A Straw Man (The Clay Lion Series Book 3)

by Amalie Jahn

  I tried not to be disappointed as he used the remote to scroll through talk shows and news stations. “I’m not going out alone again. I went to the concert without you last night and it sucked. I just miss hanging out, Nate.” I slid my feet under his legs and shrugged out of my fleece. “We can just stay here together and veg out. I’ll fix us grilled cheese. How does that sound?”

  He didn’t respond but I felt the need to stay. I made grilled cheeses and a pattern emerged with the two of us eating homemade meals from the sofa during the weeks that followed, which enabled Nate to continue avoiding life.

  Midway through football season, Coach Anderson pulled him for the last quarter of our home game against Syracuse. For the first time ever, I watched from the stands as the offense played without its first string tight end.

  “Did you get hurt?” I asked when he emerged from the locker room after the game.

  “No,” he replied, his gear thrown over his shoulder. “I’m just exhausted. I told him to take me out because I had nothing left. This is what happens when you don’t sleep.”

  I fell into step beside him and thrust my mittened hands deep into my coat pockets. “I thought you went to health services to see about getting something to help you?”

  “I did. Weeks ago. And they gave me something. It’s the only reason I’ve been getting any sleep at all. But when I went back for a refill on the prescription they wouldn’t give me any more.” His voice was harsh. Strained.

  “So now you’re not sleeping again?” I was outraged for him. “That’s not fair. They’re supposed to help you. How are you supposed to keep up with everything if you’re not sleeping?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I can’t live like this. I can’t fall asleep and when I finally do, nightmares wake me up.” I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it any further. “I guess I’ll just have to figure something out.”

  I suggested he cut out caffeine or try reading before bed to help him fall asleep, but he shot down all of my suggestions.

  “If health services won’t give me what I need, I’ll get it somewhere else,” he told me. “This guy from kinesiology class said he gets Adderall from a dude who lives on 10th Street. He says I can get whatever I want from him.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “That’s illegal,” I scolded. “If someone finds out you’ll get kicked off the team. Or out of school. Or arrested.”

  He scoffed. “If I don’t get some sleep it’s not gonna matter anyway. Besides, it’s just sleeping pills, Mel. It’s not heroin.”

  After our initial conversation about acquiring the pills illegally, we didn’t speak about it again. I didn’t bring it up because I was scared to know the truth. And when he seemed to come out of the fog just before Thanksgiving - eating meals with the rest of us, coming to parties at night, and even returning to his early morning classes, I thought perhaps he’d rounded a corner and was finally sleeping on his own. I thought perhaps he was finally going to be okay.

  And then I caught him fishing through my backpack in the middle of the crowded cafeteria.

  “What are you doing?” I asked when I returned to the table after grabbing a sandwich from the lunch counter.

  He turned away, evasively. “Nothing. Just looking for a pen.”

  “A pen for what? You don’t even have your books with you.”

  When he wouldn’t face me and refused to make eye contact, I knew instinctively he was lying.

  “Can’t a person just borrow a pen without being given the third degree?” he snapped, pushing back from the table as he threw my backpack to the floor. “I don’t need this crap from you today, Melody. Enjoy your lunch.”

  He stormed off, leaving a trail of astonished onlookers in his wake. His anger was excessive and unwarranted and it hurt. I sat alone at the table, embarrassed, my panini getting cold, trying to understand what was causing him to be so antagonistic. As I pondered his behavior I remembered the pile of spare change I kept in the front pocket of my bag. A stone settled in the pit of my stomach as I dug through my backpack and realized my entire stash was gone. I knew immediately Nate had taken it and that there was something more to his bad mood than just exhaustion. There was a reason he was stealing from me and the only logical explanation was for pills.

  After the backpack incident, I began looking for other signs of theft. And unfortunately, I found many, one after another.

  It took weeks to work up the courage to confront him about it.

