Midnight

by Anna Dove

  Suddenly he raised the hand that held his drink, and she covered her face, expecting him to strike her; but instead the sound of splintering glass filled the room and she spun to see droplets of whiskey falling from the air, against the wall where he had hurled his drink. His hands grasped her arms with a terrible force so that his fingers dug into her flesh. Wordlessly he dragged her towards the stairs, and as she uttered a scream he released one of her arms and instead wrapped his hand around her face. Terrified, she stopped struggling and he pulled her weight up the stairs.

  The sunlight streamed through the windows of the ocean-facing sunroom and the waves crashed up against the shore. There was a particular sad silence that filled the room. The crystal chandelier hung still from the high ceiling, an occasional reflection from the sunlight outside bouncing off its teardrops.

  After what seemed a lifetime but was no more than twenty minutes, Adela appeared at the top of the stair. Her blue sundress was torn at the shoulder and she stood quietly, almost childlike, staring at the staircase at her feet. Her lips and face were pale, and her hands trembled. Her glassy eyes stared unseeingly ahead.

  A step sounded behind her and she started, her breath quickening.

  “I’m going to meet with another donor, I’ll bring us back something good for dinner,” sounded the voice of her husband, speaking in a gruff tone that to Adela sounded very far away. He made his way down the steps and to the door. The door shut, and Adela blinked.

  Placing one foot in front of the other very gingerly, she descended to the bottom of the stair, and slowly turned her head to the minibar to her right. Crossing the marble floor, she took a bottle of champagne and slipped from the house onto the dunes, sitting where the dune blocked the house from view, wrapping her dress over her legs as she pulled her knees to her chest. She sat among the wild dune grasses and watched the waves, drinking the champagne as if it were water. The birds soared overhead and the crashing of the breakers echoed over the beach. The humidity rose up from the surface of the water and her skin baked in the brilliant sun.

  From the east, a long way down the beach, an old man was approaching leisurely, sauntering with his gaze on the sand in front of him. He wore white linen to protect himself from the sun. As he neared, she saw that he was perhaps in his late seventies. As he passed in front of her, far down by the shoreline, he stooped to pick up a shell, and then as he straightened up again, he caught sight of her and stopped for a moment, and then raised his hand.

  She raised hers as well mechanically. Breaking his stride along the shoreline, he climbed up the sand slope to where she sat at the base of the dune, and then sat down a few feet away at a respectful distance.

  He had leathery and weathered skin, and dark brown eyes, and hair whiter than snow that matched the pureness of his linen. Adela thought he looked like a sketch she had seen before, perhaps in a storybook.

  “Mind if I rest my legs for a minute?”

  “Not at all,” said Adela in a dull tone, leaning back on the dune.

  “Thank you,” said the man, and turned his head to the waves, after noticing the half--empty bottle and the glassiness of Adela’s splendid eyes. His gaze rested momentarily on the bruises that seemed to be very fresh on her wrists, arms, and neck. Adela felt his stare and a flush crept into her cheeks.

  “My husband is running for governor,” said Adela. “They’re all celebrating in there, he’s thrown a big party. A lovely time--all of our friends and family. I was so overwhelmed with the love and support they are showing us--I had to come out here for a moment to think.”

  “Naturally.”

  A moment of silence.

  “Charles Gillibrand,” he said.

  “What?”

  “My name. Charles Gillibrand.”

  “Oh,” said Adela.

  “What’s yours?”

  “Sorry. Adela Gilman.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you summer here in the Hamptons?”

  “In the summers, yes, and then I split the rest of my time in Silicon Valley and the city and Miami.”

  “Oh,” said Adela suddenly. “You’re Charles Gillibrand--you own Apple now. I read about your acquisition in the paper a few months ago.”

  “Yes, one and the same. I’ll be selling it soon,” the man said.

  “Is that public information?”

  “Yes, just broke a few hours ago.”

  “Why are you selling it?” she asked, her eyes straight ahead.

  The man looked out over the waves.

  “When I was growing up, I spent my childhood with my brothers, sailing, fishing, building forts. Learning as much as I could. Challenging myself. I chafed my hands on the ropes, I built a treehouse, I built bonfires with my friends when we were teenagers and we all stole our parents’ beer and stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, singing, doing dares...and then I went to college, put myself through working two jobs at a construction company, learned finance. My parents taught me how to engage in the world around me and I did so voraciously, and now...now I see everyone, of all ages, young and old, rich and poor, parent and child, disengaged with the world around them, distracted with this rise of technology, letting it creep into their psychologies to the point that it controls them more so than the opposite. I purchased Apple because it was a good business decision, but after half a year I’ve come to despise the impact that it’s had over the past decade or two on our society. Polarization, isolation, distraction...people are helpless, useless, without these technologies. It’s destroying their lives.”

  Adela turned to him as he spoke, his eyes roving over the breaking waves. He had a long nose, longer than usual, and deep set eyes whose gaze never stayed long in one place.

