“Sounds good, Mom.” I looked down at the front page of the newspaper and saw a picture of me staring back. It was an old head shot, taken for the local bar association’s legal directory. The headline across the top said, CONGRESSMAN’S SON WRONGLY ARRESTED AFTER SAVING FRIEND’S LIFE.
I scanned the article, which prominently featured the statement that my father had prepared in the jail’s reception area. Near the end of the article were several quotes from unnamed sources. The first was a quote from somebody within the police department claiming that the arrest was a “black eye” for the police and that there was going to be “all political hell to pay for those responsible.”
The last anonymous quote stated that I was a “community leader” who took on legal causes for “little or no money because of a commitment to service instilled at an early age.”
Then I felt my body tense as I read the final paragraph of the article:
Justin Glass is rumored to be running for political office in the near future, and this incident will likely spur him into action. He has long been committed to addressing issues of police misconduct and eliminating racial disparities, which he may pursue as a state legislator.
I shook my head. “Lincoln.”
“I know,” my mother said as she walked out the door. “Your father is none too pleased with your brother.”
I smiled when Sammy poked her head through the doorway. “You should be in school.” I said it with a hint of humor, but meant what I said.
“Daddy.” Sammy waved the comment away, then changed the subject. “You’re famous, newspaper and television. Bunch of reporters are out there in the street, even that woman from KMOV. Can I meet her?”
“Not today.”
I held out my hand, and Sammy came over to the bed. She put her little hand in mine and sat on the edge. Her hand wasn’t as little as it once was, and her weight was enough to cause the bed to sink on that side. My body rebelled against the movement. I tried to keep a straight face and hide the pain, but Sammy noticed.
“Are you gonna be OK?”
“Just a little sore.” I patted her back. “It’ll all heal soon. I’ll be up and around, and then I can parent you proper.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She leaned over and kissed me on my cheek. “You scared me.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ll always be here. Not going to leave you.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky promise.” I pointed my little pinky up in the air. Sammy wrapped hers around mine and we finished the ritual. I attempted to project the confidence and hope that I knew she needed, but I also knew that my eyes likely betrayed me just as my father’s sad eyes had betrayed him the night before. Pinky promise or not, we lived in a harsh world. If it happened to me once, it could happen again, and I knew it could happen to her, too, and maybe she wouldn’t be as lucky.
I noticed some movement in the doorway. “Looks like your grandpa wants to talk to me now.” I nodded toward him, and Sammy turned to see Congressman Glass.
I patted her knee, then gestured to the door. “Why don’t you go see if Grandma or somebody else can round me up some toast and orange juice? Then we can hang out for the rest of the day, maybe watch a movie.”
Sammy smiled. She always liked the idea of helping her dad. “You got it.” She jumped off the bed, which caused another shot of pain up my side, then ducked past my father as he came into the room and shut the door.
“Sorry to interrupt.” He walked over to the window and picked up the chair that my mother had been sitting in. “Got a flight to catch back to DC in about an hour, so I haven’t got long.” He moved the chair closer to the bed and sat.
I picked up the newspaper that had been folded next to me. “Nice article.” I was being sarcastic.
My father shook his head. “Reporters.”
“Mom says you especially liked the dramatic conclusion.”
“Lincoln.” His face curled up in disgust when he said my brother’s name. “The boy couldn’t resist. I told him to keep his mouth shut. He promised that he would, then off he went, blabbing.” He leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes, signaling the end of the discussion. He’d had a moment to vent, and now it was done.
My father was controlled like that. He never allowed himself to get too wound up.
I waited as he prepared himself to move on to other topics. Eventually he said, “So about that retirement.” His tone was more defeated than triumphant. “Can you hear me out?”
I could tell that there was something weighing on him, but knew better than to move forward too fast. “Maybe.” I smiled. “I’m on a lot of painkillers at the moment. I could fall asleep at any moment or howl at the moon.”
“Bet you’re right.” My father’s lips curled into a tight smile; then he took a deep breath and sat up straight. His eyes locked on me. “Been thinking.” He was serious. “You know I’ve been kicking around the idea of retirement for a long time. Somewhere along the line I lost the energy to do it, but I stayed on. Kept running every two years. Kept raising money. Kept going through the motions. Know why?”
“No.”
“Well I’ve been waiting for you.” My father lowered his head, as if he were making a horrible confession. “Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites, Justin, and I love both you and your brother, Lincoln, very much. But this isn’t about parent and son. It’s about a legacy. It’s about merit, and it’s about all those people out there who depend on us to help them out, to be their voice.”
My father looked away from me and shook his head. “Sounds corny as shit.” Then he came back to me. “Sounds so naive, out of step.” He took his time. “But politics ain’t a game to me. Never been a game, but too many people think it is.” He gestured to the outside. “Buster, Lincoln, everybody. That’s why our community is in such trouble. That’s why Congress is so dysfunctional. It isn’t politics that’s the problem. It’s the people who get into politics.”
“Guess I’m not following you.”
