Fire Sweeping: The California Ballot Killings Book II

by H M Wilhelmborn

  “Yeah, like on a vacation or something, Mom.”

  “But it’s flooded,” Nate reminded Jon. “It was on TV.”

  The twins were getting fidgety, so we put them on the floor.

  “Just don’t touch my stuff,” Nate warned them. “You guys have no respect for other people’s stuff. You have sticky fingers, like Jon.”

  “They’re kids, buddy,” Mauru said. “You were the same when you were their age.”

  “No, I wasn’t, Dad.” Nate shook his head. “Jon-uh was always the one bullying me and taking my stuff. He’s always been yours and Mom’s favorite.”

  “Liar!” Jon said. “You’re a liar, Nate! Mom’s always liked you better. She even reads you three more sentences of bedtime stories than she reads me. I counted!”

  Who counts sentences? How do you even get the idea to count sentences?

  “Jon and Nate,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Mom doesn’t have a favorite child. It’s impossible to have, um, a favorite child because when, um,” I looked at Mauru, searching for help, which he didn’t offer. “Well, when you were all born, Dad and I had to sign, well, um, we had to sign a contract with, um, God. Yeah, with God. We had to go to Living Heavens Church and sign a contract with God saying that we’d love each of you equally for life, or God would, um, yes . . .”

  Mauru looked at me, dumbfounded.

  I stared right back at him. What did he expect me to say? That parents do have favorite kids and the identity of the favorite child changes by the minute? For me, whichever child was not crying, screaming, yelling, or giving me a migraine was my favorite child, and if all four of them were quiet, then I had four favorites.

  “What your mom’s saying,” Mauru said as he pulled Nathalie away from Nate’s books, “is that parents, um—”

  “Parents lie, Dad,” Nate said. “My friend, Hunter, said at day care that parents lie all the time. His mom said, each year you get older, you tell more lies.”

  “Dad doesn’t lie,” Jon said. “Don’t say that about Dad!”

  So, I was a liar?

  “I’m not a liar, Jon,” I told my son as I shook my head and folded my arms. “Moms are incapable of lies. We’d get struck by lightning from God if we ever lied.”

  Mauru cleared his throat.

  “So, back to Italy,” Mauru said, as he kept glancing at the twins, who were touching everything they saw. “Italy invented the parachute, the pistol, and the pretzel. We invented the violin.” Mauru imitated the gesture of a man playing a violin, which made the kids laugh. “We invented welfare, which means helping people who can’t help themselves, and we invented newspapers. Without Italy, we wouldn’t have thermometers, the Latin alphabet that you see everywhere, or eyeglasses. We also invented banks, radios, and opera. We invented so much.”

  “And pizza,” Jon smiled.

  “Nonno also said we invented good taste,” Nate smiled.

  “Mom,” Jon asked, “what did we invent in Africa?”

  “Corruption, dictators, and violence,” I said in rapid succession.

  Mauru stared at me in surprise.

  “Well,” I said, trying to correct myself, “that’s what other people say about us, that we, um, invented corruption, dictators, and violence, but Africa invented lots of good stuff, so much good stuff that it would take years to remember it all.”

  Mauru smiled.

  “What kinds of good stuff, Mom?” Nate asked.

  I started making things up. Hey, why not! “We invented music, homes, pyramids, and cellphones. We invented sunlight, rain, and sugar. We also invented butter, milk, and flour. The list goes on and on, Nate.”

  “Wow!” Nate said. “And who invented books and toys?”

  “Africa,” I said. “The first books came from, um, yes, Madagascar, which is in the ocean over here. The first toys came from the Congo, right over here. Medicine was also invented in Africa (in Egypt), which is up here. Schools were invented in Liberia, over here, and dessert was invented in Nigeria, which is over here. We also invented Ambrosia Skiffles, Mom’s favorite writer, who was born in Tunisia, and Tunisia is up here.”

  Mauru shook his head.

  I was trying. At least the kids could be proud of their African roots.

