by Ramsay, Lex
Olivia kept glancing around nervously. She had obviously been in urban centers on many occasions, and had always experienced a certain amount of unease. Her unease this time was exacerbated by her fear of discovery as an R.A. operative, but, she had to admit, at its core it was a result of her discomfort at being in a city filled with nothing but white people.
On the protectorate, Olivia was one of a tiny number of elite white occupants. In fact, it wasn’t overstating things to say that the entire protectorate—particularly the protectorate compound—was there for her pleasure and comfort. All the servants were black; and the few other whites were P.A.s, who were relegated for the most part to the field houses and garment workers compound.
It shamed her to admit it, but what made Olivia uncomfortable about being in an urban center was the fact that she was no longer the center of everyone else’s universe. She was no longer the center of attention. Her status as an indisputable V.I.P. was diluted here. And that sudden loss of status, her importance plummeting with every mile that separated her from the protectorate, made Olivia question her own self-worth.
Pushing aside her own self-centered thoughts, Olivia turned her attention back to the here and now.
“How in the world do they think they can get away with it, Em?” Olivia whispered once the waiter had left the table after refilling their water glasses for what seemed like the fifteenth time.
“Details, Olivia, details,” Em shook her head as she replied. “Once the gas is distributed, each protectorate could herd their slaves into any number of remote buildings in the field and kill the largest segment of the slave population like that,” she snapped her fingers.
“After that, you’d be talking about disposing of the bodies of course, and the few hundred house slaves and garment workers, but the bulk of the work would be done by then.”
Olivia nodded. “Yeah, I see how the logistics could work, but what I mean is what would they tell the rest of the world had happened to them.”
“That I don’t know, at least not yet.” Em answered while toying with a breadstick.
“But I’ll tell you this,” Em continued as she jabbed the breadstick at Olivia for emphasis, “considering how isolated you folks are out there on the protectorates, it’d take a while before anyone knew what was up. It’d take even longer for anyone to get suspicious outside the S.R. And by the time they did, the Assembly would make sure it had a cover story securely in place.”
• • •
Senator Woolridge slammed the phone handset down into its cradle and watched as it rocked itself to rest.
“Lewis!” Woolridge roared, his face in a tortured scowl. “Those damned pampered Protectorites …” Woolridge sneered as he used one of his favorite pejoratives for the protectorate-bound F.F.C.—the literal country cousins of the urban variety—“they’ve been stirring up all kinds of mess about Project Exodus.
“They’re calling up every member of the Confederacy they can get hold of, whining and complaining about having to get rid of the slaves.”
Lewis listened to him rant, knowing that Woolridge, despite being only one of five Assembly members who devised the plot to annihilate the slaves, had a particularly proprietary feeling for the plan, and took any criticism of it personally.
“Those ungrateful fools … all they’ve got to do is sit there and reap the benefits of my brilliant plan, and they can’t even do that quietly.” Woolridge fumed.
“I think we should move up Project Exodus, Lewis, I’m not sure how much longer these pansies can stand the pressure of the wait.”
Moving up the date might not be a bad idea, Lewis considered. It would encourage the R.A. to devise an escape plan for the slaves without giving them too much time to think it through. That way their conclusions would be more predictable—and controllable.
“Yes Senator.” Lewis said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. It wouldn’t do to have Woolridge so distraught right now. That would only make what he had to accomplish all the more difficult, Lewis knew.
CHAPTER 19
Patrick had escaped the dinner table and fled upstairs at the news that the now infamous Amani Jordan—his prospective life partner and mother of his children, to hear Clarissa tell it—was arriving shortly for after dinner drinks.
He had showered, again, despite having showered and dressed for dinner earlier. On admitting his defeat and acquiescing to his sister’s matchmaking, Patrick had broken out in a chilled sweat at the thought of having to endure what would surely be a humiliating evening.
Patrick knew this contrived match would fail before it had a chance to ignite. It would fail even before either of them could divine whether they lusted for or loathed each other. It would fail as all his fitful attempts at coupling had always failed. It would fail because—it must.
Patrick had proven to himself on too many occasions to count that he was incapable of intimacy, incapable of flinging open his heart and challenging all comers to hurt or heal as fate saw fit. Patrick had a hole in his soul and he knew it.
It hadn’t helped that Patrick had been a “late bloomer” whose interests in girls hadn’t been aroused until his very late teens. What had always been a tendency toward introspection and solitary pursuits galloped full speed into his budding personality and vanquished all other fledgling tendencies jousting for dominance over his unformed character.
When his hormones had finally asserted themselves, Patrick, rather than being driven to mate like a moth to the moon, was instead overwhelmed with fear, anxiety and yes, even a little revulsion at the thought of physical intimacy with a woman.
He was knowledgeable enough about human biology because of his compulsive habit of over-studying any scholastic subject he was confronted with, and observant enough to see that his age mates had quite a different reaction to their blooming masculinity.
But Patrick also knew that he was different from most other people. Not only in outlook and sensibilities, but in background. Not many boys his age had been exposed to the adult issues of subterfuge, bravery, hope and abject evil that was the strange concoction on which he’d been weaned since his introduction to the family business—the Railway Association.
