Chapter 7. The Enemy of Advance

“My position?”

“Yes, sir, your position.”

“I hold no position. Well, none at present.”

“Mr Chairman, if the witness is not willing to cooperate then…”

“Oh, I am, I apologise. Please could you repeat the question? I am, I assure you, here to cooperate.”

“Ok then, let’s try again. Mr Speaker, if I might be afforded a little more time?” A nod, no objections from the distracted fools, handpicked cronies all.

“For the record, what was your position prior? I mean your purpose for being here presumably is because of your position, is it not?”

“Oh, oh, well yes, I see what you mean; and no, I am not being, well, coy.” 

He was frightened, as he should be.

“What I mean to say is that, well, I’ve come here to assist you, well, help as best I can with, well, what I know and what, well, I fear you believe may also come true.”

“Well, that is reassuring, so please, if you could share with the committee your position, or rather the role you held until recent… events, please, you have nothing to fear, this committee will ensure that your testimony remains privileged. This is after all a closed hearing, and a preliminary one at that. Please, if you might, just in your own… words.” Relaxed into the saddle, easing his steed gently, coaxing him, leading with the merest inflection of phrase, a paused word. Considering carefully how to modulate the appearance, to be seen to temper his manner. He would reign in his haste, maintain his composure, demonstrate his reasonableness. Yes, he would measure each inquiry, navigate a more curious line of questioning. Let no one subsequently allege that he was intemperate. ‘Tread carefully, Santi,’ he told himself; the technology lobby is powerful, its resources staggering; but their arrogance, their naïve obsession with progress had left them vulnerable, their Achilles heel exposed. The Asperger-Narcissists too distracted to appreciate this obscure committee, nor the existential threat it posed. Their vast resources were undoubtedly marshalling, but they had overstepped and the recent events had played conveniently into his agenda, which for so long had been considered marginal, even alarmist. That sneering entitlement that so many of his peers at Congress paraded so effortlessly was met by the junior Senator with a relentless work ethic that no-one could match. His carefully measured southern drawl, gentle demeanour and quick wit belied a savage purpose. Santiago Patrick Gates, or 'Santi' as he had finally capitulated to, had accepted that many things were simply not worth opposing. He accepted that nothing would come easily to him. He accepted that he would never be one of them. He accepted that he would need to work well beyond the early hours to stand a chance of realising his ambition. He accepted that his ambition would always require itself to remain hidden. He accepted that he could never let any of them, not even his nearest and most trusted, see his true face. He was a simulacrum, a version carefully manufactured by circumstance. Whilst he would never deny or make excuses for his all too ordinary antecedence, he would also never consider it to be anything but an obstacle. In this nation no-one really cared from where you came, but to where you might take them. Santi devoured briefing documents in quick succession, the way other members gorged themselves on extra helpings at fundraisers. He was restless but demure, the good worker, the dependable behind the scenes guy, never a threat, never seeking praise, careful always to tread just shy of the limelight. Finally, now at last, his carefully selected appointments had afforded him a moment to capitalise on the good will of his friends on both sides of the aisle, for he was that strangest of breeds: a friend to all. That did not mean that he was without any sort of credo; he was without doubt a product of the conservative promise, his doctrine was that anyone with enough will could elevate themselves to new heights. But he had learned how to temper himself, to shapeshift with each audience without seeming inconsistent or callous. To remain open-minded whilst robust in his fervour. Above all, Santi valued one quality as precious: to be underestimated. To be a shadow, a late consideration, a reliable backstop – the compromise candidate that would neither distinguish himself from his colleagues, nor bring shame upon those who grudgingly lent support. With so many who rose so high only to be extinguished within the ire of either their own hubris or the machinations of those believing themselves more worthy, he would slip through as a sloop in the shallows.

