by Brad Parks
On Tuesday morning—this morning—Jenny had gone to work at the normal time. And the girls and I had also done our usual thing: the park, the coffee shop, and the grocery store, all bracketed around the inviolable sanctity of nap time.
No one came up on my back porch to drug and kidnap me. No one tried to make me kill my wife. No one made predictions about the future—not about this Tuesday, or next Tuesday, or any other Tuesday, for that matter.
I never thought I’d be so grateful for a boring day with the girls.
Parker had just asked for more strawberries—which I was dutifully cutting for her—when I saw Jenny walk through the back gate.
As soon as she opened the door into the kitchen, the girls cheered her arrival.
She kissed them first. Then it was my turn. I shut off the sink, dried my hands, and turned toward her so I could get a hug out of the deal as well.
“You’re early,” I said. “How was work?”
“Busy. Super busy. But good busy.”
“How so?”
“I had a meeting with Commonwealth Power and Light’s chief counsel and, without divulging my source, showed her the documents Greg Grichtmeier leaked to me.”
“Oh my. How’d that go?”
“She handled herself pretty well, actually. After taking a little time to digest it, she excused herself and went immediately to J. Hunter Matthews’ office.”
“Wow,” I said.
“When she came back, she said CP and L was willing to consider admitting wrongdoing and settling.”
“That’s . . . incredible.”
“Well, not so incredible when you think about it from her perspective. She pretty clearly wants to keep this as far from a courtroom and from the public eye as possible. I think she also has her eye on the criminal provisions in the Clean Air Act. The feds could start tossing people in jail over this, and I think she wants to keep her ass covered and her boss’s ass covered if it goes that way. She swore up and down neither she nor Matthews knew the Shockoe plant was out of compliance.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I believe that’s her only safe position. The fact is, I handed them a scapegoat on a silver platter. Who wouldn’t take advantage of that? But, being less cynical for a moment, it’s certainly possible the head of the generation division had reasons for trying to keep this quiet. All I know is, the chief counsel said when she left Matthews’ office, he was already making calls to see how soon the plant could be safely taken off-line.”
“How about that.”
“That’s not all,” Jenny said. “She offered to immediately establish an emergency fund for medical expenses that the plaintiffs could use while we negotiate the settlement amount.”
And then Jenny got this sly grin as she continued: “I also extracted one more promise from her as a sign of good faith.”
“What?”
“They have to buy Danece and Clyde Henderson’s house from their landlord and then sign the deed over to the Hendersons, free and clear.”
I laughed.
“Jenny Welker, I think you’re dazzling, do you know that?”
“I’ve heard that before, yes.”
She reached around and grabbed ahold of my butt, pressing our pelvises together as she kissed me again.
Then she pulled away a little and said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the Praesidium, though.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
“You go first.”
“I would,” I said. “But this is not my gift.”
Truly, my gifts were my girls. All three of them.
“It’s still your life, though,” she said. “And this family’s life. I want to do what’s best for everyone.”
“I know you do. And I have to be honest—I’m still trying to come to terms with everything. I might spend the rest of my life doing that—and I’ll thank you for not telling me just how long that life is, by the way. But without trying to dodge responsibility, this just isn’t my call. The girls and I will be fine doing whatever you choose. They’re young and I’m flexible. The fact is, you’ve been born with something incredible and it’s up to you to decide what to do with it. Follow your conscience. I’ll support you either way. You know I always do.”
She looked up at me, searching my face to gauge whether I was committed to that line.
And I was.
“You’re pretty dazzling, too, you know that?” she said.
She buried her face in my neck, and I just held her for a moment, savoring the feel of her breath on my skin.
“I just don’t know,” she said. “Part of me feels this . . . sense of obligation. I’ve been given this incredible ability, and I really should use it to help people. On the other hand, I see how dangerous it can be. Especially in someone like me who doesn’t really know how to use it yet. Mr. DeGange has been teaching me some things, but . . . even if I meant to do the right thing, I might not. What if I actually make things worse?”
“You might not even know,” I said. “It wouldn’t be an easy life, that’s for sure.”
She exhaled forcefully, then declared, “If I did decide to do it, some things would change around the Praesidium, I can promise you that.”
“I figured as much.”
“The ends aren’t going to always justify the means.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I guess we should just talk more later.”
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you need. We’ll figure it out together. Or not. This could be one of those things where there’s no right answer.”
I said that with all sincerity. Naturally, I wished there were some obvious choice to be made here. As much as anything, I had this childlike yearning to know how the story ended.
But the grown-up in me knew not all stories have neat endings.
Most, in fact, do not.
And it is a mark of maturity—or, perhaps, just an acquiescence to the complications of human existence—to be comfortable with that kind of ambiguity.
There was really only one thing I knew for certain: whatever happened, whether Jenny continued the Praesidium’s work or not, we’d be okay as long as we had each other.
Isn’t that what love really is?
She squeezed me one more time, then turned her attention back to the girls, who promptly began basking in the glow of their mother’s affection.
And because a stay-at-home parent’s work is seldom done, I went back to the dishes.
That’s what I was still doing when the back gate opened, and Seb and Deb started walking across the path toward our deck.
