Running Dry (22 page)

              "Is this how you enjoy your nights off?" I ask.

              "This," she gestures to the space between us, "isn’t exactly what I had in mind."

              "Right, well…"

              "Have you ever wondered," she interrupts, "what life would be like if everyone drank this stuff all the time instead of boring old water?  Way, way more fun, I think."  She drinks down the remains of her glass.

              "And blurry," I add.

              "Ugh.  You're like talking to my dad."  She burps. "Why don't you read me some of what you're writing in that book of yours."  I see her eyes move to my open journal on the table between us.  She reaches for it, but I snatch it up first and close it.

"Not tonight, Harlow."

She frowns again. "This party is a bit of a drag.  I suppose there's no chance I'm gonna get that shirt off again, huh?"

I shake my head.  "Would you like me to walk you home?"

"No!  You already do enough walking next to me.  That is so dull."  She stands up and

wobbles on her legs. 

I move to catch her and lay her back down on the couch.  She closes her eyes.  I pull the blanket off the window and put it over her.  Turning of the light, I take my journal and head to my own bed.

One week later, on my next day off, I'm sitting at my kitchen table, having breakfast, when a note is slid under my door.  Still in my robe I get up and quickly and open the apartment door. Looking both ways down the hall, I see nothing and no one.  I take the note to the table and sit back down.  As I finish eating, I unfold and read it.               

There is an access code, a tunnel number and a map, not unlike all of the notes I've gotten about Resistance meetings, except this is an invitation to meet my father for lunch, in just a few hours.  I feel a gross eeriness that for some reason my dad knows my schedule somehow, is aware this is my day off.  Otherwise this meetup would not be possible.  

On my way there, I rehearse my speech a few more times, just like I used to when I was younger, only the words have changed significantly since then.  There is a big part of me that wants to explode with anger, but another part that wants to hear the man out.  Yet what good reason can he have for abandoning his wife and kids?  There just isn't one.  I've tried to prepare myself for all of his excuses: he got messed in the head from the war, he wasn't fit to care for us, he didn't deserve us.  Those aren't gonna do it for me.  He better have something better than that.

              When I exit the tunnel, the daylight hits me.  I expected to be concealed within some trees or a building, but I'm standing in the middle of a long, narrow dirt road.  There are crumbling buildings on both sides of it and not a soul in sight.  Dust and dirt is flying around as I pull out the map.  I'm obviously in No Man's Land, but I hadn't realized it was gonna look about the same as North Sacto, except empty. 

              I get my bearings and start making my way toward the designated location.  At the last minute, I had decided to bring my gun.  Now, I tuck my t-shirt into my pants so the holster is visible.   Though the place looks deserted, something tells me it's not.  Walking alone in daylight like this feels like a bad idea, and my skin pricks with the feeling of being exposed.  Funny how much I've gotten used to being in the dark. 

              Eventually, and without incident, I spot the place I'm looking for: a small stand alone shack that kinda reminds me of one of the tattoo parlors I frequented in Sacto.  I almost expect to find a bunch of dudes with mohawks and ink guns waiting when I step inside.  Instead, there's a small table with a white, ornate tablecloth covering it, two plates set, two wooden chairs at it.  My father is seated in one of them with a cup of tea in his hand.  The room is mostly dark, lit only by a few candles flickering from a ledge near the boarded up window.    

              "Hello, son.  Please sit."  He looks up from his tea briefly.

              "Allen," I say, coarsely.  He doesn't react, but I still chalk it up as one for my team.

              "Tea?"

              I nod and watch him as he pours it from a kettle nearby.  He has some serious bags under his eyes, and his hands aren't too steady.

              "Where do you get the water?" I ask.

              "Same place as you.  The river."

              "What is this place?  You live here?"

              "Yes."

              "Nice."

              "Listen," he says finally.  "I have waited a long time to explain things to you."

              "I'll say."

              "Damn it, Zane!" he yells.  "Just cut the snark and let me talk, please."

              "Fine."

              "I left for you.  And your brother."

              I want to take my turn yelling now, but I promised I'd hear him out, so I just stiffen and look at him hard. 

              "After I was discharged, I knew I wanted nothing more than to work toward ending the war, so you boys would never have to fight.  So I started the Resistance."

              "
You
started the Resistance?"

              "Yes."

              "And you couldn't do it inside?"

              "I couldn't put you kids and your mother at risk."

              "So instead you left us.  Her."  I swallow.

              "Your mom knows, Zane.  She agreed that it was for the best.  You might not understand.  You don't have kids yet."  I think for a moment of Fulton and his little Charlotte, and, even though he's right: I don't understand, but I do feel something.  I see him twisting something on his finger nervously.  It's his wedding band.  "Your mother and I still love each other."

              "Bullshit!"  I don't believe this for a second.  He's lying, I'm sure of it.

              "I can show you notes she and I have sent back and forth to prove it."  He gets up and moves toward an old dresser.

              "No.  I think I'll just ask her myself," I say and he stops and turns back.

"Good idea."  He comes back and sits down.

"What is it you want from me?" I ask.

"I just wanted you to understand.  I do love you.  I loved your brother and I love your mother.  Just because I'm not with you doesn't mean I don't care."

I stay silent and take in his words. 

"What do you want from me?" he says.