He was gratified that, as he eased into his second term, he had achieved that goal, for they all underestimated him. Even looked down on his strange Southern pedigree, the unsophisticated dog’s body, out of step with modern realities but such a hard, reliable worker. However, back home, Santi had become an awe-inspiring incarnation, beloved by his constituents; their reflection encapsulated within the easy homespun allegories that punctuated his every sermon. Santi had never forgotten that after all it was his faith, his church, and his willingness to accept his Saviour that had transformed his circumstance and propelled him to this moment. Of course, that realisation had been entirely unlike the mundane experience that so many had assumed was his saving. For deep within the most private of his buried thoughts was the truth, his truth, that he regretted none of his sins. Ironically, it was only as a function of these sins that he had painstakingly awoken to his potential. Those sins had helped him realise that no audience cared for anything but what they believed he could promise them. The realisation that he might effortlessly anticipate their most private needs through the simple application of a clairvoyant’s repose. He had broken the fall which had so nearly destroyed his career and remade himself in that new image. Unashamed, unapologetic, never failing to underestimate the value of his expert reading. Placing those words so carefully to his audience, then sitting back to await their impact. Reading the glimmers on faces, the shrugs and sighs, the wide eyes, and smiles. In innumerable ways beyond anything his peers might imagine, he would systematically shape himself according to their need.

But Santi also understood that great men and even greater deeds are only measured by historic change, and that such opportunities for change arrive fleetingly. Tides change when even for just an instant the momentum of what had come before seems to hesitate, to pause, revealing just enough space for something new to muscle its way through the chaos. To fill that pause mired in indecision with pure purpose. With all his being, he was certain that it was within a moment such as this that greatness was forged. Within this backwater committee, in this half empty assembly, history was to be written. Yes, his moment had come at last. He had obsessed over history, especially its heroes, real, imagined, half-mortal. The founding fathers and their successors,  who tore the country from its shackles in the pursuit of an absolute right. But most of all, the erasable half Western who for decades, and against both fashion and the tide of opinion, became the lone voice, a prophet of doom. It was his example above all others that inspired Santi, and whilst he could boast neither the constitution nor the eloquence of his hero from across the water, he was quite sure that he did at least share his prescience. Yes, he had been right about the menace of tyrany long before the subjugation and near extinction of God’s chosen people. He was in no doubt that God had sent the great man as a prophet, the embodiment of Christ, flawed but redeemed. The saviour of Europe, sent to restore Christendom to its historic right, that of delivering the world from the darkness. So why not he, at this moment and for this time?

It had not always been so clear, indeed for his first four decades the Senator had never quite felt his time would come. Despite his best efforts, working tirelessly with a diligent abandon that few others could match, he had never quite mastered the acceptance of his peers. Whilst his exemplary aptitude had propelled him through college, he was never the shining star, always confined to the role of understudy, the worthy mention. Following that all too brief career in law, he had ventured along the well-trod path, the diversion into local politics had felt like wading in honey. His adopted southern state still wary of carpetbaggers, despite the glow of his wife’s legacy. It was true to say that this awkward soul had warmed, if slowly, to what at first had seemed like an alien race peeled from the pages of frontier comics. His demeanour slipped too easily into a supercilious sneer, a habit not inclined to endear the ‘outsider’ with his core constituency of rural conservatives. For his part, Santiago Gates had grown exasperated at the response to even a hint of the sophistication for which he had fought so hard. Not to mention, the ever-haunting presence of the roguish father-in-law, wealthy beyond measure and gauche to a fault. Indeed, the man seemed to savour every one of “Santi’s little gaffes”, revelling in reminding his carefully selected son-in-law of his proper place. Indeed, Santi’s missteps, misdemeanours of style, tempered the man, hammering him into resolve, finding a fortitude within his personal struggle to receive adulation.

“What you have to learn,” he was apt to belt loudly at the most inopportune moments, “is that all your diplomas and other such stuff don’t count for shit with these rural folk, they just want a tough bastard who sticks it to the Capital elite, you know, good Christian values – none of this progressive nonsense you keep harping on about.” 

What he meant by ‘progressive” was Santi’s compulsive fixation on that singular topic which haunted him – the terrifying encroachment of technology. For whilst few had considered the issue in these parts of the country, Santi had become transfixed by the spectre; placing himself at the heart of what presently could only be considered the lunatic fringe. But he was not a lunatic and before any had even considered the opportunity, he had recognised his moment. As Churchill before him, Santi would remain resolute on that topic, whilst maintaining his steady ascent. He would never allow its message to disrupt his progress but likewise would never miss an opportunity to put his position to the test. Like an investor taking stakes in an inevitable future, Santi foresaw that from crisis would come opportunity and that in that crucial moment a frightened nation would discover its leader. Yes, when that day came, he would meet the moment with sombre humility.