  I couldn’t help myself. My fantasy African life was all becoming quite enjoyable. I continued. “And Africa also invented laughter. The first laugh ever was heard in Namibia, over here, a long, long time ago. The first smile was seen in the Seychelles, which is right here, thousands and thousands of years ago. The first hug was seen in Somalia, which is over here, so long ago. So, every time you hear someone laugh, or you see them smile or hug, they have Africa to thank for it.”

  Mauru looked at me as if I were touched. I tried to ignore him. If Italy had its opera and its pretzels, we had our cellphones and our hugs in Africa.

  Nathaniel had torn a few pages out of Nate’s school book, and he was offering the pages to Nate.

  Nate tried to say something. He scratched his head, sat on his bed with the torn pages, and said, finally, “I guess you’re a kid, Nathaniel.”

  Nate gave Mauru Nathaniel’s torn pages, and he said, “I need a new book now, Dad.”

  “Ask politely,” Mauru said.

  “Mom and Dad,” Nate said, “could I please get a new book? Nathaniel-uh just tore it all up-uh.”

  After the kids were asleep, I sat with Mauru in front of the TV.

  Mauru was reading a biography of Harriet Tubman, and he was in awe of her, like one is in awe of the trajectory of a comet, which is an entire solar system unto itself darting through the heavens, triumphant in the knowledge that it is only one of a few thousand that are so startling in their wonder that we will forever marvel at their course.

  I, too, admired Harriet Tubman, was very grateful for her legacy and celebrated her presence on the twenty-dollar bill, but I wanted a buttermilk biscuit and some coffee as I scrolled to my place half-way through Ambrosia’s latest romp, Oh, Happy the Horse to Bear His Weight!

  Isn’t that raunchy title!

  At first, I was afraid to buy it because I worried about what others might think, especially with a title like that. Then I realized that the novel isn’t raunchy at all; it just has a raunchy title to sell many copies!

  Naughty Ambrosia!

  Maybe I should do that with my memoir. Maybe book two of The California Ballot Killings should be called Vipers and Voyages or The Hoviaks Are A-Comin’.

  In Oh, Happy the Horse to Bear His Weight!, the male protagonist’s name’s “Antony,” and the female protagonist’s name is “Cleopatra.”

  Cleopatra is a beautiful maiden in the fictitious African land of Nilus. She’s born to a wealthy, landed family, and she’s already been divorced eight times.

  Antony is from D.C., and Ambrosia tells us that he’s “cool, calculating, and rational in the way that bureaucratic types are rational, that is, only when they have instructions from their superiors in front of them.”

  Antony and Cleopatra meet on a festive barge when the moon is full in the land of Nilus, whose capital city is Enobarbia. Cleopatra’s father is throwing a grand feast for his daughter, who is to take her father’s place at the head of the family, now that her father considers retirement.

  Antony is one of the guests, and you’ll have to buy Oh, Happy the Horse to Bear His Weight! for yourself to see in how many ways Ambrosia’s latest sensual romp lives up to its grand title.

  I put the book down, and I walked to our kitchen and got myself and Mauru a buttermilk biscuit.

  Please allow me just a few seconds to enjoy the memory of those buttermilk biscuits from ConfiPrice!

  Some have worshipped at the altar of the sun.

  Others have worshipped at nature’s altar.

  Others, still, have worshipped at fortune’s or wisdom’s altar.

  I do not mean to sound blasphemous—especially given the family I came from—but I think I have perpetually worshipped at the altar of the buttermilk bisc
uit.

  In my Church of the Buttermilk Biscuit (quite different from the Church of the Moral Elixir), our heaven has pyramids of fresh buttermilk biscuits, and it has rivers of hot espresso and coffee.

  Our archangels are called Saint Lactose, Saint Lipids, Saint Fructose, and our hell is called is Weight Loss Central.

  You know, now that I think of it, maybe Almond Leather could have come up with a song called, “Bananas for Buttermilk,” or “Bonkers for Buttermilk,” or “Badass Moms Love Buttermilk,” and that would be the only song we sang at our church, the Church of the Buttermilk Biscuit.

  I’ll freely admit that I’m not a lyricist, songwriter, or librettist, but I wouldn’t mind it at all if Almond Leather included the following line in their song about buttermilk biscuits: “I hope God makes and serves ’em up hot and fresh in heaven!” Another choice line might be the following: “I hope heaven also has fresh strawberry preserves and butter!” Or the following: “Let’s hope wheat never goes up in price in heaven!”

