The Meadowlark Sings

by Helen Ruth Schwartz

  The Meadowlark Sings

  By

  Helen Ruth Schwartz

  Prologue

  They say it began with the gay rights march on April 25, 2010, when one million people gathered before the Department of Justice Building in the District of Columbia to demand equal rights and fair treatment for gays, lesbians, and bisexuals in the United States.

  The right-wing religionists, seeing the event as an opportunity to increase their flock and fatten their coffers, preyed on the fears of middle-class America by suggesting that the march was the beginning of a homosexual takeover of the United States. "It's a sad day, indeed," said Patrick Olmstead of the First People's Ministry, "when nude queers with whips and chains line the streets of our nation's capital and proclaim the right to rule America." Pictures of three topless women and one man in leather shorts with handcuffs in his pocket were repeatedly shown on right-wing television stations, convincing viewers that these were the leaders of the "depraved" march.

  In little more than three months, Olmstead's sentiments were being echoed throughout the country by a generation of Americans who were so tired of economic chaos and unemployment that they were willing to believe anything in order to have an enemy to rage against. By the end of 2013, homosexuals had become the enemy. The march, instead of becoming a source of strength for gays, became a rallying symbol for heterosexuals who began to openly preach discrimination and violence.

  In 2016 and 2017, twelve states passed legislation that encouraged discrimination against homosexuals. Sodomy laws went back on the books. Gay bashing became common. The president of the United States, who had aligned himself with homosexual rights during his campaign, retreated from his earlier position and chose to ignore the evil that was festering.

  The situation catapulted in 2017, when First Person magazine put Patrick Olmstead on the cover as the best-loved man in America. Gay gathering places and organizations began to disappear. Homosexuals became the majority on the unemployment lines. And the violence increased. Lynn Bremmer, one of the topless women who appeared on television during the gay rights march, was found dead on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. A handwritten sign left next to her body said, "Kill the Queers!" Her murderers were never found.

  By 2018, the situation was completely out of control. But then something happened that changed the locus of public attention. On June 30 of that year, the great earthquake, predicted for decades, hit California. It began with a rumbling virtually ignored by Californians. It ended with 32,000 dead, 180,000 injured, 4,000 missing, billions of dollars of property damage, and a new island.

  As the earthquake traveled up the state of California, approximately forty miles east of the coastline, it created a chasm that quickly filled with the raging waters from the Pacific Ocean. Killing or destroying everything that lay in its path, the ocean split off a land area approximately 40 miles wide by 720 miles long, separated from the mainland of America by ten miles at its narrowest and eighteen miles at its widest points.

  Fearful that the aftershocks would wreak further havoc on the involuntary residents, the military and national guard evacuated the island within twenty-four hours after its creation. There were no people left to put out the fires that were allowed to rage out of control. Mud slides and flooding destroyed what the fires didn't get, and within three weeks, there was nothing visible but a billboard that said, "Patrick Olmstead for President," considered a "sign from God" by members of his growing flock.

  For almost one year, the island remained untouched while Americans recovered from the effects of the quake. When the island finally became the topic of conversation, public discussion confirmed that nobody wanted to inhabit it; its future was too precarious. Scientists could not guarantee that the unstable environment would not cause the strip of land to further divide. "It will be gobbled up by the sea" was the favorite prediction of solemn geologists.

  Such was the atmosphere of the country when John Robb, president of the Gay Rights Coalition, met with the president of the United States. Theirs was not a public meeting. It was conducted in great secrecy and privacy, and might not have been conducted at all had John not been the president's closest political advisor and confidant in earlier years. It was a meeting the president owed him, and John took full advantage of the debt.

  "Mr. President," he began, "we live in a time of great evil. For too long, too many remained silent and allowed the right-wing religionists to establish a foothold in this country, a foothold that is threatening to destroy the constituency that I represent. Sometime, in the not-too-distant future, Patrick Olmstead will come to power, and a holocaust will occur. As a man of compassion, I ask you to take a role in its prevention."

