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The Moment Before

Page 16

by Jason Makansi


  Holly was in no mood. “The only thing I have to see is the inside of a bathtub.”

  “No, you have to see this. Now. Won’t take but a sec.” He was in front of his desk framed by two over-sized computer screens. “I’ll start this from the beginning.” Holly plopped down in the chair beside him. Penndel clicked the play arrow on a YouTube video open in his browser window. “This is your new politico, at a rally two days ago, and this interview was written up in the paper this morning.”

  Holly watched a poor quality home video of John Veranda with several others on the stage, including the governor of Illinois. The camera was affixed on the large lady Holly thought resembled the person from the photo in the newspaper article from this morning. Another person carried a sign, John Veranda—no friend of Israel—no friend of mine!

  Holly, overly tired, did not react.

  “Wait, it gets better.”

  Another minute of muffled, poorly recorded words and the scene ended and another began. Veranda was cornered by the man with the camera.

  “Given your early work for one of the most anti-Israel senators of all time, what are your views on the War on Terror?”

  “I was proud of my work for Senator Wamsler. He was pro-Middle East peace. Never anti-Israel.”

  Penndel turned up the volume. “The journalist is clearly baiting him.”

  The interviewer tried again. “Can you comment on your Arab and Muslim sympathies?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Veranda looked confused at first, then his demeanor changed. His body stiffened. Holly thought he was going to deck the journalist.

  “Wamsler,” the journalist continued, “he was pro-Palestinian. You were his legislative aide on foreign affairs. Can you comment?”

  “I don’t know,” Veranda snipped. “Can you comment on white neo-Nazis manufacturing meth and selling it to our kids? That’s a relevant issue in our region.”

  “I’m not running for office, Mr. Veranda.”

  “No,” John’s on-camera voice rising, “but you’re trying to run me out of office before I get elected by pursuing a line of inquiry irrelevant to the local politics of my district, attempting to insinuate specious judgments early in my career working for one of the most courageous senators in modern times.” By the time he finished his long-winded response, he was yelling.

  The journalist persisted. “Are you implying other senators are cowards?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you that you’re being disingenuous posing as a journalist. Why don’t you ask me about the goddamn medical facility I am trying to get built in my district, or my experience with economic development?”

  The last of the video showed Veranda pushing past the man holding the camera, barely containing his rage.

  “I think his political future just crashed and burned,” Penndel said. Holly let out a long sigh. The bathtub called to her even more loudly now. She was glad she hadn’t been at that rally. At that moment, she was angry enough to shoot the woman holding the sign. And the photojournalist. Or whatever he was.

  Interlude

  Ya abi:

  The snowy roads erased what little inclination I had to drive north to visit the uncles. I hear you scolding me for even the thought of spending Christmas day alone. But I am not alone, Papa. Across from me are eight paintings sent to me for Christmas by Maya Hammond. You remember her, the kid I used to hang out with when we lived on Eastern Avenue. I told you about what she did to me on graduation night, remember?

  That is what is so weird, Papa. Maya got strung out on meth, has been in rehab for more than a decade, but hasn’t ever recovered fully. But now she paints as part of her rehabilitation program. She wrote that a few of these paintings are based on those picnics you used to host and when we used to hang out in high school. They are vague and abstract, colored splotches on a contrasting color background. I have no idea what she means! I had no idea she even remembered those distant summer days.

  Now I am hearing the inner voice, which I only acknowledged years after you left. A voice that is of me, but not me, but always with me. It arrests me in my tracks, silent, yet present. Like what remains in memory of a musical performance long after it ends. The voice scolds me when I have hurt someone, reminds me of what I have forgotten, interrupts me for no apparent reason with bad news at a moment I feel unbridled joy. I ask the voice, why, why, would you do this and keep the joy from continuing? Why make me cry now when there is plenty of time for tears later?

  It’s not the voice of anyone I know, not an amalgam of people I know, not audible and real for others to hear, a voice only in me. And yet I think it is in Maya’s paintings! She’s heard this voice, too. Your voice. A voice like it.

  Nothing scares me more than remembering the day I became aware the voice could dissociate from me, that it could abandon me. That day, I thought of my name, Cheryl Halia Haddad. I repeated it over and over in my head. I don’t remember what I was doing or where I was when my name separated into a random collection of letters. I remember times when a word would disengage from its meaning after it was repeated over and over, but never my name. I became afraid the voice would leave me, too, like you did. I was so scared. I could not even write about it here in my journal.

  But now, this instant, I not only hear the voice, I see another place from where it comes. Oh, Papa, this is mind bending. I can see where the voice is coming from, from the sky, the earth, the moon, but only when you limit the sky to a part you can comprehend, to a canvass filled with what has gotten from the inside to the outside, when you reduce the infinite to something specific, when the weight of the world becomes the lightness of two people keeping the world at bay.

  Now, I’ll listen to Handel’s Messiah and Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony. I’ll play some of the simple Christmas carols I learned for the piano. I’ll even play some of the songs I’ve composed myself, the songs I dedicate to you.

  Look up, Papa. I hope you will always look up, wherever you are, where we are.