“But Sir, with respect, you don’t realise how far this stuff could go, is already going. I mean before long, well, we won’t be able to control it. You talk freedom, well, how do you like the idea of some nameless tech oligarch leaving it to a computer to decide for you, cos it’s already happening, and you don’t even know it.”

“Oh, there you go again, Santi, please let up, you sound like a nut, nobody is listening! Look, maybe you should spend a little more time worrying about what’s really kicking folk to the ground, like those illegals who just seem to be able to walk right in without so much as a how-do-you-do?”

“Oh, you mean like Gustavo?”

“Now, hang on there, don’t you go lumping in good ole boys like Gus with all the other folk. He’s a naturalised United Western and a credit to his people. Why, I would take in the likes of him every day if I could.”

“Yeah, but only because you pulled a few strings there, it wasn’t that long ago that…”

With that, the exasperated man signalled his departure.

“Eveline, can you please talk some sense into this stubborn fool of a husband of yours, I’m done here. Peggy, we’re going home, I’m tired. Say goodnight to the boys from me, won’t you.” 

It was more through luck, or rather bad luck, than judgement that Santi’s pedestrian tenure in local politics suddenly took its unexpected turn. After another week of suffocating within the confines of local ordinances and planning policy, he had yearned for the anonymous comfort of the capital bars which he had so grown to savour. Instead, far from the refinement of the capital, it was to be the ramshackle bar that nestled astride an old, shuttered strip mall that would have to accommodate Santi’s occasional itch on that night. Having determined to steal an hour between his tedious duties at the statehouse and his even more insufferable moments feigning interest in the new-born twins who simply refused to find solace within his damp clutches. There was a waitress who sometimes worked nights there, he remembered her from a few months back, during his last campaign, that short tartan skirt and he liked how she’d served him. The girl had even seemed charmed by his manner. It occurred to him that perhaps this was her way with all the customers, flirting with tables for tips was a time honoured-tradition. But Santi didn’t much care that October night. As he settled into his worn chair at a corner table, his small drink set out just so beside the evening’s paperwork, he found himself drawn into her small talk. A shallow pleasure oozed from each disjointed moment between serving and clearing up and checking if he’d like something else. He enjoyed how easily she bent to his manner. With papers unread, he surprised himself by sharing more than was his custom, lowering that gate just a touch, just out of curiosity. 

It turned out that the pretty waitress was a little younger than he’d thought, early twenties with two sons at home in the care of her mother. And the father, or fathers, long since removed from the scene. 

“Is that your fancy wagon out there? What’s that, a GLS?”

“Afraid so,” he was simultaneously embarrassed and proud by his recognisable luxury brand car and had crafted a well-rehearsed comeback to the typical question. ‘No, it’s actually Western made,’ he would retort when folk lost for anything else to say would try to skewer the state senator. How surprised they were when he not only revealed that its heritage was every bit as Western as the next car, but that he was able to nimbly dance around the logic of supply chains and manufacturing lines to demonstrate how unpatriotic their own ‘made in the United West’ labelled pride and joy pickup truck truly was. By the end of the interaction, he revelled in having proven, with no room for argument, that black was white, up was down, and buying German was as Western as apple pie.

But the all too predictable question didn’t come, instead, she gave a slow nod, “Wow, that is some machine you got out there, what does that put out like, four hundred horsepower?”

After that he was as in a fugue state, floating almost ghost-like through the furtive conversation with the young waitress. In that moment, she was uncomplicated towards him, so easily impressed by even his smallest gesture, introducing herself momentarily with a small bow and an outstretched hand, “I’m Maryanne Kendrick, delighted to make your acquaintance, should I call you Mr. Senator or something?”

“No, Santi’s just fine.”

