THE NEWMAN
RESIDENT
Charles Swift
Fifth East Publishing
2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual incidents or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Fifth East Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2014 by Charles Swift
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0989979407
ISBN-13: 9780989979405
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014930059
Charles Swift, Provo, UT
To Denise,
for always believing
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Richard walked down the steps from the school, careful to look benign for the hidden cameras. The Newman Home convinced parents it focused on teaching and nurturing and caring, but it also touted its security. No one in, no one out—not without permission from three bureaucratic levels. Drop your baby off, come back in 18 years, and he’ll still be there, safe and secure and too smart for the rest of his life.
He walked toward the subway station, but when he got to the corner, he turned right instead of going straight. A bit risky, no question. When he made it around the corner he stopped, surveying the intersection and checking behind just to make sure he was alone. Hundreds of people filled the streets, honking in traffic or dodging one another on the sidewalks, so he couldn’t be sure nobody was following him. Newman’s Level Two Security blended in with the scenery, but he hoped he’d been around the guards long enough to sense if they were close.
Graffiti covered the seven-foot concrete wall surrounding the playground, an image of a school with dollar signs in the windows and the caption “Bring the children home.” He dragged his fingers along the wall as he walked, as if to make sure the school didn’t disappear before he could get to his spot. When he got to the hedges, he reached behind a bush and pulled out the old wooden crate, the word “whiskey” barely legible on the side.
Richard stepped up on the box and peered over the wall at about forty children in safari uniforms. Climbing ropes looked like jungle vines, a lion and giraffe watched over the slides and swings, little huts and bridges stood only a few feet off the ground but probably felt like tree houses and bridges high in the rainforest to the children. The kids he saw looked older than his son. He spotted a class, maybe around Christopher’s age, on the lawn, under some young shade trees. Most of the children sat on the grass, listening to one of the Newman teachers. A couple of others were on a nearby bench, reading. Off in the far corner, a child was sitting alone, drawing or writing on a pad of paper, but Richard couldn’t get a good look at his face.
Richard concentrated but just couldn’t be sure the boy was his son.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
Richard jerked around and saw a neighborhood security guard, his hand on his club.
“Got your fill of looking at little kids, buddy?”
“It’s not what you think,” Richard said, getting down and shoving the crate behind a bush with his foot. He backed away, keeping eye contact with the guard.
“Never is,” the guard said, pulling out his club, “and I never care.”
“I’m an attorney. City Ordinance 1465 says I have the right to be retained without the use of force until a police officer arrives.”
“The use of deadly force,” the guard said.
“Well, I can assure you—”
“Takes a long time to find a cop in this town now days, what with all the budget cuts and everything.” The guard pulled out his club. “Anything can happen.”
CHAPTER TWO
Opening title: RESIDENT CHRISTOPHER CARSON. FIRST STEPS. Richard paused the video on the title, wondering, once again, what kind of father would miss his son’s first steps. He had turned off the Monet and the Picasso and devoted the living room screening wall to Christopher’s video—a video almost six years old now. The Newman Home had sent more recent clips, but this was the moment he kept coming back to, time and again.
He sat on the floor, back against the white leather couch, pressing the ice compress against the back of his head. He made sure the sound was off, glanced one last time at the closed bedroom door, and whispered, “Play video.”
Christopher was wearing the Newman summer uniform: khaki shorts and a shirt covered in little pockets. He looked like a happy explorer stumbling his way through a toddler safari. Such a little boy. How old was he when this video was made? Nine months? Ten? How could it be possible to walk that early? Seems like bone development or inner ear balance or something ought to be warning it was too early to walk. But here he was, taking his first steps.
Richard heard Carol start the shower.
“Slightly increase volume,” he said.
Christopher leaned against the sofa, trying to decide if he should step forward or not. He stroked the soft fabric of the cushion, some sort of plush, almost furry, cloth, with a print of bright green leaves. Animals stuck their heads through the foliage, their friendly expressions both cartoonish and authentic. Nothing was repeated on the cloth: each leaf was unique, and there was only one of each animal. Seven in all: giraffe, elephant, gazelle, zebra, gorilla, leopard, and lion. Richard had memorized their faces and checked them each time he watched the video, half-expecting some change in an expression or an animal missing. A wallpaper print of tall grass covered the walls, almost making
Christopher look like an ant on the jungle floor. The light in the room was gentle, easing its way in from a large window off to his son’s left.
