Yield (4 page)

Grudgingly, she gets off the bike, eying the windows for any signs of motion. Her boyfriend
’
s hand shoots up to find hers when she turns without the usual farewell.

Haley laughs. He pulls her back to him, pushing his mouth up to hers.
“
Don
’
t start that again,
”
she says.
“
My parents are going to be up soon.
”

“
Don
’
t go yet,
”
he pleads. Just like they always do. Haley pushes her toned body into him, rubbing it suggestively over his torn jeans and Metallica t-shirt. Her hands move slowly up his leg, her supple lips leaning close. Suddenly, she pecks his cheek and steps back, smiling wickedly.

“
God, I hate it when you do that,
”
he breathes out. He adjusts his stance to take the pressure off his curiously tighter jeans.

“
Oh, I know,
”
Haley grins, batting her alluring blue eyes back at him. Their fingers slide reluctantly away from one another.

Haley
’
s attention darts up to the blinds on one of the upstairs windows. Her stomach sinks. Silhouetted fingers pry them open. Haley turns and blows her boyfriend a quick kiss. Moving backward up the side walkway, her feet drag towards reality and away from the happiness of last night.

Haley pauses for just a moment to wave then takes a timid step back into captivity. The 15-year-old watches out the window as her boyfriend pushes his motorcycle up the street. He fires up the Japanese engine with a high-pitched whine before roaring away to freedom.

*  *  *

Katherine Bane flips the flat-panel television on in her picturesque kitchen to Fox News and the start of another Monday routine. Mid-thirties, with a natural beauty that could still stop men in their tracks even without makeup, Katherine angrily sets down the remote. She heads for the coffee pot in her tight American Eagle tank top and navy blue sweatpants, tying her chin-length blond hair back into a bun. The mother of two pushes several wooden blinds aside and glares out the front window. An escaping rumble from a motorcycle somewhere down the street rattles the copper-bottomed pans hanging from her island
’
s iron ceiling rack.

Hearing the side door faintly squeak, Katherine turns. Her maternal eyes are filled with a mixture of criticism and disappointment. She sees her daughter
’
s pink streaks sneak past the kitchen doorway, moving out of sight with a silent grace.

Katherine sighs. She sets her coffee cup down on the granite counter. The deep greens of her hazel eyes flicker while she stares into the speckled surface. The new rebellious life her daughter leads and the growing secrecy of recent weeks fire like an alarm in her soul.

Years of conditioning and naivety begin reasoning the fear away with her usual trust of Haley
’
s judgment. Happy memories soon replace doubts with a disbelief that her kids could ever stray too far from the example she has set. Finally, the desire to remain her daughter
’
s part-time confidante overpowers the warning signs of her mothering instincts.

Katherine
’
s eyes again turn to the distracting comfort of the television.

“
Over the weekend,
”
a news anchor says over video of squabbling politicians,
“
disarmament talks again broke down at the U.N. security council. Delegates from Russia and China declined to comment on the impasse. This is the fourth meeting by nuclear nations without an accepted resolution
…
”

7:05 A.M. - SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

The sky above Seattle continues to let loose. Long streaks of rain flow like splintered tears down the windows of the Space Needle. The giant skyscraper reaches resolutely up into the clouds, its metal spire devoured by the fog. A breeze catches the flags of foreign nations hanging limply in front of Seattle
’
s World Trade building. The busy sidewalk beside its vaulted glass entryway pulses with purpose and life. Just above, the dull roar of a distant airplane traces across the sky, peeking in and out from behind pockets of thick gray.

“
…
Secretary of Defense Bryan Rose was in the Middle East speaking with troops at the time and was unable to attend the summit. The U.S. ambassador to the U.N. released a harsh statement earlier today criticizing the process, saying, quote,
‘
I have severe doubts about the future of the U.N. and have come to expect very little from its decision-making ability.
’
End quote.
”

The stark black and red CNN graphics shine brightly from the 60
”
LCD on the wall of Jonathon Thomas
’
s 32nd-floor studio. This morning
’
s
Seattle Times
lies crisply folded upon a lavish, black-marble table across the room. The paper is creased open to the
International
section.

Bathed in the TV
’
s flickering light, the broad-shouldered black man pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. The silver-rimmed, slim rectangles make his face seem wider than it really is, and softer somehow. It definitely feels softer than it used to be. He kept himself in peak shape for years, but the stress of life
’
s dark little surprises has finally taken its toll. And he knew it.

He sips a cup of freshly ground French Roast, delicately for a man of his size, like even unconsciously he
’
s trying to fight the stereotypes. Too black to be a corporate executive. Acting too white to get there. He
’
s heard a lot over the years.