My father looked down at his feet. Then he decided to come out and say it directly. “I came back to Saint Louis last night to tell Buster and Lincoln that I want you to run for Congress. I want you to be my replacement. Always have. You’ll have my full and public support.”
I froze as I considered the ramifications. “But, Lincoln . . .” I thought about the years he’d spent toiling in the political trenches, attending meetings, collecting favors, courting support. “He’s earned it.”
“You think I don’t know that?” My father stood up. “Your mother said the same thing. Of course I know that. Lincoln’s worked hard, but to what end? Building the brand.” He said the last part harshly. “Lincoln and Buster both”—he shook his head—“they’ve lost sight of the mission.”
My father pointed at me. “Those two want you to run for Lincoln’s state Senate seat. Been planning it for a long time. That’s what they expected us to talk about last night. Transition.” He pointed at the paper. “Lincoln wanted to say that stuff to help you run for his Senate seat, but I told them this morning that’d be a waste of talent.”
He waited for me to say something, but I remained silent, so he continued. “You understand what government should be, not what it is. You’re authentic. You’ve got the head on your shoulders to write the civil rights legislation for the twenty-first century. You’ll know better than anyone how to help these poor kids find a path out and up. I’m out of answers, Justin. I’m out of ideas. You’re the one.”
I lifted my palms up to him. “Dad,” I said. “I can’t do that right now.” I thought about the darkness that had clouded me since cancer took Monica. My struggles as a single parent. My depression. I could think of a hundred reasons why being a United States congressman was a bad idea, but I couldn’t get them out of my head. The words wouldn’t come. Part of me, perhaps, wanted to keep the option of that childhood dream available. Up until now I had just avoided it.
Finally, I managed to ask, “So Lincoln knows all this?”
“Like I said, I told him this morning.” My father pointed at the newspaper. “His nonsense with the reporter was a perfect illustration of why he needs some more time to grow up. Let this pass.”
“He’s plenty old enough,” I said. “He’s older than you were when you were elected. More experienced, too.”
My father stood and put his hands on his hips. He wasn’t going to argue anymore. His decision wasn’t going to change. “Gotta catch this flight, son. I’ll let you be.” He walked over to the bed and held out his hand.
I took it and we shook, and then he leaned over and gave me a kiss on my forehead. It was probably the first time my father had done that since I was a little boy. “I can’t make you do it,” he said. “But you need to know that you’ve got more potential in you than you’re letting on. I know what you’re capable of. I know you can do great things, so just take a few days or weeks to consider. And I mean it—this isn’t some silly job in Jeff City with a bunch of hicks. This is the real deal. A national platform, an opportunity to make a difference.”
My father took a deep breath, and then he walked toward the door. As he went into the hall, he turned around. “I fought the battle over segregated lunch counters and the right to vote, but this is different.” He pointed at me, lying injured in bed, my face swollen and cut. “The Whites Only signs have been taken down, but they’re still there. This is your fight now.”
My father turned away, took another step, then stopped and looked back again. “Lincoln and Buster will fall into line. It’ll ruin their transition plans, but everybody’ll fall in line when you decide to run. Just you see.” He pointed at me. “Promise me you’ll consider it.”
“Dad.” I shook my head. “Now you’re sounding like Lincoln, pressuring.”
“Promise me.”
We stared at each other. My father’s eyes were focused, passionate. I had so often felt like I’d been a disappointment, and I couldn’t disappoint him again.
“Fine,” I said. It wasn’t convincing, because I wasn’t convinced, but it was enough for him to leave. “Better go catch your plane.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It took a week before I was without constant pain, but I wasn’t going to fall back into the hole. The incident may have broken my body, but it strengthened my commitment to Sammy. Even though I wasn’t working, I forced myself to get up, fix Sammy breakfast, and get her off to the bus. She wasn’t happy, but recognizing the circumstances, she didn’t protest too badly.
After watching her leave through the small window next to the door, as I’d done every morning, I carefully walked back through the kitchen, past the breakfast nook, to my toy room. If I moved too quickly or bent my upper body too far, the pain would return.
I hadn’t always had a toy room. Grown men aren’t supposed to play with toys, but I needed a safe place to heal after my wife died, and this was it: a small space with a record player and a stack of New Orleans jazz records (not the avant-garde New York kind); shelves of comic books, model cars, and figurines; and a maple worktable where I could carve my own villains and heroes out of clay.
I bent down and pulled an old Fats Waller record out of its sleeve, and then I put the record on the turntable, lowered the needle, and set it in motion.
Monica Glass was the love of my life.
She was my best friend. I’ve always known that a person can love many people, but I’m not convinced that I’ll ever be able to fall so madly and completely in love with another.
A shell had formed around me since she passed away, and I couldn’t allow myself to be that vulnerable ever again, not with Annie, not with anybody. I went to some dark places after she passed, and it almost broke me.
After Monica’s funeral, I couldn’t sleep at all. I couldn’t talk about anything real. I was angry and irritable. I alienated clients and friends. I missed deadlines at work. Eventually I lost my job at a respectable midsize law firm downtown. I stopped paying bills. Our house went into foreclosure, but I didn’t care.