Christopher inched along, keeping his hand in constant contact with the cushions, until he got to the end of the sofa. He looked behind, like he was making sure he wasn’t being followed, then back ahead. He moved his foot out, then slowly took his hand away from the couch. His face was tight with seriousness, concentration. Next, his other foot came forward. The sofa seemed far behind him now; he was on his own and knew it. His arms moved to keep his balance, and he stepped again.
Then he fell. He didn’t just plop down on his padded rear, but toppled on his side. Hard.
Every time Christopher hit the floor, Richard’s body jerked. He wanted to jump up and run through the screen to pick up his little boy. But, every time, he was beaten to it by a young woman who had been standing behind the video camera. She knelt down beside Christopher.
“Come on, Christopher,” she said, “you can do it. Get up.” She wore the faculty summer uniform that matched the kids’ khaki uniform with pockets.
His bottom lip curled out, a sure sign that tears would follow. Richard had learned that face before they’d enrolled Christopher.
“No need to cry, honey.”
It pleased Richard that she knew the sign. But it bothered him, too.
“Let’s get up and have some more fun,” she said.
Slowly, without any contact from the woman, Christopher sat back up. He crawled to the comfort of the sofa, then pulled himself up again.
The woman on the video, still kneeling, urged Christopher to walk toward her. Holding onto the couch, he glanced at the thick carpeting on the floor, then back at the woman. Richard braced himself for what was about to happen. Christopher looked directly at the camera, right into the lens. He didn’t smile, he didn’t cry, he didn’t change his expression at all. But, just for that second or two, he looked directly into the eyes of his father, as if asking for encouragement or love or empathy, and getting nothing.
Richard had never said a word to Carol about the feeling of powerlessness that overcame him every time he experienced that moment in the video.
The woman picked up a small, furry lion from off-camera and held it out to Christopher, calling his name. It wasn’t the Winnie the Pooh bear Richard had left with him when they’d enrolled him, but it was a beautiful, almost realistic-looking lion that matched everything else in the room. The little boy watched the lion as the woman moved it in tiny circles, then he let go of the sofa and took a step...then another...then finally took two more quick steps, almost tripping into the lion. The woman, smiling broadly and looking up at the camera, hugged Christopher and handed him the lion.
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “You’re my little lion cub!”
She looked to someone off-camera, her smile gone. “Mark down four steps. Awareness level three.”
“Richard.”
“Switch video,” Richard said, a little louder than he’d wanted. Now the wall was covered with the latest news on CNN. The President was signing something at a table, flanked by Senators from each of the four corporate political parties. Directly behind the President stood the Big Four—the CEOs of the four ruling corporations in the United States. All those political leaders spread across the screening wall like mildew.
“I thought you were going to bed,” Carol said.
“I was,” he said, “but I got caught up in the news.”
Carol stood in the doorway, arms folded.
“So, what’s going on in the world?”
“The President just signed an executive order,” he said.
“For what?”
“She’s extending the stay of the troops.”
“That’s odd,” Carol said. “She looks awfully happy for a President who’s making our troops stay longer. The Senators look pretty happy about it, too.”
“Well, you know, ‘Keep the Homeland Safe’ and everything. If we fight them there, we won’t have to fight them here. It’s just—”
“Richard, that’s enough,” Carol said, coming into the room and standing directly in front of him, her back to the screening wall. “I saw this same clip earlier today. She’s signing an addition to the Education Rights Bill, Richard, closing the last of the public schools.”
“There were still public schools left?”
“That’s not what we’re talking about.”
“Sure it is. Raise the bar on public schools, threaten to have private schools take over if the public schools fail, then don’t give the public schools the funding they need to succeed. Result? The privatization of public schools. Corporations own our country.”
“We’re not talking about education policy—we’re talking about how you’re lying to me.”
“I’d rather talk about something else.”
“Pause video,” she said in a commanding voice. “They called, Richard. You didn’t bump your head on the subway, you fell on the sidewalk when the guard hit you.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You didn’t want to let me know you were at Newman again.”