  “Perhaps if your husband becomes governor, he can take a look at this question I pose: is it a net positive? Socially, does the benefit outweigh the cost? Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn’t, but the jury’s out, and a lack of addressing it signifies tacit approval. The jury’s out,” he repeated.

  The waves gathered, rushed in, crested and broke, and flattened their foamy edges on the wetted sand, and then rushed out back into the waves as if afraid of staying too long.

  “I believe you’re right,” said Adela. “I had never thought of that. When I am able, I will relay this message to my husband.”

  “Thank you,” said the other. “I just worry, for the generations to come. Technology is important, doubtless, especially in the fields of military and science, but like any powerful substance, we must be its ruler, or it will be ours.”

  The humidity drifted up from the ocean thickly and the air was stifling, but Adela remained even after Charles Gillibrand left her with a goodbye and a nod, and finished the champagne bottle, her eyes fixed on the hazed blue of the horizon.

  +

  It was a mass, a throng. They clotted about the Lincoln Memorial in rally form. This, though, was different than the rallies of previous politics. These were the survivors, those whose families and friends had died from starvation, from injury or illness, who now were panting like dogs for a drop of hope. One could see it in their eyes—the wildness, the loss, the fear, the anger. Their jaws were set and their faces turned resolutely towards the podium as she—the one and only she—took the stage.

  Strange how this woman—who not ten years ago denounced democracy to her husband as the stupidest of systems—now had found a way to use the very system she despised. Yet in her triumph through democracy she had not lost her hatred for it. She had no interest in representing the interests of anyone but rather ruling the way she believed people ought to be ruled.

  Human beings, according to Adela, were weak (with the exception, of course, of herself) and thus must be ruled. Men could not control their sexual appetite. Men were violent and abused women; they fell to their basest impulses of dominance and control, because they were weak. If they were strong, they would be able to control themselves. Men were pitiful to Adela; but so were women. Women
hated womanliness because they feared its association with weakness—and then they would try to compensate by appearing dominant, ironically, imitating the very men who they often despised. Other women subjugated themselves to men constantly, too weak to take control of their own lives. Adela knew that she could be both womanly and strong; she knew the power that her womanliness held. She despised weakness in both men and women.

  Her approach had no regard for the strength of human character, for she did not believe that such a thing truly existed. She believed in the depravity of humankind, that the power of the human will for evil was the greatest motivator; but rather than searching for a solution that replaced depravity with character, she believed that the only way to contain a society was to eliminate all possible wrong through extensive law. Law was the only way, Adela believed, to curb human weakness. Government must control and regulate the helplessly weak and selfish nature of humanity. Adela refused to believe that there are situations in which character or other influencers can override the default selfishness, and as a perfectly selfish person herself, this last point is what Adela refused to accept. She refused to see the potential for good in people.

  She entered the front of the monument plaza now, her stunning figure flattered in a crisp white two piece suit with white collared shirt beneath. It was simple but perfectly cut, and she appeared both competent and elegant. Her red lips drew the eye to her face.

  +

  Snyder Reed hated campaign work. Mr. Gilman’s 2032 campaign had been no exception so far. He sat at his desk scowling, reading through the aggregate poll data for New Hampshire. The primary was in three days and if they weren’t careful, his boss Mr. Gilman would lose to their opponent. They couldn’t lose. It would be the end of it all. Not just the election, but everything to follow. The victory of Mr. Gilman was an integral piece to the real campaign, the campaign for domestic regime change.

  The door to his shabby campaign office swung open and a tall, beautiful woman entered. Seeing her, he placed down the reports on his desk and crossed his arms.

  “Adela.”

  “Snyder.”

  “Shut the door and the blinds please.”

  Adela did so, blocking out all exterior visibility. She then perched herself on the edge of is desk.

  “You’ll have to refer to me as the First Lady soon.”

  “If your husband wins,” he said absently, and her flirtatious, sparkling smile changed to an expression of concern.

  “What is it?”

  “New Hampshire doesn’t look as great as I want it to,” he said quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that it’s not a guarantee anymore. There’s been a few polls this morning that concern me. I’m trying to figure out if we need to stay an extra day.”

  “That would mean less time in Iowa.”

  “I know.”

  “Snyder, you’re the best of the best,” she said. “Don’t doubt yourself. We will win this.”

  “I know. You don’t have to tell me that. I know what’s at stake.”

  “This is the only chance we will get. Never again will we have so many people willing to work with us. Never. Do you think the intelligence agencies will ever risk this again? Or your military compatriots?”

  Snyder stood up and came to stand in front of her. He was a tall, handsome man, and Adela leaned forward and kissed his square jaw softly, and then his lips.

  “Careful,” he murmured. “Careful.”

  “I love you.”

  Snyder cupped her cheek gently in his hand, and she looked up at him with her brilliant blue eyes, so that suddenly he forgot the race and the campaign and New Hampshire and even Iowa.

  “If we can just get rid of this government system, our country will be made right again,” she urged in a barely audible tone. “Revolution is never the fault of the people--it is the fault of the government. Democracy in America is almost dead and thank god. Snyder, you have to win this, or we will never get another chance.”

