Chapter 36
“Now batting for the Angels is number 36, Brian Breckenridge!” The announcer’s voice was irritating enough as it was, and as I stood on the mound, waiting for eight-year-old Brian to step into the batter’s box, I had to fight the urge to puke my guts out. When he finally stood at the ready in the batter’s box, and Sean began signaling me the next pitch, the urge to puke was almost too strong to resist.
It was a hot day, just like one would expect from mid-August in the Central Valley, with temperatures approaching the 100 degree mark just before noon. I’d already been pitching for three innings, here it was the top of the seventh, and the last batter in the world I wanted to face was now standing in the batter’s box, waiting for my first pitch. The runner on first was daring to take a huge lead, sensing my control was shot after I’d just walked him, but then the Brandon Walker I remembered could be a little too confident at times. I’d not yet gone too far into my wind-up when I saw Sean’s head move as he saw something behind me.
I spun around so quickly that Brandon didn’t stand a chance as the ball slammed into the second baseman’s glove. Even the slightly rotund and non-too coordinated Howie Jarvis didn’t have too much of a problem taking Brandon out as the taller, more athletic boy tried to slide in under the tag. Brandon gave me a dirty look as he trotted off the field after the umpire had yelled ‘Out’. I returned my attention back to the next batter, and tried to push the sight of blood trickling out of the corner of Brandon’s mouth from my mind.
That wasn’t in this timeline, and hopefully never would be.
One more out to go and it would be our last at-bat. Sure, I’d struck out the first six batters I faced only to throw a perfect ball to Trevor who had promptly hit it over the fence. Brandon had been worse when I had nearly hit him twice in throwing four consecutive bad pitches. It might be only Little League, and I’d known they were on this team since I first saw them as we were doing warm-ups before the game, but I was still unprepared for facing them.
As Brian settled in and I shook off the first two pitches Sean signaled, my mind spun in circles going over everything since we’d moved into the new house. Sean and I had quickly become best friends, especially after we’d ended up in the same class at school. He’d been over at my house every day, and joined me in an after-school workout routine reminiscent of what I’d had in the second timeline with Brian, Brandon, and Trevor. When Little League tryouts came along, he’d gone with me and we’d both been placed on the same team (although I’d held back in the tryouts and wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been. That was the first time I’d seen Brian in this timeline and I’d been as much thrown for a loop as I was now.)
He was just another little kid dressed in a smaller version of the ‘Angels’ major league team uniform. My team was the ‘A’s’ and we were playing at one of Modesto’s better fields for the game. Summer was winding to an end, and this was the first time his team, the best in the league, and mine the worst, had faced off. At the tryouts, I’d fared poorly, and been placed on a team with other people that hadn’t done very well. We’d expected to lose most games, but the Coach had done a surprisingly good job at coaxing me into playing better, and I’d found that with a little concentration I could play better than I’d ever done in any other timeline.
I even enjoyed playing more.
“You can do it, Davey!” Dad’s voice yelling from the stands wasn’t what I needed as I finally nodded at a signal from Sean. Taking a deep, calming breath, I readied myself, feeling the ball in my right hand as I gripped it the way Coach had been drilling into me, wound up and then it was gone, sailing perfectly over the plate, just on the inside corner and barely above Brian’s kneecaps.
“Ssstriiiiike!” The umpire yelled with enthusiasm and there was a mixture of cheers and boos from the different crowds in the stands. Brian took a step back, gave a light swing of his bat and stared at me as if I was some strange animal while Sean took the ball out of his glove and tossed it back to me. My equilibrium restored, I caught it easily and prepared myself for the next pitch.
Sure, he was only eight years old, but for the first time in this timeline I felt the stirrings of desire. My Brian was there, in the batter’s box and he was looking at me. This timeline wouldn’t end like the last one, nor would I repeat the mistakes of the past. I had to be on my guard not to make new mistakes though, and I knew pushing it too hard too early would be just as bad of a mistake as moving away from him had been.
“Strike Two!” The umpire called after my curve ball got Brian to swing and miss. His coach yelled at him to keep his eye on the ball, and Brian got a determined look on his face that brought back a lot of memories. Even this young, he still had that look that made me little more than a puddle inside, and my next ball was high and way out from the plate. Poor Sean missed it entirely and had to chase it down against the backstop. If Brandon had still been on base, he might have made it home at that goof-up on my part. Now it was my coach yelling at me to take my time and concentrate.
My fourth pitch was a perfect sinker, the first perfect pitch like that I’d ever thrown, and Brian went down swinging. My heart did a little flip-flop as he tipped his batting helmet at me before walking back to the dugout. I tipped my hat in return, pleased to find that he was even a good sportsman at eight, just as he’d been at twelve, or eighteen, or twenty-eight.
Yes, I could take this slowly and survive.
