by Martha Carr
“Yes, what is it?”
“It appears that the effect it is having depends on the country you are talking about,” said Richard. “There are reports in some of the smaller countries around the world that fights have broken out in skirmishes and that’s led to neighbors killing neighbors. Remarkably, there’s been very little of it though. No one seems to know why without the administration but we should take the good news where we can find it. The Western countries are more worried about something happening to the supply, than running out of water. Local city and state governments in the United States are regulating how much water runs during the day in an attempt to have enough just in case the rumors are true. They don’t believe you when you say everything is fine.”
Richard Bach’s voice faded out on the last sentence and he sank back, trying to become one with the couch.
The President sat forward on the edge of her chair, her hands pressed firmly against the leather blotter on the top of the desk. She had found it at an old flea market years ago and tucked it away for the day she could set it out on a desk in the White House. It had served her well when she was Vice President, giving her desk the feeling of having been used by important people from the past. The way things looked mattered to Ellen Reese.
Lately, though, nothing looked the way it was supposed to according to her plans. She drew her face up into a snarl and silently swore.
Richard Bach noticed no matter how hard she shook her head, her hair never moved. It was as if she was wearing an aerosol helmet made of fine, platinum-dyed hair. He had really known a lot of strong, petty women in his day. It was a constant thought these days.
“What rumors?” she asked.
“That we’re hiding something about the quality of the water. The twitter-verse is saying that the real problem is terrorism. No one believes we could actually run out of water. That the planet would go dry.”
“You mean, they think I’m a liar,” said the President.
Bach looked to Vice President Bough nervously, but got nothing in return. Bough was busy rocking on his heels looking anywhere but at someone’s face. Bach let out an exasperated sigh and said, “No ma’am, no one believes you’re a liar. You know how people read the signs in politics. Everyone knows the tough decisions have to be made and that you can’t tell everyone everything and so they assume you’re doing the best you can for the greatest number. But everyone always wonders and worries if they’ll be part of that smaller number that no one cares to help.”
The President seemed to like that explanation and Bach felt himself breathe a deeper sigh of relief as he drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. The President straightened herself up in her leather chair and took on the presidential air she liked to practice, calm and resolute.
“Of course they are, and who can blame them,” she said. “Really, what’s necessary to consider here is what’s more important. The debt or the fear over water.”
As soon as Richard Bach thought about it he knew it was the perfect solution, not only for the President but for himself. He could finally be the hero he always wanted to be at least in the eyes of everyone else.
“Why can’t it be both?” asked Richard Bach.
“What?” Asked the Vice President.
Bach had noticed that the Vice President was more like a nervous fly who knew he had a limited shelf life and could be easily swatted away. He ignored the question and turned to face the President, standing with his feet apart to give himself more of a base of power. At least the appearance of one.
“We can address both the water issue and the lack of debt. It’s simple. What makes fortunes is not the gathering of money, not even the earning of money. It’s who holds the debt. Now that no one has any, it’s a little harder to tell who’s the biggest kid on the block. We all know we can’t use our nuclear resources no matter what anyone says or how hard they beat on their chest. It would be mutual annihilation. But debt, that was another story. It’s the same with water, don’t you see?”
Bach could see that the President was starting to follow his line of thought, and for a moment he allowed himself to picture what it would be like finally being seen as just simply capable.
“We create work projects,” said the President slowly rising from her desk, looking happier than Bach had ever seen her look. “We create a project to ensure that the water is safe. Not only for us but for other countries and we charge them for it. We create a new system of debt.”
“Before anyone else thinks of it first,” said Bach, finishing the thought. “Because someone is going to think of it and it might as well be us.”
Vice President Bough cleared his throat again, and commenced to rocking on his heels, a sure sign of nerves.
“Yes, what is it now? I’m not going to a bunker. Don’t say it again,” said the President.
“Of course, understood ma’am, but shouldn’t we consult Mr. Clemente before we put into place such a complicated plan, especially one that involves water,” said the Vice President.
Bach felt the energy drain out of him. He knew the Vice President was right. It didn’t matter who was actually named the President because for all intents and purposes George Clemente was already running everything. He controlled the flow of water, and with it came all the power.
Immediately, Bach knew that his plan would work and debt would be reestablished but with a new world order, and he knew with an equal certainty that no one would remember his name. It was never going to happen.
For the very first time Bach wondered if he had been on the wrong team all along. He shook off the thought as quickly as it came and looked for what he could get out of it all.
There were probably going to be water shortages and at the very least maybe there was still a way to make sure that his family was ahead of that curve. That was worth something, he thought, hoping that was true.
The world changed and it wasn’t as certain that everyone would be at least okay, and Bach started to wonder if what he had to worry about was not how to get glory, but just stay alive.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to barter with fuel oil or some old coat from the back of his closet. He had something that others wanted even more and were willing to give him whatever he asked to get it. It was access to the President.
