by Sarah Noffke
“Adelaide,” I say, drawing out the last part of her name. “History doesn’t matter. The books don’t tell the real story anyway. Everything you see is an illusion that people, like the Lucidites, created. I thought I’d taught you that nothing was what it seemed on this earth. And you are supremely misguided if you think a woman becoming President was going to change how women are treated. The flaw is you thinking that you’re repressed. Those with that mentality will always find an oppressor. Power comes from your perspective. So if you see men as the enemy then that’s what we will be,” I finish, giving her a grueling stare.
“Why does it sound like you’re going into motivational speaking?” she says, but now there’s a laugh to her tone.
I ignore her quip, although I do sound more informational lately and less snarky. I’ll have to work on that. “And the Lucidites have picked the presidents of this country for fifty years. We know how to choose the one we can control the easiest or one who is a Dream Traveler with an actual brain and can make informed decisions,” I say.
“Wait, there was a Dream Traveler prez? Who?” Adelaide says.
“There were two actually, but I’m not telling you until you start speaking English correctly,” I say.
At this, she sticks her tongue out at me. “I ain’t gonna figure it out then,” she says, her cockney accent heavy.
I ignore her attempt at being clever. “And you should know that Jill, according to Roya’s report, will go on to create real change in a position that has actual power,” I say.
“You’re trying to make me feel better,” she says with a sly smile.
“I’d rather die than do such a thing,” I say, quietly realizing that she’s right.
“Well, what you said does make sense about history and perspective and the president. And you put it so thoughtfully that I feel all fuzzy and warm inside now,” she says.
“Get the fuck out of here, Addy,” I say. “Adults need to converse.”
“I will take my leave, but just so you know, I’ll miss you every second I’m away from you, Daddy Ren,” she says.
“You really don’t value your life, do you?” I say.
She looks down the table to Trent. “You’re witness to this hostile work environment. I expect you as my boss to put a stop to the harassment and threats,” Adelaide says.
Trent nods slowly, only slightly amused by witnessing this exchange. He’s like a shell of a person now. “It’s been noted,” he says.
“Coolio,” she says, and pops out of her seat, almost bouncing on her toes as she skips from the room.
I turn and face Trent directly. “She really is an awful human being,” I say.
“Adelaide is a great agent. She’s got the potential to be one of my best, second to you,” he says.
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me. I’m not shagging you no matter how many times you try,” I say.
“As your superior, I’m merely offering you positive feedback. You could have tried that when in my position,” Trent says, not impressed.
“Oh, fuck. Are you being nice to the agents? That’s your bloody problem. You don’t build employees up. You beat them down so they are constantly working harder to earn your praise, which should never come,” I say.
“I think it’s safe to say we have different administration styles,” he says.
“I like how you call yourself my superior. Doesn’t matter what your position. We know who is in charge here,” I say.
“So Adelaide,” he begins.
“Yeah, I’m fucking shocked to hear your assessment. Are you sure we are talking about the same person? Red-headed girl, with a bad attitude and awful vocabulary? Right?” I say.
“Yes, and she has great instincts when in the field. But my fear is she’s already growing bored with level one cases. I think—”
“No,” I say clear and loud, cutting him off.
“Ren, just hear me out on this.”
“She just passed training,” I say.
“With top marks,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter. I never promote agents to level two cases until they’ve had sufficient experience,” I say.
“And need I remind you that this isn’t your department and she isn’t your agent,” Trent says.
“Doesn’t matter. As the person here with superior experience, she isn’t ready for level two cases,” I say.
“I actually feel she’s past level two cases and could easily handle a three or a four,” he says.
“And that’s your fucking problem. You are feeling your way around with this position. A Head Strategist doesn’t feel and the sooner you realize that the sooner this department will stop sinking into the ground,” I say.
“It’s not sinking—”
“This discussion is over,” I say, rising to a standing position. “Adelaide will keep working level one cases as protocol dictates.”
“I realize that since she’s your daughter you’re worried about her getting hurt in the field, but she’s smart and doesn’t take thoughtless risks,” Trent says.
“Trent, as you know from no doubt lurking around the urinals here, I’m a man. I don’t worry or fret or spend any energy stressed about Adelaide or anything else on this God damn planet. I’m an agent who knows better than you. We don’t promote agents because we have warm feelings about their ability to perform. We follow the rules for agent promotion,” I say.
“But you wrote those rules,” he says.
“Exactly,” I say and teleport away.
Chapter Three
A slew of toys litter the floor of my study when I teleport into the room.
“For fuck sake,” I say, kicking a stuffed dinosaur out of my path. We live in a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion and that little terror has to trespass on my only personal space. I slide into my plaid armchair, running my fingers over the fabric as I usually do upon first taking a seat after a long day. Then a pinch assaults my lower back. My hand feels behind me until my fingers find a slick piece of plastic. A fucking Lego.
