“Any specific thoughts on that?”
“Yeah. One of your men here tells me what I need to find out for them. I get it, then relay the info back to them. I then get some small stipend for my troubles that allows me to take care of my incidental expenses. The house is paid off and I got enough to live on for a while, but a lot of what I need I can get through some of our mutual friends with physical money. Any digital transactions in and out of my bank account are bound to be monitored, so that’s a no-go.”
“How are you going to communicate with our boys?”
“I’ve already developed a way. Trust me.”
Tom still wasn’t convinced. “What about Roy? This could affect him, too. You sure you want to do that? I’m not trying to talk you out of it, but I’m just saying it.”
The prospect of Roy getting hauled out of the house in chains took the excitement out of Carl’s eyes. He wouldn’t say it, but there had been times he had considered giving up his plans to get back into his old line of work. On each occasion, it had been over concern for Roy’s wellbeing. While he had maintained a seemingly necessary degree of emotional separation between himself and his son, Carl loved him more than he would ever admit.
Roy was now an adult, to be sure, but there was no telling whether the ISA would leave him alone should the worst happen, and even if he should be spared he would still suffer in other ways. He’d be like Carl, without his father.
That possibility alone was ample reason to leave it be.
However, it was still insufficient to coax Carl away from his old ways. He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let the ISA have the final say. He needed to prove if only to himself that he was still in control of his fate. He had wasted his best years in service to everything he had come to hate. It was unconscionable for him to spend the remainder of it reading Tennyson in quiet submission like a whipped dog content to chew on a bone given to him by an abusive master in the corner.
“It’s alright,” Carl told Tom. “Roy will be fine. He’s like me that way.”
“I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it does.”
Carl was pensive, his eyes wandering off as he spoke. “Honestly, I don’t see how he’ll make it as a journalist. Something will give. Either he’ll quit, or they’ll throw him out when he won’t compromise.”
“Just like you.”
“Just like me. Then he’ll have to find some other profession. But he’s a man now, and that’s for him to find out on his own.”
“Maybe he’ll join you in the family trade.”
Carl shook his head. “Not like this. I don’t want this for him. I want something better. He deserves it. But I refuse to tell him what to do with his life. I won’t define it for him.”
They each ordered another glass of brandy. Tom mulled the matter over as he stared at the table. Carl rubbed his fingers nervously, his craving for tobacco reignited. He’d calm his nerves later that night reading one of his books. Roy would probably gently tease him about it. He occasionally took the opportunity to express his thoughts on Carl’s unusual personal hobbies. However, the comments were always made with the same curiosity that had inspired Carl to pick them up in the first place.
“You know something?” Carl said. “I used to wonder if taking that pardon and working for the ISA was worth it all, the chance to do this again. It wasn’t just the humiliation of accepting it. I felt like I had betrayed you all. I had to convince myself every day I hadn’t, that it would all be worth it if I could just put up with it.”
“What made you stop wondering?”
“Roy. I realized he was worth it.”
“Glad to hear it, man.”
Carl slapped his hand on the table and smiled. “When do I start?”
Tom sighed, then bowed his head in concession. “Most likely next week. Just remember; nobody is gonna remember you back at the paper. Believe you me, you’re nobody to them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Meanwhile, tell them to get a pack of smokes for me.”
“Fine.”
Carl had Tom leave the booth before he placed his Prizm on and paid the tab. He then took it off temporarily as they both stood up and shook hands.
“I’ll come back to Seattle sometime,” Carl swore. “Count on it.”
“I’d like that. But don’t forget about the kid. He needs you more than I do.”
“Sure.”
They didn’t move. Neither of them wanted to be the one to end it. They glanced around the bar, looking for something to comment about. Carl checked his watch and quietly mumbled that he had to get home. Roy was expecting him to make dinner.
“One can only hope you’re a better cook than before,” Tom chuckled as he patted Carl on the shoulder. “For his sake, at least.”
“He doesn’t complain.”
