Nos Populus

Part I

Chapter 1

Vox Americani

James Reso gave little thought to the beer gradually warming in his hand. His focus was reserved for the crowd gathering round his table as he spun through another mostly true-to-life tale. It had been just the five of them when they took their seats at the pub—the name of which was long lost in the drunken fog—a little after seven: James, with his back to the door, faced the bar; Meghan to his left; Conrad immediately across from him; Dylan next to Conrad; and Mick at the head, between Meghan and Dylan. In the two or three hours since, the population at the center of the pub had multiplied a couple of times over.

Some came for a quick question—which way to the shitter among the most frequent—and had gotten sidetracked by something James said or asked in return; Americans, such as James and Conrad, could still prove a novelty to the less- worldly Dubliners, the younger students and out-of-towners. Others came when word of James’ stories had travelled far enough across the pub, piquing curiosities and demanding to be heard in person. It hadn’t taken long before their table had developed its own gravity, pulling people in quicker as the mass swelled.

James was presently in the middle of another anecdote: the one about his self-imposed exile from the States, one he had told enough times before. He had learned to how embellish where necessary, to alleviate his own boredom with the telling, as much as anything: removing or adding certain details, playing with linear and non-linear models. Depending on the way he told it, he could make it a dramatic narrative, an adventure yarn, or even a comedy. Sometimes he’d play up the domestic and international politics that had been pivotal to the story’s impetus, other times he’d mostly ignore them. It all depended on what he thought the crowd wanted to hear. Wrapping up his story to a round of shouts and applause—he had opted for the part-dramatic, part-comedic, less-political version—James took a sip from his beer and listened to someone he didn’t know tell him to hurry up, so he could receive another.

He leaned back and tried to remember exactly when he had gone from chatting with his friends to holding court. Not so much because this was unusual—it wasn’t—but because part of him remembered this not being so easy once upon a time. He used to have to work harder to conquer his audiences. Perhaps it had just become routine. Conrad had often commented that James asked for this or, as he sometimes put it, needed this. He couldn’t quite recall when the transition had begun or how he had done it this time. He never could, really. Under sufficient duress, he might admit that these nights, these moments, could become something of a blur.

Some hours earlier, James had been scanning the words on the laptop screen in front of him for some veneer of inspiration. Minutes before, he had been confident—unflappable in his dominion over the keyboard, incapable of churning out anything less than faultless prose. He had towered over the screen. He had bounced in his chair. He even smirked, reveling in his command of the written word. Then the brain drain sunk in and now the writing Leviathan who had occupied that chair was gone. He couldn’t even be described as a ghost; slouched, tired, unproductive, there was no sign of him.

The place-saver blinked off and on. He had read this same semi-blank page again and again. The words that had been so well chosen led to nothing. He had no clue what he had been aiming for. It was then the thought hit him that perhaps it was his earlier work that was gibberish, hence his present lack of direction.

James suddenly felt very tired.

Vox Americani: James’ blog. He had written in it roughly every other day since arriving in Ireland two years before. He called it something else then: Reflections of an Ex-Pat, or some equally pedestrian nonsense. He wasn’t so big on titles in those days. It had started out a diary of his thoughts on any topic he thought the outside world could relate to; semi- humorous musings on people, work and religion; more serious thoughts on films, rules regarding living with roommates and everyday trivialities. Politics had slipped in a few times, mostly because that’s what he was thinking about at the time. He never took it too seriously. Nor did anyone else, he figured.

As time went on, he found politics becoming a more regular feature, with his longer and more eloquent pieces revolving around the Ward administration’s most recent overreach. His readers, the few and the proud, had noticed the same and they let him know it. The comment page would teem with activity each time he had offered them a few shots at the American president, his policies, and his enablers, his base. Each time he transferred his rage through the keyboard they’d come back with increasing passion and numbers, echoing his message twofold. Then threefold. Then five. Before long James couldn’t even sit down to his computer without it entering his head that if he had something he really wanted people to read he needed to at least start with some political epithet. Give them that and they’d stay for whatever came with it.

