The World: According to Rachael

by Layne Harper

  McDougall adds, “Maybe he’s doing research for the White House’s immigration bill. You know, sampling the goods down south.”

  I find that this is the Sons of Liberty’s MO. They talk about vulgar things while they weave politics around it. I must say that it’s effective. This is a whole lot more entertaining than watching the cable news show anchors attempt to deliver lame early morning jokes.

  Revere brings them back to the debate. “If those women dancing for dollars are working under a fake social security number, then Captain Caveman is contributing to the problem instead of being a part of the solution.” He pauses for a moment and then continues. “Let’s say Betsy is working here illegally. She contracts a bad case of VD that leads to a baby in nine months. Tax-payers are funding her pregnancy, hospital stay to have the baby and then, we pay for healthcare for the baby, who is now an American citizen.”

  “How about we make a law that says to have a kid you have to pass a test?” Solomon proposes.

  “Good idea in theory, but the whole constitution seems to stand in the way,” Revere replies. “Better idea is to admit that we have a problem. Naturalize all twelve-million illegal immigrants in this country and let them contribute their tax dollars, like everybody else. This is the Sons of Liberty, and we’ll be back in a moment.

  I row my last one-hundred meters and turn off the radio. Time to begin my day.

  ***

  The first thing that I do when I arrive at the office is check my jam-packed calendar like I promised Graham that I would. I literally don’t have a spare second, which just frustrates me.

  I grab my phone and send Graham a text.

  Me: Reason # 24 that boxing is better than MMA: There are fewer superstars in the sport. You’re able to fully watch a fighter mature and then cheer him on for decades. I’m booked solid. I might be able to have dinner with you next Wednesday.

  Instantly, I get a response.

  Graham: Unacceptable. What do you have this weekend?

  I pull up my calendar and read over my weekend.

  Me: Did you just concede that boxing is better than MMA? Dinner with a couple of senators on Friday, golf with the President on Saturday and charity dinner/gala thing on Saturday night. Sunday, I have an eight-hour workday of stuff.

  He fires off a quick message.

  Graham: Concede? Never. I’m right. Need a date for the charity dinner?

  My fingers fly over the buttons

  Me: I’m pretty sure that I just won. I’m going with Roan Perez.

  Before I can take a breath, my cell is ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Look, Rachael, I was under the impression that you weren’t seeing anyone else.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond and keeps plowing on. “Let me be clear. I don’t play second best. If you’re seeing Roan Perez, then consider this our last conversation.”

  “Good morning to you too, Graham. I’m having a shitty morning. Thanks for asking. You sound like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  “Could be my lack of sleep,” he says with a hint of humor in his voice.

  “Roan is my default date to everything. He’s pond scum, but it looks good politically for us to be seen together. Trust me. He’s not your competition.” Oh Graham if you only knew that you’re the first guy since Aiden that has really gotten my attention.

  “Then take me instead …” He lets the statement hang there for a moment, before he adds, “I know how to behave in public. I own a tux, and my mom taught me which fork to use.”

  I consider it for a moment. Roan will be furious. That’s a positive. Graham and I will share a fixed amount of time together. That’s also a positive. I’ll get to watch him in a social environment to see how he’ll do at the White House Christmas party. The negative is that I’m bringing a political virgin into a shark tank. My world is not for the tender-hearted.

  “Graham, this event will be heavily attended by journalist. There’s a good chance that we’ll be photographed together. Are you sure?” I ask letting out a deep breath.

  “Even more of a reason for you not to go with Roan. I will be proud to be photographed with you, Rachael. You’re a brilliant, gorgeous woman. I’d be crazy to not want to go.” The conviction in his words makes me fill with warmth.

  Is this guy for real?

  “Okay. I’ll have my assistant send you the details.” Then changing the subject, I ask, “Aren’t you supposed to be enriching young minds?”

  “Conference period. Aren’t you supposed to be running the White House?”