The next batter was the first one to face me when I came onto the field as pitcher. He looked determined as if to make up for just staring at the first three strikes I’d thrown at him and he did make up for that. He swung wildly at the two pitches I started off with and managed to barely clip the third one, bouncing it off the ground between home plate and the pitcher’s mound. I even had to jump a bit to catch it off the bounce, but it was on its way to first base before my cleats touched back down on the mound, and the mostly-competent first baseman, a lanky kid named Steve Trimmer, caught it easily.
Now it was our turn at the bat, and Sean was the first one of us up. He was the shortest kid on the team, and the summer had given him a reddish half-burnt cast to his skin, making his freckles stand out even more than they normally did. In all honesty, he looked more like he belonged on a six-year-old team than on ours, but he had a determined look on his face as he went up to face Brandon Walker, who was pitching for the Angels.
It was in the batter’s box that his short height gave him a slight advantage. Poor Brandon just couldn’t find the strike zone on someone that short, and Sean trotted to first base after watching four pitches go nowhere near the strike zone. Billy Merlin was next, and he went down swinging as far too many of our teammates did. Then it was my turn to go up on deck while Steve took his turn at bat.
The score was eight to six, a far closer score than anyone who knew the history of our teams might be expecting. Here in Modesto, the A’s always got the misfits, the kids who weren’t quite coordinated, who hadn’t played tee-ball, who couldn’t understand quite how to catch a fly ball. This year, we were doing far better than anyone could remember in a long time, and although we didn’t win all of our games, we did win some of them, and in those we lost we still held our own pretty good. Anyone (including me) who’d placed a bet on this game would likely have favored the Angels, not expecting us to score more than a one or two runs, and never to be this close to them in the seventh inning.
It took the coach pushing at my shoulder for me to realize that Steve had hit a perfect line-drive, advancing Sean to second, and getting on first without a problem. It was my turn at bat, and I took another swing before stepping into the batter’s box. As I focused, waiting for Brandon to finish scaring Sean back to second base, I thought back to the last week of practice and what had made a difference in my performance.
The big difference was that I’d finally gotten how to throw a pitch besides a fastball over the last week of practice.
“Strike one!” The Umpire called and I realized I’d let my mind wander again. That was happening far more than it should, and I shook myself loose, focusing instead on the game. Brandon had a half-smile on his face, like he’d known I was wool-gathering and thought I was a doofus. That made me a little mad, and when the pitch came right over the plate, just a little low and inside, I let loose with a controlled but powerful swing that made the typical sound of a ball hitting an aluminum bat.
I didn’t even wait to watch it sail over the fence, instead I just took off at a slow trot around the bases, turning to take off my hat and dip it towards Brandon before stomping on home plate. He had a disgusted look on his face as the game ended in a victory of the last-place team over the first-place team. When my teammates finally let me down off their shoulders and we lined up to shake hands with the other team, Brandon had calmed down a bit and shook my hand stiffly.
“Next time.” He whispered, half-promise and half-threat.
“Next time.” I agreed with him, smiling. His expression softened into a smile before he moved on.
“Next year, you’re going to be on our team.” Brian promised as we shook hands. The momentary contact of his hand on mine sent shivers through my body and I couldn’t do more than nod at him before moving on to bump fists with Trevor who just nodded at me with a smile.
The hug from Dad after our last game of the season was a bonus treat. He was dressed in a three-piece suit despite the heat, and hustled me towards his white pick-up before I’d had a chance to do more than give my best friend Sean a hug. We were in a hurry I knew, but I still felt a little cheated that our biggest victory of the year had just happened and I wouldn’t get to relive every moment of it with my teammates over pizza. For a moment, I was almost tempted to ask Dad if I could stay with Sean and his parents while he finished the trip on his own, but a sense of duty kept me from opening my mouth.
“You did great today!” Dad said with exuberance and I smiled broadly. Sure, there was a gap where two of my baby teeth had fallen out last week but I’d long since given up caring about little stuff like that.
“Thanks Dad.” I said with that smile. “Thank you for letting me play today.”
“Be sure to thank your Papa.” Dad said with a smile. “He’s the one who paid for the tickets flying us out of Modesto instead of San Fran.”
“I did.” I told him with another smile. It wasn’t Papa who’d paid for those tickets, or at least it wasn’t his money he’d used to pay for them. I had really wanted to play in this game, and not because Brian was on that team, although that had made it even better. I’d really gotten into playing baseball this year, and wasn’t going to let my team face the best team in the league without me there.
Not even if it made us late for something even more important than throwing a few pitches at Brian and shaking his hand for a brief moment.
“Our plane takes off in ten minutes.” Dad said with a slight frown as he sped through Modesto, heading for the town’s small airport. “I was worried we weren’t going to make it in time for a few minutes, but you ended that game right well. You’re going to have to change in San Francisco or when we get to Kansas City.”
