“A government that is big enough to give you all you want is big enough to take it all away.”
- Barry Goldwater
July 29 - August 3rd, 2000
Dave stepped off the train into chaos. The station in Philadelphia was crammed with people leaving, being met, yelling and hauling baggage. The trip from New York had been pretty exciting, too. Dave’s car had also carried a contingent of Young Republicans who were obviously keyed up for the main event of the Republican world – The National Convention.
Delegates and media had begun arriving on Friday. Saturday was given over to pre-convention activities that included navigating a maze of credentialing procedures. That was not exactly fun, but it did give you an opportunity to mix and see people. For ‘just a visitor’, the Convention meant meeting old friends, cutting deals of several varieties and talking shop. At most conventions, being a delegate or an alternate meant being courted by the floor committees of the candidates. This convention was already decided. So while there would be some chasing, most of it was just a formality for the presidential nomination and the word had come down through channels that the VP slot was also decided.
For the big guys, these days meant lavish dinners, cocktail parties, intimate breakfasts of thirty or so, prayer breakfasts for those so inclined, and the perennial smoke filled room get-togethers away from the crowds. The candidate was decided but the real deals were still being cut. You would know better what had gone on in the hotel rooms and odd corners of the complex of hotels in the first 100 days of the administration – if Branch won in November.
For everyone but the anointed candidate and his coterie, this time also meant running down hotel assignments and negotiating through Secret Service checkpoints. America might have declared its independence from Britain while convened in Philadelphia, but this convocation was very much a Monarchial moment in the electoral process. The smells of coronation were in the air.
The Convention was to take place at the First Union center south of downtown Philadelphia, and this ground zero of activity was surrounded by a tent city serving as headquarters for some 15,000 journalists from across the world.
Dave’s friend from the Town Trumpet in New York had told him that the food was to be lavish in the extreme. Many of the best restaurants in Philadelphia were set to provide the food. Dave was not sure why reporters always became so excited over the prospect of being fed; after all, it happened pretty frequently, but this was certainly the case. The food had been followed by a guided tour around Independence Hall that featured a laser light show tracing the activities of Benjamin Franklin and the nation's founding fathers.
Dave had been there. He had arranged to share a room with Lloyd Jackson, his friend from the Trumpet, both because he liked the guy and because he was following a policy of getting information in the easiest way possible. In return, Lloyd had arranged for a press pass for Dave. Media didn’t always know what was really happening but they did often enough to make this a very good deal.
Of the 45,000 attendees, 2,065 delegates, 2,065 alternates and nearly 10,000 volunteers who were making transport and room nights in the City of Brotherly Love so impossible he, Dave, would not be the least well informed.
Dave had decided to come, despite not being a delegate. He had not missed a Republican National Convention since he was fourteen and he was a very junior member of the Young Republicans. His perspective had undergone a sea change, but his emotions and his intellect were not perfectly synchronized. Also, Dave had decided to look in on the Shadow Convention here in Philadelphia. He was curious to see what kind of impact an alternative event could elicit from both the public and the media. Lawrence, who Dave still thought of as his candidate, was pledged to speak there before appearing at the Convention proper.
Perhaps the most vocal organizer was the former wife of Jerrold Abbington, a former Congressman from California who had run unsuccessfully for the U. S. Senate before leaving his wife and three kids and coming out of the closet as gay.
Tricia Abbington, an author in her own right, had hungered to be First Lady before her divorce and was now writing opposition books on points of policy of little interest to anyone. Dave had read her newest book, Crafting and Coordinating Your Own Revolution and had found it mildly interesting.
The Shadow Conventions were aimed at providing a forum for the serious discussion of issues like drugs and abortion, all of the things that would be glossed over during the Coronating Convention. Dave doubted that there would be much interest. Even Lloyd, a fervent supporter of alternate causes, thought they were irrelevant. Briefly, Dave wondered why this was.
Dave was surprised to discover that Lloyd expected him to work, at least a little, for the privilege of having a press pass. At first this annoyed him a touch, but then he realized that Lloyd preferred covering the events that were usually lumped into the category of ‘color,’ meaning that Lloyd liked watching and reporting on the incredible waves of protests going on outside the event. Dave darted through the protesters whenever necessary but did not enjoy sitting down and talking to them. He found them slightly unnerving.
