by Brock Law
governance helped relieve that somewhat.”
“How come it wasn’t stored at the Vatican in the first place?” Will inquired. “Wouldn’t it kind of belong there?”
“We were never in league with any of the religious institutions,” Franklin reasoned. “There were none of that time that didn’t have ambitions to subvert the others for power, rather than unify and educate the world at large under the enlightened principles of liberty and humanity. That was our true mission. The Grail’s survival without the Church and the devout protection of its illustrious original host were what persuaded us that our convictions were not misguided.”
Adams joined, “In light of that, the Marquis’ ingenious solution of taking naturally contentious people who pursued a common dream with dissenting opinions and using it to balance the conduct of the Grail’s journey made our cause stronger. Even if our fighting occasionally put a disproportionate burden on Ben.”
“And here we are,” Madison summarized.
“My responsibility as elder statesman,” Franklin rationalized.
“So who does our young accomplice side with?” Madison urged. “Here we are as historically argumentative as you’d find in any television drama. Who among us, Will, should be most esteemed?”
“Well…” Will hesitated, “I know you all spent most of your lives trying to distinguish and separate yourselves, but from my view point, your collective importance to the country’s legacy is inseparable.”
“Very political of you Will, you’ll fit right in,” Franklin admired.
“And as appropriately interpretive as Madison’s Constitution,” Hamilton dug.
“Let us make that the tenor of our expedition then,” Adams responded.
Washington agreed. “Let us rebrand ourselves as the union our shared existence mandates we be. Now that we are reacquainted with external conflict, we certainly can’t fight amongst ourselves.”
There were a few injured stares cast around the table. Washington’s hanging words prolonged the silence, until each man’s expression eventually relaxed. As arms uncrossed and hands unfolded, they all began to collectively bob their heads with approval. A good natured spirit was manufactured as drinks returned to the lips of the founders.
Plates of salad arrived and were placed before each man. With proper respect to the etiquette they observed in life, each waited for the others to be served, and then all at once put fork to plate. The resulting clink and subsequent repetition was as familiar and hurried to Will as the commons at lunch time.
Will took note of the habits of each individual at history’s most incredible state dinner. Strangely, the hardest part of accepting them for who they claimed to be was their dress. He was so used to seeing them in the garb of their uniformed portraiture. If only he could take a photo of Franklin tugging vagrant leaves of spring mix over his lips, wearing khaki pants and loafers. Hancock, having come from his beach house, sat casually in white linen and blue deck shoes with the rubber soles yellowed from exposure to salt water. Hamilton, similarly, dressed the way a Caribbean business magnate would, still bearing a reddened indentation across his forehead from where a Panama-styled hat traditionally crowned him. Washington and Greene both sat straight in slacks, and picnic-inspired checked shirts. Wayne ate as voraciously as Franklin, but impressed with a navy blazer. Madison and Adams reclined in denim, with Madison meticulously inspecting the character of his carrots and Adams judging the flavor of the tomatoes against his own that grew in Massachusetts. Feeling more welcome among them than he had earlier in the day, Will bolstered up his courage to match his curiosity. As action had finally overtaken words at the meal, he broke the silence with the one question that burned most in his mind.
Will asked in one speedy breath, “So what about new members?”
“New members?” Franklin asked.
“To your club,” Will clarified.
The immortals, still chewing, looked up from their plates. Swallowing in succession around the table, they looked everywhere but at each other. With the same progression they reached for their drinks, sipped, thought and then went back to eating. Again the elder statesman was forced to speak.
“We have had cause to admire many and vote on their admission to our ranks. Americans and foreigners alike,” Franklin said. “Mr. Lincoln and the second Roosevelt, for example, were two such. Unfortunately, neither survived office. A nomination would firstly require a qualifying event, that being a historic shift in the societal environment or significant threat to the progress of the nations. Without such a thing, we could perform our duties without incident. The Grail’s own will might demand such an occurrence, as it sometimes seems to have a life of its own. It would also require that the person be long retired from public life so as to easily transition. Even with such prerequisites the measure requires unanimous consent, which has not yet been reached.”
