundreds of years. Anyway, they took an interest in Sam and have been helping us get him ahead.”
“How did you meet them in the first place?” asked Dot. Wallis watched each of the women, keeping her silence, making herself take measured breaths. She didn’t say a word, too worried that in her attempts to disguise her growing dread her voice would come out too controlled, too calculating.
“Tina introduced me to one of their Watchers at a tea she had. Roger must have been around nine. I’ve mentioned it before, when he got into cotillion at the Women’s Club? Remember?”
“Oh yeah, I thought Pamela helped you get in.”
“She did. She wrote a letter.”
“Watcher?” interrupted Ginger, “That sounds a little creepy. Why are they called Watchers?”
“Who knows,” said Julia. “You know how those old societies are, they like their drama. All I know is they’ve made our lives a little easier and helped Roger. All I need to know.”
“They haven’t asked you to join?”
“Nope. Apparently they have rules about joining if they’re helping your child. If you’re really interested Tina’s having another tea in a few weeks. She said I could invite y’all. You want to come, Wallis? Ned would be about the right age. They like to get them young,” she said, smiling.
Julia reached into her purse on the floor by her feet and pulled out several invitations, offering them to the women at the table. Dot grabbed at one of the stiff cream-colored engraved cards.
“They only accept a handful, mostly boys, big surprise, but I figure even if you only end up with a little help, it couldn’t hurt, right? You want one, Wallis? You’re awfully quiet. Looking for the loopholes?” She held a card out to Wallis.
Wallis slowly took the card and smiled back at Julia. She was working hard to press the anger back down inside of her. The effort was taking its toll and she could feel some of it seeping out of the sides.
“And they want nothing in return?” she said, a little louder than she had intended. The sound of dice hitting plastic tablecloths stopped for a moment as the collection of women looked toward Wallis. “They don’t have expectations about what your child might become?”
“No...No,” mumbled Julia. “It’s just guidance.” Her voice had taken on a slight whine, so
unlike her. “It’s hard to give your children everything you want to these days.”
“Or even everything we had,” said Yvette from another table. A grumbled murmur of approval rolled around the room. Wallis breathed in slowly, held her breath for a moment and let it back out.
“Fred wants nothing to do with it,” said Maureen. “He was put through that whole rigmarole as a child and he said it stops with him. Well, that and we have no children,” she said with a laugh.
“Sorry,” said Wallis, trying to give Julia’s hand a reassuring pat. Her head was pounding. “Long day and I guess I’m still partly in lawyer mode. I’m sure you checked it out.”
Her last words were more of a warning that she was hoping Julia would remember.
“My grandfather was a Shriner,” said Ginger, picking up the dice. “Always had to wear the little fez in pictures. So proud of it. I don’t understand any of it, but if it’s helping kids get ahead it can’t be all bad. Oh, twenty one!” She rang the bell.
Wallis won the random drawing that night, taking home a large purple candle. She walked to her car slowly looking around for anyone lurking by the bushes but the street seemed empty. She felt badly about how the night had turned out. The conversation had never managed to reach the same level of good-natured fun after her comments.
Chapter Fifteen
The crowd was gathering early. The parking lot of Baldwin’s Funeral Home was quickly filling up with well-kept late model European sedans all parked carefully within the white lines.
Anyone driving home down Parham Road from the office or the local Martin’s grocery store that night would have thought someone important must have died. The reverence of the gathering said it was a prominent business owner who was well respected by everyone who worked for him or at least someone who was still feared, even in death.
But no one was there to honor the dead. The funeral home was being used as the perfect cover for an impromptu large meeting. The leaders of Management knew no one ever looked too closely as they sped by out of respect for the grieving.
The sky was cooperating with the mood and was gray and overcast as the sun slowly set over the wealthy suburb. There was a wet chill in the air that made everyone want to draw the collar of their coat closer and walk a little quicker toward their destination.
Somber men and women were quietly walking toward the building. The loudest noise was the rhythmic shuffle of their heels along the blacktop. Everyone was dressed in conservative southern business attire topped with dark overcoats.
A few of the men greeted each other with a nod or mouthed hello but no one spoke.
The dark grey or blue suits were standard issue for the chosen so that they would always blend into any group. Hair was always above the collar for men and a shoulder length bob for the women. Each town had their own version of what was acceptable and everyone followed the specifications. Outsiders noticed the herd mentality and pegged it to wanting to fit in and not rock the boat. Members everywhere had been taught from an early age that odd or poor grooming could be a distraction to the work at hand and make someone too memorable. The point wasn’t to stand out and be remembered, it was to get the job done and go back to the easier routines of life. Standards made everything easier.
After all, rule number one was that the principles of the organization mattered more than any handful of personalities and individual expression was to be sacrificed for the common good.