The Chief of Police in Philadelphia, Jerry Timtoni, had made it clear that protests were to be dealt with by the boys in blue with patience and understanding. Timtoni had also mandated refresher courses in the First Amendment; something that had shocked many of the more traditional cops and media. Dave agreed with the approach but he had never been a protesting kind of activist.
The protesters ranged from odd, like the woman dressed as a slightly obscene Statue of Liberty, to uptight and respectable but loud. They managed to hit about every variation in between; the issues they represented were pretty standard: they were pro-life, pro-choice, pro-environment, anti-war on drugs and advocates for citizenship for animals.
Dave saw Eileen Rockford on the street, speaking out for a change in the Republican platform. Eileen was pro-choice, which was actually the majority position for all Americans as well as for women in the Republican Party. It was a militant minority that managed to keep the pro-life position in the platform. Dave had met Eileen in D. C. where her consulting firm was located while visiting friends at the Cicero Institute. She had been around for a good long time and knew most of the players.
Dave dodged past Eileen--he did not want to interrupt her flow of sound bytes or look like he had an opinion on the issue of abortion. He did have an opinion, but as a male he was disinclined to express it.
Whenever Dave had to leave the Convention and work his way through the crowds of protestors, he tried to avoid any possible involvement. This had worked except for one older guy who had reminded him of George Weston. He stopped, not quite sure this was the cantankerous Texan, but unwilling to risk that it wasn’t.
George’s grizzled, lined, clean shaven face could have sprouted a beard shot with grey to match the raddled hair on Weston’s head. The eyes were the same, a striking harsh green.
Dave paused on the sidewalk, uncertain whether the good ‘ol boy had ventured this far north, perhaps to continue his inquiries into Humstead’s activities. The first words out of the protestor’s mouth had cancelled this momentary confusion. Those tones had never been anywhere near Texas.
It was after he heard the clipped accent of New England still carrying the rich flavor of Portugal, and glanced down at the flyer the man was thrusting into his hands that he realized that the man must be protesting something about fishing. The poorly reproduced flyer, obviously run off at a cut-rate copy shop, was cheap. It was on 20 Lb. stock then cut in half to provide more copies; the print was small, probably around 8 points. The man had spotted his press badge and seemed to believe that in Dave he had found salvation for his personal plight. Looking a second time Dave realized that this man had never possessed the cheerful optimism that had made George Weston such a unique character. This man was drowning in despair.
Dave ended up talking to Joe Sanfilippo for a long time. The old man had clutched at his arm, tears welling up in his eyes. So many things went through Dave’s mind in that moment. His first impulse was to jerk his arm away and walk on. But he couldn’t. The man’s eyes begged for someone to listen. If he could do nothing else, he could do that.
They ended up sitting in a tiny coffee shop two blocks off the main action. The man curled his hands around the cup, inhaling its warmth through his hands even though it was broiling outside. His fingers trembled slightly as he raised the cup to drink.
Dave perused the flyer, giving the man a moment to get a hold of himself. Amid the misspellings and outrage, the only thing that came through clearly was the deadening loss this guy had endured. There was a quote on the page in a different typeface. It looked like it had been clipped from something else and pasted on the master copy; it was just slightly crooked. It said, "When we lose our connection to the tides and the seasons, we lose a vital connection to ourselves and God"
That struck Dave. This man seemed disconnected from everything that had grounded him.
Dave learned that Joe Sanfilippo had been born into a fishing family. His great-grandfather, his grandfather, and his father had all been fishermen; his great-grandfather had died at sea. It was a harsh life; the immediacy of death breathed down their darkly tanned necks every day they were on the water and was a constant companion to their families. All fishing families know that husbands, fathers, brothers and sons may never come home.
Waiting, watching for homecomings was the accepted fate their wives had chosen. When their men were on land, the men spent their time looking at the sea, waiting to take their small boats out into the world of deep waters and sky. When they were on land their larders were lean and times were tough.
This was life for them. They had chosen it and it had made them strong. The sea was their home and they did not want to give it up – no matter how harsh the reality it brought.
Dave had never heard of the Magnuson – Stevens Act before. He had always assumed that fishing was a little like living on the frontier; the men and boats did their thing and were ignored otherwise. Now he realized he had been naïve.
