Donovan Meanwhile: Kings of Sparta

by Bierley, B. L.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head and just stirs her coffee some more.

  “Tell me about us,” I say, partly because I’m actually curious and partly because I think it will help the mission somehow.

  She tells me that she and I had been together for three years and had only broken up about six months earlier. The wounds are still fresh, at least from her perspective, and I can see her start to tear up when she mentioned certain names or memories. I’d like to think that my utter lack of emotional connection to the events she described actually helped her in some way, but who knows?

  She tells me more about my dad, too, whom she naturally had spent lots of time with over the course of our relationship. The man she describes sounded nothing like the guy I knew.

  “I’m not political or anything but pretty much everyone loves President Burke. He gets things done, and he makes us all feel good, and hopeful. He’s already been elected twice and there’s some talk of trying to repeal the term limits so he can run again.”

  I just shake my head. It doesn’t make any sense.

  Out of everything that’s happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, this breaks my suspension of disbelief.

  This is the thing I can’t get over.

  “How? How does someone like him get to that office? What path did he take that made him such a different person?” I’m asking myself more than Olivia, obviously, but she shrugs like she’s trying to figure it out, too.

  “He loves politics and people,” she says. “He’s been doing it his whole life.”

  One thought crosses my mind.

  If he’s so different here, am I?

  I mean, the me that I was now meant to replace? Could someone who is that different still be the same person?

  “And what about my mom?”

  Olivia says that Linda was an extraordinary woman, strong-willed and passionate, and she had always liked to spend as much time outdoors as possible.

  “Liked to?” I say, emphasizing the fact that she used the past-tense.

  She looks down at her now empty cup. “She died. You told me it happened when you were a kid. I never met her.”

  I feel my heart plummet into my feet.

  My mom was dead? How was that possible? It didn’t feel real, the same way that seeing my dad as the President didn’t feel real. I mean, these were my parents, technically, but then again they were strangers. They belonged to a version of me that I didn’t even know, that I had never met and might never meet.

  Still, I can’t help but want nothing more in that moment to travel back across to my world, wake my mom up, and give her a big hug.

  Olivia sighs. “This is a dumb question, and I know the answer, but...back in your world, are you and I...?”

  I frown apologetically. “No. I don’t even know you over there.”

  Talk about an iceberg of an answer.

  She tilts her head to one side sadly. “I didn’t think so, but it was worth asking. I was kind of hoping to see an alternate version of us.”

  I didn’t mention the fact I hadn’t had a girlfriend since I was seven and realized that girls weren’t for me.

  “But, thanks for talking to me,” she says.

  “Uh, sure?” I say. “Is that not something I would normally do?”

  She laughs with sadness. “No, not really. You were always too busy. But I mean, I can’t blame you. Son of the Leader of the Free World. You’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  I reach out my hand and put it on hers. “Hey, don’t apologize for me—or, for that version of me. It doesn’t matter how busy he is, he should make time for the people he loves.”

  She puts her other hand on top of mine, making a little finger sandwich on the table between us.

  “Thank you, Donovan. You know, when they first approached me about this mission I was pretty annoyed. I didn’t want to do it, not after some of the fights we’ve had. But there was a part of me, a little part, that thought, ‘Maybe...Maybe it’ll be a chance for us to get back together, for real, and really make it work this time.’ It was a small thought, but I can’t pretend it didn’t occur to me.”

  I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s hoping for some kind of reply along the lines of, “Yeah, maybe,” or “Hey, you never know.”

  I feel bad that I couldn’t tell her anything like that.

  We sit in silence for the another ten minutes. I wonder if she has any idea that I’m thinking about Hanson.

  Dweeble drives me back out into the city and leaves me at a bus stop. Bellamy had given me instructions on what to say when I got back to the White House, about where I had been and what I had been up to. Apparently it wasn’t unusual for my alter-ego to slip away from the security detail that was assigned to follow him around, so it wasn’t any cause for national alarm that I hadn’t been seen for a few days. That was reassuring, because it meant fewer questions that I would be expected to answer, but it also was a bit concerning. Nobody, apparently, knew where Donovan Burke of this world had disappeared to, but apparently, until this Chevko thing was settled, it was a moot point.

  I live at the White House.

  I just had to put that out there, because it’s just absolutely a totally bonkers thing to be true about me.

  It’s getting dark when I get there, and the security guard at the gate sees me and rolls his eyes as he waves me through. Clearly this wasn’t the first time he’d seen me wandering home alone after one of these extended vacations.

  If you don’t know much about the White House, then, first of all, you’re in good company.

  I go into this place assuming it’s going to be basically like a big, white house. Living room, dining room, a big staircase.

  No.

  It’s. A. Maze.

  First of all, a Secret Service agent meets me outside and walks me around to the private residence entrance, where he has to let me in with a special keycard. (I don’t know if that’s a feature on the White House where I’m from, but the Meanwhile seems to be particularly advanced, technologically, so I assume it’s something unique to this reality.)

