The Real Michael Swann

by Bryan Reardon

  Thomas lowered his head. Evan, on the other hand, looked a little angry.

  “We got yelled at,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “The TV.”

  Julia blinked. She had told them they could watch a show while she was out.

  “Well, why don’t you two go outside?”

  “Mom,” Evan moaned.

  “Really? You haven’t been out all day.”

  “There’s nothing to do out there.”

  “Yeah,” Thomas whispered without looking up.

  Julia reached out an arm and pointed to the back door. They hesitated, but she didn’t move. With an adolescent huff, Evan went first. He almost brushed against her arm as he stomped outside. Thomas got up, his head still lowered. As he passed, she grabbed him and brought him in for a hug.

  “You okay?” she asked softly.

  “I feel bad about Dad.”

  “It’s okay, buddy. He probably had a bad day at work. No worries, okay?”

  He nodded and she hugged him again, smiling.

  * * *

  —

  She heard the crash as she reached the top step. It came from inside their bedroom. Through the closed door, her husband’s voice rose.

  “Fuck him,” she heard, the words muffled but distinct.

  Julia paused there. His footsteps were heavy. His mood, unquestionable. For a moment, she thought about slipping back down the stairs. She could grab the boys and take them to the old-fashioned hamburger place. She didn’t like the food all that much, as she’d given up red meat almost seven years prior, but it would make them happy. And they wouldn’t be gone too long. She could say she didn’t even know he was home.

  As nice as it sounded, that option, the ability to bury her head in the sand, had slipped away months ago. When she closed her eyes, she saw Thomas’s soft brown eyes. She had to face this, and she had to do it that night. Her gut told her there was no other decision to be made. So she took the last few steps and knocked lightly on their door. The house went silent for a moment; then he said, “Come in.”

  When Julia opened the door, she found him sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed and cheeks red. He wore dark socks, boxer shorts, and a white undershirt. His elbows rested on his knees, supporting the weight that suddenly looked to be too heavy for either of them to bear any longer.

  “Don’t start,” he said, the words like a terse hiss.

  Julia stood in the doorway. She didn’t move. She didn’t back down. Nor did she speak. He finally turned and looked at her.

  “It’s official. Bastard probably knew I had an interview tomorrow. Probably just fucking with me.”

  Julia remained still. He didn’t use words like that, not anymore. He rarely ever did even before the kids. They sounded raw and wrong coming from him that night.

  “Goddamn it.” He rolled a sock off his foot and threw it as hard as he could against the wall. It bounced off, harmless and without even the satisfaction of making a sound. “They just do whatever the hell they want. Think about it. We pay for everything. The poor get it free. The rich get it free. And the middle class just puts them all up on our backs. We’re so fucking stupid. It’s like we smile while they just screw us over and over again.”

  When he pulled off the second sock, his arm cocked back. It paused. As if remembering the futility of his first attempt, he simply let it fall to the carpeted floor. For some reason, that was worse, more frightening than his anger.

  “What are you talking about, Michael?”

  “Everything,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “Corporate America. These assholes in management, the ones that get the big bonuses in stock and then can’t make their numbers. So what else do you expect them to do? They can’t just admit they suck. They can’t let the price fall. So they just start laying people off.

  “And the politicians. They all say it’ll change. That they’re on our side. One of the people. How can we be so fucking dumb?”

  “They did it?” she asked, whispering.

  His voice rose. “Of course they did. I told you they would. None of this shit mattered. All the work I did since he talked to me. My numbers doubled. But it was all a fucking lie. He knew. They all knew. They just do whatever the hell they want to make a fucking dollar. No consequences. None at all. And if we say anything, well, that’s just un-American, right? That’s just liberal horseshit. That’s not capitalism.”

  He barked out a laugh. It dripped with open hatred. In a way, though, Julia felt better. Maybe he didn’t hate her. Maybe he hated everyone else. As sad as that sounded, maybe that was better.

  “It’s okay. You have your interview tomorrow.” She took a step into the room. “I think it’s for the best. You’ve been so stressed. I think you need a new start.”

  “I’ll make half as much,” he snapped.

  “So what,” she said, firmly. “I’ll get a job. I want to. I need to. Staying home is making me crazy, if you want to know the truth. The boys will be fine. It’s time.”

  He shook his head. Julia had thought what she said would help, that it would make him feel better, but it didn’t. His cheeks grew a deeper shade of red.

  “So, you’ll just swoop in and save me, huh?” he asked.

  Slowly, he turned back and looked at her again. The hatred was still there. Julia took a step back. His rage burned. It boiled up. It oozed out of him, filling the room with an unbearable tension. She actually felt afraid, like he might lunge at her, strike her. Or maybe he’d just leave them all. Run away, flee from the weight of adulthood in a world full of stunted, selfish children. Not Thomas and Evan, or any other true child. They were pure still. They were not yet fully lost. What she meant was the rest of the world. Everyone else. All the supposed adults who thought their desires were needs. That their wants were inalienable rights.