The laughter gave them a convenient and painless way to part without prolonging the inevitable farewell. They headed to the entrance. Tom left first, a contemplative air about him as he strolled down the street until he was nothing more than a shadow against a distant wall.
Carl suddenly looked down at his front coat pocket and realized Tom had slipped something in there. He almost gasped in joy as he discovered a half-filled crumpled pack of cigarettes. Finding a nearby alleyway, he leaned against the exterior wall as he flicked his Zippo out and brought it close to his lips. The small glow of light made it appear like his face was glowing as he inhaled loudly. The tobacco was an obscure brand, strong with a touch of mint aftertaste.
Satisfied with one, he tucked the pack away and walked to the parking lot behind the bar where his automated car waited for him. As it drove him home he sat in the back with a smile on his face like it had been painted there.
***
Roy was patiently waiting for him in the kitchen when he arrived home. Carl feigned running errands by placing two bags of random stuff he had bought at the grocery store on the kitchen table.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“It was very productive. My classmates and I have been studying quite intensely in preparation for the exam.”
Carl suppressed a chuckle. The two of them looked similar, but their tone and speech easily set them apart. Roy was very proper in his behavior, and his choice of words reflected that. He was also far more talkative. Carl could engage in small talk for a while, but sometimes his old colloquial habits unwittingly returned. It was why he intentionally avoided speaking and kept his comments as short as possible.
He hastily prepared a chicken dinner for them both, enjoying another glass of brandy. He didn’t need it, but it was one of his daily evening habits. He feared Roy would grow suspicious if he didn’t have one.
They ate at the kitchen table while Roy continued discussing his day. Having long figured out how to handle his son’s monologues, he listened for key words to get the gist of the important details he’d need to remember should Roy bring them up in the future. He didn’t mind his son’s loquaciousness. Sometimes it helped him stay away from lingering thoughts he’d sooner put away like a beloved suit that had long since become too small.
When dinner was over they moved to the family room. Carl reached for his print copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s poetry and quietly read through it, while Roy stared blankly ahead as he read one of his holographic books appearing in his vision, courtesy of his Prizm.
After two pages, Carl spotted his son out the corner of his eyes looking at him inquisitively. A page later, Roy ceased reading and asked Carl to read him some Poe. Carl selected “The City in the Sea.”
The first few stanzas smoothly rolled off his tongue as he set the book down and spoke from the heart:
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West
Where the Good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest
Roy sat and listened with an expression of marvel and bemusement. After Carl was finishe
d, the boy smiled timidly.
“What do you think?” Carl asked.
“To be perfectly frank, father, I don’t know what to think of that poem. I’m even more uncertain as to how I feel about the fact that you read it from a physical book, which apparently you don’t need to read it.”
Carl laughed as he closed the book and gently patted Roy’s arm. He placed the book on the coffee table in front of them as he got up and headed for his study. He needed to be prepared once the stringers reached out to him.
“I’ll be in here for a while,” he said. “There’s some stuff I have to deal with”
“Very well, father.”
Closing the door slowly, Carl peeked out just before he closed it to see Roy pause from his resumed Prizm activities and gaze studiously at the pile of poetry on the coffee table. He then made his way to his desk. On it was a framed picture of him and Brenda, another of Roy. Beside them was his typewriter.
He sat down and was about to peck away when he stopped and glanced back at the door, wondering if Roy was reading that book. He smiled, knowing that if Norton could see him, wherever death had taken him, he was smiling, too.
Perhaps there was more of him in Roy than Carl had thought.
He had a strange feeling they would find out, soon.
About the Author
TJ Martinell is an author, writer, and reporter from the Pacific Northwest. His reporting for various community newspapers in the Seattle area has been recognized by the Washington Newspaper Publishers Association and the Society of Professional Journalists. He is also a researcher and blogger for the Tenth Amendment Center and published several ebooks on gun rights and constitutional history. He hosts the Mountain Pass Podcast available for listening or download on SoundCloud.
See his other work at:
www.tjmartinell.com
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