  +

  Standing in front of her presidential slogan banner, which read “Restoration of the Nation” in bold, beautiful red letters, Adela raised her arm high as the cheers began to roar down the mall.

  “I chose this place for a reason,” she began into the old-fashioned amplifier system, which transferred her voice and spread it throughout the crowd.

  “This man behind me,” she continued, opening her palm to motion to Lincoln’s marble visage, “restored the nation before. Almost two hundred years ago, he was faced with a crumbling country, death and disaster pursuing the footsteps of its citizens. The words carved into these stone walls forever immortalized his desire that we are unified, that no matter what befall, it is the preservation of our nation that must come first. I stand here today to offer you this. We have immortalized this man for a reason—he stood for what was right, he fought for this nation to be restored, he spoke out when he knew that change was needed. My friends! We know what is right! We must restore this nation! Change is needed! And must we sit and wait for another disaster to strike? Will we?”

  She raised her arm again and loud shouts in the negative sounded from the throng.

  “Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, ‘If there is any period one would desire to be born in, is it not the age of Revolution; when the old and the new stand side by side, and admit of being compared; when the energies of all men are searched by fear and by hope; when the historic glories of the old can be compensated by the rich possibilities of the new era?’ My friends, we have entered the new era!”

  Haley, Elizabeth, Carlos and Jack had crossed the bridge and now approached the Lincoln Memorial, which towered in marble resplendence over the expansive crowd of people. They could hear a chant pouring out, “Restoration of the Nation” again and again from a thousand lips to the feet of Lincoln himself, who sat immovable with his eyes fixed on the chanting crowd.

  “They’re eating it up,” muttered Carlos. Through the columns they caught a glimpse of the First Lady herself, raising her arm in a symbol of power and unity. “It’s sad, all these people thinking she’s their savior.”

  “You alright?” asked Elizabeth softly, as she saw his face furrowed in a deep frown.

  “Yes. Just rather hard to believe that I once loved that woman. She seemed to trust me and she told me so much about herself that I believed. Now I wonder if any of it was true. Probably not any of it...” his sentence trailed off.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You did nothing to apologize for,” Carlos replied. “Come on. Let’s go closer. We should see who’s up with her.”

  The four wound their way closer and closer, until the crowd became so thick that they could barely press any further. Fifty feet from the base, they peered over the heads and waving arms of the crowd, looking to see if there were any other figures on the stage. People pushed and shoved, straining to catch a glimpse of her.

  She seemed to be alone, save for a few uniformed guards. Perhaps that was part of it all—perhaps she had planted people in the crowd to find anyone in dissent.

  Haley turned to speak to Jack, who had been standing behind her, and found Elizabeth instead.

  “Where’s Jack?” She asked, and spun around, but could not find his tall, thin figure. Her heartbeat quickened and she felt a sense of immediate apprehension.

  “I need to go find him,” she said. “He can’t be far. He was just here.”

  Before her friends could utter a word of protest, Haley ducked into the crowd, vanishing into a blur of bodies and shouts and raised fists. Jack was an asset, a crucial piece integral to their safety. If he had been taken, they were no longer safe.

  She pushed her way through the masses, feeling sweaty skin and hot breath. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the sweltering heat rose up from the bodies in a choking cloud. Jack was nowhere to be seen—she needed to get higher, so that she could see over the crowds. She might be able to spot him then, as he was a head and shoulders above the rest.
Moving laboriously towards the Lincoln Memorial, she finally arrived at the steps. If she could only climb a few—then she would be able to see. She was at the base now, just to the left of the steps, near the enclave that led to the miniature Lincoln museum.

  A hand from behind clapped over her mouth, and an arm grabbed hers from the other side. She tried to spin, but the grip tightened. Her body froze and her mind began to race.

  “Haley—stop, it’s me, James Landon. Don’t talk. Trust me. I’m on your side. Walk into the museum. Don’t look behind you.”

  The male voice was familiar—the gala, the secret room. His grip tightened and then he let go completely. Her first instinct was to turn, and then she thought she might run—and then, she set her face forward and walked into the little museum. She felt the blood pounding in her temples. It was dark inside, the sunlight only illuminating a few feet into the interior before fading into the blackness.

  Entering, she pressed herself to the wall and turned. Landon stepped towards her, and motioned for her to continue in. She stepped two more feet and then stopped.

  “No further,” she hissed. “I’ve met you once. I’m only trusting you right now because of the Senator. I don’t know you. I have a knife in my pocket and over the past few months I’ve learned not to be afraid to use it. Tell me what you want.”

  Landon leaned against the wall to her left, facing her. He had relaxed slightly; he was tall, and his face was barely visible in the dim light. He took a deep breath.

  “You can chill,” he said.

  Haley raised her eyebrows. “I can chill? You grab my arm and force me into a dark corner and then tell me I can chill? What the hell?”

  “I didn’t want to make it look like you were associated with me.”

  Haley was quiet for a moment, and she could hear the chants and shouts outside.

  “Why not?” She responded in a more moderate tone.