  By the end of the historic meeting, several major decisions affecting gays were made, chief among them the granting of the new island off the west coast to the Gay Rights Coalition for habitation by homosexuals. All homosexuals would be given the opportunity to relocate to the island by 2022. Those homosexuals who chose not to leave the United States would be subject to the same laws that governed gays in the military; they could march in parades and go to gay bars but could not engage in homosexual conduct, including kissing or holding hands. Persons remaining in the United States who disobeyed the gay gag laws would be subject to arrest and a lengthy jail sentence.

  To make sure that all homosexuals were made aware of their options (and their sexuality), the government, spurred on by Patrick Olmstead, began a series of DNA-chromosome testing. All persons who tested positive for the Scarpetti gene, named after the physician who discovered it as an indicator of homosexuality, were encouraged to emigrate. Parents of minors made the choices for their "gay gene" children.

  It was decided that after the year 2022, no choices were to be made. All newborns would automatically be tested for the Scarpetti gene.

  Those testing positive would be transferred to the island prior to their third birthday.

  Contrary to expectations, many homosexuals accepted with joy the opportunity to relocate. Almost all chose to leave the United States. On May 12 of the year 2020, the first day of the exodus, the one million deportees included seven senators, fourteen members of the House of Representatives, the leader of the Democratic Party, eighty-three professional athletes, a bevy of millionaires (who were allowed to take their money with them), and 1,400 members of the entertainment industry, including Ray Breyer, America's heartthrob.

  Encouraged by the beginning of the exodus, the number of emigrants quadrupled by the end of the first year and included one justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, a member of the president's cabinet, three more senators, the wife of the attorney general, the country's leading tennis player, and Ellyn Hargreaves, the woman billed as the world's greatest blues singer.

  By the end of the second year, the number of departing drained America's military forces, necessitating the reinstatement of the draft; the court system was left in chaos by the absence of judges; the National Football League was forced to cancel the 2022 season; and the emigrants joked that America was on the verge of requesting financial aid from the new island.

  Such was the beginning of Cali, the nation of homosexuals.

  One

  Cara tried to suppress a smile as she turned to leave, but she could feel the corners of her lips twitch plaintively, almost demandingly. Damn, she cautioned herself, one little grin and you'll blow the professional image that got you this assignment in the first place. She clenched her right hand—which was out of view—into a fist, pressing the balls of her fingers against the fleshy part of her palms, hoping to distract herself from her emotions.

  "It's okay to smile, Cara. Enthusiasm and spontaneity are two of the reasons why you were selecte
d for this job," said the prime minister, as if reading her mind. "Don't disappoint me by acting like any other stuffy bureaucrat." Placing her elbows on her desk, chin resting on entwined hands, the prime minister awaited the reaction of Cali's youngest cabinet member.

  "Yes!" Cara threw her hands in the air with customary gusto. Turning to look at the woman who had just given her the assignment she had coveted, she bowed in good-natured fashion. "Thank you, Madam Prime Minister. Thank you." With a grin as wide as her elation, she exited from the office.

  Prime Minister Miriam Ekstrom watched the door close before she allowed herself the pleasure of a chuckle. She adored Cara. Her energy and eagerness reminded the PM of herself when she was young. Her grace, of Barbra. With a forlorn glance at the photo that always stood alone on the corner of her desk, Miriam got up and walked to the windows that overlooked Cali. It was said that the prime minister's office in the Lynn Bremmer Building had the most beautiful views on the island, a fact undisputed by its occupant. Before her stretched the valleys and hills that led to the western edge of the Pacific, the bright green foliage of young plantings contrasting sharply with the deep hues of the ocean. But it was not at the west window that Miriam stopped. She continued to the south window, gazing at the hills that had once been the Pacific Palisades.

