Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

by Jeffrey Freeman

  Samuel scanned the short article.

  “It looks like he was trying to make some sort of a deal with the Seminoles.”

  Samuel handed the clipping back to him. “Don’t the Seminoles already have a casino near Miami?”

  Howard dropped the clipping in the box and put the lid on it. “Yes, relatively speaking.”

  “Then why would they want to open competition in their own backyard?”

  “Apparently they did not. I cannot find any other mention of it anywhere.”

  “So Czeiler is against light rail connecting Miami and Orlando. What’s the big deal? A lot of people are against it for one reason or another. Why is Walter so upset over Czeiler’s opposition?”

  Howard shook his head. “I have no idea. You are right, it does not make sense.”

  One of Samuel’s cell phones vibrated on the desk. He checked. It was his personal one. “Yes, Jane,” he answered.

  “When are you coming home?” Her voiced sounded strained.

  “Friday. I’ll probably catch the early flight. Most everyone wants to get out of town to campaign back home. Why?”

  There was a pause. “You need to talk with Sara.”

  Samuel shot Howard a quick puzzled look. Does this involve him? “All right. Put her on.”

  “She’s asleep.”

  Samuel checked his watch. “It’s barely eight o’clock.”

  “Yes, well, the cork’s been out of the bottle since … it doesn’t matter. She was exhausted.”

  “From what?” The words escaped Samuel’s lips before he thought.

  “Excuse me?” Her tone shifted dramatically from strained to demanding.

  He back-peddled. “No, no, that’s fine. I’ll make sure I get the early flight. Will she still be there or is she going back to White River?”

  “I don’t know.” Her tone still had a bit of a bite.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll check with you Friday morning.”

  “Aren’t you going to call me tomorrow?”

  “Of course I am. Don’t I every day?”

  “You do.” Some warmth had returned to her voice.

  “All right. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Samuel’s face showed his concern and confusion even as he pressed, “End.”

  “Something wrong with Sara?” Howard asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Samuel answered slowly, replaying the phone conversation in his mind. “Did she say anything to you before she left?”

  “I did not see her today.”

  “Yesterday?”

  Howard swallowed, looked Samuel square in the eye and honestly said, “No, nothing she was upset about.”

  A noise from the front office like someone bumping into a piece of furniture caught their attention. Howard stepped quickly to the door, still holding the box. He swung it open.

  “Beth,” he exclaimed. “I thought you had gone home.”

  She was crouched over her desk, the top right-hand drawer partially open. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. She held up a thick paperback book. “I got to this really interesting part at lunch. I thought I had put in my pocketbook. I didn’t think anyone would still be here.”

  She looked beyond Howard and saw Samuel sitting at his desk. “Sorry, Senator,” she said.

  “No problem, Beth,” Samuel assured her. “What’s the book?”

  “Oh,” she replied, stuffing it in her pocketbook, “it’s a detective novel.”

  “Really?” Howard showed his surprise. “I’d have thought romance would be more your speed.”

  “Only in real life,” she smiled.

  “Good night,” Samuel called.

  “Good night, Senator,” she called back. “Good night, Mister Mills.”

  Howard watched her leave, then stepped back into the inner office. “Where do you want this?” he asked, indicating the box.

  “Hang onto it,” Samuel said. “Does everyone have a key?”

  “Just Jean. She must not have gotten it back.”

  Again, Samuel looked confused.

  “Remember, I told you. Beth volunteered to stay when you were coming back from Houston?”

  Samuel nodded. “Oh, yeah.” He stood, plucked his suit coat from the rack. “Remind Jean in the morning to get it back.” He placed his overcoat over his arm. “Let’s call it a day.” He ushered Howard in front of him out the inner door.

  The office phone rang. Samuel looked at it. Howard looked at Samuel. Samuel checked his watch. It rang again. Samuel sighed, looked at Howard. Before Howard could answer it rang a third time.