Patrick chose a cashmere sweater and warm wool pants from his armoire as his thoughts plunged back to the past. So confused was he at his seeming inability to connect with a woman sexually, that Patrick had even wondered years ago whether he was homosexual. One night spent visiting homosexual haunts cured him of that fear, though.
He remembered how he cautiously selected a bar while in Montreal for a summer during the break between his third and fourth years of college. He figured if he was homosexual, discretion was called for, at least initially.
Patrick sat nursing a drink at a corner booth, anxiously seeking out, then avoiding eye contact with a couple of other patrons. He had just about decided to go when a young man about his own then 20 years of age slipped into the booth beside him and began speaking to him in rapid French.
Patrick’s undoubtedly dazed expression and upraised hands imploring the young man to stop finally had effect.
“Ah. You are an American, no? Perhaps that is why you sit here looking so lost, eh?” The young man introduced himself as Phillipe, and settled back to practice his already near-perfect English.
Patrick knew enough French to get by in most casual transactions, and he was proud that his French had been growing all summer; but he was relieved when Phillipe proved so fluent in English. There was something disarming about his new companion, with his laughing brown eyes and flyaway blond hair that looked like it had been cut with dull nail scissors. Phillipe had that fashionably emaciated look that was in favor at the time and an absolutely trustworthy manner.
Perhaps it was a testament to Patrick’s desperation, or perhaps an example of his keen ability to read people, Patrick opened up and told Phillipe the truth.
Phillipe waited patiently for Patrick to finish, then peppered Patrick with questions. How long had
he wondered if he was different? Had he ever been sexually attracted to any of his boyhood friends? How did he feel at the prospect of being touched or kissed by another man?
Patrick’s face answered each question with a kaleidoscope of expressions, from questioning, to puzzlement to horror, before he had a chance to speak his answers.
“I see,” said Phillipe as he laughed. “It is like that, is it?” Well, my new friend, I may be wrong, but I don’t think you are like me … like these other men here tonight.” Phillipe still chuckled as he gestured around the bar with one hand.
He and Phillipe spent the next few hours cruising around the hot spots of Montreal, and by the end of the evening, Patrick knew Phillipe was right. Which was a fate in some ways better and in some ways worse than the uncertainty that was left in its ashes.
Years later, while in Philadelphia attending Wharton, Patrick had even gone to a psychiatrist after battling his sexual demons on his own for too long. It took four sessions for Patrick to admit his reasons for coming to Dr. Waverly, and when he finally did he was both heartened and dismayed to learn that his problem was not that uncommon.
First they discussed whether Patrick had sexual feelings for men. He’d relayed his experience in Montreal, and Dr. Waverly agreed with him that he probably wasn’t hiding or suppressing sexual feelings for men—he truly didn’t have any.
Then they delved into his past “relationships”—actually a series of fits and starts that Patrick glorified with the title—and discovered that far from being asexual, Patrick actually was quite strongly attracted to women sexually.
He was unfortunately just as strongly repelled, though, and the repugnance had always won out over the attraction.
“You see, Patrick,” Dr. Waverly had explained, “Most of us fixate, if you will, on one object that we use to define our feelings for the opposite sex fairly early on.
“Often that object, for boys, is the mother. Have you ever noticed how many men only date women who remind them in some fashion of their mothers? And the same goes for girls and their fathers.
“But that is not always the case, and sometimes you can fixate on a person who made a tremendous impression—good or bad—on you at a formative stage.
“What we’ve got to do, is find that person, and we’ll have the clue we need to work this thing out.”
Patrick had felt so relieved after that session that he actually had hope that he could someday have a fulfilling relationship with a woman. He started on the “homework assignment” Dr. Waverly had given him almost immediately. He was supposed to make a list of every woman he thought had made a major impact in his life up until the age of 12; and he was supposed to recall anything he could about his failed attempts at lovemaking that seemed like it was part of a common theme.
Patrick recreated his most recent painful failure by remembering with embarrassment an incident with one of his study partners, Janelle something or another. He and Janelle had been pairing up to study regressive equations in an economic theory class for most of one semester.
One evening after hours of studying at Janelle’s house, Janelle had a “light bulb” moment when all the equations and rhetoric coalesced in her mind and finally made sense. She jumped up from her seat and onto the couch where Patrick sat, flung her arms around him and kissed him, first playfully, then timidly, then eagerly as Patrick matched her growing urgency with is own startling desire.
They were fumbling with each other’s clothes and rolling around on the floor, having fallen from the couch, when Patrick’s mind seemed to retreat into a fog. His heart clutched in his chest and his sweat changed from the sweat of anticipation to the cold sweat of inarticulate fear. He smelled the pungent scent of ammonia, and, gasping for air he didn’t need, his hands fell away from Janelle’s swelling breasts and he lurched off the floor, scrambling as if running from wild beasts. Patrick froze, mumbled some incoherent apology, and leaving Janelle on the floor, a heap of tangled clothes and unsatisfied desire, fled out of the house.
