“…Secretary of Defense Bryan Rose was in the Middle East speaking with troops at the time and was unable to attend the summit. The U.S. ambassador to the U.N. released a harsh statement earlier today criticizing the process, saying, quote, ‘I have severe doubts about the future of the U.N. and have come to expect very little from its decision-making ability.’ End quote.”
The stark black and red CNN graphics shine brightly from the 60” LCD on the wall of Jonathon Thomas’s 32nd-floor studio. This morning’s Seattle Times lies crisply folded upon a lavish, black-marble table across the room. The paper is creased open to the International section.
Bathed in the TV’s flickering light, the broad-shouldered black man pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. The silver-rimmed, slim rectangles make his face seem wider than it really is, and softer somehow. It definitely feels softer than it used to be. He kept himself in peak shape for years, but the stress of life’s dark little surprises has finally taken its toll. And he knew it.
He sips a cup of freshly ground French Roast, delicately for a man of his size, like even unconsciously he’s trying to fight the stereotypes. Too black to be a corporate executive. Acting too white to get there. He’s heard a lot over the years.
The peppered gray in his tightly cut hair betrays his stress more than his age. The 44-year-old leans back on his dark leather sofa, enjoying few other moments of relaxation in his otherwise over-scheduled life. Jonathon’s critical eyes glance back up to the rain moving diagonally past. Wind whistles just beyond the glass. It angles the drops into the tall panes, hiding his metropolis with a wavering veil.
Noticing the paper sitting slightly askew, Jonathon reaches forward compulsively. A small coffee drip on the coaster also catches his attention before it can roll onto his immaculate marble table. Satisfying inspection, he looks back up to the TV.
“The Administration has scheduled another Primetime speech by the President tonight,” a CNN correspondent says. “He will address some of the recent criticisms on the failing economy, as well as his foreign policy changes.” News b-roll from countless other White House press briefings cuts on. The concentric circles surrounding the podium’s Presidential Seal look slightly tarnished. Normally bright gold in color, they seem almost bronze. Faded.
The screen’s changing glow creates unsteady shadows behind Jonathon’s 6’4” frame. Only a handful of deceptively happy family photos adorn his otherwise bare walls. Little dust is allowed to cling to their brushed metal frames. The colorless decor echoes the overcast sky always outside his columns of glass.
“The President’s sagging approval numbers and a struggling economy continue to put him down in the latest polls. Opponents in the House and Senate are stepping up their attacks, refusing to support any of his key initiatives. What can the President do to rebuild his credibility? Send us an email and let us know what you think…”
* * *
Tracy Thomas backs out of the driveway in her red Porsche Boxster, stomping a high-heeled foot onto the accelerator. A new miniskirt and deeply-cut pink blouse show off the attractive black woman’s recently available assets. The Washington vanity plate bolted to the tail of the German sports car reads: WAS HIS.
“…The President is also expected to criticize Russian and Chinese leaders on their lack of support for U.N. action against Iran and North Korea’s expanding nuclear programs…”
Tracy turns the satellite radio down with one manicured hand, using her left knee to steady the steering wheel. Her eyes dart back and forth between the road and the scrolling contacts on her phone. Preparing herself for another conversational descent into Dante’s hell, she pins the phone between her right ear and shoulder. Tracy downshifts and guns it to get around a struggling Prius.
“Good morning, Jonathon,” she says. Her voice rises and falls with feigned happiness just to piss him off. How’s that taste for breakfast?
The Prius driver lays on his horn as she passes. He complements it with a singularly universal gesture of anger when she cuts into his lane, slams on the brakes and turns right.
* * *
“It was,” Jonathon sighs. The UNAVAILABLE listing on his caller ID should have said just the opposite. He closes the newspaper carefully and runs one finger along its edge. His stomach flutters.
“Try to be civil,” Tracy says.
“Right. Because that worked so well for us in the past.” He shakes his head, hearing the honking of some other soul unlucky enough to cross paths with his soon-to-be ex-wife. “Ever wonder how many accidents are caused by people talking on their phones while driving, Trace?”
