Children of Hope

by Michael Fine

  “What’s your name, asswipe?” Charlie asked the man.

  After a few deep breaths, the guy calmed enough to answer. “Norman. Norman Underhill.”

  “And are you okay, Norman?” Condescension dripped from Charlie’s voice.

  “No, I’m not okay,” Norman said. “She broke my fucking face.” I am out unless cuz pays me another grand.

  Charlie looked the man directly in the eyes and said, very slowly, “Well, you’re lucky I don’t break your fucking kneecaps. Do not ever touch a woman without her permission. Especially not this one.”

  Norman started to say something when Charlie added, “Your breakfast today is on the house. Leave now and do not ever come back.”

  Still pressing a wad of napkins to his nose, Norman Underhill slunk out of the restaurant, and once he was sure the man was gone, Charlie turned and made his way back to the kitchen. The women at the tables closest to what happened clapped and cheered. Most of the men did, too.

  Soon after Underhill left, a group of middle-aged women came in wearing I VOTED! stickers. Hope motioned them to an open table with her left arm. She winced from the pain and turned to make herself a makeshift ice pack for her elbow.

  Later, Hope picked up her tip from the table where Marge and her concerned friends sat. They’d left a twenty dollar tip on an twenty-eight dollar bill. She also picked up the businessman’s tip: a crisp hundred dollar bill. She suspected, but would never know for sure, that the tips were a reaction to how she’d handled the creep who’d grabbed her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tuesday, November 7 (later that night)

  24-Hour Fitness

  Redwood City, California

  Except for the high-school-aged girl who sat quietly doing her algebra homework at the front desk, the fitness center was empty. It was just a few minutes before midnight. The place was absolutely silent except for the thuds of the sporadic impacts Hope’s boxing-gloved fists made on a punching bag along the mirrored back wall.

  Hope was exhausted but kept pounding the bag. She was in a kind of daze, punching on autopilot, just like a story she’d read about a swimmer who kept stroking even after her head hit the side of the pool, causing her to become unconscious. Her arms were heavy. Her heart was heavier.

  The TVs on the walls of the gym, whether tuned to CNN, MSNBC, Fox, or local stations, all showed the same thing: Brock Owens, the Republican, had narrowly defeated Zachary Grant, the Democrat. For the third time in the past six elections, the winner of the popular vote did not win the electoral vote.

  Hope couldn’t bear to watch. She kept pounding the bag until she was resting her head against it and her punches were barely more than her arms flailing forward, barely making contact.

  Finally, just past midnight, she sagged to the floor, utterly wrecked. She glanced at the TV airing CNN, which showed an earnest looking commentator yammering on. The chyron scrolling along the bottom of the screen stated “Owens commits to bipartisanship.” As Hope removed her gloves and packed her gym bag, she muttered, “Let’s hope.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday, November 8 (the next day)

  The Greenwich Hotel

  Tribeca, New York

  Royce Carrington finished off his cup of Silver Tips Imperial tea from the Makaibari Tea Estate in Darjeeling, West Bengal, while sitting in one of the upholstered armchairs near the fireplace in his nine-hundred square-foot corner suite at the Greenwich Hotel. After putting his cup down, he folded the newspaper he’d read cover to cover, and crossed the suite to the spacious marble and glass bathroom. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, straightened his tie, and then headed out. After two months looking for causes to which to donate his money, Carrington had identified his first beneficiary: The Friar Tuck Institute. They were doing impressive work fighting poverty.

  After a mind-boggling number of legal I’s that had to be dotted and legal T’s that had to be crossed, Carrington’s money manager had finally set up his charitable foundation. Now that the fund was ready, he was eager to get started. As the sun crowned on the horizon, Carrington walked a few blocks north through the northern part of Tribeca, which had become one of the hippest areas in New York City, full of residential lofts, trendy boutiques, and upscale restaurants.

  Carrington introduced himself to the young man working at the front desk in the building’s lobby. The place had exposed brick walls, which were covered with framed news articles about the good work the organization had done, and exposed HVAC ducts and Ethernet cabling in the ceiling.

  “Mr. Moore is expecting you,” the young man said cheerfully. “He’ll be right down. Can I get you a water while you wait?”

  Carrington declined and took a seat on one of the couches in a small sitting area. He’d barely sat down when his host exited the elevator and walked briskly toward him, right arm outstretched.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Senator Carrington.”

  “Likewise,” Carrington said, standing and shaking hands.

  “Please, follow me,” Moore said. He led Carrington to the elevator and up to the fifth floor.

  Once the men were seated in Moore’s cramped office, Carrington said, “I read from your website that you’re the largest poverty-fighting organization in the city, is that right?”

  “That’s correct. We provide our partner nonprofits with whatever they need to be successful: financial support of course, but also assistance with real estate and management issues. And we optimize the impact of every grant we make. We average over ten dollars in income and quality of life improvements for every dollar we invest.”

  Carrington liked the idea. Far too many charities, while well-meaning, didn’t understand the power of leverage. Real change―systemic change―only comes through leverage.