“Well, okay there, Santi,” This was harmless chatter, he was just making conversation with a member of his district, a fellow Westerner. He was learning about her situation, listening to her problems and there were so many of them. As the evening surrendered to night-time, the bar emptied, the mid-week slump on full display. Pretty soon, but for the other two staff, they were alone. She was propped halfway across his table, never venturing to sit, attentive, refilling his glass, clearing his setting. But chatting, always chatting, “I’m sorry I’m going on a bit I guess, but it’s not often that, well, I get a chance to tell someone so important, you know who really matters. I mean the way they treat us, it’s not right; I mean I don’t want no handout, but with the little one needing so much and her daddy long gone, well sometimes, you know...” she trailed off.

“Well, I do now, and I’m going to promise you something: that when I can, I’ll raise this somewhere somehow, I mean, I want to help you.”

“No, you don’t need to help me. I mean I’m lucky I got my parents around and they don’t mind much helping watch them, I think they kind of like it but you know, so many other girls, well, they don’t have many choices and then money gets tight and the next thing, well, I don’t want to say, but you got to do what you got to do and that just ain’t right.”

“I guess so,” he hesitated for a moment and then thought what the hell, there’s nothing wrong with it, “here, let me give you my card, so you can make sure I don’t forget.” But he couldn’t find one, damn where were those new cards he’d just had made. Never mind, he wrote his private number on the reverse of the paper place setting, then added his email address, the formal one, the government issued one; this was legitimate constituency outreach. He glanced at his watch and it was late; looking around, he only now noticed that most of the lights had been turned off. Closing time approached, but he wasn’t ready. Back home it would either be unbearably noisy or, worse still, terrifyingly quiet, the household in total lockdown to ensure the babies’ precious sleep remained uninterrupted. It was unbearable, he simply didn’t have even a corner to call his ownbetween the chaotic drab office that he shared, the standard issue for a lowly state senator, and the house which was in a permanent cycle of reset based exclusively around the babies’ needs. Well, he just wanted this uncomplicated connection to remain just a little while longer. Just an hour more maybe, but then she handed him the bill.

“Afraid I need to close out the register,”

“Oh, of course.” The bill was laughably small. He reached into his tailored slacks, a remnant of luxury from his heady days at the law firm, counting from the crisp fold of twenties, considering what might be proper. 

“Oh, that’s way too much, I can’t accept that.”

“Don’t be silly, I have to have been here for three hours, that’s the least I can do to thank you for your perspective. Anyway, I can bill it to the federal government, given I’m going to try and sort out this military benefits mess.” 

It turned out the baby’s daddy had been serving in one of the endless conflicts that the administration had decided to double down on rather than cut its losses. Unmarried and in dispute when he shipped off to his posting, something to do with another woman, and then, before he even got his feet wet, he’d been killed in a routine auto accident, the overloaded transport vehicle having fallen foul of the terrain and flipping over. Apparently, he’d suffered terribly before finally bleeding to death, just inches from the operating theatre at the base. He had been told that auto accidents still accounted as one of the deadliest enemies to a soldier, a fact unchanged since World War Two. But then the true battle began, their relationship unregistered with the authorities, a protracted paternity claim, DNA testing, one battle won before yet another hurdle, another hoop to jump through and all the while this sweet girl was raising two kids alone, like so many before her. It was just wrong. Whilst the benefits of a PFC killed in action wouldn’t be huge, they certainly would make all the difference, and he could stop thinking, isn’t this why he had wanted to go into politics in the first place, to help people? Knowing that so little of his work as an attorney held any meaning, he saw so many instances of how the government spent all its money in the wrong places. Wasting money with  despicable disregard whilst the country languished and good people’s spirits were slowly crushed. Their freedoms falling increasingly victim to the blind automaton clumsiness of a federal leviathan unrestrained. He suspected that the encroachment of technology, whilst transformative in so many ways, had done much to dehumanise the country he so loved; it was as if a slow coup were taking place in the guise of algorithms and network systems.

But here Santi could help. In the morning he would make a call to a buddy he had at the Pentagon, another lawyer, but one tasked with unpicking the military industrial complex’s relentless attempts to subvert Congress and its misguided attempts to get things done. Yeah, his buddy would know who to talk to, especially after he shared how cute she was - neither man was immune to such temptations but had only ever voiced their theoretical aspirations. Indeed, both were reassuringly chicken-shit shy and thoroughly pegged beneath the heel of their circumstances, it was all and always just talk. Yes, a call here, a pithy email there, perhaps a letter on his newly minted stationery and, no matter the merits, the matter would be swiftly and expediently resolved to his satisfaction. Anything less would simply be imprudent. 