“I can change when we get there.” I said with a shrug. I had a duffel bag in the cab of the truck, but I’d always hated changing in airport bathrooms. The rest of the drive was made in silence as we hurried to Modesto’s airport. At least some things weren’t much different in 1976 than they’d be in 1986, or 1996 for that matter. Dad managed to find a parking spot less than twenty feet from the single terminal’s entrance. We raced from the truck, grabbing the two duffel bags and barely remembering to lock the truck as we headed to the ticket counter.
The clatter of my cleats on the tile floor made me wince slightly. I really should have at least put on the pair of tennis shoes in my duffel bag, but as we raced towards the single gate, it was too late to worry about that. Dad had our tickets in his hand and we made it through the gate and onto the small turbo-prop plane just in time, the last two persons to board a flight that had barely half the seats occupied.
“You pitched a good game.” Dad said after he’d put away our bags, pointedly handing me my tennis shoes from my bag before he sat down next to the window. I was in the aisle seat and had just enough time to change my shoes before the stewardess came by to make sure our seat belts were buckled. “I was worried there after that boy hit a homer off of you, though, and you walked the next one.”
“I lost my concentration.” I said with a slight shrug, and he frowned before launching into a lecture about always keeping my thoughts on what I was doing. He was serious, but not overly so, and I pretended to listen while I really was remembering every moment I’d seen Brian during that game. He really was a cute kid.
The flight to San Francisco was a short one, and we raced from the commuter terminal to the next gate with the bigger plane that would take us on the next step of our journey. We got there with a few minutes to spare, and Dad left me at the gate to get us some sodas. It was while I was standing there that I noticed the looks I was getting from various people and almost took my duffel bag to go change in the bathroom, no matter how much I detested changing in bathroom stalls.
“Here ya go, son.” Dad’s voice almost made me jump, and I turned to take the soda from him with a grateful nod. We sat down until they called First Class boarding, and once again he got the window seat. I didn’t mind though, and found myself drifting off into a nap long before the plane had finished boarding.
I was vaguely aware of Dad unbuckling my seat belt, and somehow managing to pick me up after the plane had landed in Chicago. Some part of me was aware of how he’d hitched me up with one hand and I’d wrapped my arms around his neck while he carried me and our bags off the plane and into the VIP lounge where we’d wait for our next flight. That little part of me that was awake enough to realize this was all happening was amazed that he was strong enough to pick me up and carry me all that way, especially since I wasn’t a skinny or short kid like Sean.
No, I wasn’t fat, but the workouts had given me a lot more muscle than I’d had at this age in my previous life.
By the time he put me down on a somewhat soft lounge in the VIP area, I was firmly asleep again, dreaming of walking hand in hand down some country lane with Brian as I’d just seen him. The dream was all mixed up, though as we flickered between our eight-year-old selves and older versions. The last one was of us bent and stoop-shouldered, as old as the number of years I could remember, and it left me feeling so peaceful that I felt like I could stay in that moment forever.
“…then he hit the ball and it sailed right over the center field fence!” Dad’s voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it held a lot of excitement as I stirred out of sleep, stretching out my legs and bumping my hands against my dad who was sitting just a few inches on the other side of my head. I yawned, remembering to cover my mouth with my hand and wiped some sleep out of my eyes as they struggled to focus on an indistinct figure who was standing in front of my father. When my eyes did come into focus (helped by my dad slipping my glasses back on my face), I sat up quickly, and rather embarrassingly tried to straighten out my jersey that had become tangled up in my slip.
“Hi.” Ronald Reagan, former Governor of California and current candidate for the Republican nomination for President of the United States said to me with a broad smile. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Ronald Reagan.”
“Hello Mr…Governor.” I said, barely remembering not to call him President yet as my sleep fogged brain tried to cope with him being here. I hadn’t known he’d be on the connecting flight between Chicago and Kansas City.
“It’s okay, you can call me Mr. Reagan, or even Ron if you want.” He said in a very kind tone and I couldn’t help the wide smile that filled my face. Phase One of my mission was now complete.
“I’m Davey, Davey Jones, sir.” I said, remembering to stand up and shake his hand. He took mine with a big smile of his own and shook my hand firmly. “I don’t think I could use your first name. My father wouldn’t like me being disrespectful of an adult.”
“A sports hero and a gentleman!” Ronald Reagan said with a chuckle as he looked at my father, who had also risen to his feet. “Mr. Jones, I do believe I’m a little more impressed with you every time I run across you. Why don’t you and your son join us? We were just discussing our strategy for the convention.”