I throw the object so it flies through the space and out the open double doors. A lock. I need a fucking lock on that door. I’ve been meaning to have one installed but haven’t had time. Never have I been so incredibly busy that I can’t take the minute it would cost me to tell the butler that I need a bloody lock installed. That’s because every second of my day is full. This minute I’m affording myself to sit is a rare luxury.
“Blah! Blah! Nah! No! Neh!” the little monster yells from the corridor.
I throw my chin up to the ceiling. “You can’t grant me one fucking moment of peace, can you, God?”
“Yip! Yip!” The incoherent babbling grows louder. Then the red-headed demon child runs past my study. And of course, he’s bloody naked, his pale butt assaulting my vision as he sprints by.
“Yerip! Yerip! Ziggy! Zoo! Zot!” he screams.
I look at the ceiling again. “If you’re trying to get me to kill myself then you can stop now. Consider it already done,” I say to God, who isn’t fucking listening.
And because no one is watching the two-year-old heathen, Lucien runs by the study yet again, this time carrying one of Dahlia’s crystal figurines over his head.
“Pops!” I yell at top volume. I push up to stand and actually fail. I lack the energy to successfully complete the task the first time. But I can’t be deterred. So with a giant inhale, I push myself out of the armchair, which feels especially low today, for some reason. “Pops,” I yell again.
“Come here, you little tyke,” I hear my pops say in the corridor.
I stomp across my study and round the corner to find my pops reaching down to pick up the child. He then holds him sideways at his waist. As soon as he spies me he smiles and then whips around, holding Lucien to him.
“Have you seen Lucien?” he says.
Giggles make the boy’s face turn pink. Pops wheels around the opposite way and the monster’s
hands and legs flay around as he rides on Pops’s side like a bag. “Lucien, where are you?”
“He’s on your hip,” I say dryly.
Pops flicks his head down. “Oh, there you are, my boy,” he says. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Maw! Maw! Dogga dogga,” the heathen says in response. Pops sets the child on his feet and he immediately runs for the other end of the house, his white ass jiggling as he does.
My pops doesn’t run after the house-destroyer, he simply chuckles with delight.
“You are the worst bloody nanny in the history of the world,” I say.
“Oh, Ren,” he says, dismissing my insult with another laugh. “Kids are going to be kids. You’ve got to allow them to express their wild side.”
“And therein explains why I’m such a monster. It wouldn’t have killed you to knock me around a little. Maybe punish me for being wild,” I say.
And the man with too much heart and patience smiles broadly, his brown eyes sparkling with true happiness. “You know punishing you wouldn’t have done any good,” he says.
Pops has been happier than I’ve seen him in a long time since he took the position as Lucien’s full-time caregiver. We could never keep a nanny because Lucien is soulless and untrainable and Adelaide wanted to finally take my offer to train as a Lucidites agent.
Again Lucien runs past us, hopefully headed for the street. “Nib nob! Arg!” he says, as he sprints by in his birthday suit.
“English,” I say to my pops. “Can you teach him some bloody English words?”
Pops peers around me, keeping his eyes on Lucien. “Oh, he’ll learn when he’s ready,” he says.
“Pops, he can’t communicate with anyone in the house.”
Pops now looks me over, as though seeing me for the first time. “You look tired, son. When was the last time you got some rest?”
“Nineteen eighty-one,” I say, mostly meaning it.
“It’s that job of yours. You should think about quitting. Spending this time with Dahlia. You know, before—”
“I need to work right now,” I say, cutting him off. He hasn’t let up on this campaign to get me to quit for months.
“Working isn’t as important as being with someone—”
“Dahlia and I have plenty of time together. Now and in the future,” I say, again interrupting him.
“Ren, I can’t help but feel you’re in denial.”
“No, Pops, you don’t get it and I can’t fully explain it to you because it’s complicated and I’m not ready to divulge details to you,” I say.
“Ren—”
“Just let up on me and do your bloody job,” I say, throwing my arm behind me where Lucien is climbing up a marble statue of a Trojan horse, trying to mount it. He twists around and looks at me. Then like a puppy finding a new toy he jumps off the large statue and runs in my direction.
“Poppy!” he yells clear and loud. Lucien stops at my feet, looking up at me with that inquisitive expression he always gives me.
“Ren,” I correct him.
“Poppy!” he repeats.
“Did you teach him that?” I say to Pops.
“As we previously discussed, I’m not teaching him anything. Remember?” Pops says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, a proud smile focused on the boy at my feet.
I turn back on Lucien. “Ren. Call me Ren. Or better yet, don’t call me at all.” Then I say to Pops, “Put some clothes on the little monster, would you?” And I turn at once and head for the stairs.
***
I take the stairs one at a time, my leg only lifting my foot enough to drag it across the steps. The railing I actually use, knowing that if my balance wavers then I’ll tumble backwards. I’m too tired for what I have to do next but every part of my plan has to be done right. I cast a glance back down the stairs when I’m at the top. I had felt my pops’s eyes on my back during my long trek. He’s staring at me with a heavy look. One that says how I should feel but I don’t because it’s not the time for that. There will be an opportunity for grief and it will be short-lived.