The story Joe told was complicated but boiled down it came to this: The Magnuson – Stevens Act defined a drop in the population of any kind of marine life as a problem in over fishing, even if that particular kind of marine life was not fished. If the number of shrimp plummeted because of pollution, the Act still mandated that over fishing was the problem. Based on this, the days a boat and crew could spend out fishing were severely cut. Right now Joe was allowed to spend only 100 days a year on the water trying to make a living. The kind of fish and how he brought them in was also strictly regulated. Joe was fine with that; he was anxious that the sea be preserved so that there would always be small fishermen like him, bringing in the catch, fresh to the tables of Gloucester, Massachusetts.
As a result of this legislative tinkering, he had lost his boat, the Shining Mermaid, to foreclosure and his son, unable to make a living, had left Massachusetts for a job in New York as a waiter. For Joe it was the end of his world. He still lived in the tiny house in Gloucester where his wife had died. That small house he owned as his father and grandfather had owned it before he was ever born.
Vaguely Dave remembered a story he had heard about the fish, cod he thought it was, of New England being so polluted as to be inedible. Joe vehemently denied this. He pulled out another piece of the literature and pointed with his broad, stubby finger to a name and phone number. “Talk to this man. He knows the whole story.”
Dave glanced at the name. “Bernard Hightower, Public Relations and Community Liaison, Peace for the Planet.” He glanced at his watch and agreed to look into the story, feeling faintly guilty. Joe still thought he was a journalist.
Getting Lloyd what he needed was easy. Dave listened to the speeches, wrote a synopsis of the content and any actual policy, and e-mailed it from his laptop to Lloyd. They shared a room but this saved any rekeying. Dave knew just how monumentally lazy journalists really were from dealing with them during political campaigns. It had been a shock to discover that few journalists even bothered to check the cited sources. Dave had caught himself a few times fudging facts because he knew, especially with the particular journalist, that no one would ever make a call.
Watching the action on the huge television monitors set up everywhere was overwhelming at times. The sound seemed to vibrate right down into his bones, more like a rock concert than a political convention. His Limbaugh style tie seemed far too tight in the heat. He paused to loosen it, just a little. There might be throngs of Republican Women dressed in baggy pants and gold frosted tee shirts, but the power people were always in suits. Dave wanted to fit in with them right now, no matter how uncomfortable the uniform might be.
Walking around the vendors’ hall, Dave saw and was briefly tempted by a VAST RIGHT-WING CONSPIRACY tee shirt. He compromised by buying a bumper sticker he could put up on his white board at home in his office, along with a smattering of buttons. Dave could almost forget his doubts and deep reservations in the bubbling flow of celebration.
Dave laughed and joined in with the Quince bashing and Fore gashing, laughing at the jokes, and buying his own Mildred--a cigar with a picture of the chubby intern wrapped around the outside. His own side might have their problems, but they were far better than the Democrats. It was good to be among friends. Among the throngs of attendees, Dave had met people from every part of his political past. The local Congressman from Shipslide was there and greeted him warmly, apologizing for having missed Gramp’s funeral.
After doing his journalistic duty, Dave spent time wandering around the vendor booths and attending some of the parties for which he had either paid or been given invitations. Having money brought opportunities for contact that amazed him.
Dave attended the dinner for Bret Phorplay, dressing for the occasion with care. Phorplay was someone who Dave admired. Invitees included lobbyists, congressmen, and corporate executives along with the money people. A lot of business was transacted all around him, and listening and watching politics as it played at this level was enlightening and disturbing.
The evening began and continued as a smooth wash of food and drink punctuated with special thanks, announcements and surprises.
Except for a little excitement when Rob Loper of XYZ News asked Bret Phorplay to name the corporate donors to ARM4PAC and the corporate underwriters of the convention, nothing controversial took place. ARM4PAC is the political action committee through which Phorplay funneled anonymous corporate and individual contributions to preselected Republican congressional races. Phorplay refused to comment. Dave jotted notes on the backs of business cards he collected; he would look into that himself. The bad guys needed to be rooted out of the Republican Party.
The food was fantastic, featuring Chef Mat Ransen’s seared filet mignon on croutons with baby arugula and caramelized shallots. Dave ate until he thought he was going to burst. He had to make himself chew slowly as he talked to the woman seated next to him. Her name was Debbs Pickett. Her husband had died and left her around 200 million dollars and she could think of nothing better to do with her time than attend Republican events like this one. She told Dave about her activities for Republicans in the Forum. This group, recognized by the Republican Party, was huge and held it s own national conventions as well. She was a little tipsy when Dave sat down next to her and the constant flow of wine, poured by the waiters, did nothing to keep her sober. Dave sipped slowly and then switched to coffee. Seated at his table were also two guys who apparently had also had much too much of a good thing. Two waiters carried them out and handed them over to the cortege of useful flunkies who always seemed to be ready to handle anything.
