Queen of Ruin, page 10
“Miss Bowen,” he says and holds out his hand.
“Jonathan Langley,” he introduces himself. “Senator Jonathan Langley,” he clarifies.
I find myself in a very low-key pizza joint near campus that I had passed by many times. It’s not a place I ever thought a congressman would eat, but Kerry looks right at home except for his expensive looking suit looking out of place at the worn wooden bench table covered by a plastic plaid tablecloth. At the center are two large pizzas, still steaming from the brick oven.
Kerry sits on the opposite side of the table from me, and I laugh when he tucks a napkin into the collar of his dress shirt before taking a bite of pizza. Mary, his aide, as I learned on the way over, stands and directs a gentleman with a camera to take pictures. Kerry smiles, and the minute the flashes stop, I notice the look he gives Mary, his brows furrowed, and shakes his head.
She seems to understand his meaning and stops the pictures, taking the man out of the restaurant, only to return alone a few minutes later.
The conversation is light, not at all what I expected, and I’m put at ease, giving practiced answers about my major and background.
“I bet your parents are proud,” Mary exclaims next to me after I had explained that I got into college on partial scholarships.
I don’t have many people asking about my background or my family, but I’ve already developed canned answers; little white lies that don’t hurt anyone but me. I certainly don’t want to explain to anyone that my father died before I even knew who he was. I wouldn’t tell them how the man my mother married looked at me with something in his eyes that made my stomach turn.
“Yes, they are,” I agree, giving my own politician’s smile as I take a bite of pizza.
“And a literature major too. Are you as big a fan of Emerson as Senator Walker?” she asks.
“I’d like to say that my professors share the same enthusiasm as Senator Walker, but they make reading him and other nineteenth century poetry feel like a chore,” I admit.
“What a shame,” Kerry exhales. “Do the other students share your same sentiment?” he asks, taking a sip of his dark ale.
I think about that for a moment, remembering the sounds of pages turning, fingers tapping against keyboards, Professor Abbot’s monotone voice, and how there never seems to be lively debates. “I think they just want to make it to the end of the semester with a passing grade,” I answer honestly.
“And you?” he inquires, and the question is so wide and vast it threatens to fill my lungs with so much potential that they will burst.
“I want to be inspired,” I blurt, and it feels like I’m giving away a part of myself, something I don’t give to anyone, because no one had ever asked.
“And were you inspired today?” he challenges, and perhaps I’m the only one who notices, but the golds and greens of his eyes are hungry for my answer, eager for me to admit that I was indeed inspired because it would please him.
“Yes,” I answer honestly, and I’m rewarded with a bashful smile; a pleased smile.
“I think you have a fan,” Senator Langley notices, and I quickly school my expression.
“If you were the literature teacher, it would be the most popular class on campus,” I insist.
Senator Langley laughs, clapping Kerry’s shoulder just like he did earlier. “If politics doesn’t work out, you seem to have a teaching career in your future.” The table erupts into easy laughter, and whatever anxiety I had felt earlier about whether I belonged here or not is ebbed away by it. It’s not often I have a table full of powerful men eager to hear what I have to say. I quite like it. It’s fueling something inside of me to want more out of life.
“So tell me, what issues does your demographic face these days?” Senator Walker queries.
I sit up a little straighter, my confidence having been stoked by their attentiveness.
“I don’t think I’m the average college student you expected,” I offer, “other than having to worry about student debt, I’m a twenty-year-old female who struggles to pay for college, and an ailing grandmother with expensive prescription medications, not to mention elderly care – good elderly care – is astronomical.”
Kerry clears his throat. “Mary, did you get all that?” he asks, and Mary hurriedly pulls out her notepad, writing things down.
“You don’t have to…”
“I asked because I wanted to know.”
I nod.
Kerry sets down his pizza, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Well, this is uh,” he pauses as if searching for the right words.
“Not very good pizza?” I offer, because Arizona is not known for great pizza.
Kerry laughs. “No, it’s not.”
“You should have asked me and I would have directed you to the best taco stand in town,” I tease.
“Well, I’ll have to remember for next time.” He pushes his plate away and then takes a sip of his beer.
Next time? Does he plan on coming back? I can’t help that the thought of it causes a thrill to run through me.
I don’t know much about politics, but I wonder why a Senator from Virginia would be visiting an Arizona University.
Is he positioning himself to run for President?
My attention is pulled away from my inner thoughts when I hear Senator Langley ask Kerry, “How is it you know Miss Bowen again?”
He offers an answer that I didn’t expect, and it comes out so effortlessly that it doesn’t feel like a lie, and even though I know it is, it feels like the truth.
“She’s a friend of my son Darren’s,” he explains without missing a beat, and I can feel something in the pit of my stomach, something wrong and hollow, but when I look up, I can see the regret in his eyes. Kerry is a Senator and I’m a student; more importantly, I’m a young, female student. There can’t be any misunderstanding. No matter how innocently we met, it would seem odd that he would invite me to dinner if he didn’t previously know me.