  “Five minutes before my next meeting.”

  His voice drops. “I loved falling asleep with you last night.”

  “Oh yeah? Have pleasant dreams?” I ask.

  “The best … Again tonight?”

  “Deal. I have to go.”

  “Bye, Rachael.”

  “Bye, Graham.”

  There’s a long pause where I can hear his lungs taking in deep breaths.

  “Hang up!”

  “No, you hang up …”

  “I really have to go.”

  “Until tonight then.”

  Right as I remove the phone from my ear, he yells, “Reason #36 that MMA is better than boxing: There are more opportunities for guys to earn income. It’s an inclusive sport.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” I yell as I hit end.

  I’m laughing like a fool as I stare at my phone. I like him. I’m truly looking forward to talking to him again. We have a chemistry that I wouldn’t have believed possible.

  I shake my head. I have a year to focus on my career, then a relationship. Maybe I should get that tattooed on my hand to remind me why we can’t be together.

  Evan walks in my office, not bothering to knock. “You look all dreamy, or something ridiculous like that. Did you get to fire someone?”

  He’s just baiting me. I know that he is. “Just heard that the cafeteria is serving Bambi’s mom for lunch.”

  “Yum,” he says rubbing his hand on his stomach. “I love me some venison steak.”

  I can’t help myself and stick out my tongue while I motion for him to take a seat across from my desk.

  “What did you find out about the Sons of Liberty?”

  He drops a file folder on my desk. “Here’s the official report, but I’ll give you the highlights.”

  I take the file and place it in my to-be-read pile.

  “They’ve been on the air a little over two years. Through an attorney, they approached Sirius Radio with their show idea. Attorney has never met his clients and calls them by their radio names. Guy swears he has no clue who they are.”

  “Do we believe him?” I ask, studying Evan as he prepares to answer the question. He seems confident in the information.

  “My people do. Look. He’s not a famous attorney or anything. He’s some guy who has an office in a strip mall. He doesn’t specialize in entertainment law. He’s more of an ambulance chaser. Honestly, I think he’s so glad to collect his monthly fee that he could represent Satan and he wouldn’t care.”

  I nod. “Okay. What else?”

  “Like I said before, the shows are prerecorded. Sirius downloads them from a server that’s located off the coast of Malta.” Evan pauses and looks to the left before he continues, “These guys know what they’re doing, and don’t want to be found. They use burner phones for call-in interviews. Their salary is paid to an offshore account …”

  I interrupt him. “They want to be able to speak their minds without penalties or repercussions.”

  “Exactly,” Evan confirms as he bobs his head like a bobble doll.

  “These guys have to pay taxes on their income. Sirius must know who they are. I mean, you’ve got to have a social security number to work in this country.” I remember the whole bit they did on immigration reform this morning.

  Evan’s eyes light up. “I’ve gotta say how much I respect them. They set up a company in the Cayman Islands. Sirius cuts the checks to the
company. The company pays US taxes.”

  “Let me guess …” I say, as I lean forward in my chair. “The company is called SOL with the double entendre of Shit Out of Luck, and the principal owners are Paul Revere, Alexander McDougall, and Haym Solomon.”

  Evan smiles. “You are correct. Look, voice experts all agree that it’s the same three guys every show. They’re all most likely under the age of forty. They use a synthesizer just enough to alter their voices so they can’t be recognized in their daily lives. However, they have been able to detect slight dialogue and regional accents. Solomon is probably from the south-eastern United States. MacDougall is north-eastern United States, and Revere, well, he’s maybe Texan or Louisianan.”

  “Do we know how much these guys are getting paid?” I pick up a pen and begin to twirl it between my fingers.

  “Rachael, they’re very popular. They’re paid based on their number of listeners, and let’s just say that they’re making mucho dinero.” He rubs his fingers together as if he’s demonstrating them getting paid.

  I let out a sigh and place the pen on my desk. “If we wanted to get in contact with them, how could we?”