  I gazed at the buttermilk biscuits in our kitchen.

  So inviting!

  I just had to take a little bite, then another, then another, and, oh, my, what had happened to that tasty confection I’d held in my hands just a few seconds ago!

  I wanted to inhale the aroma of just one more. Two more never hurt anybody.

  Oh, my, what happened to that fourth buttermilk biscuit I had in my hand!

  Well, maybe if I put a little strawberry preserves on the fifth one, you know, just a small dollop, then it would all last longer. (If you put strawberry preserves on anything, it makes you savor it a bit more, which means it takes longer to finish.) So, I put just a little dollop of fresh strawberry preserves on a few more buttermilk biscuits, you know, not too much, just enough to make everything go down nicely.

  Oh, my, they were also quickly gone!

  Who did that?

  Did Mauru come to the kitchen and gobble them all up?

  The kids?

  Who did that to my buttermilk biscuits?

  I thought of having just a final buttermilk biscuit, you know, like they say in the old novels, “for the road. One for the road.”

  Well, the road in our house led from the kitchen to the lounge and back, and I walked to the living room, where I delivered buttermilk biscuits to Mauru, and he was laughing so loud he almost woke the kids as he kissed me and dusted all the flour and strawberry preserves from my face.

  Why was he laughing? Had Harriet Tubman done something funny?

  “Your face has a little flour and preserves,” Mauru said.

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “Where did all that come from?”

  “I love you so much,” Mauru said. “You crack me up.”

  I bit another buttermilk biscuit because Mauru was making me nervous, you know, by trying to embarrass me for my love of buttermilk biscuits and by dusting my face like I was a child. There he was, cackling for America like laughter was going out of fashion. I took another bite of my final buttermilk biscuit, and Mauru was crying as he laughed.

  “I think, I think,” he said, “we should try for another set of twins so that we,” [he was laughing again for America], “we could name our next set of twins ‘Buttermilk’ and ‘Biscuit’!”

  That was a callous thing to say to me.

  Very, very cruel, if you think about it.

  I couldn’t believe my husband would say such a thing to me!

  Would he encourage his parents to have another child whom they’d name “Swinger” or “Swinging,” since his parents were swingers?

  Or would he tell Mom and Dad to have another kid they’d call “Glib” or “Smooth Like Butter” since those were terms Mom and Dad preferred?

  Very cruel.

  I ignored Mauru, and I finished my buttermilk biscuit just as I read Cleopatra’s memorable words in Oh, Happy the Horse to Bear His Weight!

  “My smelling salts, Charmian. Bring them hither. For I am lovesick, and I swoon for the man. Cut my lace anon. I faint.”

  Mauru told me he loved me more than he’d ever loved anyone, probably more than he ever thought he could. When he was at high school in Sacramento, he and two buddies tried to imagine where they’d be in twenty or twenty-five years. Twenty-five years in the future seemed like an eternity, then.

  Mauru thought he’d be a retired football player, probably based in Boston. His wife would have a name like “Ginger.” His eldest son would be called “Heath,” and his eldest daughter would be called “Marium.” Mauru’d own a car dealership or a restaurant. Maybe he’d have a “side thing, or two, or three,” which was the most he thought he could handle, and he’d have a “dad bod” and so much money that he wouldn’t care. That, he thought, would have made him happy.

  I wondered. Did Mike want kids?

  “Sometime over the coming weeks, Jan,” Mauru said. “Why don’t we—just me and you—go to the commune I visited with my buddies? I’d like you to see it. It’s the future, our future. I think you’d like it.”

  11

  A Killer and a Cad

  Dust storms, like fires, remind you that anything can rise, sweep, and churn.

  Nothing is static, and even the ground beneath you makes no promises that it will remain there forever.

  The most recent dust storm had left a film of dust over everything.

  Larry was sneezing, and he blamed both the dust storms and the fires elsewhere in the state for his Hudson’s flu.