He’d used that to stockpile in his basement as many canned goods as he could get his hands on. The fuel oil was in a shed built out of cement blocks in his backyard, with doors and a locking system usually reserved for something more like a bank that he’d had ready for years. He had seen this day coming. His paranoia had finally paid off.
But a lack of water was a whole new ballgame. He had honestly not seen that one coming. One more thing that he now wondered how he could have missed. He had bartered already a few times for crates of bottled water. But, even those desperate to get close to President Reese only had but so much water they were willing to turn over, or could even scramble to locate.
Funny thing, human beings stupidly believe they can survive a war, even one that’s moving right through their front yards, he thought, thinking about the war that had raged all around them just a couple of years ago. But even the dullest among us knows that without a steady stream of water they cannot survive.
The debt, or the lack of it was really the least of his worries, he decided.
If he could use his idea to somehow keep himself and his family alive then maybe on another day he could bargain his way into a better position. After all that was said and done, ingratiating himself into being useful, and then surviving longer than those who were giving him favor turned out to be his best asset.
“Secretary Allen Gifford, the old goat of the Cabinet is all that stands between George Clemente and his finally making a water deal with the United States. Gifford suspects something,” said the President. “He knows nothing concrete or he would’ve said it loud and clear from every podium,” sneered the President. “Actually, I’m a little surprised he hasn’t put it all together yet. But
once the new appointments for the Thirteenth Circuit and the Court of Appeals are complete, there will be very little he can do.”
“Madame President, you know, the truth is, if we can convince people that this is something like a, I don’t know, a space race but for water, we may be able to even see this as a defining moment for the United States,” said Bach.
He cautiously stepped forward, till he was standing next to the President and he turned to look out the French doors onto the Rose Garden, admiring the view. Maybe I can be happy with how far I’ve already risen, he thought. I can be the power behind everyone who’s out front. Who knows? Maybe this is even the smart move.
Chances are he thought, only some of these ideas are going to work and the ones that don’t will probably cost people more than they realize.
“We can shape the message so that it looks like what we are really doing is saving the world. Clemente will have his power, everyone will actually have the same amount of water they had all along, even if it’s redistributed through different channels, costing billions. Best of all, we will help everyone to understand that the water supply is plentiful and safe due to our efforts. We will higher thousands of Americans to help us get there and we will sell our idea to every country, and convince them that without us, they can’t be sure of the safety of their supply.”
President Reese tapped the side of her face. “Now, that is really thinking. You have finally earned your keep Bach. We’ll rearrange all of the pieces to come out exactly like they are now, except we will be the savior.”
“There is one catch,” said Bach.
The President drew her mouth into the familiar thin line that usually was followed by shouting, or slamming something. “You couldn’t even give it five minutes, could you?” she asked.
“It has to be said,” said Bach. It was one of his finer qualities that in tight corners he still often said what needed to be said even at the risk of his own hide. He had the scars on his back to prove it.
“The only way all of this works so that we come out on top, so that we are seen as an even greater generation, is if Management doesn’t survive. If they do, their structure is so entrenched, and so many favors are owed by so many that go back for generations that you and I will fade into history. They’ll see to it.”
Bach turned around in time to see the President glance up and look at the Vice President who gave out along low whistle.
“That’s a tall order,” whispered Vice President Bough.
The President made a steeple of her hands resting under her chin, her fingertips just brushing her skin. “Well, if there was ever a moment when a four hundred-year-old entity could be destroyed, this is probably it. Of course, the Circle will have to die along with it. Their members drag their integrity behind them like it’s a beating heart and without it they would all die. They are the short-term problem, Management is the long-term problem. But, both of them must go.”
“If George Clemente signs off on it,” said the Vice President, looking at his shoes.
“Of course,” said the President, smiling. Bach knew they were venturing onto a much darker path. For this to work, someone would have to figure out how to get rid of Clemente too.
Chapter 6
Wallis stood in the kitchen, her favorite room in the house in the one home she had lived in longer than any other. Everyone else was still asleep in the neighborhood and the sun was barely coming up. There was just enough light to cast a pale-yellow glow across the top of the quartz countertops. They glittered in the early morning light coming in through the front windows, just over the deep farmhouse sink that she had insisted on saving for, till they had enough to pay for it in cash.
It was just like Wallis to not want to put anything on a credit card. She brushed a tear off her cheek. The irony of worrying about debt, she thought.
There were a lot of stories in the news of people who regretted not running up more debt, if only they’d known what was coming. Still others, whose business was to lend to the rest of the world found themselves with nothing to do.
She stood in the very center of the room by the large kitchen island where she had watched Norman and Ned cook so many times. She always left the cooking to the two of them. It wasn’t her strength, and anyway, the two of them treated their time in the kitchen like it was part of a secret boys club, no girls allowed. That was just fine with her.