By the time he had accepted the direction his blog had taken he had already renamed it. Vox Americani was advertised as commentary from an unashamedly anti-Wardist stance, proud to fight the good fight against the intransigence of the current commander-in-chief, bellowing impotently from a couple thousand miles away. And his readership ate it up. His comment page had transformed into a message board comprised of several dozen members, with hundreds more checking in to see what the regulars were saying.

An anonymous blogger, he became something of a minor Internet celebrity. In his entries he barely acknowledged that there had been such a surge. He forged on as if it were an aberration. All he had had was an outlet for his own indignation, subsequently feeding countless others. His blog’s status was of no comfort now; if anything, it sharpened the embarrassment. His soul screamed for just one more passage, one more sentence. One more word. If he got that much he might find whatever it was he had been trying for. Sometimes all it took was the smallest spark and he’d be off, unstoppable. But when the spark was most needed, when he most appreciated and respected that capacity he occasionally had, it was dark.

He looked again to the other window, opened to a news site:

President Ward: Wars Complete; President declares long-standing military operations a success; fate of draft dodgers to be announced

James stared ahead at the screen, still stuck.

At the pub, his onlookers hoisted their glasses as James made a brief toast. The first silence of the night followed, as each one of them attempted to down mostly full drinks in one go. One by one they finished and unleashed a small and choked hurrah for their accomplishment. Across the table, Dylan, already looking rather pale, slammed his glass to the table and rose from his seat, hand to his mouth, making quickly for the restroom.

Conrad leaned across the table. His mouth moved, but James had trouble hearing him over the din of the pub. He was about to ask his oldest friend to repeat himself when Mick intervened, motioning with his hands and shaking his head. Conrad nodded and mouthed a few mute syllables in response.

Around them, the crowd had remained committed to their spots, save for the handful of them who had splintered off in search of more booze following the toast. Among those who remained, a few were prodding James for further anecdotes. He plumbed his memories and found that only his political portfolio remained untouched. It was always hard to tell how those stories would be received and so he had been hesitant to go to that well. In some of the pubs closer to home—in the student-heavy pubs and clubs of Rathmines—his harangues about Ward were usually crowd pleasers. But tonight they had travelled further into the center of the city and the crowd here was decidedly more mixed; a wide range of ages and incomes were evident. There were certainly some tourists among them.

Across from him, Conrad, sensing James’ predicament, shrugged: a clear enough signal. Conrad tended to disdain political discussions in the pub; these were his churches and he knew well the division that politics could create, especially when people were drinking. But he also knew James and he preferred the path of least resistance. The one potential obstacle removed, with Mick—whose thoughts on politics and pubs were much the same—having suddenly disappeared, James held his nose and announced, sans segue, the name of President Dennis Ward. A chorus of boos rained down in the pub and James grinned.

As he scanned his mind for an adequate rant, he observed Dylan, emerging from the restroom on the other side of the bar. He stopped on his way back, commanding the attention of the bartender and put his forefinger in the air. Mick had appeared behind Dylan, grabbing him by the shoulder. The bartender looked to Mick with some concern. It was at that point that Conrad slid his chair over, ready to listen, inadvertently inserting his large frame into James’ view of the situation at the bar. He might not have long, James thought to himself.

Conrad Brody stood in James’ bedroom doorway, watching his friend massage his temples in quiet struggle. Conrad knew the words could not effectively fight back against James. But if they hung together in just the right way they could clog within his mind, temporarily silencing him. If this held for long enough, the thoughts and their corresponding passages would impact upon one another, forming a mass of indistinguishable fragments of ideas and words. Then James would become frustrated and the problem would compound. On and on it would spin until James was no longer master of that which was within his scope and he was slouched over the keys, seething not about the corruption and excesses of the Ward administration or its lapdog populace, but about his own failures to say anything about them.

Conrad didn’t dwell long. We’re going pub-hopping. Now-ish, I think.

For a moment James said nothing. Just stared at his screen, his fingers hovering over the keys, waiting to perform their task. The only sign that he had even heard Conrad came when his shoulders heaved and he pushed back in his chair. He heard me, Conrad thought as he steadied his feet in the doorway.

That sounds good, James eventually said. Then, after turning around: You see these reports? The wars are over. Just like that.

