[Brackets]

by Sloan, David

“I’m sure they agree with you.” Haj shook Casing’s hand. “I will see you in a few months. Contact me if you need me, but I think everything will be fine in my absence for the time being.”

  “Thanks again, Haj. Take care,” said Casing, and he watched his architect walk out to the waiting car and drive away. Then he sought shelter in the warm trailer to do some planning. It was funny, he thought, that the conflict in Southeast Asia had just come up in casual conversation. They had been looking at it so intensely over the past few weeks. He thought of checking in on how the Thai project was progressing but decided against it. He trusted his people.

  Casing checked his watch. His internal clock was skewed by several layers of jet lag, which had a greater effect on him than he let on. Recruiting was a young person’s game, and, therefore, he had young people to do it. He thought it best to take a nap before driving up to Louisville. His meeting at the KM Center there was going to be very late, and he needed to be at his best.

  [Midwest Division: First Round]

  [Thursday, March 19]

  Tucker Barnes looked up at the ticking clock mounted above a portrait of Henry Kissinger. 11:19 AM in Lincoln, Nebraska. The first game of the tournament had already begun. But instead of sitting on his couch, wolfing down mountains of his patented Skyline Platter chip and dip with his friends, he was sitting on a folding chair in an office. He had a tie on. And, like an idiot, he had forgotten to charge his phone, so he couldn’t even check the scores. Opening Day was ruined.

  He stood up as the door next to his chair opened. An 18-year-old girl in a long brown skirt emerged, bidding an effusively grateful farewell to her host, an old man with a smile that stretched the width of his wrinkled face. Wol Pot, the Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Kingdom of Thailand, kindly sent her on her way, and then, still smiling, looked past his security guard to Tucker.

  “Who is next?” he asked.

  Tucker double-checked his clipboard, although he knew very well who was next.

  “Sir, you have a few minutes to rest. Then you meet with Lena James, who is an editor for our school newspaper. She’s also head of the largest social action club on campus.” Wol Pot nodded happily and turned back into the department chair’s office, where he’d been receiving student visitors for the past two hours. The point man for Wol Pot’s entourage, a younger man named Mongkut Thaifun, leaned in to whisper something to the Ambassador, then approached the door with a water pitcher in his hands.

  “Would you be kind enough to refill this for the Ambassador?” he asked in impeccably refined English. “Also, you mentioned that he will be meeting with the editor of the school paper. Could you provide us with a copy of today’s issue?”

  In the break room next door, Tucker filled the pitcher and scanned the headlines of a wrinkled copy of the Daily Nebraskan. “Huskers to Crush Mt. Saint Mary’s”; “RHA Expands Student Guest Meal Plan”; “Student WebCams Expose Humanitarian Atrocities.” Tucker could guess which headline Lena wrote; in fact, he knew who had FedExed the webcams.

  When he returned, Tucker found Mongkut waiting outside the door. “Mr. Barnes, one more thing.” Mongkut was almost whispering, and Tucker had to lean forward to hear. “It would be very nice if he were to have more of these breaks in his schedule. If he had his way, he would talk to the students all day, but he needs his rest. He doesn’t always—doesn’t ever—like to take the advice of his physician,” Mongkut smiled ruefully, “so it would be kind of you to put an unexpected break in his schedule now and then.”

  Tucker nodded. “Are you his doctor?” he asked, handing over the water pitcher. “I thought you were, like…”

  “The butler?” Mongkut finished the sentence wryly, saving Tucker from making a tactless error. “No, though sometimes I fill that role. In fact, I attended medical school at Duke University.”

  “Wow. That’s cool. Good basketball school. I mean, not this year, but usually. But I’m sure the medical school is really good, too.” Tucker sought for a quick change of subject. “How did you get to work for Wol Pot?”

  Mongkut smiled thinly. “Some other time. We’re ready for the next student, please.” Tucker nodded and went to retrieve Lena James from a crowded classroom down the hall.