“Not even once.”
“Three hundred and thirty thousand,” he answers without hesitation. “Every year.”
“That’s great, Jon,” she says. Her sarcastically soothing lilt is like a weary mother trying to spoon-feed complexity to a child. “My day just wouldn’t have been the same without hearing that little pearl of knowledge. You were always so much fun at parties.”
She flips off a new obstruction, slamming the stick into second gear and swerving around. “Well, answer me this. How many stubborn dickheads die during divorce proceedings because they refuse to sign the paperwork?”
Jonathon’s eyes flash. His jaw clenches so tight his teeth pop. He slams down the coffee cup and switches the phone to the other ear for a countering volley. “That pro-feminine, hate anyone with a penis crap might work with your clients,” he barks. “But I don’t give a shit what you want anymore. I am not on your schedule, Tracy. So, don’t you dare tell me what I should or should not do. I said I’ll get to it, now back off.”
“Like you got to spending more time at home?!” she yells. Civility quickly recedes behind her like the cars zooming past. “Or got around to seeing Chris play? Please,” Tracy scoffs. She angrily checks her mirrors, wondering why she thought this phone call would be any different than all the others. “You checked out a long time ago, Jon. I just made it official.”
“Well, as much as I love these little trips down memory lane, I’d rather not start the week off wishing I was gay,” Jonathon says. He glances down at the gold and silver Rolex on his wrist. Every second ticking by is like the lash of a whip. “Look, I’ll finish up with my lawyer this morning if it means the end of these calls.” He drops the phone to his side, muffling it against his leg. “Jesus, woman!”
She smiles at the small victory before tempering her next words. “I didn’t count on you when we were married, Jonathon. So you’ll have to forgive me for not squealing with delight now.”
Tracy’s Porsche quickly closes in on an old Cadillac sedan. The round silhouette of the driver is barely visible over the steering wheel. “This is the fast lane! Get your big ass over!”
Jonathon pulls the phone away from his ear, shaking his head at the angry plastic. “Always so sunny in the mornings.” How did I ever fall in love with this woman?! He takes another bitter drink of his coffee. North Korean troops march proudly in unison through Pyongyang on his TV. A growing part of him wishes he were there instead.
As the awkward silence lengthens, he decides to change the subject and bypass another bickering foray. “Have you heard from Chris?”
“Last night. His team got knocked out early, but he did alright. He said the scouts noticed. Isabel’s meeting him at the airport.”
“Good,” he says. Jonathon shifts impatiently on the leather couch, realizing he has absolutely nothing left to say to her. The crackling noise coming through the phone line stretches on uncomfortably in their stubborn duel. He looks at his watch again. 7:10. “Look, I gotta go. It’s…”
“I expect you to get this taken care of, Jonathon,” Tracy interrupts. She always had to get the last word in. “I’ve moved on, and this needs to be finalized. Now. I don’t like these calls any more than you do.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” Jonathon violently digs his finger into the remote’s power button and storms out of the living room. “You’ve already proven h
ow good you are at moving on. What was his name again, Tracy?”
The adulterous act should have made her feel guiltier, but it didn’t. She had never felt more alive. It was the blame that somehow this was all her fault that lit her like a fuse. “Don’t you dare. You had your little fling at work a long time before my eyes wandered. That cute little Asian thing with fake boobs? Don’t think for a second I didn’t know.”
Memories flicker through his mind. His navy blue eyes soften. “I…”
“You know? I don’t want to do this again, Jonathon.” Traffic is heavy on northbound I-5. Cars and trucks create draft lines of arcing water that splash wave after wave onto Tracy’s windshield. She turns the wipers up, wishing they could somehow wash it all away. “If I don’t see those papers this afternoon, I will subpoena your ass and we can do this little song and dance in front of a judge.”
“I said I’d take care of it.”
“Fantastic. Gotta go.” She taps her cellphone screen and tosses it onto the passenger seat, swerving to pass yet another impedance to her life.
Chapter 3
7:12 a.m.