  In a way, Julia understood. She saw it, too, in the parents who ignored the rules of the drop-off lane because they were running late. Or the coach who acted like he volunteered his time for altruistic reasons, but truly only wanted to prop up his own son or daughter in a vain attempt to repair some insecurity he had carried since childhood. Or in the person who walked through the door that her boys held open without even a nod or a thank-you.

  These thoughts seemed small. They seemed petty. She dared not tell him what she thought. She could feel his anger. His fury.

  “It’ll be okay,” she whispered.

  He just looked at her and shook his head. He laughed again. And the sound might as well have poisoned her ears forever.

  12

  Julia was straining her ears, listening for sounds coming from the basement, where her mother sat watching television with the boys, so the knock on the front door startled her. As the other agent rose to answer it, Bakhash looked at her, openly assessing her state.

  “I hope you understand what I’m trying to tell you,” he said for the third time.

  Julia rubbed at her face and turned to look as the door opened. Two uniformed police officers stood on the front porch again. The other agent motioned for Bakhash, who stood and joined them. Though they spoke softly, Julia could hear every word.

  “Set the perimeter outside the neighborhood.”

  “They’ve already called in to the chief.”

  “This is a matter of national security. Push them back. I want every one of them out of this neighborhood within the hour. And I want soft blockades at the two access points. Sweep these streets and report back. Understood?”

  More so than at any moment during the ordeal, Julia felt detached. Things were happening around her at breakneck speed. It was clear that events were moving as she remained locked away in her house. It was also clear that these events would shape, or misshape, her life from that day on. Yet she sat frozen in her chair.

  It would be easy to judge her inactivity. As
is always the case, people will look at others’ misfortune and know that they would handle it better. They would take control. They would act with decisive vigor.

  In truth, the human mind is a fragile thing. It can only allow in so many stimuli before the machine shuts down. At the same time, it is a resilient thing. Even in that moment, new pathways eased to life within her mind. New possibilities emerged, peeking out from the tidal wave of pain and fear she felt. Though Julia could not yet grasp them, not firmly, they were there, and they grew from a very simple seed. Her husband, the father of her children, the man she loved, was in danger.

  Agent Bakhash rejoined her at the table. The other agent did not. He stepped out of the house, into the darkness. The door shut behind him and they were alone.

  “It’s for Michael’s own good,” the agent said. “It’s the only way I can keep him safe.”

  She said nothing. Julia felt badgered, and the familiar use of her husband’s name set off a vague alarm in her mind.

  “We believe he has his phone. Text him. Tell him to come here. To come home.”

  He’d asked her to do that for the last half hour. Julia never said yes. The strangest thing, though, was she didn’t quite know why. Something itched at her thoughts. Something sat in her gut, telling her to be careful. That everything wasn’t as it seemed.

  “Text him?” she asked, her eyebrows lowering. “Not call?”

  Bakhash watched her. He assessed her. She could not know why or for what, but she saw the intensity masked behind his soft brown eyes.

  “Mrs. Swann, this isn’t a game anymore. He needs to come in. He needs my help. He’s not well. He’s not himself. As far as we can tell, he’s injured, badly. We’re worried that if he spoke to you, he may do something drastic . . . more drastic than he already has. We can’t have him hurting anyone else.” He touched her forearm. His eyes fairly dripped with earnestness. “But I won’t let him hurt himself, either. He needs direction, not discussion. We need to make it simple and clear . . . no question. It’s his only chance. I’m sorry, but it is.”

  Julia looked away, and he saw her waver. So Bakhash took a breath and spoke softly again.

  “I need you to understand. The CEO of the DuLac Chemical Company was killed in the attack. At this time, we have reason to believe that she was the primary target of the attack. Three months ago, the company announced a merger with one of its largest competitors. Over two thousand jobs would be downsized. DuLac had moved their annual meeting to New York to avoid local backlash in Wilmington.”

  Julia looked at him. He paused, watching her. Her thoughts betrayed her. All she could think about was the night before all this happened. She could still picture the anger that had painted Michael’s face in shades of red. And somehow Bakhash could see it, too, through her eyes. It was as if this man could read her mind.

  “We know about what happened,” he said. “We know that your husband lost his job. I understand what you’re feeling. I really do. That must have hit close to home.” He paused. “And when you saw everything that was happening at DuLac, it must have been difficult. You must have thought about your father, what happened to him.”

  Without a word, Julia stood. Bakhash reached out, his fingers gently wrapped around her forearm. They felt like iron.

  “Mrs. Swann,” he said.

  Her face blank, she looked down at this stranger and thought about everything that had happened. They drove her into the city, past the blockade. All the calls to Marci Simmons, how she helped her. That gut feeling she had had all along. For the first time, a new pattern emerged. The game, as it was, had just changed.

  Without a word, Julia brushed off his hand and walked away.