  Moore continued. “If you’ve read our materials, you know the data. One in six New Yorkers rely on soup kitchens and food pantries. One in five workers in the city earn less than twenty thousand dollars a year. One in three babies born in the city are born into poverty. The statistics go on and on.”

  “That’s why I want to contribute to your efforts. The magnitude of the problem you’re fighting is undeniable. That you’re doing the best job of anyone out there combating it is too.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the kind words. And I appreciate your offer to help. What did you have in mind?”

  “Ten million.”

  “Over what kind of time frame?”

  “Oh, no, you misunderstand. I’m going to write you a check. Here. Now. For ten million dollars.”

  In his many years as the organization’s Executive Director, Moore had never experienced such largesse, at least not all at once. Still, he did not lose his composure in the moment.

  “We will put it to good use,” he said. “One hundred percent of your donation will go to our partners.”

  “I know,” Carrington said. “It’s one of the many reasons I chose your organization.”

  “Well, I can’t thank you enough, Senator.”

  Carrington said, “Then he looked up at his disciples and said: ‘Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.’ Luke six, twenty through twenty-one.”

  The Senator’s bible quote caught Moore by surprise, but he’d been down this road before.

  “Senator Carrington, as much as we very much can use your donation, I feel the need to tell you that we are a secular organization. I just want to make sure you understand that.”

  “I do,” Carrington said. God works in mysterious ways, ways you may not understand. “My motivations are based on my religious beliefs, but I don’t mind if your motivations are different. On this, our interests are aligned.”

  Carrington took out his foundation checkbook and wrote his first check. He handed it to Moore.

  “Again, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It is my pleasure to help th
ose less fortunate,” Carrington said, a little too haughtily for Moore’s taste.

  The check in hand, Moore asked, “May I ask why you’re investing here in New York instead of Mississippi?”

  Carrington’s response was cold and calculated. “There isn’t an organization in Mississippi that’s as effective as you are here. I refuse to donate to organizations that will just end up wasting my money. And, besides, I don’t think Jesus would insist that the hungry I help have to live in my state.” After shaking hands with Moore, Carrington showed himself out. He said nothing about the fact that he had his house upstate or that he intended to retire in New York at some point.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saturday, January 20

  Hope’s Apartment

  Redwood City, California

  Two and a half months later

  Inauguration day

  Hope slept late for the first time in months. Of course, sleeping late was a relative term for someone like Hope. By nine, she had made her bed, cleaned her apartment, read her email, and fed Xander. Her apartment might be small, but she liked to keep it tidy. She’d replaced most of her IKEA pieces after graduating medical school, figuring a comfortable couch and a decent desk would help get her through her internship and years of residency. Pictures of Angel filled the warm space, and her urn sat in its special place on her bookshelf.

  For breakfast, Hope ate a toasted bagel with peanut butter and banana, and had a glass of orange juice. She rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

  Hope snatched her keychain and headed down to the mail slots on the first floor of her building. She grabbed the handful of mail in her mailbox and returned to her apartment. Sitting at her kitchen table, she went through the pile of mail. Most, as always, was junk: advertisements, flyers, and the like. There were a few bills and another envelope from her mom.

  Hope tore open the envelope from her mother and looked inside. The contents were what they always were: nothing more than a check with a yellow sticky note stuck to it. “Hope you’re well -Mom” was written on the note. When Angel died, their mom had written her a long letter that attempted to explain her decision to leave for Washington and stay there through Angel’s pregnancy and death. Since then, each month it was just a crappy sticky note with a few trite words.

  Hope crumpled the note and threw it in the pile of garbage mail. She stared at the check for a beat and then rose and walked to her bedroom closet. She reached up and pulled a shoebox down. After one last look at the check, Hope opened the box and dropped in the check, which would remain uncashed along with all the others. She returned the box to its place on the shelf.

  Hope returned to her table and wrote checks for the few bills she’d received. Her apartment was in a pretty iffy part of town, which meant rent was affordable enough for her to have the one bedroom to herself. Rent wasn’t due for another ten days. Satisfied she was keeping on track financially—well, other than the fact she was racking up hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt in student loans—Hope put her checkbook away, cleared the table of the junk mail, and turned on the TV.

  The inauguration of President Brock Owens was all over the airwaves. She left the TV tuned to CNN. Hope noticed how Owens, the poster child for exercise and watching one’s diet, wore just his suit, while all the other dignitaries around him were bundled in their overcoats. Hope remembered seeing a TV special on the man, which showed him working out at a gym. The man could have been a Mr. Universe contestant, Hope thought. In fact, as a younger man Owens had considered competing, but was unwilling to take steroids like the other contestants. Rumors about his diet ran rampant. Some said he ate nothing but green vegetables and whey protein. Others said he ate red meat at every meal. Incredibly media savvy, the man was sure never to confirm or deny any of these rumors.