“Oil prices continue to climb as protests in the Middle East intensify,” the CNN foreign correspondent says. His streaming video phone slowly begins to break up. The mosaic imagery stutters then stops. Screaming protesters behind him are distorted into silence. Their frozen faces enjoy just a moment of peace before the voices erupt into violence yet again. “The United States has increased its troop-load in the area, drawing more criticism from leaders of OPEC who have threatened to reduce supply.”
Lights around the Clackamas neighborhood spring to life. Devin Bane shuffles into the kitchen and pours himself a steaming cup of coffee, kissing his wife’s cheek familiarly. Katherine barely turns. Her eyes are locked on the news instead as she sits at the island, nurturing a cup of her own. The video flickers from Middle Easterners rallying within broken cities to the swaying of machinery harvesting black gold from a dying earth.
Devin scratches his matted red hair. He tries to yawn away the sleep in his abnormally upbeat eyes. “Anything interesting, love?” he says. His hearty, English accent makes him sound more intelligent than he really is. Cocky even. He leans in front of Katherine, staring into the glossy flashes of color at the corners of her gaze.
“Saber-rattling and finger-pointing,” she says. Her eyes are transfixed, staring ahead but not really focused quite yet. Katherine blinks away the media’s grip, finally looking back at her husband. She lays a flirtatious hand on the muscles hanging just out of his favorite black t-shirt. “You know. Politics at its best.”
“Right,” Devin says, rolling his eyes. His chiseled face sports fresh stubble the color of a fine Merlot. “Each person bending the next one over ’til we’re all eventually screwed.” He stirs two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and watches as the crystalline purity melts into the shadows. “Picked a bad time to quit drinking by the looks of it,” he mutters, cloaking the idle desire with his usual quick humor.
“Oh,” she chides lovingly. Katherine pulls him to her. “But you’re such a ray of sunshine now.”
“Is that what you call it?” he laughs, trying halfheartedly to push her hands away. The surprisingly iron-grip refuses to let go. Devin’s emerald eyes widen.
“Oh, alright,” he sighs, seeing the twinkle of desire on her face. He tries to give her another peck. But she latches onto the back of his head and pulls him in for something more.
“Down, love,” Devin shouts. Color splashes his cheeks. “Isn’t it a bit early for all that?” Devin walks into the living room and checks to see if the other TV is on. Seeing that the screen is dark, his eyes dart back to his wife.
“Kids up?” he asks. Marital mischief springs into his own eyes. The gentle curves of his wife’s neck round her shoulders, entering the top of her clinging shirt with regret.
“Not a peep.”
He paces back into the kitchen, hands moving with purpose. Katherine sinks into his arms. “You’ll be late for your flight,” she sings weakly but hopes he won’t care.
“But couldn’t we just…” he blurts. His British inflection almost pleads out the words.
Disappointment eats through him when he glances up at the clock. His shaking hands beg to finish their work. Reluctantly, they retreat back under the assault of another day’s schedule. Devin raises his baritone voice, still staring longingly at his wife. “Kids! Time to get up,” he shouts. “Daddy has to get to the airport!”
Devin waits a second, not hearing the usual sounds of activity. “Let’s go!”
He pops his head into the hallway and claps his hands. “Haley! Tyler! Now, please!”
Haley opens her door, looking angrily out from the shadows. Her room’s entrance is covered with Gothic crossbones surrounded by black-and-white band photos. “Not that school’s important or anything,” she mutters.
She walks coolly past him into the hallway, quickly averting her eyes. Normally electric blue, they now look bloodshot and exhausted. Haley’s clothes are stylishly frayed, with holes in the knee caps and a graying Ramones shirt about two sizes too small around her.
Devin squints. “That’s not what I said. And hey,” he says, his tone sharpening. Colored streaks now punctuate his 15-year-old’s blond hair. “What’s with the pink, Picasso?” He holds up a lock of the multi-colored hair to the light before his daughter can escape. “Expanding the palette a little?”