A chill that prickles my fingers meets my skin when I push our bedroom door back. Dahlia has preferred the space cold. She says it makes her want to actually stay in bed, as she’s been ordered to do. I admit that the cold makes me want to crawl under the blankets and spend eternity cuddled against her.
“Hi there,” she says, pushing up away from her pillow and sleep. Her brown hair has lost its normal shine, but she’s still beautiful. Bone thin and pale as the moon, she’s as radiant as ever. Nothing could steal that from her because her beauty is within her. It’s a part of her soul.
“Hi,” I say, that one word making my throat ache. Does she look skinnier than she was this morning? Maybe it’s just the long day of treatments and pain, which is sketched across her sunken eyes. The cancer slipped quietly into her body years ago and by the time it made its presence known it had taken a lease on every part of her. She never had a chance and we knew it from the beginning. Her work, this career as the most famous vocalist in history, was both her greatest success and her very undoing. It was her commitment to the stage that kept her out of the doctor’s office. It’s the reason she’s dying now. That she won’t beat this. It’s the reason we didn’t catch it earlier. And it’s totally fine. I don’t look at her dying in each of these moments like I did with my mum. I know better now. If the last year taught me anything it’s that the greatest traumas can lead to the greatest opportunities. And a strategic man such as myself isn’t going to let God win this time. He thinks he can take people from my life and I’ll accept it. However, I’ve got secrets that even he doesn’t know. He left his blueprints to this world out and that was a big mistake.
“Did you eat today?” I say, nearing our bed.
She nods slowly, as though answering the question while still trying to remember the truth.
“Did you?” she says, pulling the comforter closer to her chin to warm her from the chill in the room.
“Sure,” I say. The bed sags gently from my weight when I sit.
“You look like hell,” she says, reaching out and touching my stubbled cheek.
I smile against her fingers.
“You do too.”
“What did you do today?” she says and I know she’s craving the information. This isn’t a woman who would watch television even if she’s imprisoned in a bed. But her eyes have worsened to the point that reading is too difficult. Not working is harder for Dahlia to accept than that soon she’ll be gone from this earth. I know she’d rather work until the end, but her voice is damaged. It would be worse if she’d elected to do chemotherapy but she’s vain and didn’t want to lose her hair.
“Let’s see,” I say, actually having to think to recall the last twelve hours. “Oh, I picked the President of the United States, rigged the election, and got the ass of a tiny monster’s bare butt burned into my visual cortex due to seeing it too often.”
“Is the President a nice man?” she says.
“He’s the worst,” I say.
Dahlia shrugs and the effort it takes her looks like enough to take her out.
“I’m working on something,” I say, having kept all my plans to myself all this time, although I know she could sense I was figuring something out.
“Like a model airplane or fixing up an old car?” she says, her voice always light.
“Yes, but in my spare time I’ve been working on another side project,” I say.
“Do tell,” she says, not at all curious, actually looking close to falling back asleep.
“Not yet. It’s going to be a surprise. But I have an order for you until its reveal,” I say.
“Eat my vegetables and respond to that mountain of fan mail that keeps pouring in,” she says.
I shake my head. “Don’t die.”
And now the faint smile drops from her face. “Well, I’ve been trying. Since the moment God put me on t
his earth, I’ve been trying not to die. But I’m thinking of cutting back on the effort soon.”
I reach out and cup her hands in mine. They’re cold and sharp in places. “I feared that, which is why I’m telling you not to give up. Not yet,” I say.
Her eyes take on the color of the blue pillow behind her like a chameleon.
“Dahlia, if you die then you’re going to fuck up everything. I’ve been working too hard to have you spoil all my plans by dying.”
“Okay. I’ll try,” she says and I know if anyone can give the reaper a chase it’s the woman beside me. She has a tenacious spirit that is unmatched. She is and will always be the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met.
“Now move your fat ass over,” I say, turning on my side as I slide under the covers. I pull my body snug against hers as she makes a space for me on the bed and rolls over on her side. Then with my last remaining bit of energy I secure Dahlia snug into me, my arms wrapped tight around her tiny frame. And then with my suit and my loafers still on I drop into a blackness of sleep.
Chapter Four
A child with a head of black hair fiddles with a bundle of wires when I cruise into Aiden’s lab.
He looks up at me when I pass him. “You the mean man,” he says, pointing up at me.
I pause and regard the little jerk with a half-smile. “I am,” I say as he throws his hand into a bowl of nuts and bolts. Aiden refuses to give his kid real toys. He thinks he’s making him smarter but refuses to realize that bad genetics can’t be undone.
“That’s what Mommy says,” he says. The boy is about the age of Lucien but appears to be able to actually construct sentences. Must be a fluke.
“I’m sure your mommy says all sorts of things about me. They are all true. I’m your worst nightmare,” I say.
Like I’ve said nothing at all, the little mistake thrusts his hand back into the bowl of metal.
“You are supposed to be sorting those, Max,” Aiden says, strolling over, an iPad in his hands.
“No!” the little shit says adamantly.