“We’d be honored, sir.” Dad said as he motioned with his head for me to grab our bags. I did that and followed the two men over to where the rest of Ronald Reagan’s staff were waiting. One of them even made room for me as my Dad was directed to a seat two spots away from the future President. I ended up not taking the seat, but rather leaning against my father as he listened attentively to what was being said. It was time for high strategy as Ronald Reagan was entering the convention only a handful of votes behind Gerald Ford, the sitting President.
That was why we were flying to Kansas City several days before the convention itself started. Mom and Jenny would fly out tomorrow, but Dad and I were heading out early because Dad had gotten a spot as a delegate after he’d easily beaten his primary opponent and was polling within five points of the Democratic incumbent for the State Assembly. Two weeks before the Primary election, he’d met Governor Reagan at a fundraiser for the Governor’s presidential bid, and had managed to impress Ronald Reagan with just a few minutes of time. As a result, he was being flown out early to act as a whip for the California delegation, a role oddly reminiscent of the one played by my father in the last timeline during the 1984 Republican Convention. I had no doubt this version of my father would do as well as he’d done back then, and the fact that we were at a table with Ronald Reagan now was something I’d hoped for but not expected to happen this early in the game.
“You okay son?” Dad asked quietly after I’d let out a gasp. As it always happened when I gave too much thought to past timelines and strategy for making things better in this one, a stabbing headache had formed and I’d let out a small gasp of pain.
“Fine, just tired still.” I told him and he nodded before turning his full attention back to the discussion at hand, how to beat Gerald Ford. Sure, I could have told them a few things that might have helped them, but I didn’t want them to do that. Ronald Reagan was supposed to lose this race, but on a note that would set the stage for a surprise victory over George H. W. Bush in the 1980 Republican Convention. If this timeline went as well as I was planning, 1976 and 1980 would, like the first timeline, be two of the last times a major political party went into its Convention without at least a clear expectation of who would be the nominee for President.
As the adults around the table talked about their convention strategy, I continued leaning against my father, taking a simple pleasure in the physical contact with the man who had brought me into existence (along with my mother). After a few minutes, he reached his arm around my waist and pulled me into an embrace with his hand resting on my hip. The adult in me felt slightly uncomfortable at this closeness, and while the adults talked about how they were going to try to secure the votes needed for Reagan to beat Gerald Ford I explored why I was feeling uncomfortable with the way Dad was embracing me.
As I thought about it more and more, I realized it was the adult memories, the adult thoughts that were making me slightly uncomfortable while the natural child in me was enjoying the physical contact. Puberty changed us, introducing sexual attraction, sexual desire into our mental psychology. I remembered the effects of hormones and sexuality, but here, in this time, in this body, those things weren’t a part of my life. The need for affection was, though, and while an adult might have looked at this contact as having sexual overtones, for me in the here and now there was no sexual feelings involved.
Something clicked into place as I understood and accepted that. The conversation with the ghost Brian(s) filtered back into my mind and I realized this was part of what he/they were trying to tell me. It wasn’t enough for me to place myself firmly in the timeline, to make it as much as me as I could, but it also included accepting how, and who, I was in that timeline. I was a kid, and I needed to enjoy things that kids did as much as I needed to change things for the betterment of my family and my country.
That was the lesson I learned in the first Do Over, and forgot in the second.
“Let’s call it a wrap, gentlemen.” Ronald Reagan’s voice called my attention back to my surroundings just as dad dropped his hand and moved to stand up. A stewardess was standing nearby, having just notified us that we’d begin boarding soon. “David, would you mind if young Davey sat on the flight next to me? I’d like to hear all about his game.”
“I’m sure he’d enjoy telling you about it, Ron.” Dad said with a hint of laughter in his voice. The excitement I felt at that moment was a normal kid’s excitement at getting to tell an adult all about his achievements, which I proceeded to do on the way to the boarding gate and all during the flight to Kansas City.
*~*~*
“You…you…don’t mind?” The boy in the wheelchair stuttered as I finished unhooking his urine bag from the inside of his wheelchair. We were in the boy’s bathroom at Sonoma Elementary, and I quickly emptied the urine bag into the urinal before re-hooking it to his catheter tube. This was something I’d done for my Aunt Bev hundreds of times in the first timeline, a few dozen in the second, and so far twice in this current timeline since she’d come home from the hospital. Doing it for Kenny, a boy my age confined to a wheelchair by MS wasn’t a problem.
“No way.” I assured him as I stood up and moved over to the sink to wash my hands. He moved his electric wheelchair to follow me and I washed his hands next. Kenny’s smile at the attention was more than enough reward for the small effort it took to do these things. “Just remember, I’m not going to be at lunch today. My mom’s coming to pick me up.”