  Evan smiles. “Email, like everyone else.”

  Evan leaves and the rest of day dissolves into a blur of putting out mini fires, but always in the back of my mind are the Sons of Liberty. I don’t know why I’m so distracted by them. We’ve had White House leaks before. Usually, it’s a secretary that is sleeping with a journalist. These guys are different. They seem to know things that they shouldn’t. And they’re so influential. The results of today’s elections will tell us just how much pull they really have.

  ***

  “Are you watching these numbers?” Evan asks when I answer the phone.

  I’m curled up in my favorite chair in my living room with my TV on, and a bottle of wine next to me. “This is a blood bath,” I confirm.

  “Governor Bob Greenly from Louisiana just lost his seat to an insurance agent out of Lake Charles. I don’t even know the guy’s name.” He sounds as if he’s hit the bottle also as I take a sip of my wine.

  “We’ll formulate a White House response tomorrow. There’s nothing we can do about it tonight.” I sound more tired than I feel.

  Just then there’s a beep in my ear. I pull my phone away from my face and check caller ID. Graham. I’ll have to call him back.

  “Rachael, you know what I’m thinking?” Evan asks in a conspiratorial voice.

  “What?” I respond, not really wanting to hear his answer.

  “It’s the Sons of motherfucking Liberty. Did you hear their show this morning? They told their listeners to vote against the incumbent.”

  “I heard. This just reconfirms how much we need to find out the identity of these guys.”

  I pick up my glass of wine and take another sip while I listen to Evan go on and on about what this means for our last year in our jobs. When he finally pauses, I realize that I’ve chugged the glass.

  “Evan, I’ll see you in the morning,” I say as I end the call, not giving him a chance to continue the conversation.

  I turn off the TV and drag my buzzed body up the stairs and to my bedroom. Once I’ve changed into my worn “Jones For President” T-shirt, I return Graham’s call.

  “Are you watching this, Rachael?” He asks, way too peppy for my taste.

  “The returns? I just turned them off,” I reply as I slip underneath the quilt that one of Caroline’s sisters made for me.

  Graham and I clearly feel very different about what just happened in today’s elections.

  “Governor Greenly was voted out of office. The guy that everyone thought was going to die in the Governor’s mansion. Wow! This is amazing for the American public.”

  I hear laughing and clapping in the background. “Are you having a party?”

  “Just watching the returns with a couple of friends.” I hear what sounds like whoop come from someone. “Let me walk into my bedroom.”

  “No. No. That’s okay. Go spend time with your friends. I’m exhausted and going to bed.”

  Someone in the background yells Graham’s name so he says to me, “That’s probably a good idea. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  As the phone call is ending, he yells, “This is fucking …”

  I supply the last words: unreal, amazing, crazy. I’m not sure which, but I agree with him. It’s fucking something.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday is a blur of activity. The White House press office is a war zone. I skipped my morning boxing workout knowing that I was going to be mentally punched all day long. Graham has texted me twice, but I haven’t had an opportunity to stop and read them. I forgot to eat lunch, and now it’s two in the afternoon and my stomach is screaming at me.

  Finally, I sit down for the first time today and unwrap the wax paper from my two-hour-old soggy sandwich.

  Evan plops down beside me at my conference table.

  “Are you trying to hide from the press?” I ask as I peel the bread away from the lunch-meat.

  “Fuck, Rachael. I am the press. I think I’m hiding from me,” he says as he untwists the top of a Diet Coke. “Yesterday’s elections were, like, the biggest upset ever. The media can’t get enough, fighting for every angle they can get.”

  “Imagine what it will be like next year. This was just state elections,” I reply as I slip a bite of ham into my mouth.

  “I never thought I would say this, but I’m kinda glad we’re on the way out. If the Sons of Liberty continue to have this kind of influence, who knows who will be elected.” He thinks about it for a moment. “I mean, fuck, the homeless guy who catches pretend popcorn in his mouth that lives on my street corner might be our next president.”