After a year and a half of being a prisoner of my own mind, I was pulled out by my daughter.
Sammy crawled into my bed after a night during which I had abused my body with various chemicals. She snuggled up to me, in a way that only a child can fit alongside a parent, and waited, probably for hours, for me to wake up. Then, when I opened my eyes, she gave me a present.
“What’s this?” I asked, still in the fog.
“Open it.” She nodded toward the box wrapped in dark-blue paper.
I did as she had directed. I opened the package and saw that she had given me a model kit of Superboy. It was an original, manufactured by Aurora in the 1960s. It was an action scene involving a green monster in a cave. Superboy and his dog, Krypto, had the monster cornered.
I studied the box, smiling. Then I started to cry.
“You like it?”
I nodded. “Very much.”
“Grandma said you liked reading about him as a kid. I found it on Cherokee Street a couple of weeks ago.”
I put my arm around Sammy and gave her a hug.
“Happy birthday.” She looked up at me. She was right. It was my birthday, and I had forgotten. That was how bad I was. “Can we do something today?”
Her eyes were pleading. We hadn’t gone anywhere or done anything in so long. I had ignored her. It was just too painful. When I had looked at her, all I could see was Monica. Sammy’s presence reminded me of her mother’s absence. We had been a team, the three of us, and then her mother was gone.
I told Sammy that we would. I wiped the tears away from my eyes. “We’ll go someplace special.” Then I took her to Crown Candy for the first time, and we sat in my booth. When we moved into the carriage house a few weeks later, Superboy and Krypto were the first things on the shelf.
The blinds were open as I carved the block of clay into smaller pieces. The time traveler that I had created needed opposition. Every good guy needs a bad guy. I decided that his nemesis would be wealthy, like an aristocrat from the 1920s with a top hat and an overcoat, and that he would also travel back and forth in time.
Morning sun came through the window. It lit the room in perfect light, and I worked the clay as my mind wandered.
Lincoln had not come to see me over the past week. My mother told me that he needed time, and I wondered what I would say to him when he did show up.
I thought about why my father wanted me to carry on his legacy, and why I had been so hesitant to embrace the idea. Part of my reluctance was surely an acknowledgment that Lincoln, despite his ambition and sometimes questionable tactics, had stepped forward when I had drifted away. My brother wanted what our father had to give and had positioned himself to receive it. Yet I had received the offer, not Lincoln.
And it was a fact that taking the position would solve some, if not all, of my problems.
I’d have money. I’d have a purpose, and Sammy and I could leave Saint Louis. We could find distance from the memories of my deceased wife that haunted every corner of the city.
Maybe I’d fallen so low that the darkness had convinced me I wasn’t worthy of a lot of things in life: depression had rewired my brain. Maybe I should seriously consider it. I’d promised my father that I would, so why not?
Another hour passed, and then my cell phone rang. The screen said that the call was coming from Annie. It was the first time that she’d reached out since I was beaten and arrested. Each night as I tried to fall asleep, I wondered whether she would call or pay me an unexpected visit, but it hadn’t happened.
I touched the screen to answer. “Madame Mayor.” I pretended that I wasn’t hurt by her absence. “It’s been a while.” There was noise in the background. She was breathing pretty hard. I figured that she was walking to a meeting and probably late.
I asked, “Interested in coming over tonight?”
She didn’t answer. There was only background noise.
“
You there?” I asked.
“Yes,” Annie said, but she didn’t answer my question. There was another long pause, and then she asked whether I’d heard from Lincoln lately.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she said. “Just wondering if you two had talked recently.” There was another pause, hesitation in her voice. “Listen, Justin, I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll see you later.” She was vague about where and when. “We need to talk.” There was a beep, and then she was gone.
It was a strange exchange.
I set down the phone, wondering whether we had gotten disconnected. Then a few minutes later the phone rang again. I figured that it was Annie, calling back. Perhaps she had found a more private place to talk.
“Hello,” I answered, but it wasn’t Annie. It was Sergeant Schmidt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I drove west on Highway 44, out of the city, through the dense first-ring suburbs, and eventually into a land called West County. It was noted for big lots, low taxes, and rich schools. I drove another twenty miles, and the subdivisions gave way to forest.
A large blue sign on the side of the road announced a new HIGHWAY IMPROVEMENT PROJECT courtesy of the governor. Then the highway was reduced down to one lane by the construction. Yellow lights flashed. Men held signs instructing me to slow down. There were orange pylons, huge trucks, and piles of pipe and rebar piled along the side of the road.
I was getting close.
My stomach tightened.
Then I saw it.
Yellow police tape wrapped around a pine and connected to another tree about a hundred yards farther west. There were three ambulances, four police cars, and a dozen officers. A helicopter circled overhead. I thought it all might be a little too much, but then I figured that finding a dead body was a relative novelty in this part of Missouri.
I pulled over. As soon as I got out of the car, a deputy sheriff spotted me and held up his hand to halt me. I nodded. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t going any farther until we had a chance to talk. The car ride had stiffened me. The pain in my side was back, and I didn’t feel like getting into another confrontation with the cops.
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