  The first floor is all business stuff, and it’s basically off-limits to me, at least right now. Maybe not strictly off-limits, but I get the impression that it would be pretty strange for me to want to go wandering around down there, and I’d probably end up making a lot of people get out of bed that really wouldn’t want to.

  Speaking of bed, that’s where I would like to go, but, as I said, it’s a maze inside.

  I walk up the stairs to the second floor landing. The stairs keep going, but I decide to poke around here first.

  A long hallway leads from where I am, on one end of the building, all the way to the other.

  And I smell food.

  I follow the hallway to the other end, and in the dining room is my dad. He’s just sitting there, like a normal guy, reading over a file of some kind and chowing down on some casserole.

  He looks up at me with a start that turns into a smile.

  I find myself in the bizarre position of having to pretend to be myself.

  “Hey, dad,” I say, hoping that it sounded like a typical greeting. In my world, I called him dad and it was very casual. But for all I know, this Donovan called him ‘Father’ and said things like, “Greetings. I trust I find thee well?”

  I mean, anything is possible. But I had to go with my instinct on this one, and my instinct told me that Donovan Other World wasn’t that much different inside than Donovan Real World.

  He comes straight over and gives me a hug, and I hug him back. It was something that rarely had happened in my life, not in the sincere kind of way this hug was happening. There was nothing forced about it from his end. He just wrapped his arms around me, squeezed, held on for one or two seconds longer than I expected, and then let go.

  “Are you hungry?”

  That’s all he asks me, and it’s the nicest thing he’s ever said in my entire life.

  Here I was swe
ating over what to tell him when he asked me where I’d been, because the odds that I would say something that wouldn’t ring true was pretty high. Does Donovan go to the arcade, the library, the strip club or the golf course? I had no way of knowing, so it was best to keep my trap shut as much as possible until this mission was over and I could get back home.

  “There’s casserole on the stove,” he says, and pats me on the back. “I’ve really got to get this proposal read by tonight, so you’ll have to excuse me. Good to have you home again, son.” He sits down at the table and it’s like nothing ever happened.

  No yelling.

  No guilt.

  No veiled threats of physical violence.

  He looked like my dad, he sounded like him, but he acted nothing like the man I had grown up with.

  I just watch him for a minute without him noticing, immersed in whatever he’s reading, the perfect picture of a serious, devoted man. I wonder what my mom would think of this version of her husband.

  The kitchen is the very next room, and sure enough there is indeed a barely-eaten tuna noodle casserole on the stove. Someone must have made it just for him. Or maybe he made it himself. Stranger things have definitely happened.

  There’s a fork and a plate right next to the stove, so I start to pick at the casserole.

  “What are you doing?” A woman’s voice comes from behind me and I drop my fork.

  I turn around to see a middle-aged Hispanic woman in a white blouse and grey skirt giving me a very skeptical eye.

  “If you want a meal, I’ll fix it for you. I don’t need you messing up my clean kitchen. And since when do you do anything for yourself, anyway?”

  “Cut him some slack, Valencia,” my dad says wearily from the other room. She huffs.

  “Go to your room and I’ll bring you a warm plate. How about that?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say.

  Only problem is I haven’t the slightest idea where my room actually is, and no idea how I was going to find it without asking some really dumb questions.

  Another trick I learned from the movies: the stake-out and follow.

  I find a cozy little spot just outside the kitchen and wait for Valencia to come out with my food.

  When she does, I sneak along behind her, tiptoeing and jumping from alcove to alcove, as she makes her way down the hall, up the stairs, and down the third floor hallway.

  She sets the tray down on the floor in front of a closed door, knocks rapidly, and after waiting a few seconds for a response that never comes, she rolls her eyes and walks away muttering to herself about ungrateful-this and why-I-oughta-that.

  I grab the food and slip into the room with a self-satisfied chuckle.

  I flip on the light and forget all about the food.

  Fifteen foot ceiling with a chandelier, a four-poster bed that is surprisingly tasteful, a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the yard (or so I assume, since it’s too dark to see by now). There’s posters all over the walls of bands I don’t recognize, and sports cars I probably wouldn’t have recognized even in my own reality.

  As I peruse through the room, the feeling of invading someone else’s privacy nags at me until I remind myself that this is technically my room, and the only person’s privacy I was invading was my own.

  And if I couldn’t share secrets with myself, then who could I share them with?

  Mostly there aren’t any secrets anyway, I disappointedly find out as I sift through drawer after boring drawer of socks, pants, shirts. All colors that I personally don’t care for. In the closet (walk-in) there are towers of different kinds of sneakers, loafers, boots, and tennis shoes. High tops, low tops, sandals, dress shoes. Everything. Some of them identical to each other except for minor variations in coloring on the tongue.

  “Great,” I say to myself. “I’m a sneaker head.”

  I find a music player (digital, CDs don’t exist here apparently) and turn it on to fill the space.

  Pleasing, rhythmic hip-hop.

  Music to my ears.

  At least I didn’t like country in this reality.

  Note to self: Find out if country music developed here, too, or if it was just a terrible fluke.