  “Senator Winters’ office,” Howard said firmly, trying to discourage any routine caller by his tone. “Mister Bensen?” Howard was surprised. He looked at Samuel. Samuel stepped toward him and took the receiver.

  “Walter,” Samuel answered pleasantly. “You just caught us. What can I do for you?” He held the phone slanted on his ear so that Howard could hear as well.

  “Y’all get the package I sent?”

  “Just finished going through it,” Samuel replied.

  “Well, good. Did ya have any questions?”

  Samuel looked at Howard. Howard shook his head.

  “No, I think we understand the situation better now.”

  “All right, then. Y’all give a holler if’n I can help.”

  “Yes, we’ll do that Walter.”

  The click of the connection going dead surprised Samuel. “Didn’t even say goodbye.” He hung up the phone. “Think he was upset we didn’t ask any questions?”

  “Perhaps next time we should,” Howard ventured.

  Samuel picked up his overcoat. “Good idea. Why don’t you work on some?” There was terseness to his tone.

  “Yes, Chief.”

  Chapter Nine.

  You had to drive through St. Pierre to get to the Winters’ farm. It was possible to avoid Main Street by taking some alleys and side streets but unless you were trying to evade detection it was circuitous and time-consuming. Samuel was in a hurry and not trying to hide. Besides which, it was late afternoon when most people were at work or home preparing dinner. Perhaps he’d have to wave and smile at a few voters on the street but nothing that would slow him down. He was surprised when Ed walked to the center of the street holding up both hands. Samuel stopped, rolled down the window.

  Ed rested his arm above the window. “Didn’t expect ta see ya drivin’ a rental car, Sam. Naught sure the campaign chest kin afford it.”

  “Jane’s, well, Sara’s … What is it, Ed?”

  “All hell’s broke loose.”

  “Such as?”

  “Huff arrested George.”

  “That’s last week’s news.”

  “Nought. Did it agin yesterday.”

  “For what?”

  “Attempted murda.”

  “Of Sara?”

  “Nought, Pete. That ain’t all. Thomas been spreadin’ rumas ‘bout illegal campaign contributions.”

  “That’s just election politics as usual.”

  “No, taint. Look.” Ed pointed at the campaign headquarters. Samuel had to look twice. In what was normally a hubbub of activity, Betty was the sole person sitting there; not answering phones, not scribbling notes, just sitting. “Word’s got around. No volunteers showed up. Quiet as a church mouse in there.”

  Samuel stared at Ed, waiting. Only three people knew about Walter’s check and two of them were facing each other. Neither blinked. Samuel had known Ed long enough to know he was saving the best, or in this instance, the worst news for last.

  Ed cleared his throat, looked around, bent closer to Samuel. “Word’s out, Jane’s leavin’ you, or you’re leavin’ her, folks ain’t quite sure which, but don’t matta.”

  “Jesus,” Samuel said softly without thinking, “I should have stayed in Washington.”

  “Whatta ya goin’ ta do, Sam?”

  “Guess I’ll go home and see if the barn burned down.”

 
Ed stepped back from the car as Samuel slowly pulled away. He could feel every eye on the street, in passing cars, and shop windows staring at him. He wished now he had taken the circuitous route.

  The kitchen felt cold for such a warm autumn afternoon. Samuel closed the door carefully. Jane sat at the kitchen table watching his every move, sipping tea. Tea. It must be serious. He tried to warm the mood.

  “So, I hear we’re getting divorced,” Samuel said.

  “Are we?” Her voice was flat, no anger, no incrimination, no resentment, nothing to indicate her thoughts on the matter.

  He walked to the stove, touched the kettle. It was hot. He dropped a tea bag in his mug. He watched it seep for a moment before turning to face her. “Not that I am aware of. You?”

  “I haven’t spoken to a lawyer. Have you?”

  Her look was direct, firm, resolute, unfamiliar, unnerving. He looked away; taking his time, squeezing the last bit of liquid from the tea bag with a brown-stained soupspoon left lying near the sink for just that purpose before dropping the puckered bag in the trash bin.