As the men and women entered the building they quickly handed their coats over to the two men who greeted them with a short set of instructions and handed back a ticket stub to retrieve their belongings later. It was only then that the small lapel pin became visible across the sea of bodies, dotting the left side of every jacket. A small round pin of an American flag against a white enamel background trimmed in gold leaf. It was the passport into the cavernous room and made each member recognizable anywhere in the world as a fellow traveler. Every country had their own version of the pin with their own national flag. Only one small company run by Management made the pins. It was a necessary precaution in order to control who received the gold-enameled marker.
Regular meetings were held at the beginning of every quarter in different funeral homes around town. Members were called together to keep everyone on track with the same message. But this one was quickly put on the calendar and held more importance than usual to the local leaders. Things were starting to appear too lax in the Richmond delegation and a few recent and unfortunate incidents had made plans vulnerable to being detected. That could not be tolerated.
Richard Bach stood just outside the doors that lead to the small stage in the sanctuary. He was glancing in to take note of who had already arrived and settled into the first rows of seats as he straightened the cufflinks on his shirt with the familiar symbol of small flags. Their abundance on his lapel and at his wrists denoted to anyone that Richard was a vice president in a local group. Someone who could make things happen without having to always check with anyone else.
The American public knew the covert society called Management vaguely as the Stewards. It had its roots somewhere in Europe back in the late 1600’s but its real origins were largely forgotten. Their model of a new society traveled to the United States when democracy was an idea that looked like it might actually take root. Older monarchies realized that the era of reigning over their flocks as they had ordained was coming to an end and to survive they would have to adapt. Louis XVI resisted the growing idea and tried to plot against the organizers.
Loyal members of his court were quickly dispatched to Paris where they infiltrated the new movement and encouraged bloodshed rather than negotiations. Once the stubborn king and queen were beheaded the Management set to work romancing all the leaders of Europe and feeding their egos with the idea of a controlled democracy where their power would be ensured.
The old system of raising children with the right blood lines according to a strict regimen of the right schools, the right clothes and the right connections was opened up to include families with more moderate genes and purses. Slowly over time, these children became the new middle class that was easily manipulated into doing upper management’s bidding in exchange for a fairly comfortable life with an identifiable track. Politicians were put in place, corporations were carefully managed and army generals were groomed all over the world.
Emerging countries were thoroughly researched by diplomats whose mission was to scout out the easiest way to start a new outpost without being heavy handed and detected.
The British took it too far though and insisted on standing out in front of everything they touched, boasting that the sun never set on their empire. Something had to be done and by the early 1900’s the British arm of the Management was finally cowed into place.
As a concession to mollify the occasional protests from local chapters a certain amount of leeway became permissible so that local groups felt more autonomous as long as they didn’t stray from the main goal.
After all, even insiders don’t like to find out they are being oppressed. But those who had witnessed the lengths Management was willing to go to, however, never forgot.
However, the upper echelons were willing to go to great lengths to keep certain boundaries intact. They had found out over time just where the lines were that, when crossed, tended to lead to uprisings and the violent end to entire Management chapters.
Things sometimes became messy and had to be quietly rebuilt, which takes time. India’s new world order had taken generations to become effective and Pakistan and Vietnam were proving to be slow and difficult works in progress.
The purpose of an artificial democracy was simple, really. A certain amount of replacements were going to be needed in every generation to ensure management level positions at every level were filled with their own recruits. The projections along with an updated list of intentions were sent to local groups so that they could identify the right children. Intentions differed with the times but held the implici
t idea to keep the power base right where it was as efficiently as possible with the smallest amount of risk. In exchange everyone received a modicum of the good life with very little change.
In order to protect the core, the locals only met the Management officers directly above them. No one really knew who was running things at the top but speculation and gossip always swirled around the wealthy and the famous.
If things were going well, neither side heard from each other beyond the regular missives and everyone was relatively happy.
But lately people he had never met but he was smart enough to fear had heard of Richard and his management style and they weren’t very happy. An associate had been dispatched to help Richard lead the meeting and bring everyone back into line. She was due to arrive at any minute.
“Richard Bach?”
Richard startled only slightly and turned to see his senior vice president, Robin Spingler striding toward him. Normally, Richard had no time for women. He saw them more as accessories than fully realized human beings but Robin’s large frame and cold demeanor made it easier for him to make an exception.
Robin was wearing a skirt and jacket similar in style to most of the women in the meeting but on her tall frame it appeared to be more of a costume.
“Robin, so glad you could make it.”
“Don’t be glib, Richard. It doesn’t look good on you, and we all know how much illusions matter to you. Are your people here?”
“Yes, everyone is assembled and breathlessly awaiting your words.”
Robin stopped abruptly at the door and turned back to Richard, leaning in close to his face.
“Everyone is expendable, dear boy,” she whispered coldly. “Me, you, every person in that room. You don’t have some invisible aura protecting you. People are dying all around you and its getting noticed. Your work is even inspiring the opposition to take note and we don’t like that. Don’t become such a pain in my ass that I find it easier to make you the last incident in this unfortunate turn of events. At the very least I’d find it necessary to remind you much like the last time you decided to start making decisions on your own.” She slapped her hands together for emphasis.