  Merry Christmas!

  -Yom tani fil jannah bin tak

  20

  January, 2009

  John watched Barack Obama’s inauguration on the small television in his office. He’d thought about taking the day off and watching it on the big screen at home, but Kathy said she was having friends over for a luncheon at the house. “Besides,” she’d said, “it may be a historic moment, but I didn’t vote for him. You did.”

  “Come on. How can you not want to watch our first black president take the oath?”

  “I told you. I’m having people over. I’m hosting the organizing meeting of The Saluki Women for Political Action.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re organizing to make sure Obama’s liberal agenda doesn’t affect Saluki.”

  Ouch. John knew better than to respond to that. The last thing he wanted was to argue politics with Kathy. Over the years, their political differences had grown more stark-as had all their other differences-but they’d managed to keep them out of their marriage. Now, he wondered how much longer that would be possible. Even so, he knew they weren’t the only couple whose votes cancelled each other out.

  He picked up the remote and turned the volume up as dignitaries began to arrive at the Capitol. How could any thinking person in American not want to watch this moment unfold? His thoughts turned to Holly Chicago. She would be watching. He looked at his phone and was tempted to call her, but remembered she bragged about not having a cell phone and, although he knew she had a landline at her place, he hadn’t asked for her number. Even though he’d wanted to. The fact that he’d wanted to was worrisome enough. And the fact that he was drawn to her in ways he didn’t really understand was more than troublesome. It wasn’t just that he was attracted to her, of course he was. Every man with a ghost of a pulse would be attracted to her. It was more than that. And even though they’d worked together on his failed campaign, and he’d convinced her to stand for the open seat on the town council,
he still barely knew anything about her. He didn’t know why she’d moved to Saluki to volunteer in the first place or why she hadn’t left when he lost. He didn’t even know if she worked or not. Or how she had the money to buy her little bungalow. She was a mystery. One that he wanted to solve more than he wanted to admit.

  He forced his attention back to the TV. It was amazing how the country had moved forward in accepting and electing a president, who at one time might have been lynched for even thinking about voting. One thing he did worry about was that someone would take out the new president before he had a chance to sit behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office.

  John was proud of his work for the Obama campaign, although if he had nudged five voters towards the Democratic ticket in his district, he’d be amazed. The old guard Democrats of his father’s era were long gone and Saluki was now solidly Republican. Pangs of guilt coursed through him as he remembered the few times he had used the word nigger as a kid and how disappointed his parents had been at his behavior.

  He got up and walked over to his filing cabinet, to pull out the folder holding the newspaper clippings about Jami Strachan’s death. This is what she would have been fighting for, he said to himself. They don’t call action taken by those who want to see change grassroots organizing for nothing. One blade of grass at a time. One blade. One life. He’d lost his own election, but he’d worked hard for Obama. He hoped Jami would have been proud of him.

  The applause on the television turned his attention back to the inaugural event. He sat back down at his desk. With every passing second, he breathed a bit easier. Each second meant the inauguration would end with no incident.

  Shit! The harsh ringtone of his telephone shook him out of his reflection. He hadn’t expected anyone to call today. Who would not be watching this historical event? Well, except for his wife. And virtually all of Saluki, he reminded himself, sadly.

  “It’s over, John.” It was his partner, Jim Dallas. John kept an eye on the television. The president looked warm and genuine in his dark winter coat. Eagerness and grace were written on his face. “The guys at the bank called to confirm what they’d already told you. They think there’s going to be a witch hunt on all bankers peddling exotic loan products after Obama gets his people in place.”

  “Exotic? What’s so exotic about our financing?” John shot back.

  “Two years ago when you and I started all this, we were dealing in plain vanilla. Today all bets are off. Wall Street’s going to have a target on its back because of the stress tests and new regulations. The investment bank’s origination desk has become the unload desk. Unload anything that might smell of corruption or irregularities. They’ve got enough in their portfolio from the home mortgage collaterized debt obligations they’re going to have to defend. Leastways that’s what they’re telling me.”

  “Yeah, I get it. So what’s next?”

  “Sorry, buddy, no next for me. I sunk half a mil into this, and I’ve got to cut my losses. At least you still have your land.” Littered with CAT equipment no one wants to claim, John mused.

  “That’s a helluva lot of money just to throw your hands up and say ‘I’m done’.”

  “John, you need to take another look at those contracts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Remember when we were joking about naked SWAPS, that financial engineering technique the bankers said would make our project a go?

  “Sure, I wondered who ‘swaps’ was and why he was naked. I have to confess, though, I still don’t truly understand what a SWAP is. I know it has something to do with the bank swapping loan terms, variable interests for fixed, or something like that.

  “Well, we’re saddled with one. When we tried to lock in the low interest rates for the debt, we negotiated a SWAP. Even if the project gets cancelled, we’re still liable for payments on the debt. Go figure.”

  Jim had John’s full attention now. “We haven’t even borrowed the money yet.”

  “We made a commitment to borrow the money. And the bank hedged the debt with other parties. So, they still have to pay those investors.”

  “Shit. So, we’re making interest payments on a non-existent debt? That’s ludicrous.”