“The…the…party.” He said, telling me that he remembered the reason I was only going to school a half-day today. The differences between this new school and the third grade from my original life were so numerous I doubted I could list them all if someone had told me I had to do that. First off, it was a modular school building with a central hub and classrooms branching out like the spokes on a wheel. Each classroom was separated from the other not by thick walls, but rather moveable partitions that could be opened or closed to join classes whenever that was something wanted by the teachers.
The schools students were also an interesting mixture of low-income and upper-middle class kids as well as a group of about forty kids suffering from various disabilities like Kenny. Most of them were grouped into grade levels appropriate with their mental abilities and spent about half their day with the regular classes and the other half with special education teachers trained to meet their needs. During recess and lunch, regular kids like me were encouraged to be friends with and help them as much as possible.
Most of the school’s staff was under thirty as well, and taught with a passion that was clearly evident to the most jaundiced student. The differences between Mrs. Herschel, the twenty-five-year-old teacher I had here and Mrs. Mandgragorn were like night and day. Sure, most of what was taught in class was extremely simple to me, and most of the time I spent more time working on my handwriting (which was improving a little bit at a time) than I did the actual content of the homework, but I felt different about the schoolwork. For the first time since my first childhood, I had felt a new spark of love for learning, and treasured each new thing I learned. It was amazing how much of our early education adults could forget, and even with the near-photographic memory I had thanks to the process of time travel, there was still plenty of minute facts that I’d long since forgotten.
Besides, my head hurt less when I didn’t actively draw on those memories of my past lives.
The recess bell rang moments after Kenny and I had exited the bathroom, and we both headed back inside. It was actually a beautiful day for early October. Outside it was still warm, but no longer hot, and the perpetual fog and overcast skies of winter had not started yet. Going back inside was almost a shame on a day like this.
A little more than two hours later, I was trotting outside to the parking lot and getting into Mom’s red Firebird. The car was still her pride and joy, cared for with a great deal of pride by her. On a fine day like this, she had the roof hatches open to the sky, and she gunned the engine as I got inside, not waiting for me to buckle in before taking off at a speed that nearly left rubber in the parking lot.
“How was your day?” Mom asked me as she turned down the street and headed home. We lived close enough that I walked most days to school, along with Sean, but she’d had to check me out at the office, and this was quicker than waiting for me to walk home.
“Fun.” I told her with a smile and she just nodded. Her hair was freshly permed and she was wearing a new suit that made her look professional without losing any of her natural beauty.
“The Reagans got here about an hour ago.” Mom informed me as she barely slowed down for the stop sign, only checking to make sure there weren’t any cops nearby. Her two tickets in the 10 months she’d owned this car had taught her to be a little more careful, if for no reason other than that they looked bad in the papers. “The caterer wants to renegotiate the menu pricing and the florist hasn’t even loaded their van much less showed up yet. Your Dad’s down at the Hall dealing with the problems there. Do you want to deal with the caterer or the florist? I can take care of one of them while keeping our guests entertained. Ron’s using Dad’s office at the house for some work anyway, so it’s just Nancy I have to worry about.”
“I’ll take both of them and you spend time with Mrs. Reagan, if you want.” I volunteered, smiling at her as she let out a sigh. For the last month, I’d gotten enough trust to deal with minor little problems like these. What was even more amusing than seeing the reactions when people realized they were dealing with an eight-year-old was the way no one in my family blinked an eye. Then again, when the florist finally arrived at the house, they’d be dealing with my six-year-old sister telling them where to put all the different decorations. For once the responsibility I was bearing wasn’t something resulting from being an adult in a child’s body, but rather a child in a family that sometimes needed its children to be miniature adults. My sister was learning to go from playing with her Barbie dolls one minute to telling a campaign volunteer how to correctly fold a letter so the address showed through the plastic window on the envelope.
“That sounds good.” Mom said with a nod of her head as we pulled onto Scenic Drive and she gunned the engine a bit to race towards the house. “She’s such a nice lady. I’m still heartbroken they didn’t win at the convention.”
Oh yes, history had repeated itself, although not quite in the same way. In the original timeline (and all the others too since I hadn’t come back to 1976 before now), Ronald Reagan had lost the Republican Convention vote by just over one hundred votes. This time around, thanks in no small part to my father, he’d lost by only fifty-three votes after the recount. His speech acknowledging the victory of Gerald Ford as the Republican Nominee for President had been exactly the same as his original, though.
Another difference was that my father’s race for the California State Assembly was threatening the stronghold of the Democratic Party in the Modesto Area nearly thirty years earlier than the original timeline. Tonight was going to be a major fundraiser for my father, bringing in nearly three hundred and twenty five thousand dollars into his campaign just a month before the November election. Ronald Reagan was the main guest, but the speaker’s list at the main event, a thousand-dollar per ticket dinner at a local hall, was a virtual who’s who of the Republican Party from the entire West Coast. Half the money being raised from the dinner was going to the Republican National Committee, who would use it for the Presidential campaign and the other half was going into Dad’s campaign account.