I saw. It’s the biggest story of the day.

There’s been nothing in terms of rousing success. No real milestones met. Ward’s been adamant in his refusal to alter course. Now he wants to jump out. Does it make any sense to you?

He senses a political opportunity and he is, after all, a politician. All in all it makes about as much sense as an ex-pat draft-dodger preaching to those who stayed about the importance of devotion. It was not the first time Conrad made the statement aloud and probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

We’re not the only ones, Conrad. And you know that.

Conrad never had any real retort on hand, not one that wouldn’t prove James’ point, anyway. For that matter, the point wasn’t even that Conrad disagreed with him; he didn’t. Even when he felt a glimmer of disparity, he usually found it impossible to do so after James was through with him. Give him just the slightest opening and James, if so inclined, could talk without end. The words never said anything you didn’t want to hear, were never unjustifiably malicious. When James spoke one was always certain where he stood. In his silence, you didn’t know where he was or what he wanted and, Conrad believed, neither did he.

I’ll be down in a few minutes. Just let me finish up here.

Sure thing, Conrad replied as he turned to go.

James was lying. Not deliberately, of course. In his mind he’d be able to make good on the promise. He wasn’t leaving until he got his feet back down on the ground, which would only happen when he could get some control over his work. That wasn’t going to be anytime soon and it didn’t do any good to try to tell him so, or risk him pulling out altogether. Best let him try to finish up, Conrad thought. Tell Mick and Dylan they’d wait a little while longer. Then Meghan would try.

James wasn’t sure exactly when Meghan had slid her chair so close to his. Last he checked she was abiding the few inches of personal space allowed by their side of the table. Then people had begun to crowd around, forcing the tables’ occupants to huddle together. Minutes from closing time, they were now hip-to-hip. She had had at least as many as he. Or so James reasoned. Whatever it was, he was reluctant to point it out, causing others, including Meghan, to become conscious of it and snuffing out the moment. At one point, James made some off-handed joke about Ward—one that was funny only in that place, at that time, with that level of alcohol coursing through them—that sent waves of raucous, drunken guffaws through the small throng, Meghan had thrown her head back in laughter and surreptitiously pinched James’ inner thigh.

She leaned over further than was necessary and shouted something into his ear. Over the noise of the pub and the various shouts and conversations going on round them, he could not quite hear. He nodded and smiled as coyly as his present state would allow. She, suitably impressed, leaned back to his ear and, James would’ve sworn later if he could remember, darted her tongue in and out of it, before quickly resettling herself to field a question from Mick. James, for his part, smiled, cleared his throat, and turned his attention back to his less intimate attendees.

This was about the time that the bartender announced ten minutes to closing. After the unhappy groans subsided, James spoke up, requesting one more hour. A few courtesy laughs answered him. The bartender rolled his eyes and denied his request. James pressed on, keeping his tone just friendly enough that the bartender knew he wasn’t dealing with the usual joker asking for an extension. After a while, the rest of the pub joined in, recognizing the seriousness of the negotiation and treating it accordingly. The bartender, however, continued to plead his case, citing alcohol laws and his poor, tired staff. James expressed his sympathy and explained how everyone would make the extra time well worth it financially and asked—totally straight-faced—for another half hour. The entire pub, many of them having just learned his name, started chanting James, James, James. Next to him, Meghan was shouting the longest, beaming at him, impressed even by the standard she had set for him. James sat and basked in their adoration and awaited the bartender’s response.

James had to have sensed her entrance, Meghan Kavanagh thought to herself. Try as she might to sneak up on him, and she had tried often, she could never surprise him when he was in this state. Hunched wasn’t the right word, given the rigidity of his back. But he certainly managed to loom over the keyboard nonetheless. He must know I’m here, she thought again.

Capturing him from behind, Meghan threw her arms around his shoulders. We’ve been calling you for an hour now. What do you got on that screen that’s more appealing than getting a few pints?

There’s little in the world more appealing to me about now. As she felt his tense form give way to a looser, more comfortable one she knew he’d been successfully sidetracked. He waxed playful: But as much as my tongue cries for some booze, this screen has the current consideration of my heart and my head. And, sadly, the latter outweigh the former.