Senator Langley looks at me expectantly as if I’m supposed to elaborate, but my mouth is clamped shut.
“Well, hopefully she influences him to carry your torch for Emerson,” Senator Langley laughs, holding out his hand to me. “It was lovely meeting you Miss Bowen.” He smiles, kissing my knuckles, and even though it’s a polite gesture, there’s something behind his smile that doesn’t feel right. He releases me and says his goodbyes while I gather my things.
We linger on the sidewalk; Mary, Senator Walker, and his security man that waits by a black sedan at the curb.
“I’ll be a few minutes, Bailey,” Kerry says, and Bailey steps away to stand near the car.
Mary excuses herself, telling me how wonderful it was to meet me in such a genuine way that she leaves me blushing. She doesn’t get into the black sedan ,but another car I didn’t notice parked behind it. I am fully aware that it’s just Kerry and I on the street, the spring Arizona heat curling the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Thank you for indulging me this evening. You made this old man feel important,” he says kindly.
“You made me feel important, like my opinion mattered.”
“It does matter,” he consoles with sincerity.
“And you’re not that old,” I add, even though it is true he could be my father, he doesn’t act like a father, or at least none that I know. But the word old puts a line between us, one that I want to step over – one that I ache to step over, ignoring the fact that the gold wedding band on his left hand reflects the light from a nearby streetlamp.
He reaches out, taking a piece of my hair between his fingers, and I shiver as if the strands of my hair have nerve endings, and I can feel it the same as if he were touching my skin.
Tilting his head, he looks at me thoughtfully, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. Embarrassment unfurls in my stomach, turning to sadness.
“You know I can’t ask you to come back to my hotel room with me, right?” he implies, his voice laced with regret, and dare I say with a hint of the same longing I feel.
I nod, unable to trust my voice, and I feel something claw its way up my throat threatening to make its way out, something like a whine or a protest, but I know better.
“You are a very bright young woman, and you should remember that,” he insists.
I ask myself why I’m so enamored by this man that I only met today, how I feel connected to him, but the answer eludes me.
“You have to know how inspired I was today – especially today – when I needed it most,” I admit.
He lets go of my hair and it’s as if he’s released me, his words bringing me back. “You have renewed my faith in the young people of today, Miss Bowen.”
The space between us is charged like the air right before a storm, full of untapped energy just waiting to be ignited.
“My angel – his name is Freedom/Choose him to be your king/He shall cut pathways east and west/And fend you with his wing.”
“The Boston Hymn’s fourth stanza,” I observed, quietly.
“Do you know what it means?” he inquires, and I shake my head.
“It means to elect freedom as king. God’s own angel, sent to rebuke the misdeeds who sit on the throne and replace them with freedom, and he will protect you with his wing.”
I’m not sure I understand it, but I take the morsel and stuff it in my pocket for safe keeping.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
He smiles, and a soft laugh escapes his lips. “For what?”
“For renewing my faith in Emerson,” I confirm.
“Ah,” he graces me with a mysterious smile. “You were always faithful. Perhaps you just needed a reminder.”
16
Respectable Gentlemen
Darren
“I’m not that naïve girl anymore. I understand the difference now between someone being nice and when there’s real interest there. Your father…” she falters, and I stay quiet, holding my breath as I give her time to finish.
“He saw in me something that I needed, something I was desperate for.” She shrugs. “There wasn’t anything inappropriate, Darren.”
“Maybe I wanted to see something bad in him,” I admit. “Because if there was a fault, I could justify my anger.”
It’s not just my anger at the situation, it was my anger with him by creating this shadow that was impossible to step out from.
“But that’s the thing. We all have faults. Perhaps he didn’t spend enough time at home, put work first, didn’t go to your little league games, or expected too much from you. Those are his faults. Being unfaithful wasn’t one of them.”
I shrug and turn away from her, looking out at the woods. “I wasted so much time being angry, when he’s not the one I should have been angry with.”
I run a hand over my jaw and feel Evangeline touch my shoulder.
“I wish I had known you,” I say, turning around to face her.
“Don’t be angry at your father for lying to Langley that you’re how we knew each other. You know why he did it.”
“I’m not, I just wish I did know you, because maybe…”
“I think we both know you’re no knight in shining armor,” she teases.
I chuckle and raise an eyebrow. “You’re right about that. I just sometimes wish I could be that person.”
“What kind of person?” She furrows her brows.
“The one that saves someone instead of having to be saved.”
“I don’t need saving, Darren,” she protests. “I made a choice to do what I did for a living, and if I had to make it all over again, I would, because that’s what you do for the people you love.”
I place a hand to her cheek and feel how cold it is. “I have never wanted to be the kind of person people look up to, but you,” I brush my thumb along her lower lip, “make me ache to start.”
“So, what are you going to do about that?” she challenged.
“I don’t know.” I scratch the back of my neck. “I only know what I haven't done about it, and I can’t watch while everyone else’s life moves on. Even Alistair has a fucking job,” I scoff.