And then Patrick knew. Looking at the top of the list he had scrawled “little girl under the streetlamp.” He smelled a whiff of ammonia as she peed on the ground, eyes wider than nature intended them. So fearful as to be rendered almost inhuman. She had affixed herself to his psyche. She had become all women to him, all the abused slaves, all the helpless victims, all the women mated like cattle. She had been his “object” and he was now her slave.
Patrick brushed through his hair as he gazed into the mirror. He’d long since stopped seeing his reflection, and instead recalled the moment when he realized he would have to stop his sessions with Dr. Waverly. For Dr. Waverly was too close to the truth. And Patrick could trust no one with his secret affiliation with the R.A.
So while Patrick and Dr. Waverly, the latter albeit unknowingly, had rooted out the cause of Patrick’s problem, there was nothing to be done about it, for to seek help was to betray his life’s work and the work of his family for many long generations.
No, Patrick couldn’t risk that. Not even for his own sanity.
Patrick cleaned his glasses with the edge of his sweater, opened the door to his bedroom and walked downstairs to meet his fate.
CHAPTER 20
Eugenia sat in the conservatory straightening the stems and flipping the petals of her beloved orchids. She was never so content as when she tended her orchids—well, almost never. The only rival for her affections was her grandson Winston. And in truth, there really was no contest.
Eugenia had suffered the fate of the eternally marginalized: having been treated like a non-entity for so long, she had become resigned to the role involuntarily assigned to her.
Her husband took wicked delight in her every humiliation. Olivia was simultaneously ashamed by her victim-hood and despised her for her weakness. Her son-in-law barely registered her existence, for he had long ago assessed and rejected her importance in the scheme of his best interests. The servants merely pretended to care one way or the other about her wishes, and she wouldn’t even think about that hussy Sulla.
Of all the people in her life, Winston was alone in his love for her, and that, she knew, was only partially attributable to the fact that she doted on him. As much as it hurt her heart to admit it, Winston’s love for her had the desperate edge borne from being as ignored as his grandmother.
Winston was, well, an inconvenience to his mother. He was no more than a means to an end to his father; and for some reason Eugenia never could figure out, he seemed to annoy his grandfather.
As much as Askew had wanted a son to carry on his line, Eugenia had thought he’d have been ecstatic over a grandson. But that had certainly not been the case. And what was worse, from Eugenia’s standpoint, was the fact that little Winston tried so hard to please Askew to no avail.
It was funny, Eugenia mused, how she didn’t even think of her husband by his first name anymore. No, there were no pet names, no little endearments that came to mind when she thought of him. She reminded herself of her father a bit in that way, for you could always tell how George Newsome felt about someone by the way he referred to them. No matter their age, if someone was not worth the trouble of remembering his given name, or had done something to fall out of favor, he was “that ol’ Jenkins” or “that ol’ Hargrew.” Right around now, Eugenia laughed to herself, she should start calling her husband “that ol’ Askew.” She guessed “Askew” would do, since it not only removed even the hint of intimacy between them, but it allowed her to distance herself from the repulsive fact that it was also the name she had carried for these last 33 miserable years.
Turning her thoughts back to Winston, she squinted as she tried to puzzle out the strange dynamic between the boy and his parents. It was almost as if Winston had dismissed his parents as being unworthy of his attention, and had instead gravitated toward his grandfather as a kind of substitute father. Eugenia wondered whether he was trying to duplicate the special bond he felt with his Nana by tirelessly reaching out to A
skew for the love he so clearly craved.
Eugenia bristled at the thought of Askew’s constant rejection of the boy. She felt as protective of him as if he’d been her own child. More, in fact, because unlike Olivia who never seemed to need her much, Winston relied on her to fill all the painful gaps in his little life.
And why shouldn’t she be his champion, Eugenia thought. Nobody else gave a damn about the child. Besides, what good was she if she couldn’t even provide a warm smile or a cozy lap for the child to run to?
Eugenia concentrated on a new hybrid she’d developed and not for the first time considered the similarities between her orchids and her family. You never really knew what qualities you’d end up with when you blended different kinds of orchids—resilience, fragility, bountiful beauty or poisonousness. And so it was with her family. And so it was with life.
Another lesson Eugenia had learned from her orchids was that early nurturing was essential to ensure survival. Which was why she had insisted that Winston spend as much time with her as possible.
Of course he had his nurse who woke him (as if that were necessary often), bathed and dressed him, and saw to his naps and meals. But Eugenia didn’t begrudge the nurse the labors of child rearing, she rather enjoyed keeping all the best times with the child to herself. After all, that was her prerogative as a grandmother—to spoil the child rotten, then send him back to his parents.
But poor little Winston couldn’t very well be sent back to parents who barely noticed his existence, though, and in truth he really wasn’t spoiled despite her best efforts.
Hearing a tapping noise on the glass behind her, Eugenia turned to see Winston running from his nurse’s side, toward the conservatory door.
At four, Winston was small for his age, but had such an exuberant spirit that he could barely contain the energy humming along inside his little frame. He had beautiful thick curly hair and luxurious lashes the color of chicory coffee, and his skin was a pretty shade that tanned easily.