  Ambassador Wol Pot and his delegation were in the city of Lincoln for a summit of Southeast Asian countries hosted by the Secretary of State, a native Nebraskan. Wol Pot also happened to be a friend of the political science department chair, Dr. Theodore Tonkin. Dr. Tonkin had prevailed on Wol Pot to come early and speak at the university. The ambassador had agreed, on the condition that he could have an additional full day to talk exclusively to students. It was a wonderful arrangement for everyone, except Tucker. Tonkin had placed his best undergraduate research assistant in charge of organizing the student interviews, and Tucker had agreed. Only later had he realized the awful timing of the event. During his favorite time of the year, he had to spend the first day as an usher.

  When he opened the door to the classroom, his eyes quickly found Lena’s. She gathered a notepad and a digital recorder and threaded her way through the remaining students waiting for their ten-minute slot with Wol Pot. As she passed Tucker, she squeezed him affectionately around the waist. Tucker closed the door behind them.

  “How’s he doing with all these meetings?” Lena whispered, slipping her hand into his.

  “He’s good for an 80-year-old guy,” Tucker whispered back, leaning down a bit to compensate for the full foot of height difference between them. “Everyone loves him. I think he could do this all day.”

  “That’s good,” said Lena, “because I don’t know how I’m going to fit everything I’ve got for him into twenty minutes.”

  “Lena, you have ten minutes,” Tucker warned, “and you’re just supposed to interview him.”

  “What else do you think I would do?” Lena asked defensively.

  “I’m telling you, you need to take it easy on him. His doctor was telling me that the man needs to rest. Don’t try and get him to fight the Man or anything. Just get your interview and let him do his thing.”

  “If he were really doing his thing, if his leaders were doing anything, we wouldn’t be getting streaming video of starving children from his country every day. You expect me to just act nice when—”

  “Yes,” he scolded like someone with authority to scold. This drew, as it always did, a particular ire from Lena’s eyes. “You can’t let this turn into another thing like it did with the mayor.”

  They arrived at Tonkin’s office, the door now closed. Lena maintained a steady, accusing stare as she patted his crooked tie. “By the way, your roommate called me and told me to bring you this.” She opened her purse and pulled out a tablet computer. Tucker kissed first the tablet, then her cheek.

  “Babe, you saved my life.” He reached for the computer but she pulled it back, holding it aloft.

  “Uh-uh. For this, I get an extra ten minutes.”

  Tucker looked at Lena, the computer, and the clock. “Five,” he said at last.

  “Seven.”

  “Fine.”

  She handed over the computer and patted his backside as she opened the door herself.

  “Sa-Wadt-Dee Kah,” she said sweetly. The ambassador responded in Thai, and she approached the table to shake his hand. Tucker closed the door, hoping that he wouldn’t have to pull her out of the room to avoid an international incident. Such a thing wouldn’t be unprecedented. The mayor would agree with him.

  A member of the diplomat’s security detail motioned for Tucker.

  “There are some reporters outside that say they have an interview scheduled.”

  Tucker shook his head. “He’s not doing any reporters today.”

  “That’s what I told them, but they asked if they could talk to you about it.”

  “They asked for me?” Mildly surprised, Tucker put his ear to the door to ensure there weren’t any raised voices, then walked with the guard down the empty hall and out of t
he building’s side entrance. In the bone-biting chill of the afternoon, a man and woman huddled close together next to the bike rack. The woman put out her gloved hand to Tucker.

  “You’re Tucker Barnes? I’m Abigail Razzione, and this is Richard O’Shea. We’re reporters for The Chronicle Star.” The man waved, and then retreated his hand back under his armpits.

  “I’m sorry,” said Tucker, who wasn’t sure if he had ever heard of The Chronicle Star, “but the Ambassador isn’t talking to any reporters today.”

  “We know, but we didn’t get a chance to interview him yesterday. Our plane was late, and our editor really wants the story. He’s doing students now, right? We could pass for students.” Abigail glanced at her companion. “We only need ten minutes. Just say we’re with the school newspaper.”