  “Now you know why the bank was so eager to work with us and to provide all those other services around the commodities. Anyway, the whole thing’s giving me another headache. Look into it, so you’re not broadsided. We’ll talk more when I get a better handle on the financial implications.”

  “Believe me, Jim, I’m grateful you’ve stuck with me as long as you have. It means alot.”

  He looked at the huge binder holding The Saluki Regional Medical Complex Master Plan on his shelf. He had every hope that before the project was dedicated, someone would suggest renaming the facility. The Veranda Family Medical Complex, or at least name a wing or a hallway after the family. Hell, he’d have been happy with his name on a plaque at the entrance to the Trauma Center. Something, for his dad, for him, for his family’s history in the town.

  “You watching the inauguration? With Obama taking office, this country’s got a new lease on life. Maybe things will ease up and they’ll still loan us the capital.”

  “Sure, “ Jim said, snickering, his sarcasm inescapable. “I hope the new tenants of the White House pay their rent.”

  John ignored the comment.

  “Take care, buddy.”

  Veranda hung up the phone, leaned over his desk, and braced his head with his hands. The bankers had already called and told him it was over, but he’d put them off, and they’d agreed to look at it one more time. Now, apparently, they didn’t even have the guts to call him directly. Four years of earnest effort had come to the end and he and Jim were on the hook for payments on the non-existent debt? Jim had been the financial whiz in the partnership, so hopefully, he’d figure something out, but what was Saluki going to do now for economic growth? Everyone had been counting on them.

  It had been during one of the trips he’d made into St. Louis for his father’s chemo that he vowed to put Saluki on the map with a premier health care facility between Indianapolis, St. Louis, Chicago, and Nashville. What better way to put the land the Veranda family owned for three generations to good use, make some money in the process. Saluki had no natural advantages to its credit. Its only artificial one, the intersection of two major north south and east west Interstates, had fostered the typical businesses catering to people moving on to richer destinations, warehouses serving the trucking and logistics trades. They didn’t even have a river wide enough for a gambling facility.

  He’d had no idea how to move such a complex project forward, but figured he’d find the people who did. Dallas was one of them. A CPA with a specialization in hospitals, he’d seen the benefits, too. Besides, how could they go wrong with health care? The country’s population was aging. The statistics on aging in rural towns like Saluki were even more alarming. And they were on the cusp of a new age in competitive health care. So a state-of-the-art facility, built with energy efficiency in mind and plunked down in an area like Saluki was a no brainer. His ambitious plan took on the appearance of a Christmas tree with ornaments on every branch. It had been a win-win for consumers—even for doctors. They’d attract the best and the brightest from the young medical researcher community, luring them with inexpensive property values, nearby lake homes, even new golf courses. Doctors just out of medical school and wanting to establish a practice could afford a palace in Saluki on a lake, whereas in Chicago or St. Louis they’d live in a modest apartment with a view of the apartment building next door.

  When news of his project spread, journalists from Chicago and Indianapolis had made the pilgrimage to Saluki to learn the details to share with their readers. Saluki even made the Wall Street Journal. Had Stuart even read that article?

  Now, it was all over.

  The president was just beginning his inaugural speech, but John had to get out. Get some air. Make sense of everything. Putting on his overcoat, b
lack leather gloves, and his St. Louis Cardinals cap, he walked out, and let the door slam behind him.

  John stood on the sidewalk in front of Holly’s bungalow and saw her sitting at a piano, the alternating smile and somber countenance of Barack Obama on a large television screen behind her. He wanted nothing more than to walk into her house, plop himself down next to her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He wanted to sit in silence with her, with small talk no more necessary than the lack of space between them.

  A blast of arctic air caught his breath. What the hell was he doing? He turned and hurriedly retreated the few blocks back to his office.

  21

  Late January, 2009

  Holly lingered in front of the vanity for a few seconds before she walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. She was hungry or thirsty, but couldn’t decide which. After staring at the shelves for a few moments, she shut the door and crossed her faux Bokhara rug to the front picture window. The convective chill through the glass teased her skin.

  “John Veranda,” she said the name aloud. She drew in a long breath and stared at her reflection in the window. “What the hell am I still doing here?” With a shake of her head, she cinched her silk bathrobe tighter around her waist. “Don’t answer that, Holly.”

  She opened her closet door and the first things she saw were not hers, but a jacket of her father’s she had rescued and an old Bears’ jersey that had belonged to her mother.

  She pulled the sleeve from her father’s jacket toward her face and inhaled. “Damnit,” she swore softly. John was taking up all together way too much space in her head, shrinking the space reserved for thoughts of her future and what might happen next after … after what? After she left Saluki? After she and John …? No, she could not see a single pathway to a future she hadn’t even decided she wanted. “Damnit” she swore again. She should just pick up the phone and tell him to forget this whole stupid town council mess. The memory of those meetings of the AAAI group in Chicago rushed back at her—the hypocrisy, the mistrust, those time-wasting bureaucratic maneuvers. Besides, she really needed to move. Back to St. Louis. Somewhere. Live anywhere but here. Here just wasn’t going to work.

 

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