  “My ring is missing,” I said, plopping down beside him on the sofa where he was taking a mid-morning nap.

  He roused slowly, propping himself up on his elbows as he attempted to focus on my face. “Your what now?”

  “My ring is missing,” I repeated. “You know, the amethyst one from my grandmother?”

  “So,” he said, rolling his neck from side to side.

  “So?” I glared at him. “So do you have any idea where it might be?”

  His eyes darted nervously around the room. “How the hell should I know where your stupid ring is? It’s not my job to keep track of your stuff.”

  I tried not to let his harsh demeanor rile me. “It’s funny because my ATM card went missing for a few days too and a couple hundred dollars was withdrawn. When I changed the code the card magically reappeared on the dashboard of my car. Do you know anything about that?”

  He was awake now and surprisingly lucid, glaring at me from the end of the couch. “Are you accusing me of stealing from you?”

  “Are you stealing from me? You’re the only one who knows my pin,” I replied, fearful of the answer I might get.

  “I don’t need to have this conversation with you, Melody,” he barked. “If you don’t trust me, that’s your problem, not mine.” He stood up and lumbered toward the kitchen, calling out to me over his shoulder. “Is that the only reason you stopped by? To accuse me of taking your stuff?”

  A tiny sliver of remorse shot through my heart. Accusing him was the only reason I had for stopping by, and while I’d hoped he would confess what he was doing and admit he needed help, it was clear that he had no intention of doing either of those things.

  He didn’t want to tell the truth. And maybe it was because, in my heart, I didn’t really want to hear it.

  C HAPTER FOURTEEN

  SUMMER BREAK - SECOND to THIRD YEAR

  Since the clinic’s part-time veterinarian wasn’t arriving until September, Brooke had no choice but to return to work full-time once her maternity leave was over. Vicki’s early arrival slipped a monkey wrench into her well-laid plans, but I was able to rearrange my summer work schedule to accommodate babysitting responsibilities.

  Adjusting to the daily routine of a baby was something for which I was unprepared. She cried. She ate. She slept. I changed diapers, warmed bottles, and perfected my burping technique. I learned how to strap her into her car seat without waking her up and how to swaddle her arms to her sides so she wouldn’t flail uncontrollably in her sleep.

  But more than anything else, I learned how easy it was to fall in love with someone I barely knew.

  I arrived each morning just after eight, letting myself in through the back door into the country kitchen of the century-old farmhouse Brooke and Charlie called home. On this morning I wasted no time stealing Vicki from Brooke’s arms as she poured her second cup of coffee into a travel mug, and after I kicked off my flip flops beside the door, I got to the important business of covering Vicki’s cheeks with kisses.

  “Good morning my little bug-a-boo,” I whispered in her ear. “Did you have a good night-night?”

  Brooke rolled her eyes in exasperation as she screwed the lid tightly on her cup. “I wish! She had anything but a good night-night, and to make matters worse, she’s been uncharacteristically fussy since she woke us up for the last time just after five.” She groaned dramatically before collapsing onto the bar stool, the dark circles beneath her eyes revealing the depth of her exhaustion. She laid her head on th
e kitchen counter and covered her head with her arms. “She had us up three times last night squirming in her crib like it was the middle of the day. I swaddle her arms to her sides the best I can, but as soon as she wriggles them free, she’s awake. And then so am I. I wouldn’t trade her for the world, but good grief… I don’t know how I’m going to function today.”

  I smiled at Vicki who was focusing intently on the sunglasses resting on top my head. I took them off to hand to her and she reflexively closed her tiny fingers around the earpiece.

  “Just go to the clinic and try to concentrate the best you can. You’re not doing any surgeries today, right?” I asked Brooke.

  “No,” she replied, still sprawled atop the counter, “just routine exams, thank goodness. The others were smart enough to know how tired new moms can be so they preemptively took over all my surgeries until fall. I didn’t believe them about the fatigue before she was born.” She peeked at me from beneath her elbow. “I believe them now.”