“So?” Haley rolls her eyes, snatching the strand away. The teenager speeds away from the interrogation and storms down the short hall into the kitchen.
Katherine puts one arm protectively around her daughter.
“Mom,” the teenager whines. She pushes out of her mother’s overbearing embrace. Hiding under the tiered cuts of her shoulder-length hair, she can feel her parents’ knowing gaze upon her.
Katherine glares at her husband. “Well, I like it,” she announces, bending down closer to inspect.
“No accounting for taste,” Devin shouts back. Knowing he’s drastically outnumbered against an aligned feminine will, he spins back into the hallway before they can interject the last word.
“Guess I should’ve run it by the hair Nazi first,” Haley grumbles.
“I heard that,” her father’s voice echoes from the shadows. The demure look in Katherine’s eyes follows her husband up the steps, two at a time. It disappears the instant he reaches the top. “So do you want to explain last night,” she snaps. Her eyes are as hard as the granite countertop. “Or should I just use my imagination?”
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. I saw his motorcycle leave this morning, Haley.” Steely concern paints the brown and green flecks in Katherine’s eyes. “If your father would’ve been awake…”
She cranes her head to look back through the kitchen door. “Remember last time?” Kat asks, lowering her voice. “We’re lucky that boy’s parents didn’t sue us.”
Haley stares at the television set and rhythmically chews. The parental frequency is like static in her ears. “Not my fault Dad’s an alcoholic.”
“Haley!” her mom hisses. Katherine’s emotions flash from surprise to sadness—then outrage—in a single heartbeat. Their echoes linger on her face.
“Like it’s a secret,” Haley scoffs. The teenager glares at her mother, disrespect filling her eyes for trying to hide something so obvious.
“Well, he isn’t anymore. Okay?” Katherine’s words stammer out of her in weak defense, not sure who needs more convincing. “We’re past that. He’s going to those meetings now. Your dad has a support group and everything. It’s over.”
“Right. And I’m sure those always work.”
Years of muted remorse and lies twist Katherine’s face. How long has she known? The weight of new doubt pushes down like cracked rock upon her shoulders. “Give him another chance, Haley,” Katherine says softly. She tries to blink back tears. “Please.”
* * *
Devin�
�s callused hands knock cheerfully on his son’s door. Slightly ajar, it swings open to the shrill cry of brass hinges. “Come on, Tyler.” Devin peeks inside. A small shape rustles against the brown and green-dashed football blanket. The walls are covered with Chicago Bears posters. Refrigerator Perry and Mike Singletary watch protectively over the little boy, fighting for fleeting attention next to a well-used baseball glove on the nightstand.
Tyler Bane’s chaotic hair most closely resembles the spikes of a hedgehog. He rolls groggily towards the voice, opening and closing his heavy eyes. The boy tries unsuccessfully to focus them. Blinking somewhere between sleep and consciousness, Tyler sees a soft silhouette smiling in the doorway.
“Let’s go,” the annoyingly eager shape barks.
“I’m up,” Tyler groans. The eight-year-old rolls grumpily out of bed and stumbles past.
“How about a ‘good morning’?” Devin asks. His son just trudges down the hallway without a word. “Weren’t you going to work on those people skills?”
“Mmm,” Tyler grumbles. He continues walking, not awake enough to register the veiled threat. The boy scratches at the tangled nest of reddish-blond hair on the back of his head. He yawns, trying to ignore his father on the way to other priorities.
“Uh-uh,” Devin says. His emerald green eyes snap their usual morning cheer away and lock on target. He takes off down the hallway, his body quiet as it closes the gap. Devin catches his son mid-stride. “I might take that crap from your sister,” he grunts, picking up the 60-pounder and slinging him over his right shoulder. “But you are so much lighter.”
“Dad!” Tyler shouts out, squirming in his father’s grasp.
“Teach you to grunt at school, do they?” Devin digs his fingers into Tyler’s ribs. “Glad to see your tuition’s well-spent.” The boy’s fierce morning temper finally breaks. His laughter bounces down the stairway and across the house.
Yield Page 2