  Thirty-seven years ago, in the year 2018, Miriam had lived in those hills, in one of the magnificent houses that dotted the landscape, sitting one atop the other until they crested on the flatness of the pinnacle. Her view then, no less beautiful than now, was a special part of the life she had shared with Barbra.

  The PM blanketed her arms about her chest, warding off the cool breezes that rolled in off the Pacific, remembering, as she did, the unseasonably cold air on June 30, 2018, the day that her life began to fall apart.

  "What's going on?" Barbra had asked when Miriam returned to their Washington, DC, apartment early. "Has your meeting been cancelled?" Standing at the kitchen counter, eyes fixed in concentration, she turned her back to Miriam and began smoothing the delicate yellow frosting on the carrot cake.

  Oh, my God, thought Miriam, leaning against the refrigerator, her ear pressed against the soft humming noises. She hasn't heard yet.

  "Well, what's wrong? It's not like you to come home in the middle of the day." Alarmed by Miriam's silence, Barbra started to shake. "Why aren't you answering?" She untied her apron and threw it on top of the counter. Turning to face Miriam, her voice exploded. "Are you sick? Tell me what's happened!"

  Leading her pregnant lover to the living room, Miriam sat her down on the couch and tightly grasped her hand. She opened her mouth to speak, but words wouldn't come.

  "Talk to me. You have to tell me," Barbra's scared face begged.

  "The president was called away before the meeting began. California was hit by an earthquake," she said softly, eyes cast down, scanning the invisible weave on the beige rug.

  "How bad?"

  The answer came in slow metered words. "Bad. Worse than anything we ever expected. A major portion of California is totally destroyed. Thousands are dead. Thousands more dying. A part of the state broke off and is separated from the rest by a chasm of water." She continued with her eyes focused elsewhere, avoiding the anguish on her lover's ashen face. "California, as we know it, no longer exists."

  "No! No! I ... I can't believe it—" were the only distinguishable words Barbra emitted. The rest was guttural gibberish. Senator Miriam Ekstrom wrapped her arms around her lover and tenderly rocked her while darkness descended

  All night they watched television. Scene after scene, portrayed in shocked silence, affirmed the devastation. The Pacific Palisades, their home for six years, was nowhere to be seen. Gone. Simply gone. With most of their family and friends.

  "It's okay. Everything will be okay," Miriam exclaimed with a resolve she didn't feel. Cupping Barbra's tear-stained face in her hands, she stated resolutely, "We're going to be all right. You, my love, are going to have a healthy baby girl. We are going to be okay." She kissed Barbra's tears as they merged with her own.

  For the next eighteen months, they were okay. Then part two of their tragedy was played. In preparation tor the homosexual exodus to the new Pacific island, mandatory genetic testing of all U.S. citizens began. Miriam and Barbra tested positive for the gay gene. Sixteen-month-old Cheryl tested negative. As they both knew, heterosexuals were not permitted to emigrate to the island.

  For two months, they argued about leaving the United States, Miriam begging Barbra to leave Cheryl in the care of her doting grandmother. "You and I cannot stay," she insisted. "We are documented homosexuals. Scarpetti-gene positive. As soon as Patrick Olmstead comes to power, that information will be made public and I will be voted out of office." Consumed by the determination to persuade Barbra, Miriam portended the bleak future. "Once my sexual orientation is made known, our lives here will be a living hell. Cheryl will be taken from us. We will—"

  "They cannot take my daughter," screamed Barbra, banging her fist on the dining room table.

  "They can, and they will! Barbra honey, listen to me." She picked up the pamphlet she had received in the mail from the Gay Rights Coalition and began reading. "If you choose to remain in the United States, then you must refrain from all homosexual activities. Should you kiss a person of the same sex or even be suspected of kissing a person of the same sex," she paused for emphasis, looking at Barbra, "you will be subject to interrogation and a jail sentence of indefinite determination. Effective the day you become documented as being Scar-petti-gene positive, you have no civil rights. The bastards in power can actually lock the door and throw away the key." Miriam laid the pamphlet on the table and left the apartment. When she returned two hours later, Barbra and Cheryl were both gone.