  I cradled the bundle of blankets in my arms, swaying her gently from side to side. “While you’re gone today, I’ll wear this little bunny out, won’t I?” I cooed at Vicki, who was still clutching my sunglasses in her fist.

  Brooke lifted her head from the counter. “I don’t know how I would have made it through this summer without your help, Mel,” she said. “It’s been hard leaving her every day, but knowing she’s with you has been such a blessing. And look how she adores you. She’s going to miss you when you head back to school in a few weeks.” She paused, considering me seriously from across the kitchen. “We all are.”

  I didn’t want to think about school, especially since I’d be returning without Nate. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and concentrated instead on the day ahead of me. Feedings. Diapers. Playtime. Naps.

  Vicki blinked expectantly, her delicate lashes fluttering before her eyes, as if she presumed that I had something important to tell her. Wanting not to disappoint but having no degree in baby whispering, I decided just to wing it and hoped whatever I came up with would be enough to keep her occupied.

  “We’re gonna do a whole bunch of fun stuff today so you’ll be all tuckered out for tonight and then your poor mom will be able to get some rest. What d’you say, Miss Vic? Are you gonna give your mom a break?”

  She regarded me with a look of confusion and then, out of nowhere, her face split into an unprecedented grin, a glorious display of lips and gums. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Come quick!” I cried. “She’s smiling at me!”

  “She’s what?” Brooke asked, pushing back from the counter, nearly knocking over her chair in the process.

  “She’s smiling,” I repeated. “Come see!”

  She crossed the kitchen in three strides and peered over my shoulder at Vicki who was now staring at us both as if we’d lost our minds.

  “She was just doing it. Maybe I can get her to do it again, can’t I Miss Vic? Are you gonna smile for your momma? Are you gonna make her happy after keeping her up all night?”

  Vicki’s eye lit up and tiny dimples puckered her cheeks as she smiled for a second time.

  “Oh my goodness!” Brooke exclaimed. “She’s smiling! She’s actually smiling! I have to run and get my phone!”

  It took several moments for her to recover the missing phone from the depths of her purse, and by the time she returned to capture Vicki’s deliciousness for posterity, I’d resorted to a game of peek-a-boo. It was a small price to pay for a new grin each time I peered out from behind my hands.

  Brooke positioned herself beside me, firing off shot after shot of Vicki demonstrating her new skill, and I considered how becoming a parent was similar to becoming a full-fledged paparazzi. However, less than a minute later and despite the fact that Vicki continued to ham it up, the photo session came to an abrupt end as Brooke quietly slipped the phone into her pocket. She froze, tilting her head to the side to gaze wistfully at her daughter. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Charlie’s gonna be so sorry he missed her first smile.”

  Before that instant, I had never stopped to consider the transience of firsts. There could be only one first time, and when the moment was over, it would never be again. It made me sad to think Charlie had missed this particular first.

  “We don’t have to tell him,” I consoled her. “Maybe I can get her to do it again when he gets home from work this afternoon. I’ll act like it’s a surprise.”

  She considered my suggestion for a moment, tenderly tracing the contours of her daughter’s ear with her fingertip. “Nah,” she said finally, shaking her head. “We’re gonna miss stuff. That’s just part of being a parent. Maybe he’ll catch her first giggle or her first step, but for now, I’ll send him a picture of her first smile. It won’t surprise him to discover that you were responsible for coaxing it out of her.”

  I cuddled Vicki on the family room sofa and switched on the morning news while Brooke texted half a dozen cheeky photos to Charlie. I attempted to smooth the wisps of hair sprouting from her head in every direction while she struggled to focus on my face. Her eyelids were heavy and I knew she would be ready for a bottle and a nap before long. I’d learned it was best to settle her before she became overtired and I considered whether I would have the strength to put her in her crib as I was instructed or if I would allow her to nap peacefully in my arms instead. Brooke appeared from the kitchen to kiss us both on the top of the head. We received the same send-off every day.