  I nod in agreement because my mouth is full. I thought the same thing. I feel sorry for anyone who’s running for office next year. The Sons of Liberty certainly made everyone trying to keep their job quake in their boots. I swallow and then ask, “I didn’t listen to them this morning. Did you?”

  Evan wipes his mouth and says, “I caught about ten minutes. They were, of course, gloating.”

  “Geez.”

  “Yeah. One of my guys is transcribing the show for us. It was live. You could tell because it wasn’t as polished. Not prerecorded, like they normally do.”

  “Thanks,” I reply not sounding as grateful as I am.

  “Think they really swung all those upsets?”

  I quit picking at my sandwich and turn to Evan. “I do. This election had the highest number of men under the age of thirty-five vote. Yeah, I think the Sons of Liberty did what the original Sons of Liberty did almost two hundred and fifty years ago and incited change.”

  My phone indicates that I have a text. I walk over to my desk, expecting to see another reporter hoping for an exclusive interview with the president. Instead, there is a third message from Graham.

  Graham: I missed talking to you last night. Date? Tonight? Call me when you’re home?

  I must be smiling at my phone, because Evan sings, “Rachael has a boyfriend.”

  “If you’re referring to my toy collection, then I have a few,” I quip.

  He almost chokes on his Lay’s potato chip. Serves him right.

  When he’s recovered from his coughing fit, I add, “I am bringing Graham Jackson to Saturday’s event thing that you and I are going to.”

  “Drake’s coach?” He dabs his watery eyes with a napkin.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Good for you, Rachael.” He golf-claps, which earns him a punch in the arm.

  Our fifteen-minute, shove-food-in-our-mouths lunch is interrupted by another life-or-death matter, so Evan rushes to calm the reporter down.

  ***

  The President is out of town for the rest of the week, which at least frees up my evenings to the point that I arrive home before midnight. Wednesday, I actually made it home before nine o’clock. Graham and I watched a movie together over the phone. He chose the cult
classic Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We discovered that we both love classic horror films. This was a new revelation for me. I still don’t know if I would choose to watch it by myself, but I liked it. Before we hung up, he offered to come over and keep me company if I was scared. God, the offer was tempting.

  Thursday, he surprised me by having a plain box delivered to my office. Inside was a bag of microwave popcorn, M&M candies, and a note. It read, Dear Rachael, I fantasize about my fingers brushing over your hand while we both reach for a handful of popcorn. Then, you’ll get scared and bury your face against my shoulder. I’ll wrap my arm around you, reassuring you that Jason isn’t real, and that this is just a movie. You’ll quiver against me as I pull you tighter in my embrace. Ha! Then I’ll realized it was YOU that I was fantasizing about. Looking forward to making fun of the girls in Friday the Thirteenth. Love, Graham.

  It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve read his note probably a thousand times. He gets me. He’s the only man that I’ve ever met who doesn’t seem intimidated by my job. Most importantly, he understands my sense of humor, and he doesn’t put pressure on me to see him. I’ve loved our nightly conversations more than I care to really admit. I’ve also loved our text exchanges throughout the day. We’re up to reason #389 that boxing is better than MMA. It’s a silly little thing that he started, but it reminds me that he’s thinking about me. It means more than a text that reads, Hope you’re having a good day.

  I have fifteen minutes before my next meeting so I decide to give Caroline a call. She answers on the second ring.

  “Is this really you? I thought all you knew how to do was text,” she says.

  “Nope. I cloned myself and taught this version to hit dial.”

  She laughs. “I might just believe you. What’s up?”

  I lean back in my chair and turn a few inches so I can look out my window. “Just have a spare couple of minutes, and thought I’d call to check on you, Colin and the kids.”

  “Well …” she says, indicating that I’m about to get a funny story. “Colin thought it would be a great idea to buy the kids a chemistry set. You know, the ones they sell on the late-night infomercials?”