With the liver’s vote serving as the tiebreaker, I’m sure? she sighed. What if a more alluring offer came along?

His voice picked up. You have something more alluring than booze?

I might. She stood up straight, looking down him, dancing her fingertips upon his shoulders. That is, it seems to me that there are still parts of your anatomy which haven’t had the chance to weigh in yet.

His neck swiveled slightly, at last breaking lock on the screen. And if an offer requiring... that sort of input came along, said offer would stand for how long, you think?

Not as long as an hour, anyway. She leaned in again, bending at the waist. Though if your fixation on this screen could be quit, the deadline might be extended.

Leaning into him she shut her eyes. Feeling his breath move in and dance along her lips she reached a hand around the back of his head. As one hand made contact with the stray hairs at the back of his neck, the other discovered the laptop’s power button, and she smiled coyly in celebration before pressing in to him.

Meg, you done working your magic yet?

Jim! Get the hell down here! It’s damn near six and I’m not pissed and I got you to thank for it.

Dylan O’Hanlon and Mick Dwyre, she cursed under her breath. Leave it to her own countrymen to sabotage her mission with the Yank. Traitors.

Regaining her focus on the situation at hand, she could no longer feel his breath on her lips. She was, however, acutely aware of his hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling it away from the computer. Opening her eyes she saw James smile for the first time since she walked in.

Tell them I’ll be down in ten minutes.

Meghan straightened her figure, pulling her wrist from his gentle grasp. Dropping her arms in front of her, she put on the coyest cat smile she could muster. You have five. She turned to go, muttering to herself a vague threat on Mick and Dylan’s wellbeing.

Returning from the pub, Conrad watched James ascend the stairs on the way to his room. He was slow and sluggish and he presently had his hands full, helping to guide a half- dead Dylan, but he still seemed to glide upward.

James had spent the night as he spent most nights out. He would focus first on the demoralized souls; those slumped over their pints in alcohol-fueled miasma. Those who were in need of something, anything which could help them out of bed the next morning; even just a good word. Then he’d turn his attention to the other side of the world: those laughing and cavorting at the billiards table or drunkenly, sloppily grinding against each other across from the bar and didn’t need a thing else in the world. Of course anyone could pick one group and stick with it, but that was not James’ interest. The trick, he understood, was to focus alternately between them until they blurred, until they meshed together as part of the same world. Then he could walk between.

From then on the night was his, leading the drinking processions and engaging any one person or the crowd as a whole, back and forth at will. He rarely came into the room the lifeblood of the party. But he nearly always left it that way. It had nothing to do with unifying the bar together under the fabled and fleeting Brotherhood of Man. There was no solid, underlying scheme James wished to impart; he did not wish to project an epiphany or philosophy into his audience. He just wanted the audience. The comments and message board for Vox Americani could give him the most general idea of how he was being received. No emoticon is up to the task of conveying the spectrum of human feeling displayed in any given second. The live audience gave him all of this, and he could dance back and forth however he needed to grab the people and make them adore him, if just for a second. Even if they forgot him by the next morning, he always had that moment.

He had not said a word on the slow trudge back to the house. There was no need. The five of them, stumbling over one another in the dark, were far from proper condition to stretch the conversation any longer than they already had.
And James had gotten his fix. Slow though he may have been to reach the top of the stairs, and equally so pushing Dylan in the opposite direction toward his own room, he flew back to his keyboard. Getting into the spirit of what he did best, James had found his muse, Conrad thought. The jumble was gone from his head, or at least put into order. He was back to form and he intended to prove it.

As she carefully navigated the upstairs hallway, Meghan found herself nearly blinded by the luminescence pouring from James’ door. It caused her head to pound. His computer was still on, she sighed. Turning to his doorway, she saw him bathed in the incandescence, furiously focused straight ahead, square into the light.

Stumbling back from the pub, Meghan had looked into his eyes and thought she’d seen an exceptionally bright glimmer. She’d attributed it—and that childlike grin that came with it—to the spirits polluting her mind and senses, making her see things that weren’t there. But it had been no alcohol- induced delusion. At some point between his last tenure at the keyboard and the present one, he had found what he was looking for. Something out in the town had picked at his brain just right and he now had to make up for lost time.