  Hope watched as President Brock Owens took the oath of office. She looked over to Angel’s urn on her bookshelf. “Oh, Angel. It’s happening again. I can feel it.” She got up, walked over to the urn and ran her fingers lightly over the precious ceramic vase. Within moments, tears slid down her cheeks as she silently grieved for her lost little sister.

  Steeling herself, Hope turned and dropped to the floor in her living room. She did a hundred crunches while the network moved to a commercial break. She was doing pushups when a panel of pundits gave their analyses of the inauguration and pontificated about what they expected from Owens and his administration.

  Hope moved to doing seal planks when she heard the news that President Owens—or one of his people—had just posted a controversial message on his social media feed. The screen showed the text of the post:

  After eight years of Gabriella Davenport's extreme liberal agenda, it is time for a correction. I am proud to lead that correction.

  She pushed herself to move back and forth across her room until her abs burned. She let herself lay flat on the floor for a moment, then asked herself once again, Will it make the boat go faster? Looking at Angel’s urn, she said, “I made you a promise, sis, and I intend to keep it.” She got up, turned off the TV, and headed for the shower. It seemed clear that it was now more important than ever that she focus on her research. There were millions of young girls and women who might benefit from her artificial womb, who might need it more urgently now that Owens was President.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday, January 21 (the next day)

  Stanford University Hospital Parking Garage

  Stanford, California

  The day after the inauguration, Hope’s shift at the hospital ended at 10:00 p.m. She changed into street clothes, packed her backpack, and spent a few minutes giving a status update on each of her patients to the nurses at the nursing station. By a quarter after, she was out the door, heading for her car.

  As Hope walked past the fountain in front of the hospital’s main entrance and toward the parking garage, she found herself amazed, as she always was, at the temperate Northern California weather. Just like back in Louisiana, her light jacket was more than enough. She thanked her lucky stars, again, that she lived in the Bay Area now.

  Hope hadn’t slept for over twenty-four hours. Despite this, she sensed more than saw that someone was behind one of the concrete pillars in the parking garage. She stopped a few feet from the post.

  “Hello? Is there someone there?”

  Nobody answered but her senses were still on high alert. She asked again. “Is someone there?”

  She waited a full minute. Nothing. She wondered if it was just that she was so tired. She slowly began walking toward her car but veered away so she would be as far as possible from the pillar.

  Just as she walked past it, a man jumped out at her. He was wearing a red baseball cap and was dressed in black pants and a black jacket. He wore a black bandana over most of his face. The man came at her, his hands raised like an extra in a B-rated zombie movie.

  Hope’s first thought was: At least he doesn’t have a weapon, at least not in his hands. Her second thought was: I don’t know what it is, but this guy somehow seems familiar. There was something about his bearing and about the fact that as menacing as he was trying to be, he somehow wasn’t pulling it off. Still, she was scared.

  Her training kicked in and she assumed a strong, defensive stance, with her left leg forward, her right leg back, and her knees slightly bent. She rocked on her toes.

  The attacker reached out with his left hand and attempted to grab her throat and pin her to a pillar she’d accidentally backed into. As she was thinking, stupid, stupid, stupid, his hand closed around her throat. Hope thought, too late, that she should have screamed before the man had grabbed ahold of her windpipe. With his right hand, the man punched Hope squarely in her left eye.

  Hope cried out, but before he could punch her again, her instincts kicked in. She raised both of her arms and brought them down with all her might on his outstretched arm. The force of her blow dislodged the assailant’s hand from her neck. He cursed under his breath and reached to nu
rse his sore arm just as Hope reached for her tender left eye socket.

  “You bitch!” the man said. Hope somehow recognized the tone of his voice as pain and fear, not aggression. Still he charged at her again. This time, Hope didn’t wait for him; she stepped toward him at the same time and gave a jab with her left hand and then a right hook.

  Her punch landed squarely on the man’s cheekbone, and she heard a quiet crack. Probably a zygomatic maxillary fracture, she figured. He staggered away again, this time crying out in pain. She’d purposely hit him with the heel of her hand to prevent broken bones in her hand. She could do her work at the hospital and her research at the lab with a black eye, but not with a broken hand.

  Hope didn’t care if he was in pain. As often happened through the years, she flashed back to her sister’s rape. Now she channeled that anger into intense retaliatory force. While the man was hunched over, nursing his cheek, Hope walked the few steps toward him and grabbed his balls. He looked up at her and winced.

  With her left hand, which was free of testicular slaughter duty, she ripped the man’s bandana off his face.

  “You!” she said. She had been right; she did know the guy. It was the jerk who’d squeezed her butt at the restaurant. “Norman Underhill?”

  “Please. Please stop squeezing. You’re hurting me.”

  Hope squeezed harder. Underhill yelped.

  “Are you stalking me? Why did you jump me?”

  Norman Underhill made a quick calculation. Even with the extra thousand bucks, this gig wasn’t worth it. His cousin could go fuck himself.

  “My cousin asked me to harass you.”

  “Your cousin? Who the hell is your cousin?”

  “Derek. Derek Johnson.”

  Hope felt like she’d been punched in the gut. It took all of her will to maintain her grip.