“I know what that’s like,” she offers.
“When we were viewing the Declaration of Independence…”
“Is that what you call it?” she teases, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink.
I laugh a little bashfully. “You said, this is your Emerson, and I had never thought of it in that way before.”
With those words I had felt seen. I wasn’t in the shadow of someone who was larger and greater than me, I had stepped into the light.
“Sometimes we can’t see ourselves the way other people can.”
“You’re a very observant person.”
“Occupational hazard,” she teases.
“I’m gonna take the Bar in February,” I blurt out, like ripping off a Band-Aid, as if it were something to get through rather than savor. “It’s barely enough time, and if I want to pass, I’ll have to spend all my time studying, but, Evangeline,” I pause to take a breath, “I feel really good about this.”
“You’re going to take the Bar?” she asks in shock.
“Don’t look so surprised. I can be a respectable gentleman of society,” I tease, but she just narrows her eyes at me seeing right through my bullshit.
“Why now, Darren? What’s changed?”
“Everything.” I kick at an innocent rock. “Fate and legacy have caught up to me. I can’t run anymore.” I peer at her, wondering what she’s thinking. “What am I going to do with my life? Because this isn’t working for me anymore,” I gesture to the house. “My parents aren’t coming back. It’s time I lived up to my potential, to take what’s mine.”
I take her hand and even through her glove, it burns through me.
“I want more, Evan.”
I leave Evangeline asleep in bed to start a pot of coffee. Thank God this house has a regular machine and not one of those fancy ones that only a barista would know how to use.
I woke up feeling better than I had in a decade, like a weight had been lifted off me, even though deciding to take the Bar should be more pressure than I could handle. It’s given me something to work towards, and I haven’t had that in a long time.
The deceiving blue sky causes me to step onto the deck where I smell the burned notes of a fire from a nearby chimney, along with pine needles and everything that says fall is coming to an end and winter is closing in fast – along with my balls shriveling up and trying to climb back inside my body to get away from the cold.
“Shit!”
It’s like participating in the polar plunge where people skinny dip in the middle of winter for reasons I can’t fathom. I shiver and curse, trying to think of why I was so stupid to come out here in the first place, when the front door bangs open. I turn around to see Alistair standing in the doorway where he drops his luggage, and his eyes drop to my flaccid cock.
“Well,” he heckles, pointing at me. “It doesn’t look like you’re happy to see me.”
“Jesus fuck, Alistair,” I move into the kitchen and grab a dish towel to cover myself. “I was just outside and it’s fucking cold.”
“Why are you here so early anyway? I said to come the day before Thanksgiving.”
“Have you been so busy fucking Evangeline – poor thing – to know what day it is?” He makes a tsk noise while trying to peer over the counter as I wave him away angrily. It dawns on me, today is the day before Thanksgiving. I palm my face, nearly dropping the towel.
Evangeline appears from the hallway with sleepy eyes, dressed in the long underwear that we picked up in town.
“Did I interrupt something?” she muses, looking at the dishtowel I’m holding in front of me and back at Alistair.
“No. Jesus,” I grumble.
From behind Alistair, Cleo appears, her leopard print bag hanging at her side. “Darren, now I know you didn’t invite me here for an orgy.” Her other hand is at her waist. “That costs extra,” she snickers with a wink.
“Oh my God!” Evangeline runs towards her. “What are you doing here?”
The timing may not be optimal, but the look on Evangeline’s face is worth standing here with a flaccid cock that may or may not have frostbite.
17
Where’s The Turkey?
Evangeline
“What do you mean we’re not having Thanksgiving dinner?” Alistair bellows in outrage. “Where’s the turkey? The sweet potatoes?”
Darren forgot to put in the order, and in this small town, no restaurants are open.
He holds up a silencing finger with the phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t think you understand. I can pay you anything,” Darren insists to the person on the other end. “Yes, I realize you’re not a magician and can’t make a turkey appear out of thin air.” He looks over at me rolling his eyes, but I can’t help finding the humor in the situation. “Can you call other grocers and find a turkey?” Darren demands, changing focus. He drops his head and pinches his forehead. “No, I don’t think you’re a turkey concierge.”
“Is there such a thing as a turkey concierge?” he whispers to me, and I shake my head.
Cleo’s shoulders shake with laughter, and I can’t help but join her.
“Why didn’t you just cook a turkey?” Alistair directs his question at me.
Cleo puts a hand on her hip, pressing her lips together and fighting to keep her words in.
“Does having ovaries automatically make me a Michelin chef?” I question, offended.
Alistair, seeing the error of his ways, shuts his mouth while Darren laughs, shoving his phone in his back pocket with a defeated huff.
“Trust me, even eggs and bacon are a stretch.” I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me by saying, “And before you get offended, I can barely use the espresso machine, so neither of us are in a position to cook a full-on turkey dinner, even if I were to go out in the woods and shoot one,” Darren consoles.