After the big dinner, there was a much more private, and expensive, reception being held at our house. Just over one hundred lucky people had paid twenty-five hundred dollars each for a ticket, with the only comps going out to Dad’s campaign manager, the Reagans who were the guests of honor, and of course the campaign workers who would be staffing the event. Half of the money raised at tonight’s after-dinner party would go to Ronald Reagan’s campaign fund, and the other half would go to Dad’s account.
Dad was planning to use a good portion of that money to pay for an all-out television and radio campaign that would fill the airwaves for the next four weeks. The rest would be kept in the bank to be used as seed money for his re-election campaign in two years. He’d already re-paid the initial forty thousand dollar loan he’d received to get his campaign off the ground, and tonight was just going to be icing on the cake.
“Okay, the numbers are by the phone in the downstairs work room.” Mom said as she pulled into our driveway. The gardeners were busy working around the front lawn, which was mostly flowerbeds, especially those around the fountain in the middle of the driveway. Mom loved the new fountain she’d purchased, a cherub pouring a vase of water, and took a moment to look it over before heading inside, most likely checking to make sure it had been scrubbed clean as per her instructions. I didn’t wait for her to finish her inspection, but headed inside and through the house where several of Papa’s friends from work were putting the finishing touches on the new ramps that had been installed to make it easier for Aunt Bev to move around the house in her electric wheelchair. They all waved at me as I passed them and I waved back before heading towards the rear, right side of the house and the small room that mom used to keep track of all the household finances and business.
She’d quit her job at Ethan Allen three months ago and was now an official paid coordinator for Dad’s campaign, making more than he’d be making as a State Assemblyman. Her hiring had been by the Campaign Manager, not by Dad, and at first Dad had opposed the idea. Her no-nonsense approach to the work that had to be done soon changed his mind, and they were working as a team now. Dad’s Campaign Manager was even trying to convince her to start a career as a Fundraiser for Republican candidates, but she had not yet made a decision about that.
“I’m sorry that your vendor raised their prices on you unexpectedly.” I was saying into the rotary phone’s hand piece fifteen minutes later after listening to the owner of the catering business complain about the unfair price hike he’d just experienced for the caviar we had ordered. “Maybe next time you’ll either get a better contract with them, or put something in your contract with your customers to take things like this into account. As it is, you’re two hundred dollars over budget and we’re not going to cover another three hundred in added costs. If you don’t want to stick by your contract, you can have your lawyer call our lawyer.”
“You won’t be able to find another caterer this late!” He nearly shouted into the phone.
“If your people haven’t started setting up in two hours, and if you don’t fulfill every last stipulation of your contracted services, with a smile on your face, you will find that this will be the last job anyone ever hires you for.” I threatened him angrily and there was silence on the line for a full minute.
“Fine, we’ll be there.” He said grumpily before hanging up. I could care less how unhappy he was, as long as he provided the food and didn’t try to charge us because he didn’t have the sense to do his business better. Cursing the fact that touch-tone phones weren’t all that common yet, I dialed the florist next, ignoring the way the rotary dial hurt my fingers because I was being a little to rough.
“Look, you’ve got less than four hours to get the set-up done.” I told the florist after he’d told me breathlessly how a late delivery of uncut flowers had delayed their preparation for our party. “Just about anybody who is somebody here in Modesto is going to be here tonight, and if things don’t look good, they’ll damn well know you aren’t competent enough and not to call you when they need things done right. Get extra workers if you have to, but get what you have ready here and start the set-up now. You can finish it up while the dinner is going on.”
“We’ll get there in a half-hour.” The ditzy woman said and I hung up with an exasperated sigh. The rich, throaty chuckle from the doorway of the small room startled me and I half-jumped before turning to find Ronald Reagan standing in the doorway.
“I think we should hire you for my next campaign.” He said with a broad smile and I stood up quickly with a slight smile on my face.
“I’m not old enough for you to hire me.” I retorted as casually as I could. Part of me jumped as it always did when I saw him, wanting to spill out words that would surprise him, and for now, words that would do him no good. There was nothing he could do right now to make the changes that were necessary. “Dad gets away with it because I’m his kid. If you hired me, your opponent would accuse you of running a child sweatshop.”
“They’ll accuse me of that anyway.” He said with another chuckle as he took a step forward and ruffled my hair. “I swear, between you and your sister who is out there right now chewing out the work crews setting up those tiki torches, I’d think your father had raised children who were secretly adults on the inside.”
“You never know what he’d manage to accomplish.” I said with a smile that didn’t slip from my face. How close to the truth he had come at that moment!
“Well, I was just passing by when I heard you yelling at whomever that was on the phone.” He said. “I was going to try to find Nancy.”