There were no other sounds in the house. Everyone was still at Alan Vitek’s house, where they had been staying for the past week while the repairs were made on their home.
There was no sound of Joe, the family dog barking throughout the house, usually to alert the human inhabitants of the house that a squirrel was nearby and needed chasing. There was no sound of Norman yelling about his missing keys and wondering who had taken them. Wallis had already come up with three different methods to help him keep track of his keys but nothing worked. Her husband had a habit of leaving his keys tucked in a corner in the kitchen right by the back door.
It was okay with her. She liked being able to walk up to him with them in her hand.
There was no sound of Ned taking the stairs two at a time, his full weight hitting each step. No sound of her mother, Harriet, calling out her name in a high-pitched singsong.
Wallis jumped when she heard the fans suddenly kick on, telling her the heat would be soon pouring out of the vents. She gave out a small laugh and took in a deep breath, making yourself relax.
“I have to face this,” she said. She took a slow steady turn, making herself look up and down each wall as she turned. It seemed like everywhere she looked there was evidence of what happened the last night they were there.
A crack in the plaster from where bullet had come through from someone shooting at them. A broken glass that no one had time to sweep up, parts of the wall exposed from where Alan had gone through and taken out hidden cameras planted there by others. The crack in her favorite kitchen window where she could see the street in front of the house.
Everything showed the wear of living in the middle of two shadow governments.
She kept turning in a circle, occasionally walking over to press her fingers against a hole in the wall, or to pick up a favorite knickknack that had fallen to the ground and no one had noticed yet.
The tears welled up in her eyes, mixed with the thread of anger that ran right through the middle of her.
She turned toward the door that led to the hallway and all of the other rooms, in the house that she and Norman had bought together, the house where they had first brought Ned home. It was supposed to be there forever home. Their dream home.
Till the very day when Stanley Woermer showed up in her driveway, it was her dream home. Her entire life was exactly as she had ordered it.
The only problem was it was only the life she’d ordered on the surface. Even Norman had known the truth long before she had figured it out. But that damnable list. The list of young recruits, boys and girls that were friends of her son, Ned. Management was planning to recruit them all.
Wallis felt the slight film of grief come over her she realized they had managed to recruit Paul Whitaker. He had been such a sweet boy, but at the mercy of so many others with a mother too meek to defend them, and a father too ambitious and cruel to care.
The rumor was that Paul was rising quickly in Management and was even seen as a kind of prodigy. A natural born leader with a need to be recognized, thought Wallis. “He’ll go far,” she said, quietly.
Wallis felt it was her duty to tell Ned and in their last Skype call she had broken the news to him. He looked startled and then tried to cover it up. He had done a lot of that lately and she hated it when she saw it.
“It’s not necessary to protect me,” Wallis had told him.
Ned had blushed a deep, crimson red and said, “It’s not that, Mom. It would be so easy to get lost in what I used to have, what I hope to have. There’s still too much to do and it doesn’t pay to think about any of it.”
Her son looked bone-tired and so much older than his eighteen years. It was hard to believe that he had finally reached what most considered adulthood.
Yet, if the world had been different Ned would’ve been away at college, finally discovering that someone with his much technical ability as his would be popular, sought after, and with a future that he could choose.
None of that was turning out to be true. But soon her son would at least be home, back in Richmond. A decision had been made. When Wallis and Norman came back from Ireland, they had decided they were through running from anything.
“If it’s the last good thing we do,” whispered Wallis, as she continued to turn in a circle in the room, “then we will take the fight to them. I will kill George Clemente myself, if that’s what it takes.”
“Bravo!”
Wallis startled, as she was pulled back into the room and turned to see her old friend standing in her kitchen.
“Mother Elizabeth!”
“While I’m in town, it’s Madame Bella. I was pretty popular as a palm reader when I lived here, you know. That little cover I had brought in more than a penny or two,” she said, laughing.
Wallis was so relieved to see a friendly face she knew she could rely on that for a moment she forgot about everything else that was going on and ran to hug her old friend.
“Madame Bella, then. You’re here! Is this good news or bad news?” asked Wallis.
The older woman stood there, dressed in a simple long skirt and a white blouse looking as if she was waiting for her next assignment before she could take on an identity. She shook with laughter, her oversize breasts shaking as Wallis hugged her around her neck.
“It’s a strange thing when you realize people greet you with a question about whether or not you’re the prophet of doom,” she said with a laugh.
Madame Bella stood back from Wallis and held her at arms’ length. Wallis glanced down at the missing fingers on Madame Bella’s left hand. It had happened on the street in front of Wallis’s house the same day Woermer had shown up in her driveway. The same day that her elderly neighbor, Mr. Blazney was taken away and killed in a nearby field just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.