  Of course, there was no proof that either dust storms or fires caused the flu, but Larry was furious that Hudson’s flu hadn’t resolved itself yet, and the weather was a convenient excuse.

  Larry wasn’t the only one relying on the weather to explain things over which he had no control.

  Raphael Imaga, the Speaker of the House, was inadvertently recorded saying that Chief Justice Barryman Waldis Cathay of the Supreme Court of the United States was “a bumbling, bald buffoon.”

  Both Imaga and Cathay were sympathetic to the CWP, and they’d attended the CWP fundraiser at WS&X in May 2037.

  When interviewed on the CWP’s California Homeland Channel about his remarks regarding the Chief Justice, Imaga said, “I was in California when I said that. I was clearly under the influence of the California weather when I said that.”

  Governor Barrow, the former governor of California, was seen on TV decapitating Governor Trehoviak in effigy, just a few weeks into his governorship. She held his bloody head aloft, said that he was a “killer and a cad,” and she appeared to fling his head into an approaching dust storm.

  In response to the outrage and the death threats she received in response, Governor Barrow told Linda Maywrot, “I was in San Diego when I said that. I was clearly suffering from sunstroke. I’m now getting the care I need, and my doctor has recommended rest away from the public eye.”

  If you were late for work, you also blamed it on the weather. If you had insomnia, had a hangover, or were depressed, you pointed at the weather. When people disappeared or went missing, it was said that they were “taken by the dust storm.” It was even said that the “fires had swept them away.”

  Larry sneezed again, and he asked me to get his divorce attorney on the line, Elizabeth Browning. He wanted to discuss how the CWP’s proposed law, extending the wait time for a divorce from six months to eighteen months, was likely to affect his divorce from Albertine-Rose.

  He picked up the photograph he had of his sons on his desk, looked at it, and told me that, as a precaution, he had hired another nurse to watch over Hudson in the suite at the Coronado Imperial (a luxurious CWP hotel in San Diego), where Larry was now living, pending the outcome of his divorce.

  Larry had asked Albertine-Rose to take their other son, Lloyd, to their home Aspen for the weekend because Larry was afraid Hudson might be infected with the hatred, no matter what the doctors said about how impossible it was to pass the hatred from one person to the next. The doctors had diagnosed Hudson again with the flu.

  �
�I’m not rolling the dice on this, Janet,” Larry said. “I’ve been a lawyer long enough to know that doctors get their asses handed to them for medical malpractice all the time. Anyway, it’s only the poor that die. All the people that have died from the hatred are either poor people or Afri—. Anyway, you throw enough money at anything, and it goes away. That’s just a fact of life.”

  I typed out letters to clients; entered Larry’s, Amandine’s, and Andy’s time into the billing system; had another secretary order food for the name partners’ meeting with the governor, Anton, and Greta, whom I’d just learned were all coming to WS&X for a meeting that day; I entered Hannah’s time; and I contacted Elizabeth Browning, who was out of her office for the day.

  In anticipation of the governor’s visit, there were a lot more Hoviaks on the premises. Many were armed, and they looked at me like one looks at someone who has befouled herself.

  Hannah walked into Larry’s office and asked what she could do to get back onto the CWP cases. She missed the work, was good at it, and she wasn’t sleeping because she felt ashamed.

  “What can I do?” Hannah asked. “I’ll do anything.”

  “I understand,” Larry told Hannah.

  “You don’t, Larry,” Hannah responded. “My work defines me. I can’t exist without it. They’re spreading rumors about me. They’re saying that you removed me from my CWP cases because I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to keep up with everything. It’s humiliating.”

  “I know, Hannah. We’re dealing with it.”

  “Tell me what I should do, Larry. What do I need to do to get back on my cases?”

  “There’s enough alternative work for you, Hannah. You don’t need this in your life right now.”

  “I wrote those laws, Larry. Some of them have already been enacted. Texas wants to copy the laws I wrote, creating a water court and the law of lavish things. Arizona already has, and Nevada is voting next week.”

  “We’re very proud of your achievements, Hannah, but let this go.”

  “I can’t. You’re asking me to let go of who I am. I can’t do that. So, please, please tell me what I can do to make this right.”