“I think she’s upstairs with my mother.” I told him and he nodded before heading off. They weren’t the first houseguests we’d had staying the night, but they were by far the most influential. I’d heard Dad mention that we’d been invited out to their ranch over Christmas break, and realized that things were moving far better than I’d hoped.
The stab of the old, familiar headache was so bad this time I had to fall back into the chair I’d been sitting in a moment ago. It lasted for a long time as well, longer than usual, and as I tried to recover after it passed, I realized it was still there, just a long, low throbbing pain right behind my eyes. They’d been getting worse and worse the last few months, mostly here at home or when I was at the campaign office with Dad, or out on the campaign trail with him. He was walking a lot of the precincts now, with polls showing that those who’d at least seen him for a few minutes were much stronger in their support of him.
Having one of his family members ring the doorbell was almost as effective.
Coming out of the Republican Convention, he’d been five points behind his Democratic opponent, who’d faced a very nasty primary battle with another Democrat. Two weeks ago, the local press had gotten a package from his campaign, tipping them off to our sudden move from Florida, and alleging that Dad had been in an inappropriate relationship with someone back there. The only problem was, they couldn’t prove it because the young woman Dad had slept with was now married to a very religious husband and flatly denied she’d ever done anything wrong with my father. We kept quiet on the subject, neither confirming nor denying anything until Mom called up a reporter and asked to talk to her.
For two hours, Mom had cried on the reporters shoulders about how lonely she’d been in Florida, separated from almost all of her family and confiding that she’d wanted nothing more than to move back home, back to Modesto where she belonged. Mom had ended by wiping her tear-stained eyes and commenting how lucky she was to have a husband who would give up something he loved doing – preaching – and move back to her hometown. The fact that he’d decided to pursue a career in politics, a career that he enjoyed almost as much as preaching, and that let him still serve people as he felt called to do, was just God’s way of blessing him for being so understanding.
It wasn’t quite the truth, but it wasn’t quite a lie either, and with Dad’s former mistress keeping her mouth shut back in Florida, it was a good explanation. Dad was cast in a good light, Mom wasn’t ridiculed too badly, after all she’d gotten her husband to give up his career for her, and our opponent looked like a bully trying to sully a good man’s name for political gain. Now Dad was three points ahead of him in the polls, and with the money from tonight’s festivities, he would be able to widen that lead by a good five points or more.
In addition to the media blitz, the money would also pay for paid walkers, as well as the volunteers necessary, to walk every precinct in the District, pulling voters we’d identified as being supportive of my father to the voting booth. We’d have one person on the ground for roughly every twenty of our targeted voters. With numbers like that, the possibility of Dad losing this election was almost nonexistent. Just as nonexistent as I wished this headache would be, since it had spiked harder as I thought about all these things.
“You okay, son?” Papa’s voice from the doorway surprised me. He was already dressed in his best suit, and had a very concerned look on his craggy face.
“I’m fine, Papa.” I said with a fake smile, getting slowly to my feet. “What are you doing here so early?”
“I’ve been driving your father around for most of the day.” Papa said with a shrug. “We got done at the hall and came back here.”
“Oh, I didn’t know he’d roped you into doing the driving again.” I said with a frown. It almost seemed like it was beneath Papa to do stuff like that.
“I volunteered.” Papa said with a shrug as if that was the end of the conversation. “It’s about the only time I get to see any of you anymore, you’ve all been so busy with this damn campaign.”
“Well it’s over next month.” I reminded him with a much more genuine smile. It felt good that he missed having me around underfoot.
“You want to go fishing the weekend after the election?” He asked me as I edged past him and headed out to find mom and tell her I’d taken care of the caterer and the florist.
“That’d be fun.” I agreed easily. It was late in the season for fishing, and we probably wouldn’t catch much while freezing our asses off on the lake, but it’d be relaxing at the same time.
“Then I’ll make sure your Dad doesn’t have a problem with it.” He said as he followed me through the house, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blurry haze of frenzied activity and pain for me. A lot of work had to be done, and the house was swarming with florists, caterers, construction workers, campaign volunteers, and all sorts of other people needing directions or help with a wide variety of things. Over the past few weeks, the headaches had been growing worse and worse, and I’d long since learned that no pain medicine I could get my hands on would make a difference, even Mom’s prescription pain pills for her back didn’t dent the headaches.
It was around four that I was able to disappear into my room, nearly blind from the headache that, unlike the others, hadn’t gone away after a few hours. My room was a beautiful one, with a huge king-size four-poster bed, a large dresser along one wall, and a desk along the other. I went to the desk opening the bottom drawer to make sure the box was still there with its valuable contents, then pulled out a piece of paper from another drawer, along with a pen.