On the 2nd Dave had enjoyed what was later described as the "hottest and coolest" celebration at the Republican National Convention. Attendees had gotten salsa dance lessons, more cigars and martinis enough to float the U.S.S. Enterprise. It was a small party, just 1,500 attending.
At the next table Dave had seen Feather Lockley. Matthew R. F Vixen was across the way.
The party was given in honor of Folly, a Republican from West Palm Beach who was the Republican liaison between House Republicans and the Entertainment Industry. If it had been the equivalent Democrat event, the stars would have been much farther up the Industry pecking order, but no one in the Republican Party since William Wallace had had much traction in Hollywood.
Sponsors of the event included the Walt Disney Corp., Time Warner, Viacom, Seagram/Universal Studios, the Motion Picture Association of America and the Recording Industry Association of America. All of them wanted to be in good with whoever was elected in November, and appearing here and sprinkling soft money over the assembled was just another aspect of business as usual.
The most eye-opening event Dave attended was the Million Dollar Club Extravaganza. Although the entertainment would have made Heft Helfer blench, this stratospheric Republican event was attended by what seemed like all of the loudest Family Values Republicans in the known universe. It made Dave uncomfortable. He had made the donation with strong reservations about letting Republican higher-ups know he had that kind of money. In the end, he had made the donation through one of the off-shore corporations Gramps set up and named himself as their representative. It had worked. He could still claim to be not poverty stricken, but at least not super wealthy. Donors at the $50,000 level had received a limited-edition Philadelphia 2000 lapel pin and six commemorative golf shirts. For $100,000.00 donors took home a "VIP golf outing," and a reservation at a choice hotel and the right to host a reception for a state delegation, which typically included the state's governor and congressional members. But the $1-million donation took the prize. For one million dollars on the barrel head, the donor got exclusive dinners with Washington dignitaries and face to face time with the presidential nominee. It was the promise of this perk that had persuaded Dave to plunk down a million dollars. Gramps had made it clear that he had to know these people from the inside out.
The food was splendid but the company made Dave’s skin crawl. Naked greed was simply not attractive when viewed in any human being, and this event had been absolutely stag.
On Sunday Col. Jeffrey Lawrence, U.S. marine Corps, Retired, and now Senator from Tennessee, arrived in Philadelphia and went immediately to the Abbington Shadow Convention, much to the annoyance of the Branch people. Dave had kept in touch with the Senator and met him there. He had not seen the Senator since he had dropped out of the race after the South Carolina Primary. Shaking hands with the former POW, Dave felt a rush of admiration; the man had lost graciously and never deviated from his stated beliefs. The last few days had raised Dave’s consciousness on just how rare a character such as Lawrence’s really was in politics. He still did not agree with Lawrence on many issues but he knew he could take his honor to the bank and get gold in return.
Listening to Lawrence’s speech endorsing Branch left Dave feeling unaccountably sad and vulnerable. It was as if there was a gaping hole in his heart. It was later that Dave ran into two people he really had not expected to see.
The first was Lindsey Smithson. She was just leaving an open house, looking a little tired and unhappy. When she saw him a smile warmed her face.
“Hi there! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you on Tuesday night. What’s happening?”
Dave grinned. Lindsey wore well. “My grandfather died so I have been home quite a bit.” Lindsey’s face showed her concern. Dave listened to her words of condolence, an idea half forming in his mind. Lindsey went on. “I know just what you have been through. I went a little nuts when my Grandma died. I am so sorry.” Then she hugged him. Dave was not often hugged by an attractive woman. Thought vanished from his mind.
“So you came down early?” Lindsey, unperturbed by the hug, moved on in the conversation.
“Ah, then I decided to come down here early for the Shadow Convention. Have you read Mrs. Addington’s newest book?”
Lindsey laughed. This surprised Dave. His puzzlement must have showed on his face because Lindsey immediately told him a story that was too odd to be anything but true.