  THERE IS A PRICE

  Julia thought about that day, years before, when all she wished for was her father to come back to them. It was a year after he had been laid off from DuLac Chemicals. Twelve months since he had seemed himself. As she looked down, she had wanted to take his hand, but she couldn’t, not right away. She had a lifetime of memories of him standing tall and straight, his broad shoulders seeming to hold up her world. On that day, he had rested in a hospital bed in her mother’s living room.

  “Dad,” she whispered.

  One eye fluttered open. It rolled, unfocused, and shut again. He muttered something about a seed and then slipped into a fitful silence.

  “I love you, Dad,” she said.

  His hand slipped out from under the sheet. Next to the white fabric, the thin skin glowed a sickly orange and his long fingers curled into jagged hooks. He clawed at the air.

  “Move it,” he muttered, his voice a dry rasp.

  “It’s okay.”

  She reached out to touch his hand but stopped short. It’s not him. The thought invaded her head. It made no sense. Looking down at him, this man who had been so strong for so long, she saw only a shrunken body and sunken cheeks. The alien coloring of his skin. Maybe this wasn’t her father. Maybe it hadn’t been since he lost his job.

  Pushing through it, refusing to surrender to her fears, Julia’s hand lowered. Her fingers touched the top of his hand. It felt like a fragile plastic bag filled with sticks. At the same time, he felt surprisingly warm to the touch, like his life was radiating out, reaching for some last chance at survival. It reminded her that he was alive. That he hadn’t been taken from her yet.

  Julia rose to her feet. Bending at the waist, she leaned forward. Her lips touched his forehead. It tasted bitter and wrong.

  “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  * * *

  —

  She met her mother in the kitchen. The year had aged her. Whereas before Julia had thought she looked young for her age, now life had caught up. Dark rings hung under her eyes, accentuated by an exhausted pallor.

  “Was he awake?” she asked, flatly.

  “For a second, I think,” Julia said. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “I am.” Her mother paused before something changed. Her expression sharpened. The air in the room seemed charged. She looked into Julia’s eyes. “It’s almost over.”

  “Mom?” she said.

  “No,” her mom snapped. “It is. And it’s okay. It’s over. It’s done.”

  Julia watched her mother, suddenly understanding. She reached out and touched the top of her mother’s hand. It felt so different from her dad’s.

  “I watched him do it,” her mother said.

  “There was nothing you could do.”

  Her mother scoffed. “Maybe not.” She shook her head. When she continued to speak, her words were raw. “The thing is, I was so mad at him. I still am. So what, he lost his job. We would have been fine. I thought we could travel. Take care of the kids.”

  Her mother began to shake. Julia got up and moved around the table, taking the older woman into her arms.

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “No, it’s not. He did this. Why wasn’t it enough? Why wasn’t our life enough?”

  “He was sick. Probably for a long time. He loved you. He loved all of us.”

  She barked out a cold laugh. “He loved his job.”

  Surprisingly, Julia laughed with her. “He did.”

  Her mother nodded. Their eyes met. Maybe tears should have flowed. Maybe they should have torn at their clothes or their hair. Someone watching might have expected some melodramatic moment of loss. But alcoholism isn’t like that. It didn’t shock or surprise. Instead, it sanded away at their love, rubbing it raw and bloody over a year that felt longer than a lifetime.

  So, in the end, there was surprisingly little sadness. Instead, both her mother and Julia felt one thing. A deep and unforgettable anger.

  Her mother was the first to look away. As she did, she whispered, “And his job killed him.”

  13

  Julia stood at the window of her living room. Th
e pain nearly buckled her knees. Her thoughts came in jagged shards, cutting at her until she bled from the inside out.

  Outside, the crush of media had disappeared, leaving behind only the police. One by one, their spinning red and blue lights cut off, returning the night to stark normalcy. No neighbors could be seen any longer, and she wondered if the police had sent them home. A chill ran up her back.

  In the glow from their headlights, she could see police officers moving around, returning to their cars. Engines started. Red brake lights flashed. The cars rolled slowly up and down her street. As they moved out of sight, she noticed one kill its lamps. The darkness returned, and with it came a horrible sense of dread.

  They were planning something, like a hunter using a snare. As this dawned on her, a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Send the text,” Agent Bakhash whispered.

  His voice sounded like the hiss of a snake. She cringed, her body tensing.

  “Tell him to come home. It’s the only way I can guarantee his safety.”

  That’s when she was sure. It was a trap. And she was the bait.

  “No!”

  Julia wrenched away from him and ran up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

  14

  Julia sat alone in the master bath. Once the door closed behind her, she slid down it, sitting on the cold tile. Her body racked with sobs as she let it out. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. All she could do was cry.

  Her phone rang. Julia pulled it from her back pocket quickly, still feeling a particle of hope that it might be her husband calling. It was Evelyn instead. She almost didn’t answer. She had nothing to say. And nothing that she wanted to hear.

  “Jules, are you there?” Evelyn asked after Julia connected the call but said nothing.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She barked out a laugh. “No.”

  “Sorry. I know. I—”

  “Homeland Security is here. They think . . .”