  He sat opposite her before speaking softly. “No.” He took a sip. It was warm but not hot. Perhaps an omen. “I have no such plans.”

  They stared intently at each other over the tops of their cups. “Nor I,” she said.

  “Then why is it all over town?”

  “Why don’t’ you ask Ed? He seems to know everything.”

  “Good point. Guess dad was right. He is a big gossip.”

  A long silence, neither moved or blinked an eye.

  Finally, Samuel suggested, “Perhaps we should take some time. After the election.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere but Florida or Texas.”

  “Las Vegas?”

  “God, no.” The words shot out before she thought.

  He smiled. The ice had been broken. “The mountains? You like the mountains.”

  She took a sip. It had turned lukewarm. “Some new mountains. A place we’ve never been.”

  Neutral turf. He got it. “Colorado? Wyoming? Montana?”

  She put her cup down. “Yes, maybe. Someplace with a national park.”

  He smiled again. “We could …”

  She cut him off before he could suggest camping. “Someplace with five-star accommodations.”

  He nodded. “The parks will probably be closed for winter anyway.” She had him. “If I win.”

  “Win or lose,” she countered.

  “Win or lose,” he conceded. He pushed his mug aside. “So tell me about Sara.”

  She straightened up. Her neutral demeanor morphed into concern. “She wants to do that herself.”

  His eyes went to the ceiling. “She up there?”

  “Yes.”

  “This have anything to do with the shooting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ed said they arrested George, something to do with Pete?”

  “Yes, but...” She paused, blinked back a tear, took a breath. “Talk to Sara.”

  “All right.”

  He stood, stepped next to her. She bent her neck, looked up, her eyes moist. He rested a hand on her shoulder, kissed her lightly on the lips. She patted his hand. He walked to the living room. They might be headed for disaster but at least there was room to talk it all through first.

  Moments later, he rapped on Sara’s bedroom door. No response. He knocked louder. Nothing. The latch made a metal clicking sound as he slowly twisted the brass doorknob that had turned dirty green with age and wear.

  His hand still on the knob, he pushed the door open just enough to peek in. Sara, fully clothed as far as he could tell, sat on the bed, her knees pulled to her chin under the bedspread. A look of anxious fear on her face, like a child expecting punishment for having done something she knew she shouldn’t. It sent a shiver down his spine.

  No matter how old they get, he thought, they’re still your kids. He moved slowly, cautiously toward the bed, trying not to spoke the frightened deer he saw before him. She watched him come, their eyes locked on each other, hunter and prey. He sank slowly to the bed at her feet, twisting his body to face her, his lead foot just off the floor. He placed his hands on top of the bedspread near her feet but not touching them.

  He put all the warmth and tenderness he could muster into his best baritone voice. “Your mother said you have something to tell me.”

  She bit her lower lip. Her forehead furrowed. Tears began to form. She tried to pull the bedspread closer but his weight held it.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He shifted closer, his hands lightly on her knees. “You can tell me.”

  In a single movement she let go of the spread, reached out her arms, crying like a wounded animal, “Daddy!”

  He sprang forward, arms encircling her, holding her firmly, gently, tenderly. Her face buried in his shoulder, her body heaving, gasping for air, tears streaming, all the terror shot out of her. It was the first time in years they had been this close.

  It was minutes before the gasping subsided into long, slow breaths. They stayed locked in their father-daughter embrace, each afraid to look at the other, afraid looking would paralyze their voices, afraid to hear and respond to something dreadfully unpleasant.

  Finally, when her breathing returned to near normal and the pounding of his own heart lessened, he whispered, “Tell me.”

  “George,” was the only word she got out before the tears flooded from her eyes and the act of breathing overpowered her ability to speak.

  He felt the dampness on his shirt from her tears. He pulled her closer, waited.

  At last she stopped. She leaned away. He loosened his grip. She sat upright, close enough that it was difficult for him to see her face in clear focus.