While Lindsey was still dating her former boy friend, Vladimir VorMortag, the two of them had been invited to the wedding of April and Frank Kravowitz. April was a tall, gorgeous blond who topped Frank, a dumpy gnome of a man, by several inches. April was also nice and the mother of a disabled son. She and her son had been dumped with no support by her rich and powerful ex-husband.
Frank, always tight-fisted with money, had persuaded Tricia Abbington to host, or hostess, the wedding at her lovely mansion in Beverly Hills. Given the cost of any hotel or even having the event set up in park, this had been a huge savings to Frank. Tricia had agreed to provide the decorations and tables. Frank was to provide the food and drinks. Lindsey and Vlad had rolled in a little early and Lindsey had wandered off to find the ladies’ room. On the way, she had also discovered Tricia’s two young daughters playing with their Breyer horses. Breyer Horses had been a hot item with girls around ages 4–13 for many years. Lindsey had collected them herself and built many a pasture and paddock in her bedroom when she was that age.
So that was why she was sitting on the floor with the girls galloping a plastic mare across the carpet when two people, arguing bitterly, went into the room next to them. Lindsey knew immediately who they were. Tricia and Frank each possessed very distinctive voices. Tricia and Frank were arguing over the menu, or the lack of a menu from Tricia’s viewpoint. Frank, thrifty to the end, had bought some bagels and cream cheese and fruit salad with which to satisfy the culinary desires of his invited guests. The beverage of choice was coffee, with cream or sugar, probably not both together. Tricia had just discovered how limited Frank’s ideas were on what kind of a menu could appropriately be offered to wedding guests in Beverly Hills. Tricia had gone hot to the phone to order up more victuals. No such limited banquet would greet guests received at her home, she told Frank in a voice ripe with shrill aggravation. Standing there she ordered up platters of savory tea sandwiches, rounds of cheese, and several assortments of fresh fruit to be accompanied by Russian pastries. Wine would be served.
Frank did not mind that. He just wanted to make sure he would not be expected to pay for them.
Dave could see why Lindsey laughed. Frank Kravowitz was one of the people on his list. This insight into his personal style was enlightening to the extreme.
Dave and Lindsey were still talking, standing in the hotel corridor, when Nann and her husband, Jim, had wandered by looking for a party. Surprised, Dave introduced the ladies. The two had eyed each other cautiously and then begun laughing. Dave could not figure out quite why and was not sure he wanted to know, really.
They had joined up for the evening and the girls had walked together while he and Jim had become better acquainted. It was a good evening, one that Dave would reflect on later.
The other unexpected meeting took place while Dave was listening to Priscilla Dare, the wife of Reginald Dare, and a prominent member of the power elite in Washington D. C.
Dave had listened to many speeches in his life. Suddenly it struck him how similar all the speeches he had heard really were. He heard the same rhetoric from the lips of Republicans he heard from those on the other side of the isle. All the words were the same. Freedom, Country, Honor, Truth, Character, together, vision…..the list went on. They emoted words – but what did the words mean? Suddenly he thought about Christopher, the young intern.
His attention shifted from the sounds that had so often incited his hopes and enflamed his fears to the simple realities that were, must be, so much more real than words.
For this entire Convention he had been awash in words. What had he actually seen? What was really true; who were these people, leaders, spokespeople, the media whose job it is to tell, again with words, the entire nation what was really happening.
While the rest of the room watched in rapt attention, Dave walked out. He had a lot to think about. Lloyd was annoyed with him for the missing synopsis; Dave fudged. He went on line, copied and pasted all the speeches. He was glad he had. After he excised the meaningless phrases, there was nothing there.
Dave had packed his bag and was walking out of the hotel room when he bumped into a friend from Moundville who was also a member of the Libertarian Futurist International, a group of science fiction fans with Libertarian Republican viewpoints. Darrin Youngblood, his friend, had gone on to Cal Tech in California. Dave was surprised to see him, but Darrin explained that he was just meeting his Mom; Darrin had attended Moundville to please his mother, a devotee of Gregory Bugsley. The former President of Moundville had always made it a point to send her an autographed copy of his latest book. In response Sylvia Youngblood, of the Ohio Youngbloods, had always sent Moundville a nice check for their endowment. Darrin came from money but his heart belonged to technology. Darrin was schlepping baggage and waiting for his Mom to finish one last luncheon put on for the Funders of the Forum; an elite group of women who each put at least $1,000 a year into the National Forum for Republican Women. Darrin had declined to attend with his mother. He and Dave adjourned to the hotel coffee shop.