“Look, take this,” he said, shoving the paper a little firmer than he had planned into her top pocket, inadvertently brushing her bosom, touching the hard nipple for an instant, recoiling with embarrassment, “oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

But she did not recoil despite being flushed, even aroused. Her body seemed to wilt gently toward his gaze. “Oh, don’t be silly.” And she returned his attention by touching his cheek, stroking it softly, just a moment, and it sent shudders through him. Now it was his turn to blush. She had such a sweet turn of phrase and a tiny body; it was all he could do to gather his papers and distract himself from his pounding attention. Her smell, everything about her, it was like a time machine back to his first hesitant but exhilarating missteps with his high school heartbreak.

“Well, you make sure you share the rest of those details… you know,” coughing now, gathering himself, escaping the danger, “I just need his service ID and the case reference and, well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you could email me a copy of the report, you know, the paternity stuff.” 

“Oh my goodness, that would be so wonderful, I mean, you really think.” She retrieved the note, unfurling it delicately. Smart girl, she wasn’t going to let the moment pass. 

“I can probably send that stuff to you right here.” And quick as a whip she was hitched back on the table tapping away at her handset, deciphering his scrawl, the ping of her cell phone an indication of the flurry of messages. He glanced down slightly, a glint of white panties sheathed between those skinny legs, the skirt awkwardly caught on the table. Her gentle smile was all the indication required even as she slowly corrected the wardrobe mishap. “Sent, Mr. Senator, or sorry Santi, over to you now.”

“Well, I can’t promise anything, you know, other than that I’ll give it a damn good try.” 

That was a lie, he knew it would work. It just wasn’t worth anyone’s time to object. Matters like this cost ten times in dispute, so the right word from the right person, which after all he was, well that would settle things. 

But, he ruminated, there would be no harm in milking his effort, just for a little while, just to see. 

“Well, that’s my shift done, you have a nice evening now. Wait there a second, I’ll walk you out to that fancy car.”

That was forward, she was not naive, this was no abuse of his position. He’d already made a promise he intended to keep. It was an unconditional commitment; this was something else. It was dangerous, but it made him feel giddy, he hardly had a moment to consider before, her coat now wrapped tightly around her tiny waist, she had hauled him out of his seat and taken his arm toward the exit. He turned awkwardly to ensure no papers were left behind and returned her touch, feeling her fingers around his arm, clutching them just lightly.

As the cool air met them, he wondered how this might all play out. He didn’t have to wonder long; she twirled away from him and smiled innocently, no trace of her worries, her struggle, her motherhood, just her smell of fresh laundry. Was she not as caught in this moment as he? 

Almost weightless, she gestured toward the gleaming car.

“Can I peek inside, I never seen one up close.”

“Here,” he gently forced the oh so carefully weighted fob of his prized Teutonic SUV into her slender palm, “you do it.”

“Are you kidding me?” she examined the fob; to her it was a precious object, it was a detail of luxury she hadn’t come close to before.

“You serious?” This was reckless, but what the hell, what harm was there, why not make the poor girl’s night, it wouldn’t cost him any, it was innocent. But he knew better of course and resisted once more the temptation to retreat, refusing to give in to this feeling, a sensation that had, for so long, been so absent within his choked existence.

“Here, use this to open it,” and that was it, she opened the driver’s side door, eschewed her tiny gate into the enormous vehicle and hopped into the seat, her hand clutching the soft leather of the wheel, her tiny bare knees barely reaching the edge.

“Here you’ll need to adjust,” he reached over to the seat controls, but her fingers were ahead of him, brushing him aside.

“You don’t need to show me, Senator, I got it,” and with that she gently pulled the door shut. The engine hummed into action even as she instinctively adjusted first her seat, then her mirror before moving the wheel itself - he hadn’t even realised you could do that. The window eased down. “Well, aren’t you going to get in?” Just as well, he thought, she could have so easily just driven off, but she wouldn’t have done that.