Time was growing short, I knew. These headaches weren’t something I’d experienced directly before, but someone else had and I knew what they meant. Before it happened, though, things had to be done to protect the future, and the mere thought of that made the headache double and my eyes watered. With tears of pain trickling down my face, I set about writing a very important letter. I couldn't risk waiting on this letter any longer.
“Davey, you ready yet?” Papa’s voice from my doorway surprised me and I lifted my head off of my desk to peer through blurry eyes. I’d finished the letter, so that at least was done.
“I need to get dressed, Papa.” I said, rising from the desk and nearly falling over as the headache stabbed again through my brain and I grew dizzy for a second.
“What's wrong?” He asked, coming fully into the room and looking at me with concern.
“I’ve just got a headache, that’s all.” I told him and he put a hand on my chin, lifting it up so that my eyes met his.
“You’ve been crying.” He stated the obvious and I shrugged.
“It hurts real bad.” I admitted.
“I’ll get your father and we’ll get you to the hospital.” He told me firmly starting to move out of the room.
“No!” I nearly shouted, grabbing his arm to stop him. He turned to look at me sternly.
“Watch your tone, young man.” Papa said with a mixture of sternness and concern in his voice. “If you’re sick, we’ll take you to a doctor.”
“Not tonight, Papa.” I pleaded with him. “Dad can’t miss tonight. I’ll go in the morning, I promise.”
“Okay.” Papa said after a long moment. “You better get dressed and wash your face.”
“I will, but, um, before I do, can you do something for me?” I asked him, deciding at the last moment to trust him with my treasure. He nodded and I opened up the desk drawer, pulling out the box. I handed it to him with great care and he took it gently, staring at it with curiosity.
“What’s this?” He asked me and I smiled at him.
“Something more valuable than both our bank accounts.” I told him and he cocked his head to the side as if studying me from a new angle. “Don’t open it unless I don’t ask for it back by January of next year. Promise?”
“If you say so.” Papa said gently. There was curiosity in his voice, but I knew if he promised, that he’d keep his word. “What’s in it?”
“Just some letters I’d like you to send for me if I can’t.” I told him. “Each one has a note taped to it for when and where it should be mailed from. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
“Yes, but why won’t you do it yourself?” He asked me, voicing some of his curiosity.
“I will, if I can.” I told him. “That’s why I asked you to give it back to me if I asked. If I don’t ask, just mail them like I wrote on the notes.”
“Go get dressed.” Papa said after thinking it over for a few moments. I nodded at him and he left the room, the box tucked under his arm. The box wasn’t that big, when I looked at it from this angle, and for a blessed moment the headache disappeared. It was gone long enough for me to wash my face, and to get dressed in the nice suit Mom had picked out for me to wear tonight.
Five hours later, we were back home amidst our one hundred guests and I realized the evening couldn’t have gone better, even if my headache had returned as soon as I’d gotten in the car with my parents, my sister, and the Reagans. The dinner had gone well, even with the typically bland food. The speeches and entertainment more than made up for the food, as all fundraiser dinners were supposed to do. The private reception afterwards had gone even better as Dad mingled with the wealthy and powerful people attending the party. My sister and I even made our rounds just before nine o’clock, being sure to say goodnight to the most important people there (including Mr. and Mrs. Reagan) before heading up to bed.
The headache had been getting progressively worse all night, reaching new levels of pain that challenged even my ability to hide it. Papa had been giving me worried looks all night, and I’d heard him whispering to my father that I should go to the hospital in the morning. As he kissed me goodnight, Dad even asked me what was wrong and when I told him I’d been having really bad headaches, he told me he’d be up in a few minutes to see me before I went to sleep.
Surprisingly, that made me feel a lot better, with the headache disappearing long enough for me to make the trek up the stairs. It was when I reached the last few steps that the headache returned, sharper and more painful than ever before. My eyes went blurry and I lost my balance for one single moment.
“DAVEY!” My sister’s scream filled my ears, but it sounded so far away as I fell backwards, my arms flailing as I tried to grab something, anything, but it was useless and I fell backwards, hitting my head on something as a blackness roared up from deep within me and I felt no more.
My last thoughts, oddly enough, were of the letter I’d just written earlier tonight. At least that letter would help keep Dad on the track he was on now, and help make sure that all this had been worth every effort, every moment of pain.
Dear Mom, Dad, Jenny, Nanny, and Papa,
I know I should have told you about these headaches earlier, but I didn’t want to ruin everything. Dad can do such great things if he gets elected and I don’t want him to quit like I know he would if I was really sick. Why am I having these headaches? I don’t know, but if something happens to me, I want everyone to know that I love all of you.
Dad, don’t quit if something happens to me. Be the best you can be. I believe in you.
Love,
Davey
As with all my stories, E provides immeasurable input, grammar checking, and all those other lovely editing thingies that make the story so much better!
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