  “Someone with the school newspaper is talking to him right now,” Tucker said impatiently, “and his schedule is already full. If you want to talk to him some other time, then talk to the department secretary. I’m just a research assistant for Dr. Tonkin, and I’m just in charge of the interviews for today.”

  “Oh, that’s great!” said Abigail enthusiastically. “Could we meet with him at least? He’s the one who invited the Ambassador, right?”

  “You mean Tonkin? No. I mean, yes that’s correct, but no, I won’t take you to see him. You’ll have to contact the department secretary to set that up.”

  “Now just a minute!” Abigail said with sudden indignation. “I don’t think that you fully appreciate the full implications of what you’re doing by stone-walling us. Might I remind you of the First Amendment’s declaration of freedom of the press? Don’t you understand the vital role of journalism in the pursuit of truth and the preservation of our national—”

  “Hold it, Abby, hold it.” Richard O’Shea nudged Abby without uncovering his hands.

  “But I had it memorized!” she murmured.

  “I know. That was good, but we should probably speed this up. We’re all going into hyperthermia.” Then he turned to Tucker. “Sorry, we’ve been working on this whole routine where she… never mind. You say that you can’t get us in to see Ambassador Pot or Dr. Tonkin. How about letting us meet with a member of Pot’s staff. A lawyer? A secretary? A traveling barber?”

  “Not happening.” Tucker folded his arms.

  “Okay then, maybe you can answer some questions for us. You’re around, you’re in the rooms, you can probably give us a little behind-the-scenes action, right? C’mon.”

  Tucker shrugged uncomfortably. “Maybe. But, like I said, I’m just an undergrad. I really only write memos and things for Dr. Tonkin. I’m not actually in the rooms where everything is going on. Just so you know.”

  “Excellent. So how are Pot and his staff holding up under the strain of so many problems at home and so much international attention? Happy? Healthy?”

  “Yeah, he seems like a pretty happy dude. I mean, he knows that things are serious. His lecture yesterday was pretty harsh against the United States and China, but he’s really nice in person.”

  “So he sides with Many Hands, then?” Abby spoke up quickly.

  “No. He’s in favor of an international aid package and didn’t consider Many Hands legitimate, at least not as a way for the country to recover. The whole speech is on YouTube, by the way.”

  “What about his staff? Are they all backing him? Is there a voice that stands out stronger than others among his group?” Tucker thought briefly about Mongkut. He always seemed to be in Wol Pot’s ear. But Tucker was irritated by the questions and decided against answering any more.

  “I don’t know, they don’t talk when I’m around. Honestly, I’ve only gotten them water and told them where the bathrooms are.” Tucker looked at the pair, hoping that they were done with the conversation.

  “There must be some kind of insight you can give us,” Rick prodded.

  Tucker shook his head. “Not about this stuff. If you asked me about good take-out places or Nebraska basketball or something like that, I’d have more to say.”

  Abby narrowed her eyes and examined him from behind her scarf, then sighed in resignation. “That’s fine. You can go back in; we’re going to go thaw. Thank you for your time.”

  “OK,” said Tucker, shaking the hand Abby offered. “Sorry about the mix-up. Just call the department secretary and she can set you up for next week if there’s a spot open for Wol Pot or Dr. Tonkin.”

  “Thanks,” said Abby, turning toward the parking lot. But Rick lingered.

  “Just out of curiosity, do you agree with him?”

  “Who?”

  “Wol Pot, about his stance against Many Hands and being for international aid.”

  Tucker opened his mouth to say something, but shrugged instead. He’d already said too much. “What he thinks is his business.”

  “I see,” Rick said thoughtfully under his scarf. Then, as Abby pulled at his elbow, “So, how far is Nebraska going in the tournament?”

  Tucker smiled in spite of himself. “All the way.”

  The two reporters jogged briskly around the building, and Tucker turned to the door to swipe his student ID as quickly as his numb hands would permit him.

  That was weird, he thought, walking back down the hallway to resume his post next to the office door. He powered up the tablet and listened at the door again, just in case. He couldn’t hear anything, but before he could straighten up and pull his head away, the door swung open and he was ear-to-chest with Mongkut. He raised his head slowly to look at the doctor and smiled, embarrassed at the impression of eavesdropping. Mongkut was expressionless.