So, with a giddy and effusive energy from a simple favour exchanged, he was sitting beside her. Maryanne eased the vehicle away, driving with the care and expertise of a fighter pilot. The childish glee radiated from each end of her smile, with concentration and care, even as she turned into the empty road, easing the accelerator just so, tempering its power exquisitely, remaining perfectly within the speed limit. This girl, this hick from who knows where, drove with a gentle careful ease. 

“You know you could go a little faster if you like, I mean I think it’s pretty empty out here.”

“Oh no mister, this is just fine as it is, you just sit back and relax, I’m going to enjoy this.” Adjusting the mirror just a touch, glancing at him, “You need to get back anytime soon, I feel bad?”

“No, I have a little time, you enjoy. It’s nice to be a passenger.” And then she turned just slightly, smiled, her gaze never averting from its mission. But her hand drifted gently down, touching his leg, caressing him, even moving a little higher, her eyes still fixed to the road, but the hand drifting inexorably higher, meeting his thigh as he relaxed and opened his legs just slightly, indication enough of his surrender.

He gazed fascinated by her; in this moment he would do anything for her, he would betray them all, it was such a risk, so reckless. But before such sweet temptation, how could he stop himself? The words blurted out: “I’m married you know; I mean I’m happily married you know, I don’t really… do this sort of thing.”

“I know, I know. It’s okay, I understand how it is.” Her words were all the empty reassurance required to permit his hand to return her gesture, touching her thigh, now feeling its warmth, her legs simultaneously closing in well-rehearsed impulse before twisting just enough to welcome his further exploration. Maryanne still driving, even as his hand moved clumsily, his fingers drifting toward the white cotton that he had glimpsed momentarily before. Touching it now oh so gently, the vehicle making a turn off the highway now, driving down a side road toward the unlit rear parking of the abandoned hardware store. Had she made this journey before? It was of no concern. As the car eased to a stop, all he could do was drift further, desperate to satisfy his curiosity, feeling the smooth damp tendrils, slipping aside the cotton to touch her, to make contact, only now conscious of her own hand, freed now from the drive, reaching along his crotch, teasing his arousal into a frenzy. “Now, Mr Senator, how far back do these fancy seats go?” She was astride him now, the vehicle slumbering in part. Her tiny thighs gripped around his waist even as her hand reached for the seat controls, adjusting it until it reclined fully. Her mouth, those sweet tiny lips, hovered over Santi’s anxious features, uncertain of himself, nerves quelled with the sweet taste that came, lip balm, kissing him now. Her mouth opening, he hesitantly responded, tongues touching in frenzy, holding her tiny body closer still, even as her dress seemed to evaporate around her; revealing her slim features, a frilly bra and those white panties that now began their descent to reveal her smoothness, writhing now. She reached across to push at the console, a whoosh of hot air spread through the dim interior. “That’s a little more comfortable, wouldn’t you say?” And then she descended, stripping his pants, taking him in her pleasure, joining him in a moment of escape, the two gasping with momentary release, a temporary hold, a lovers embrace, sticky and warm.

As the two fumbled with their respective decency, him awkwardly pulling up his slacks, clumsily fastening the belt his wife had bought him last Christmas, the girl slipped back effortlessly into those curiously coloured lace panties, hitching the tiny dress over that waifish physique. He wondered how long the pause might be before it would be time to skulk back in shame, the engine still humming, anticipating escape. Perhaps, he reflected, long enough for her to reapply the lipstick she’d pulled from the same small purse, the one she’d so easily retrieved protection from, muscle memory, effortless. As the ripples of shame encroached finally, the release transformed almost instantly to fear: what recklessness, what folly, what a fool! But her manner, her gentle caress effected a disarming reproach. “Don’t worry, I know you’re married, and I don't want nothing. We just kept each other company tonight, that's all.” He wanted to trust her but of course he knew he could not.