Seb had a bandage around his head, the result of having fallen when the Praesidium had hit him with a tranquilizer dart. Deb was unmarked by the weekend’s events. Her surrender had been a little more graceful.
They were otherwise on their way to a full recovery. It takes a lot to rattle a pair of old farmers.
“What are your parents doing here?” I asked.
“Surprise!” Jenny said. “They’re taking the girls for the night.”
“They are?”
She grinned at me.
“It’s been too long,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
I smiled back lasciviously.
“I dunno,” I said. “I was sort of looking forward to the bomb shelter.”
“We can cross that off the list some other time, I promise.”
“Deal.”
A few short, sweet minutes later, Seb and Deb had hustled the girls out of the house. And Jenny and I were treated to the rarest treasure parents of young children can be given:
We were actually alone in the house together.
Jenny pulled out her phone and tapped it a few times. I immediately recognized the first chords of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s magnificent acoustic rendition of “Bless the Broken Road.”
“Will you dance with me?” Jenny asked, just shyly enough to be adorable about it.
“Always,” I said. “And for the rest of my life.”
We met in the middle of the room, our arms curling around each other, and let the music sweep us away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author acknowledges that after reading this novel, some people might assume he has deep-seated issues with his wife, Melissa, that he felt the need to work out in prose.
He does not.
In fact, the author rather loves his wife, Melissa. And their children. More impressively, after an entire COVID lockdown, he still likes them. He appreciates their endless love and support. And therefore he thanks them for being the very core of his happy life.
The author also acknowledges he’s got some wonderful editors, starting with Jessica Tribble Wells and Adrienne Procaccini, who did seamless work tag-teaming this novel, and Charlotte Herscher, who leaned into the developmental editing with her usual brilliance.
The author further acknowledges the rest of the team at Thomas & Mercer, including Brittany Russell, Sarah Shaw, Laura Barrett, Susan Stokes, Anna Laytham, Lindsey Bragg, and Gracie Doyle, all of whom work very hard to keep putting great books in readers’ hands.
The author acknowledges Meagan Beattie, his “terrific PR gal.” (That’s in quotes because it’s a private joke. The author would never actually refer to someone as a “PR gal,” even if it’s true that she’s terrific.)
The author acknowledges his agent, Alice Martell, who is a force of nature, one not to be messed with under any circumstances, including book acknowledgments.
The author acknowledges David Kaiser, the Germeshausen professor of the history of science and physics at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who first put the idea in the author’s head that the laws of physics show no particular preference for the direction in which time travels.
The author acknowledges several magnanimous people (or their family members) who made donations to charities so that the author would use (or abuse) their names in these pages. Thanks to Robert “Buck” McBride, Greg and Kara Grichtmeier, and Kenneth L. Neathery Jr. for their generosity.
The author acknowledges that as a former stay-at-home parent himself, the full-time caregiving of children is one heck of a tough job. He salutes all those who take it on, whether in a private capacity or as professional day care providers.
The author acknowledges he drank too much Coke Zero during the writing, rewriting, and editing of this novel and even during the writing of these acknowledgments. He is aware he ought to cut back. He also admits he probably couldn’t if he tried.
The author acknowledges the staff at Hardee’s, where he wrote much of this novel (at least until the pandemic sent him packing). He looks forward to his return to the corner table someday.
The author acknowledges that in America the subject of global warming is a controversial one and that certain people may be currently pondering spiteful one-star reviews in which they accuse the author of injecting his politics into this narrative. The author would ask them to remember that recognizing the existence of global warming is not political. It is an observable fact that the planet is getting warmer. Saying what policy should (or shouldn’t) be implemented is the political part, and the author has attempted to avoid promoting any particular opinion or viewpoint on that subject.
Also, this is just a story. So relax.
The author acknowledges he is fallible, particularly when it comes to the output of his big, fumbly fingers, and that while many conscientious editors have combed this manuscript thoroughly to ensure that no typos or grammatical errors remain, even they cannot protect the author from himself. As such, the author appreciates notes from his readers correcting his errors, so long as they’re kind and understand he tried his best.
Also, the author just appreciates his readers in general. The author cherishes the opportunity to entertain them and hopes he will be able to continue doing so for many decades to come.
The author acknowledges the universe of book people who make being an author such a joy: booksellers, librarians, other authors, reviewers, bloggers, podcasters, journalists, and the like. He is thankful that they create an atmosphere in which words matter.
The author acknowledges that while these acknowledgments may have veered into the silly once or twice, that should not be taken as a sign he is insincere about them. He really is genuinely thankful to everyone acknowledged herein, and also to anyone he may have stupidly forgotten.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Sarah Harris
International bestselling author Brad Parks is the only writer to have won the Shamus, Nero, and Lefty Awards, three of American crime fiction’s most prestigious prizes. His novels have been published in fifteen languages and have won critical acclaim across the globe, including stars from every major prepublication review outlet.
A graduate of Dartmouth College, Parks is a former journalist with the Washington Post and the Star-Ledger (Newark, New Jersey). He is now a full-time novelist living in Virginia with his wife and two school-age children. A former college a cappella singer and community theater enthusiast, Parks has been known to burst into song whenever no one was thoughtful enough to muzzle him. His favored writing haunt is a Hardee’s, where good-natured staff members suffer his presence for many hours a day and where he can often be found working on his next novel.