  The note was simple:

  I love you. I will always love you. Your freedom must suffice for us both. Cherish it, and do not look back.

  Three months later, after an exhaustive search turned up no leads about Barbra or her daughter, Miriam Ekstrom became the first United States senator to join the exodus for Cali. Twenty-four years later, she became Cali's first lesbian prime minister. But she continued to look back.

  Shaking with the rage of her memories, the prime minister took several short, deep breaths before closing the windows and returning to her desk.

  Once again resuming her role as Cali's leader, she called her press secretary and told him to announce Cara's special assignment.

  Two

  Upon leaving the prime minister's vestibule and reaching the anonymous comfort of the hall, Cara surrendered the last vestiges of professional decorum. She half ran and half skipped to her own office one floor below, paying little attention to the quizzical expressions of those she passed.

  "What is going on?" demanded Esther, her secretary, as Cara bolted through the door. "I've received several calls asking if you were going to hold a press conference and one call from a man," she hastily grabbed a piece of scrap paper from the middle of her desk, documents flying everywhere, "named Tim Felmar, who said he was going to be your escort officer. Where are you going? Where is he escorting you to? And wherever it is, keep in mind that you can't go without me." She jumped up from behind her desk and ran after Cara who had continued skipping directly into her office.

  "I've never seen you quite like this before. What's going on?"

  Jumping to a seated position atop her desk, Cara spoke quickly, a characteristic tendency when excited. "The PM just informed me that I got the New York assignment. I am going to New York City, USA . . . as Cali's official representative to the World Conference on the Aging. Tim Felmar, the escort officer, will be going with me. I am actually going. It will be the first time in eight years that a Calian has visited the United States and that Calian is going to be ..." Pausing for emphasis, she declared in a bellowing voice "Cara Romero." She held both hands to her face in a gesture of genuine delight, jumped off her desk, grabbed Esther around the waist, and led her across the floor in
a mock jig. "I can't believe it. I really can't believe it. I can't process this." Flushed with excitement, Cara leaned against the wall, gasping deeply. "Well, aren't you going to say something? Say something! What do you think?"

  "I think you need to spend some more time at the gym before you go anywhere." Esther looked pleased with her response. At sixty-six, physical exercise had become one of her two primary obsessions. Dominique ice cream baked with caramel glaze was her unfortunate second.

  "Oh, come on, Esther. Tell me how happy you are for me."

  The older woman took Cara's hands in her own, gently patting them, almost caressing them. "You know how happy I am for you. No one deserves this assignment more."

  Few people would have argued that point. At thirty-two, Cara was one of the most respected leaders of the Calian government, achieving her status with many friends and almost no enemies. Her climb to the top began with a bachelor's degree in geriatrics, followed by a master's in political science. Then came the rungs on the ladder of government. She bruised no egos and stepped on no feet as she performed each job with characteristic enthusiasm and proficiency, garnering the respect of young and old alike. It wasn't long before she reached her highest rung to date as Director of the Office for the Aging, a cabinet-level position. And now, adding spice to her future, she had just been handed the prestigious assignment as representative to the World Conference on the Aging, a meeting being held in the country of her birth.

  For a Calian, a visit to the United States was a coveted honor, available only to those at the highest levels of government. Because of America's efforts to keep bearers of the Scarpetti gene from mingling with the country's pure strain of heterosexuals, the United States granted visas only to those foreigners whose passports were stamped Scarpetti-gene negative, unless, of course, their entry was government sanctioned. Inasmuch as Cali and the United States had no diplomatic relations, official visits were rare. Few Calians had ever had the opportunity to visit the home of their parents, almost no Calian at all since 2047—the year of the beating of Brian Rayford, Call's minster of agriculture, in Washington, DC.