What a careless mistake, a horrible lapse, thoughts raced, a ruinous descent. He had remained so disciplined, held it together for so long and now this. It was all, everything, this house of cards, so dependent on one simple rule of discipline, one he’d so carefully observed until this madness. The upstanding icon undone in a single night of foolish, selfish stupidity. No-one would forgive this betrayal, neither the twins at home nor the dutiful wife. But then the girl touched his arm and kissed it gently. “Don’t you worry, I’m not some stupid little girl who's going to make trouble where it has no place, don’t you go hurting nice people for no good, this is between us, okay.”

Relief, like a warm shower, spread throughout his torso. Her touch was like honey as the delicate hand slipped down toward his crotch once more. Surprised, he let out a yelp of anticipation as he realised that whilst his mind was scattered in every direction, his body had returned to this moment and was making clear its readiness once more.

 “Now, what do we have here, Mr Senator? We can’t rightly let you go home like that now, can we? You just sit back and let me handle this situation.” As she nestled in his lap, her fingers delicately undid his fumbled redress. Her mouth felt warm and he afforded himself this momentary retreat into the reckless abandon, a supplicant to her gentle caress. Her years of growing up in rural Deep West had schooled her well in such vehicular tristes, a technique perfected to retain her prized place beside a demigod within a small world. The high school football team, who owned the attention of those naïve girls, their reflected glory a precious currency. Unimaginable how brief their small celebrity would remain. Forever chasing its wilting memory. She had spent many evenings just like this one, putting out, providing comfort in some strange act of duty to boys too immature to appreciate the nature of her touch.

But at his conclusion, with Santi anxiously returned to driver’s seat and the girl spread out in the passenger seat, she fished into that small bag, removed a face wipe, and ensured that no trace of her lipstick remained. “Well not to be rude or nothing, but I had better get home before I’m missed.”

“Oh, of course,” and with that he pushed the gear back into drive, 

“You sure you’ll be okay getting home.?” 

“Don’t be crazy.”

“Well okay,” this time he drove, carefully, reflecting on how much he’d had to drink before. He did the calculation; there was nothing to worry about, between the food and the time passed he would be well within the limit even if he was stopped. And then she spoke, out of the blue, almost as if destiny had gripped her, placed her in this moment and spoken its wisdom through this forgotten girl.

“Can I tell you something, I mean it was bothering me and I just wanted to say something you know, about how you carry on and all that?”

“Sure, of course.” He was turning into the car park and it looked like they were alone, the lights to the bar dimmed, the lot reassuringly empty but for one old car. Now they were parked adjacent to the tattered car within the dark of the store front, an old Buick or perhaps a Camry, it was of no consequence.

“You’re too, well, you don’t need to be so careful all the time, so apologetic and all that. I mean we all know you’re some big shot attorney and all that, we all think it’s nice for a change to have of them on our side, you know, and the car, well I don’t think no-one gives a flying fuck where it came from, they just wish they could pay for one too. I mean that’s all, just don’t be too shy, we don’t like that around here.” And then a small kiss upon his cheek and she was gone. He paused momentarily, watching her start the car, seeing her reel away, noticing her little gesture. He thought about what she said. Perhaps she was right; nothing could be worse than this current slow decline into who knew where. With the kids just arrived, he couldn’t just pack it all in and return to the firm, that wasn’t the deal. 

He’d imagined it to be so much easier, an enviable stint in law, marrying into the right family, serving without complaint in local affairs; but the family’s seat at Congress had remained stubbornly occupied, the promised retirement of the beloved Senator seeming as far from reality as ever. As he put the SUV into gear, he knew what would need to be done; there could be no further delay.

Santi sped back home, racing to return, lest anyone peel away the missing hours. But, to his relief (or even slight disappointment?) his return went almost unnoticed. His wife was passed out in the bedroom, curled awkwardly in the nursing chair. Both children perched in a tenuous sleep within their identical cribs. Santi slipped out into the bathroom, careful to examine the clothes, his suit of shame, scrutinising it beneath the harsh light, but finding no evidence of his indiscretion - no hairs or lipstick, no stain from their contact. A spray of cologne would suffice to mask any trace of his memory. But then he hesitated, hoping perhaps to collect a small fragment of her scent, the heady mix of foundation and flowery antiperspirant. His mind filled with the urgent frisson of anticipation, the boyish fear of rejection before the heady, the wonderful release of welcome invitation into her gentle, uncomplicated embrace. 