The peppered gray in his tightly cut hair betrays his stress more than his age. The 44-year-old leans back on his dark leather sofa, enjoying few other moments of relaxation in his otherwise over-scheduled life. Jonathon
’
s critical eyes glance back up to the rain moving diagonally past. Wind whistles just beyond the glass. It angles the drops into the tall panes, hiding his metropolis with a wavering veil.

Noticing the paper sitting slightly askew, Jonathon reaches forward compulsively. A small coffee drip on the coaster also catches his attention before it can roll onto his immaculate marble table. Satisfying inspection, he looks back up to the TV.

“
The Administration has scheduled another Primetime speech by the President tonight,
”
a CNN correspondent says.
“
He will address some of the recent criticisms on the failing economy, as well as his foreign policy changes.
”
News b-roll from countless other White House press briefings cuts on. The concentric circles surrounding the podium
’
s Presidential Seal look slightly tarnished. Normally bright gold in color, they seem almost bronze. Faded.

The screen
’
s changing glow creates unsteady shadows behind Jonathon
’
s 6
’
4
”
frame. Only a handful of deceptively happy family photos adorn his otherwise bare walls. Little dust is allowed to cling to their brushed metal frames. The colorless decor echoes the overcast sky always outside his columns of glass.

“
The President
’
s sagging approval numbers and a struggling economy continue to put him down in the latest polls. Opponents in the House and Senate are stepping up their attacks, refusing to support any of his key initiatives. What can the President do to rebuild his credibility? Send us an email and let us know what you think
…
”

*  *  *

Tracy Thomas backs out of the driveway in her red Porsche Boxster, stomping a high-heeled foot onto the accelerator. A new miniskirt and deeply-cut pink blouse show off the attractive black woman
’
s recently available assets. The Washington vanity plate bolted to the tail of the German sports car reads: WAS HIS.

“
…
The President is also expected to criticize Russian and Chinese leaders on their lack of support for U.N. action against Iran and North Korea
’
s expanding nuclear programs
…
”

Tracy turns the
satellite
radio down with one manicured hand, using her left knee to steady the steering wheel. Her eyes dart back and forth between the road and the scrolling contacts on her phone. Preparing herself for another conversational descent into Dante
’
s hell, she pins the phone between her right ear and shoulder. Tracy downshifts and guns it to get around a struggling Prius.

“
Good morning, Jonathon,
”
she says. Her voice rises and falls with feigned happiness just to piss him off.
How
’
s that taste for breakfast?

The Prius driver lays on his horn as she passes. He complements it with a singularly universal gesture of anger when she cuts into his lane, slams on the brakes and turns right.

*  *  *

“
It was,
”
Jonathon sighs. The UNAVAILABLE listing on his caller ID should have said just the opposite. He closes the newspaper carefully and runs one finger along its edge. His stomach flutters.

“
Try to be civil,
”
Tracy says.

“
Right. Because that worked so well for us in the past.
”
He shakes his head, hearing the honking of some other soul unlucky enough to cross paths with his soon-to-be ex-wife.
“
Ever wonder how many accidents are caused by people talking on their phones while driving, Trace?
”

“
Not even once.
”

“
Three hundred and thirty thousand,
”
he answers without hesitation.
“
Every year.
”

“
That
’
s great, Jon,
”
she says. Her sarcastically soothing lilt is like a weary mother trying to spoon-feed complexity to a child.
“
My day just wouldn
’
t have been the same without hearing that little pearl of knowledge. You were always so much fun at parties.
”

She flips off a new obstruction, slamming the stick into second gear and swerving around.
“
Well, answer me this. How many stubborn dickheads die during divorce proceedings because they refuse to sign the paperwork?
”

Jonathon
’
s eyes flash. His jaw clenches so tight his teeth pop. He slams down the coffee cup and switches the phone to the other ear for a countering volley.
“
That pro-feminine, hate anyone with a penis crap might work with your clients,
”
he barks.
“
But I don
’
t give a shit what you want anymore. I am not on your schedule, Tracy. So, don
’
t you dare tell me what I should or should not do. I said I
’
ll get to it, now back off.
”

“
Like you got to spending more time at home?!
”
she yells. Civility quickly recedes behind her like the cars zooming past.
“
Or got around to seeing Chris play? Please,
”
Tracy scoffs. She angrily checks her mirrors, wondering why she thought this phone call would be any different than all the others.
“
You checked out a long time ago, Jon. I just made it official.
”

“
Well, as much as I love these little trips down memory lane, I
’
d rather not start the week off wishing I was gay,
”
Jonathon says. He glances down at the gold and silver Rolex on his wrist. Every second ticking by is like the lash of a whip.
“
Look, I
’
ll finish up with my lawyer this morning if it means the end of these calls.
”
He drops the phone to his side, muffling it against his leg.
“
Jesus, woman!
”

She smiles at the small victory before tempering her next words.
“
I didn
’
t count on you when we were married, Jonathon. So you
’
ll have to forgive me for not squealing with delight now.
”