  “The ambassador would like five more minutes with the young lady, please,” he said with the slightest hint of annoyance.

  “No problem,” said Tucker, giving a little wave to the door that was closing behind the doctor. His eyes flicked down to his watch to see that Lena had already been in there for twenty minutes. Just like she’d asked. Well, he thought, pulling up the CBS site on his computer, Lena gets her way and I get to watch some basketball. The day was starting to feel normal.

  [Midwest Division: Second Round]

  [Saturday, March 21]

  Saturday morning was no excuse to stay in bed late; that was the rule of the Barnes household. Therefore, it was 6:13 AM when Tucker sat down on the steps of his childhood home, double-knotted his shoelaces, cued up his running music, and jogged into a March morning still wrapped up in pre-dawn mist. The white ghost of his warm breath in cold air emerged in rhythmic puffs that quickened as he reached his stride. The road before him was straight until forever, cutting right down the middle of field after frosted field. It was a route he had run thousands of times; it was the one place on the planet where his head was the clearest.

  Tucker had begun to feel a little sheepish about coming home every weekend. He knew that at some point he would live too far away for the escapism of sleeping in his own room, letting his mom do his laundry, eating his dad’s cooking, pretending that independent adulthood wasn’t imminent. He also knew that his parents would never stand for an able-bodied Barnes boy regressing into dependency. And they had no cause to fear on Tucker’s account; despite the concerns occasionally voiced by Lena, he did have life plans beyond just coming home and watching basketball. But it was nice to still have time before all of that.

  The road ended at a fence encompassing an empty, icy field. For a minute, Tucker stretched and watched the jagged edge of shadow retreat as weak sunlight moved over the stubbled ground. He liked the inevitability of daybreak. He waited until the sun had reached a certain furrow, then, with a deep breath, he turned around and jogged steadily back the three miles to the squat, baby-blue house with the meager oak tree in the front. His usual finish-line sprint ended at the mailbox. Picking up the newspaper, he read the headlines as he stretched out in the warm living room.

  In the kitchen, his father was cooking breakfast while his mom was doing her morning check on the seedlings growing inside windowsills thro
ughout the house.

  “Set the table, son,” Henry greeted him from the stove. “I’m coming for that sports section when I’m finished here.”

  The kitchen was modest and only had room for a small table in the corner. Most of it was covered with remnants of a coupon-clipping project and a month-old issue of The Economist, both belonging to his mother. Tucker shoved it all aside, covered it with the comics section, and set down a stack of plates and silverware.

  “Here you go,” Henry said as he set a dish of toast with gravy on the table. Then, with a ceremonial cough, he laid down a curved, pewter object with an engraved thatched pattern next to Tucker’s plate.

  “You giving up so soon?” Tucker asked, mouth already full.

  “Hard to mess with perfection. I lost Notre Dame and Xavier already. I still have Nebraska, of course, but compared to yours, the rest just can’t compete. I figure I should concede early and gracefully. You still have to beat the rest of the family, though. No one else wanted to give up yet. Your mother thinks your good luck will tank by Sunday.”

  “That’s right!” Regina called from the hallway.

  The metal piece belonged to a souvenir statue of the Eiffel Tower that Henry had collected during his time in the Peace Corps. The statue broke down into five pieces: the four individual legs, and the central tower. Every year, on the week before Selection Sunday, the statue was divided up between his parents, his two older brothers, and himself. After the tournament, the bracket winner got to display the Tower prominently in the place of his or her choosing. For many of the past ten years, that place was on the kitchen counter, on top of Tucker’s old Transformers lunchbox. His mother grumbled about losing counter space to a trophy display, but Tucker insisted on his rights as bracket champion. The glory of beating his older brothers and parents had not diminished with time. Tucker flipped his dad’s piece in his hand with a satisfied smirk and set it next to his plate.

  “So what are the headlines this morning?” his mother asked, taking a seat next to him and filling a plate.