The senator slurps his coffee as if the time might run out right there in our kitchen if he doesn’t get the words out fast enough. My parents are rapt. I’m burning at the idea that I’m the child they’re talking about, so I miss a lot of what he says about which senators are cosponsoring and how he anticipates each delegate will vote.
“As you might expect they’ve added a few conditions.” He laughs but forges ahead. “The child has to be ‘mature’ and the illness has to be life-threatening. Of course we can’t be sure that’ll be the final language.” He continues with the committee assignments, who’s already committed to the bill, who’s on the fence. Some of the names are familiar from the six o’clock news, but people’s voting records are not high on my list of interesting facts. Senator Yowell seems to characterize every other politician by their votes on certain issues, half of which I’ve never heard of before. Mom and Dad are still nodding.
I lose track of the discussion when Mom begins her litany of questions about how it relates to the abuse and neglect statute that gave rise to their conviction. What makes her think the Senator cares about the neglect conviction? Why is he buddy-buddy all of a sudden with my parents who will never be campaign contributors of any substantial sum? The Landon family finances must rank right up there on the gossip scale with The Disease. Their voices drone on as I search my brain for movies or TV shows about political intrigues that might explain Senator Yowell’s sudden interest in such insignificant matters when he has much bigger responsibilities, like the legislative agenda of a state.
Holden would take definite issue with the Senator’s sincerity. Shades of Pencey and the old guy who donated sacks of money to the school so they would name a dorm after him. Old Ossenburger and his hotshot view of himself. I wished I had Holden’s friend Marsalla to lay one out right here—poot or burp, whatever—just to put things in perspective. In spite of all his big words and fancy phrases, I’d lay money the Senator has no idea what the whole extent of my options are exactly. I’m not sure myself. He has to have some reason for wanting this law changed. For a slick minute I wonder if Leonard is sick too. Maybe the stupid river water is poisoning us all. But even I can see that’s crazy, Invasion of the Body Snatchers–type garbage.
Without noticing he’s lost me, the Senator presses on, eager to persuade, what he does best after all. “If the Health and Human Services committee passes it, it’ll go to the floor next week, maybe Tuesday. The same language would need to be approved by the Senate committee and then the Senate itself before the end of the week. I’ve been talking it up.”
Mom’s eyes are glistening, but Senator Yowell is orating.
“I think, with a little arm twisting, I can get the votes. The Christian right loves it. The Republicans love it because it takes power away from the state and gives it back to the individual, to families. If we can just get enough votes to get it passed.”
What Senator Yowell is saying basically is that he’s trying in seven days to change a law that’s been in effect for years, centuries probably. I’m barely sixteen, but even I can see that’s pretty optimistic. Everyone’s always talking about how old-fashioned Virginia is.
I can tell from Mom’s face that she wants to believe him. But the past six months have made it hard for her to believe in anything. Still she doesn’t argue back.
Dad looks lost. “It sounds… complicated, Paul. And… isn’t it too late for us? I mean, not Daniel, but with the judge and our conviction.”
“Oh, no.” Senator Yowell shakes his head, like a Hollywood gambler at a poker table. I’m right behind you kind of sincere. “The courts haven’t heard the appeal yet. The delay should help you. Get you out of the limelight. A judge might look at it differently if Richmond speaks loudly enough.” His voice changes from man-in-charge to bedside manner. Very smarmy. “Sylvie, I’m not asking you to lobby or make public appearances. I just need your approval to move forward. What happened to you and Stieg paints a clear picture for the delegates. I’m selfish enough to tell you your situation is what we’ve been waiting for to break the lock on state interference in family matters.”
Mom’s voice cracks. “Will we have to appear before the committee?”
“Probably not necessary. You’ve done so much already. Let us handle this now.”
Dad starts, “You’re sure the press won’t descend on Daniel—”
“The social services people will scream,” Mom interrupts. “That woman’s not going to let this thing die. She’ll fight this. You know she will. It’s probably her job on the line if she doesn’t chalk up enough wins: so many convictions, so many kids in foster care. She’s still furious that we qualified for Medicaid after our savings went into the houseboat.”
This is news to me. And it really rips me. Here I’ve been thinking all along that Mom and Dad basically hocked themselves silly in order to keep me safe from germs on the effing houseboat. When what they were really doing was manipulating the system. Cheating maybe.
“Daniel,” Dad must see the flames shooting out of my ears. “We can talk about the Medicaid later.”
“No. Not later, not now.” I’m standing. “You guys are all the same. Making deals, trading school for blood transfusions, dealing away my life.” I dare Senator Yowell to smile at me. I glare at Dad. “No more aye-aye, sir, whatever you say, sir. You all just work this thing out however you see fit, make your backroom deals, but leave me out of it.”
I’m halfway to Meredith’s house, racing past the post office, before the storm door hits the frame. I hear the slap of it and out of the corner of my eye I can see Dad on the front step in his shirtsleeves. He beats his arms against the cold and says nothing, just watches me as I disappear. Good practice, Dad, good practice.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sometimes in January or February the river whips up a wind that comes from the east. Freaky kind of thing, same as tornadoes in Virginia, not a regular weather event. That east wind is all stealth and secrets like little kids waiting for Santa Claus, happy giddy, but a little bit afraid, too. Not the wrestling referees’ hammer strokes from a northeaster. Not that creepy ticklish July breeze from the south that bugs you like some strange old lady’s hand on your arm until you have to go inside to get away from the gagging sweetness.
The east wind only comes when it’s the dead of winter, polar bear time, which is also rare in this part of Virginia. Some winters it never gets that cold. But when it comes, it skates across the open river, loud and boastful. It sticks on the edges of the marsh grass, playing, teasing. Icicles under cars, and gutters kind of stuck. None of those television weather folks in their circus-colored jackets and matching handkerchiefs and oh-God-not-that voices ever predict it. Still when it hits, it feels like a storybook you vaguely remember from when you were little and forgot until just when the wind repeated it again.
The words underneath that wind are like Meredith’s fingers on my back, digging into me, making me hard and telling me to hurry. It’s nothing so definite that you can describe it. You don’t want to miss it though. It’s a connection to some other place you haven’t even been to yet. It says, sure, circumstances separate people, circumstances out of your control, but there’s still something there, something between you and that place you can’t describe. Or even see. No frigging certainty in that wind, only possibilities.