Franklin looked squarely across the table at Washington with a lightened face, indicating a mild celebration in successfully hooking the young man. Washington, however, kept his face devoid of expression. The General held the connection for a second, then filled his mouth with another fork load of salad.
“Not bad for a bunch of old bureaucrats,” said Washington.
Involve Me And I’ll Learn
At the edge of his bed, with only the desk lamp to deter another break in, Will pumped an iron weight. Though his hair was damp, he was not otherwise fatigued. His mind was oblivious, squashed beneath a different burden by which he was afflicted. Without practice or class there was nothing to divert him from a drowning overflow of conspiracy. Unknown 30-pound repetitions continued until the strain wore up into his neck, and eventually his brain. When the toilsome exertion flushed the blood from his head, he finally dropped the dumbbell and hung his body between his knees. Suspended, but inching closer to the rug, he fell unconscious to his fantasies.
This was usually where the living legend ended, at the advent of forever. Now at the middle of the narrative, or perhaps the end, he was just awakening to an unending revolution. Drawn by compulsory circumstance in the absence of gallant enlightenment, his reward seemed only to be as shallow.
Something called him out, not by name but by what archaic adjectives birthed the monikers he reserved to describe himself. What qualities he possessed, and those he had not yet tempered, were segregated along a line of immaturity. The arcane voices of history accompanied the measurement of his worth. Their accomplishments pigmented his nearly blank canvas, until what he was and what he was supposed to be were indecipherable. Words that weren’t his, injustices he had not suffered and conflicts he had not endured resounded like his own memories. Instead of helping, a lifetime’s inundation of expert advice and famed quotations clouded his understanding. Just as he was about to graduate from the structured upbringing that society had mandated for him, he was expected to embody its progression. He felt the anticipation of perfection. However, there were too many voices in his head, and none of them sounded like his own. The legacies of experiential leadership, passed down through his education, were repeated like magic spells for success. The phrases were catchy, but had no force. Without the abuse of humanity and passionate reprisal to stiffen his philosophies, the risk was unreal. Until now, it was all just a metaphor, a chopped cherry tree. For the first time, the responsibility of carrying the flag was solely his. Whatever impetus for meaning would spur his personal discoveries, the battles of life would be waged with or without his consent. Whether or not he was truly ready was inconsequential. The dawn of his offensive was about to begin.
Will’s mind struggled until a soft voice calmed him. Sweet and French, it cooed romantically. Vivienne emerged, elegant and lovely from the mists. He recalled her smile, though he’d only seen it once. Then he watched it fade away into tears. The face of fear materialized. She reeled with the realization of death, as it began to kill her even before the first blow had been struck. His head rose up as a sharp scream resonated in his ear.
He went to
his computer. In the search engine, his fingers flashed “Ben Franklin daughter.” The resulting Sarah Franklin, Sally Franklin, Sarah Bache, Sarah Franklin Bache were all read with dismay. Will clarified with “illegitimate children,” but only loyalist Governor William Franklin appeared. He got specific: “Vivienne Franklin.” There were lots of hits, but not the one he wanted. He fell back, amazed that a person who could be so famous never existed. She must not have ever really had a life at all, only an afterlife. At least he presumed as much since she didn’t look any older than he. It was no wonder she was so carefree when they met. Was she just that lucky? What did she do, how did she survive? How did her unique Frenchy-ness fit the timeline? Will puzzled, knowing that her story must be far more interesting than the rest. She, like a phantom, having never made a mark on Earth, must be special. She had to be, she didn’t make any sense. Her shady specter was, therefore, the most delicate of all. She needed help, and no one, besides her father, seemed spurred by the same urgency regarding her capture. Their chronological sense was too far adrift. Too much time away from clocks and calendars was dulling. Franklin did say though, that this wasn’t the first time. Will didn’t exactly know how he was going to