Dave just listened. Darrin had always been a talker and that had not changed. His enthusiasms had hovered on computers and then moved into some esoteric forms of math that Dave could not understand. From there they had side tracked; it seemed to Dave, into free enterprise in space. Now, evidently, he had hooked up with some people out in California who were involved with Revolving Rocketry, a private enterprise in space venture based out in the Mojave Desert that went bust. Dave had read about the project. Darrin give him the URL for their website and Dave promised to have a look and keep in touch. Their master designer, Darrin reported with fervor, is Brenden Banks, a graduate of Cal Tech. As Darrin’s monologue flowed on, Dave’s mind wandered a bit. Darrin’s enthusiasms were always completely involving. Dave’s interest picked up again when Darrin began talking about the community that was being established in Northern California. This story ticked a memory but he could not put his finger on it. Yet.
On Tough Talk that night, the talk was about the next stage of the campaign. Dave was reminded of a space launch, with endless reminders of what was about to happen and no reference to what was not happening. But in the case of a space launch the vehicle was real. In politics it was just words.
Conversation taking place in an undisclosed location
“Refill this for me, will you?”
He liked his drinks sweet; no straight whiskey ever passed his lips and no puckery wine, either. He did not bother to rise from the couch, just handing the whisper-thin crystal glass to the butler for servicing. He had grown used to being waited on. He no longer thought about what his parents would think if they saw him here, enveloped in luxury and invested with more power than they could probably have imagined. His family hadn’t been much.
He had just succeeded in getting the nomination for a man who could never have gotten it for himself. This thought relaxed him even more. He sunk back into the ottoman. The smile did not need to reach his lips.
The room was located high up in a skyscraper that looked down on a vastness of lights. The room was furnished with dark wood furniture that had been turned and finished by a man long since dead. The man had made furniture for his King, Louis XIII. The man on the ottoman could not have told you what century Louis XIII had lived; nor did he care. He was a man of today; a man who knows, down into the fibers of his flesh, that it is money and power that matter.
He had proven his power and raw ability.
The election was a done deal, as the man he had grown up calling, “Father,” used to say. He twisted slightly in the seat. He did not like to think about his parentage.
“What we really need is a good war.” The speaker was standing next to the window, looking out.
Craig Humstead took the glass, now refilled from the butler and took a long sip. “You must be thinking about oil. You will get no disagreement from me. The right war could also make my job a hell of a lot easier the next time around.”
Charlotte, North Carolina - March 28, 1994
He walked into the living room of his doublewide mobile home, barely able to see. It was clean and well maintained. He always saw to that. Before he had been arrested for domestic violence, a crime he had not committed, he had washed the dishes, setting them to dry on the rack beside the sink. He and his wife had not lived together for months. He had not seen her since she left him and their new baby to go off with another man.
Now it was three-thirty in the morning and normally he would have been asleep for at least five hours by this time. When they had come to arrest him, he had asked for time to call someone to care for his daughter before they took him. She was just 13 months old and sleeping curled up on the couch where he could watch her. They had let him call and waited until his mother arrived, shocked and worried.
Slowly he sunk down onto his knees on the carpeting. His head bowed forward and slowly, as if coming from a place so deep inside he had not known it existed, great racking sobs were wrenched out of his guts. He was not a man who cried, but now the tears were drenching his face; he was not able to stop them.
The family in the picture carefully hung on the wall, kept dusted and cleaned, looked down. The eyes of the woman and three children were happy. The eyes of the man looked into a future he believed held unlimited promise because of the sacrifices of those who had come before them. The man was dressed crisply in the uniform of the United States Army. The woman was wearing a shirt waisted dress. She was smiling into the camera, enjoying a last brief outing with the husband and children she loved.
These were his parents. His father, Sergeant Earl Steigler had boarded the plane for Vietnam in 1965. The family portrait had been taken less than an hour before the moment of parting when he had been enfolded in a last firm hug. Sergeant Steigler had then just turned 24 years old. He died in November that year, before his twenty-fifth birthday. He had already served in Korea with distinction.
His wife had eventually remarried but always made sure that their three children, two daughters and one son, remembered him and loved their country even as he had loved it. Below the picture hung the medals a grateful nation had conferred on a man who had given his life so that country might continue to be free. Next to the portrait an American flag hung at attention.