“What right do they have to stop a father from seeing his son?” he asked.
“The right you gave them.”
“If I’d known—”
“Switch to previous video,” she said. Behind her, the paused image of the woman hugging their son covered the wall, filling the room with stark light.
“Has she already given him the lion?” Carol asked without looking back at the screen.
Richard started to get up, but Carol gave him her cross-examination glare. He leaned back up against the couch and adjusted the ice compress.
“What’s your problem? I mean, look at that,” she said, pointing to the screen without looking at it. “He’s loved, happy. He’s well-cared for. He’s one of the luckiest kids in the world.”
“But don’t you ever wonder why he didn’t cry?”
“Cry? Why would you want him to cry?”
“He’s just a baby, and he fell down. It must’ve hurt—he should’ve cried.”
“You’re the only person I know who’d be upset his son got up instead of crying. It’s good to learn when you’re young: you fall down, you pick yourself up.”
“That young?”
“I give up,” she said, looking down at the floor.
“I’d love it if you would,” Richard said.
“Look—”
“Think of everything we’ve missed in his life. Reading to him…tucking him in…bandaging a scraped knee—”
Carol sat down on the chair. “How many times do we have to have this discussion? Have you ever thought maybe you’re being a little selfish?”
“What?”
“It’s all about what you’ve missed out by not having him here, but it’s not his job to satisfy our needs. We’re supposed to meet his.”
“I grew up with a mom and dad. I had a great childhood. I just want Christopher—”
“I know,” she said as she stood up. “But your experience isn’t the only valid one, Richard. I had a nanny when I was little and went to boarding school when I got older. Summers were for camp. I want Christopher to have all the opportunities I had. And more.”
“It’d just be three months. I could take a leave from work to be with him during the day and he’d be back in school before you know it.”
“It takes both signatures,” she said, leaving the room, “and they’re not getting mine.”
CHAPTER THREE
Carol always insisted they leave early enough to beat the standing-room-only rush on the subway so she could sit down and get some work done. Both she and Richard wore expensive suits, hers more expensive. Often people told them they looked like brother and sister. Carol had her briefcase on her lap, scanning a forty-page contract on her computer tablet, occasionally marking a sentence or paragraph. Richard sat next to her, staring straight ahead, holding a pen in his hand and balan
cing a black notebook on his lap. He felt like a man dressed up for his own funeral.
Richard kept picking at his novel in his mind. He had gotten to the second chapter a few months ago, but now he was back on the first, reworking it. He kept telling himself he was laying the foundation, that the first chapter had to be just right or the entire novel would fall apart. A month ago he heard writers should spill their words out on the page, get what they have to say out before them, then go back and craft their sentences later during revisions. Like a sculptor who plops down a lump of clay, then shapes it. Richard believed that. But, a couple of nights ago, he read that writers should craft each page, carefully, painstakingly, to avoid unnecessary, endless revisions later on. Apparently, spilling out the words meant laziness and bred too careless an attitude. Now Richard knew that was true, so he was back at the first chapter. It had to be perfect.
“How’s the chapter coming?” Carol asked, looking up from her document. They had barely spoken to one another all morning. But her question might mean things were better now. “Making progress.” He stared straight ahead, trying to look deep in thought.
“You know what your writing reminds me of?”
He looked down at the page. “Hemingway?”
“No. Law school.”
“Ah, what every writer strives for.”
“Remember at Columbia,” she said, “how you used to fall asleep in class? You’d be in the middle of taking notes, and you’d just start to doze off. Your head would jerk back up, and there’d be this little squiggly line in the middle of the sentence. It basically looked like you were writing on the subway.”
“At least I’ve improved. Back then, the scribbles made more sense than the words.”
“You had the same problem in every class,” Carol said, “but it was worse in Stuart’s.”
“Civil Procedure.” Richard shook his head. “Nobody liked Civil Procedure.”
“I did.”
“I know.”
Carol sat up in the subway seat, sticking out her chest and trying to look stuffy, professorial. Her voice deepened. “Wake up, Mr. Carson! Why are you wasting my time here? What in the world made you come to law school? Surely not love for the law.”
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