  After a while I finally come back to the tuna noodle casserole, which was unfortunately back to being cold leftovers again (extra-leftover). Despite the rather unpleasant texture of the cold food, I eat it all and leave the empty dish just outside the door. Poke around the room for another hour or so, trying to get a feel for this version of Donovan Burke.

  It’s after midnight by the time I settle down into this pseudo-stranger’s bed.

  Laying here on top of his sheets, I get a chill.

  Where is Fake Donovan?

  Am I laying in a dead man’s bed?

  That’s when a very faint alarm begins to sound and gets me back on me feet to search out the source.

  At first I thought it was coming from outside somewhere, but as I walk to the window I can triangulate the sound and realize it’s coming form my own dresser.

  Open the top drawer. Nope.

  Next drawer. Nope.

  Get to the bottom drawer and there it is, louder.

  Tossing aside some perfectly-white, perfectly-folded boxer shorts (this me is such an enigma), I find a little digital watch sitting at the bottom of the drawer. I recognize it as the same kind that Hanson was wearing on his lovely wrist.

  And speaking of Hanson, it’s his voice that I hear when I press the face of the watch to stop the alarm.

  “Burke.” His voice is tinny, instead of the syrupy-sweet baritone I heard in person, and in my head for the last several hours.

  I may or may not have been having imaginary conversations with him.

  Don’t judge.

  He says my name again, and I hold the watch up to my mouth. “Hello?”

  “Just checking up on you.” Evidently the watch was activated just by raising it to my face. “Getting settled in ok?”

  I look around the room. Although it was dark now, I could still picture the lavish surroundings in my mind’s eye.

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “Good,” he says with an audible smile. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  “What big day?”

  “The party!” he says. I just about fall over. I didn’t realize they were expecting me to jump into Other Donavan’s shoes so fast!

  I tried to say something akin to “ok” but I think the uncertainty in my voice was apparent.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you ready. Meet Dweeble at Dupont Circle at oh-nine-hundred hours.”

  Then he adds (for my benefit), “That’s nine a.m.”

  Then the connection ends and the watch lets me know with a gentle little boop-boop sound and goes back to displaying the time.

  Twelve-thirty.

  Ugh. There’s no way I’m gonna to be able to sleep now.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Breakfast is delicious, thanks to Valencia’s cooking. (I found out she’s the head chef as well as the housekeeper on the residence level. Asparagus and goat cheese frittata, fresh fruit and a cup of yogurt each for my dad and I.

  As we’re eating, I think about asking my dad about Matt, but I’m trying to be careful about what comes out of my mouth. I don’t want to ask any questions that might arouse suspicion.

  So I’m left to imagine the possibilities of why he’s not hanging around the White House with the rest of the family.

  Falling out?

  Or maybe he thinks Matt is somewhere he’s not?

  Breakfast ends abruptly as an aide comes in and pulls my dad away. I finish his food for him and head out the door.

  The Metro works the same in the Meanwhile as it does in my reality, albeit faster and quieter. And cleaner. As instructed, I’m wearing a ball cap pulled down over my face and one of those bird flu masks so that people don’t stop me on the street and ask for my autograph. (Or my dad’s autograph, for that matter.)

  I make it to
Dupont Circle with a few minutes to spare, and I look around at all the people walking around visiting with each other. Most of them are wearing those dumb-looking FaceFields. The ones that aren’t are either sleeping on benches or asking for money.

  Dweeble calls to me from across the street with a loud, hissing “Psssst!”

  I try to act nonchalant as I walk toward him. “Why did you ‘psst’ me? You know that just makes things more suspicious, right?”

  He grunts a rebuttal and hands me a blank plastic card with a magnetic stripe on the back. “Take the first taxi that arrives,” he says cryptically, and then retreats behind a tree. I try not to react so I won’t draw more attention to him than he was doubtlessly already doing to himself.

  Moments later, a yellow taxi cab pulls up to the curb silently and stops with a hiss. The back door pops open automatically and I slip inside.

  The driver is listening to the same song that came on in my room last night. Must be what’s popular. “Where to?”

  “Uh.” I hand him the plastic card, and he takes it without comment.

  Good guess, Donovan.

  He slides it into a slot in the car’s customized dashboard, and then hands it back to me.

  “Very good, sir,” he says, and begins driving. He doesn’t say another word the entire ride, and he drops me off at he same parking garage I had been to yesterday. Feeling myself in familiar surroundings finally, I confidently say “I got it from here” as I step out of the car and give a finger gun to the driver.

  I’ve never given a finger gun to anyone before. This new reality is playing tricks on me.

  I make my way to the elevator and traveled back down underground where I had been taken the day before. Nobody looks twice at me as I pass other members of MeanWatch in the halls.

  I think of the word team that Hanson had used.

  It makes me smile.

  Bellamy eventually finds me wandering the halls aimlessly and leads me back into the elevator, where we go down to the bottom floor.

  Tez’s territory, they had said. Like she’s a goblin or something.

  We emerge onto a half-sized basketball court, but veer along the side of it through another door, into a large room with stark white walls and lots of lighting.