In that long night the man confronted a terrible truth. The justice system of the country his father had died defending was not about justice. He had stood accused of a crime he did not commit and the law had not cared that the evidence of his innocence was already in their hands. Their amusement and indifference had burned like acid against his skin. They had shrugged; this was their routine. No one was innocent. They released him grudgingly and with no apology after three hours. He was not a man to them; he was just another body to be ground through their system, bringing money into their coffers. He had seen the indifference in their eyes and it had chilled him down past his bones and into his soul. He smoldered with rage even as he began to thaw.
His nickname was Coop, for the Cooper’s hawk, a smaller raptor that hunted by cutting its prey out of the air with unfailing aim and accuracy. Coop loved the outdoors, spending time away from human habitation, just inhaling the sounds and the scents of life all around him. His trajectory in life, purposeful and clear, had reminded his uncle of the hawk one day as they walked the Appalachian Trail and a Cooper’s hawk had taken its prey just a few feet from them. It was the right name.
The morning light coming on like a tide of returning life found the man still on his knees. But now his ravaged face was calm. Slowly he stood up, stiff with the hours spent on his knees confronting his God and all he held sacred. He had become a different man, one who knew he faced a battle. He nodded, imperceptibly to the picture of his father. Jack (Coop) Steigler, Junior, was the son of a hero and he was not afraid.
Medford, Massachusetts
Bernard started working for Green4Peace as soon as he arrived back in the United States. His first job was going door to door in depressed areas of New England, doing follow-up interviews for areas with suspected toxic dumps while selling the magazine the organization produced. Those first three years had been pretty good. The first year was all door to door work, but he had liked the sense of connection he had with people. The director had been suspicious of him at first. He had looked at his resume and leaned forward on the desk asking why they should trust him not to be a spy. He was, after all, a petroleum engineer.
He had replied that no one could prove their intentions. He had gotten the job. The first year had been tiring but rewarding. The second year he had been entrusted with more policy work. Then, the third year everything had changed and his enthusiasm faded like his tan had when he returned to the United States to live in New England. At first he felt like what he was doing mattered, that some how he was paying back for enabling the spoilage he had ignored while working for Benron. Now it was different. Now he wondered why he had given up so much.
It had not taken Fran long to get a divorce for desertion in North Carolina, the only state without no-fault divorce. He never had the time to get down there to see her or the kids and his new job left no extra money for luxuries like child support. For the oldest, that had meant dropping out of his long anticipated matriculation at Princeton and starting over from his mother’s house in Peak, North Carolina. Fran had found the tract house near her parents in the small town where she grew up south of Raleigh. Fran took on a mortgage to give Seth another year. Lee started at the local college.
Bernard knew Fran was struggling to keep the boys in school, but he felt that he had done everything that could be expected of him. He started calling them after his enthusiasm for the job at Green4Peace went south.
He knew the job was going to go away, the victim of a reorganization that had left the formerly grass roots organization only one office - and that in Washington D.C. Talking to politicians was not his idea of a solution to anything. He had moved on, but he was forgetting how to hope.
So here he was, living in a ratty little apartment in Medford, Massachusetts. When he came home in the evening it was far too quiet. When he called Fran’s house to talk to the kids, they were distant and tired themselves. Each of them had at least one job on top of going to school.
He hated it, so he was beginning to drink. The quiet was less oppressive when he could not think quite so clearly about the choices he had made. This had been going on for a year when late one evening the phone rang and the voice on the other end was his brother Dan.
Two days later Dan walked in to the tiny apartment and emptied the bottles into the sink. For the next two weeks Dan spent every day with him talking and reminding him of all that he had left. Their relationship had always been like that. From each other they could hear the truth.
Dan had not gone to college, instead following their father on to machine work. An accident ten years before that cost him his left hand forced him to retrain and his choice surprised everyone. He went into investment counseling with the money from the insurance. He had always been a smart guy. He and his wife, Sandy, had been happily married for twenty years. The family gave up their vacation together because they knew Bernard needed Dan to be there for him right now.
For the first time Bernard was able to cry over his losses and find the goodness in what he had left.
When his brother left, Bernard no longer felt alone.
Dan said when he was leaving that anyone could make mistakes. The mark of a man is not to keep doing it.
Two months later Bernard went to work for Peace for the Planet.
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