  She slid back, out of his grasp, resting against the headboard, wiping the tears in streaks across her cheeks with both palms. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. He pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket, handed it to her. She wiped both cheeks, then blew her nose in it. She didn’t hand it back, holding it just in case.

  She looked at her hands in her lap. “He touched me.” Her voice was low, calm, confessing.

  “What?” His disbelief was evident.

  She looked up at him.

  His disbelief turned to horror. He saw the truth in her eyes. Horror turned anger, turned to rage. He forced a modicum of mildness into his voice and demeanor. “When?” he asked.

  “Nine years ago. In the summer.” The confession was gone. Now she was just relating facts.

  “Where was I?” The unspoken question in his mind was, “Why wasn’t I here to protect you?”

  “You were in Washington.”

  All the power, the prestige, the fun of being a senator, of being one of the most influential men in the country, good God in the world, evaporated into nothingness instantly.

  He swallowed. Tears welled. His throat constricted his speech to barely audible. “Where was your mother?”

  “In town. Buying groceries for your welcome home dinner.”

  He hung his head, squeezing the temples with his left hand, his elbow jabbed into his stomach. He needed the sensation of physical pain to accompany the emotional pain he was feeling.

  Then it came to him. “What was he doing here?” It strained his vocal chords to get the words out.

  “He said he came to see you. He thought you’d be home earlier.”

  He cleared the lump in his throat, nodded resolutely, asked in a clear voice, “Tell me.”

  She related the whole story without breaking down, as though it had happened to someone else, not to her. How he had sat in her mother’s rocker, asked her to sit on his lap, the places his hands went that they should not have gone. “I remember his breath smelled bad, like he’d been drinking,” she concluded.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” He knew it was a stupid question before the words formed on his lips. He couldn’t help asking it.

  “He was your
friend. Yours and mommy’s. And grandpa’s. I …”

  He raised a hand, stopping her. His head bowed, bobbing his understanding. Suddenly, his head jerked up, his eyes clear, his speech unconstrained. “That’s why? He wasn’t shooting at coyotes? He was shooting at you?”

  He pushed off from the bed, turned, and started for the door.

  “Not just me,” she called after him.

  Without stopping, he affirmed, “Pete,” though he had no idea why.

  He banged open his bedroom door.

  Sara heard the crash of objects hitting the floor.

  She rushed to the open doorway. The alarm clock, his jewelry box, and an old wooden cigar box with its mementoes and treasures were strewn across the floor. Samuel was opening the lid of the fair box. He rummaged through assorted sweatshirts and sweaters, pulling out a small dark colored box.

  Jane appeared behind Sara. “What is going on?” she demanded.

  Samuel paid no attention. He opened the box, tossing the lid on the bed. He unwrapped an old tee shirt, faded mostly pale yellow by time and stained with gun oil. He held the revolver in one hand, the box with a dozen twenty-two-caliber long rifle rounds in the other.

  “Samuel!” Jane shouted. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

  Chapter Ten

  It took Samuel a long minute to respond. He held the pistol, desperately wanting the simple solution to avenge the crime and indemnify his guilt. At last, he wrapped the gun in the faded rag, replaced in the box, and buried it deep in the chest.

  He sat on the bed hunch over, like a man who had lost everything. In the doorway, the two women held each other, neither having ever seen Samuel, the epitome of calm perseverance in the face of adversity, whipped.

  “Have you filed charges?” he asked, his chin resting on his chest.

  Sara looked at her mother before answering. “No.”

  “Why not?” Samuel asked, his head still down.

  Jane sat next him on the bed, her hands folded in her lap. “What good would it do? There’s no proof, for then or now.”

  Samuel’s chest began to heave with one deep, quick inhale and exhale after another. Never in his life had he felt so impotent.

  Sara pushed the pillow out of the way and sat on the other side of him. The two women reached their arms around him, holding hands, encircling him softly between them.