It's a good question.  I know the answer.  "I just want you to say you're sorry, for leaving us."

"I am sorry.  I didn't want to leave, but I did what I thought I had to do, what I thought was best for my family."

He goes over to an old wood burning stove and takes a pan off of it.  "Will you stay and have lunch with me?"

              My head is so twisted, I can barely think straight.  I need more time to ask questions, so I nod.  He brings the pan over and scoops something onto each plate. 

              "What is this?" I ask because I've never seen anything like it.

              "Food.  Real food.  I've got beans and some bread.  Try it.  It's good."

              "Okay.  Where does it come from?"

              "Some foraged, some grown."

              I don't know what that means but I don't ask further.  That's not what I came here to find out.

              "So, let me get this straight," I say after he sits back down and starts eating.  "You left your family to make things better for them by starting an underground organization and then your oldest son gets killed because he joins said organization.  Ironic, right?"

              He shakes his head, "Life isn't perfect, Zane.  Or easy.  I thought I'd be able to change things before you two were old enough to fight.  I tried to talk Zander out of going into combat, but he didn't listen to me.  He was stubborn and angry, just like you are.  Until he actually started fighting; then he saw, understood.  He came to me and wanted to join up.  Things obviously didn't go as planned."

              "So, Zander knew about you?  Mom knows about you.  I'm the only idiot who had to accidently bump into you."

              "I was trying to keep you safe!  You are the only one I knew I didn't need to convince.  You're like me." 

"I wouldn't know it.  I don't know what you're like," I say.

He shakes his head and puts his hands to his temples.  "You think any of this is easy?  I've made mistakes, yes.  I tried the best I could.  It didn't turn out as I would have liked, that's true..."  His voice trails off and he looks like he might start crying, but he just goes quiet instead.   

              "I don't know what to say.”  I feel like I need to comfort him suddenly.  He is either a master manipulator or he has won me over.  “You did succeed, in some ways.  I mean with the Resistance.  It's very impressive.  I was happy to find people who think like me.  Turns out, it's because the creator of it shares my DNA."   

              "Zander told me you had strong anti-war opinions, even at a young age.  I was always so proud of you for that," he says. 

             
Chapter 29

Bekka

I arrive before Jameson this time.  I sit in the big empty warehouse alone with my thoughts.  My knees are shaking and I feel like I'm going to be sick.  I have no idea what to expect.  When I finally see his shadow cast along the entryway, I take a deep breath and can't wait till this is all over. 

              "Tyler."

              "Yes.  It's me."

              He comes closer and stands directly in front of me.  I see he's armed; a gun's holstered to his waist.  I hadn't noticed that the last time, though I suppose it's possible I just missed it.  Looking down over me, he says, "Let's go on the roof.  It's a nice night."  He extends his arm to help pull me up.

              "Okay."

              I follow him into the hall where we enter the stairwell and climb up.  Once on the roof, Jameson walks to the far side and collapses near the edge, facing out toward the city lights, letting his legs hang down over the side, with at least six stories below him. I sit next to him and tuck my legs safely underneath me, instead of having them hang over the edge.  I don't like heights.

              "So, how's the job?"

              "It's fine."

              "Getting to know people?"

              "As much as I can.  I'm mostly stuck behind a conveyor belt, packing boxes."

              "Give me a couple of names."  This guy doesn't beat around the bush.

              "What?"

              "People you are studying."

              "At the factory?"  I panic.  I try to think of the names of people who work there.  I can't think of any that I want to tell him.  "They are all good, hardworking people," I say quietly.

              "Okay," he says.  He takes a bottle out of his bag.  It's glass and wrapped with brown paper.  He drinks and offers it to me.  I'm hoping this means we're finished with the topic.

              "No, thanks."  My voice is shaking.

              "So, if you don't have any names for me, I've got one for you.  Your first case.  Frankie Donavon."

              "Frankie?"

              "You know her?"

              I nod.

              "Good.  I want detailed info on her for our next meeting.  Where she lives, where she goes, who with, what time."

              "Why?" 

              "We believe she's involved in some subversive activity."

              "What happens if I can't?"

              "Can't?"

              "I don't know.  It's harder than I thought it would be.  I don't think I can do this."  Not only is my voice shaking now, but my entire body is too.  "I want to talk to Dean Asbury.  Can you set up a meeting for me?"

              "Ty," he says, attacking the bottle again.  "Can I give you a couple of pointers?"

              "Okay."

              "Just get me the information.  I don't care if this girl is your friend.  Hell, if she was your mother, you'd still be required to do it.  Got it?"

              "I don't know..." I sputter.

              "Sure you do."  He finishes his drink and lets the bottle drop dramatically in front of him.  A second later, it crashes on the walk several stories below.  "Or you and I will both end up a lot like that bottle."

              "What?  I..." At this point I look down and want to vomit over the edge.  Instead I begin to cry.  I don't want to do this in front of him, but the harder I try to stop, the stronger it comes out.  Jameson scoots closer to me and wraps his arm around my waist.  When I react by backing away, he pulls me hard toward him.  He grabs my outside arm and twists my body so it's in line with his.  He is strong and all I can think about is the bottle shattering on the ground, as I feel the edge of the rooftop with my thigh.  I stop resisting.