  “I love you bunches,” she said. “Take care of my little buttercup and I’ll see you tomorrow.” She called goodbye as she slipped out through the door to the garage, and with that, Vicki and I were alone.

  As expected, she fell asleep half-way through her morning bottle and as expected, I allowed her to nap undisturbed in my arms. Brooke warned me repeatedly against conditioning her to sleep outside her crib, but I couldn’t see the harm in letting her nap where she felt safe. I flipped between talk shows and game shows on TV and finally settled on reading through some of the notes I’d taken on Senator Turner’s latest campaign strategies the last time we met.

  Charlie took great pleasure in giving me a hard time about my chosen career path, but deep down I knew he respected and supported my plan. Knowing firsthand the corruptive powers behind many elected officials’ campaigns, Charlie chose to avoid a career in politics altogether, instead focusing on serving the public through non-profit organizations. I, on the other hand, decided to change the system from the inside by working with specific politicians who were passionate about running clean campaigns, free from mudslinging and special interest group funding. Senator JoAnne Turner, the woman elected to fill my father’s seat after his death, was one of those politicians.

  As a founding member of the Bipartisan Committee for Campaign Reform (BCCR), Senator Turner was instrumental in passing a series of laws effectively eliminating election funding from lobbyists. She also had her sights set on abolishing straw man fallacies from advertising campaigns and debates, especially those targeted at certain minority groups.

  My left arm had fallen asleep and I carefully adjusted my position on the couch so I could use a pillow to help support Vicki’s weight as she slumbered, her pacifier dangling precariously out of her mouth. I tapped it back into place and she began sucking vigorously in her sleep.

  I reread Turner’s Straw Man Policy which happened to be one of her many projects I found particularly interesting. Over the years she’d fought passionately for specific candidates and even entire political parties who had been demonized by fallacies in one form or another.

  “Although ‘straw manning’ your opponent can be an effective debate or campaign strategy, it is undoubtedly a philosophically and intellectually dishonest approach which should be eliminated from our practice as elected officials. To misrepresent an opponent’s position in a way that makes it look unreasonable with the intention of creating a straw man to be knocked down is among the lowest forms of debate and should be elimi
nated, regardless of whether the fallacy is unintentional or deliberate. This lowbrow strategy is often aimed at young voters as well as the elderly who may not have as robust an understanding of the topic being discussed. I propose legislation to penalize those candidates who use straw man arguments as part of their political campaigns by reducing their federal funding cap.”

  I remembered an assignment in my political philosophy class in which we were each assigned a debate topic and instructed to come up with ways to undermine one another’s positions. Many of my classmates opted to straw man one another because when they discovered its ability to draw on emotions, it proved to be one of the easiest solutions. My topic was the need for an increase of government assistance to the poor to offset the effects of inflation. Over half of my classmates were unable to challenge my position successfully with facts and opted instead to use straw man fallacies. Several blamed me for being a “bleeding-heart liberal.” Others accused me of wanting to steal money from “hard-working” taxpayers to take care of “lazy slobs.” A few even denounced my position as being nothing more than government sanctioned theft. Needless to say, we all learned a valuable lesson about how easy it is to fall into the habit of attacking a position that’s not actually held by the opposing side in the hopes of making your own position appear stronger.

  I read through the proposal Turner intended on presenting to Congress in the fall. It was solid, but I knew she was up against stiff opposition. There were many incumbents in Washington who took offense to her no nonsense, take action approach to reform, but I truly believed in her agenda. I hoped my summer internship would land me a paid position on her staff at BCCR after graduation. In June, I’d been tasked with the assignment of reaching out to both retired and current congressmen and women who were sympathetic to her cause. I’d made phone calls to over a hundred individuals throughout most of the country with relative success. With my one free hand, I began consolidating a short-list of the west coast candidates who had supported her in the past to call later in the week.