The next morning surprised him. Whilst at breakfast, he felt arrested by the strange absence of guilt. Surprised that no trace of shame lingered, the shroud of deep sleep having washed away all, save for a feint frisson of giddy ecstasy. He had indeed slept soundly; his wife, perhaps sensing his quiet distress, had conspired with the nanny to leave him in peace. Indeed, he had woken later than in years, rested from his epiphany, roused at the bustle and scent that heralded rescue by the nanny. The quiet Guatemalan returned from her short absence to vanquish the mess and prepare breakfast for the young family. In his half dream-like state, with eyes closed, Santi matched the muffled sounds, imagining the small woman’s actions, with laundry loaded, surfaces cleared, clean crockery restored, glasses laid out, then the hiss of the griddle, the whir of the blender. What relief there would be from the kitchen being clean in that fleeting instant. Feeling a clarity that had for so long eluded him, a decision made, a determined capitulation to her father’s will, a tactical retreat to allow him to grow in strength: they would after all accept the trappings that only wealth knows. 

“Well, there’s our little sleepy head, say hi to daddy.” The twins didn’t notice his return even as they clawed and shrieked for attention.

“Oh, I am so sorry Darling, I don’t know what got into me, guess I needed to catch up.”

“Don’t be silly, you needed it, the both of us don’t need to go around like zombies. See, Cora fixed you something real to eat.”

“Yeah, about that,” no time like the present he thought, taking his seat to the smell of clean surfaces and warm coffee, “I don’t just wonder if I haven’t been a little bit pig headed with my, you know, refusing you a little more help.”

“You really mean that? I mean you’ve been so positive, but it’s been  hard, if you’re sure though…”

She was, after all, always the more astute politician. Santi wondered if she had contrived this all along, knowing that he would blink first. It was of no consequence, who cared about pride, let her enjoy this victory. Would he not be the principal beneficiary? Accepting his in-laws’ support would not mean his losing power, for he had provided them with grandchildren; his position was safe. He found a quiet power rising, safe in the knowledge that he could restore his calm, take back his agency. With guilt nowhere present, Santi was instead infused with the urge to place doubt to one side. 

So this is how it is done, he mused, perhaps his indiscretion was after all a necessity for his own sanity. Suddenly a strange logic entered his calculation. He hadn’t felt so alive in years; he felt certain his wife would remain oblivious to his night of indiscretion, he reassured himself that the girl’s words were reliable. In any event, no-one had seen them leave together. Would he again reach out to her? Of course not, the risk was too great, nor would he do anything that might reveal his actions. The call would not be made, her email would remain carefully unread, lost deep within the forgotten deluge. 

And so, the weekend would herald a long-anticipated holiday at his father-in-law’s other ranch. Quite why he needed two was still a mystery. Santi’s wife, eager to return to the comfort of her upbringing, was scheduled to remain ‘back home’ for the long weekend. Santi would return to the city on Sunday, in good time to prepare the vote on the ordinance that he’d been carefully stewarding. Neither he, nor his patron, were under any illusions around the significance of the vote, its consequence would ensure that the family’s carefully accumulated holdings in a backwater county would overnight become prized real estate. The state senator had dutifully plotted the ordinance on behalf of his benefactor, who was after all the grandfather of his children. The oblique legislation had been deftly drafted; a magnificent prism, indecipherable in its purpose by that undereducated faculty within which he currently counted as but a single voice. But the value of the ordinance was staggering, with one obscure vote the value of the land held within a series of holding companies and trusts would quadruple and within ten years, was set to form some of the most valuable real estate within the region. With this one act, Santi would permanently ensure that any ambitions that he might wish to pursue would be appropriately supported. That niggling holdout, who had for too long prevented his ascendance and so delayed his return to the capital, would be swiftly dealt with. Whilst no promises had been explicitly made, there was no doubt in his mind of the power this legislation would afford him.

Awaking early that Sunday morning, he would meander his way down to the magnificent dining area that overlooked the private golf course which served as the grounds to the family’s other ranch. How far he had come, reviewing the magnificent lake that graced the distance of their breakfast room?

Edited by Kathy Pelich

© Daniel Zeff 2023 All Rights Reserved