He yearned for the wide-eyed wonderment brought on when someone new had caught on to James’ words and understood every sentiment. And when he could do that on a larger scale, with a roomful of people: that was what he lived for. That, Meghan mused, was his obsession. From groups of people, it always was: from the people in the pubs: the collective over the individual; the strangers over his friends; other people over her. Drunkenly stumbling home she had thought, and not for the first time, to sidle up next to him and make that grand gesture to put herself in his center ring. But observing his smile and the way he glared at the starless Dublin night, she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Bringing herself back she found the light no longer so bright, her head not pounding as it had been. Still he sat, oblivious to all else as he worked. There wasn’t much telling how long he’d be there. When he got like this, when the inspiration really struck, there was nothing stopping him except himself. He could go on for hours more, she knew. He was, if just for the night and part of the next morning, contented.

Loosening her breath, Meghan turned to amble down the hall to her own room as she summoned just enough strength to find a smile.

If I may be allowed a poker analogy: you’re at a casino. It’s a nice casino, you don’t know much about what separates a good casino from a bad casino, but it’s alright. You’re a little drunk, too, the free drinks they give you and all. You’re at the poker table. There were six of you to start; now it’s you and this other guy across the table. This other guy sneers, rolling his shoulders, goes off on the dealer, waitresses and everyone he thinks is listening (and he does think everyone is listening to him) and generally acts like a prick. He can afford to, the analysts would say; successful people are allowed to act like that. See, all night he’s been bluffing. Big. Going all-in or near all-in on every hand.

To add to it, he’s acting like a prick (see above): laughing as he looks at his cards and throws his chips out. The less experienced players at the table would say that he seems to have the greatest luck you’ve ever seen.
He wouldn’t be playing like this otherwise. Right? So they’ve folded rather quickly. They’ll never know if he really had such great hands since the game doesn’t require you to show when you’ve won. The more experienced players battled with him for a bit and achieved small victories here and there, but experienced players play tight to the chest and tend to win out only in the long game—they need the long game. But that just gave this guy a longer time to ride their last nerve. They folded just to get away from him. As you might imagine, he’s piled up an impressive mountain of chips.

Now it’s you and him. The cards are dealt. He goes through his smug routine of looking at his cards, laughing, and then placing his bet. He throws in enough to put us all in. We look at our cards. We have a straight. A high one. Minimal chance he can actually best our hand. How do we play it?

So Ward in the White House in America. And us.

There’s a song playing overhead at the casino—one that became popular a few years back and still is in some circles—and it seems a strange fit for the casino but it has a nice rhythm, so you let it go. In the first line of the song, the singer says he is proud to be an American because he knows he is free. While I can identify with and even extol the first sentiment, the second displays an appalling reflection on the character of our nation. The idea that anyone can be so caught up in the freedoms we take for granted that they feel such a thing cannot be taken away, as another verse in the song puts forth, is incomparably conceited. It’s comforting to think we can forever rely on the things we hold dear. But we all know what happens when we become too reliant on something. Such things can be stripped from us, usually just as we’re convinced that they won’t be.

Never in America, they say, could such a thing happen. It can’t happen here. That complacency, factored in with an increasingly corrupt government and an unreliable media will poison the democracy. But we are convinced that it will never happen and so we do not notice when it slinks up on us and makes prisoners of us all. We will not have realized our folly until we are all either dead, or in re-education centers. And that’s if we notice at all, marching in step with the rhythms of the New State Anthem (which will also be played at the casino).

You look at how people gain such power and you think: wait, this is always a threat. Exactly. That’s the problem. Anyone can become a demagogue under the right circumstances. President Ward had those circumstances, and he licked his lips when he saw them. Rule of the Majority becomes meaningless, nay, harmful, when it is not used wisely. This is what the Founding Fathers were trying to prevent in their fragile new Republic. They gave us the tools necessary—The Bill of Rights, the Vote—to keep such things from happening.

Ward is performing his side in the tango of history. He exploited real and imagined threats to scrap together a couple of wars; he in turn decided that domestic action was necessary to keep the wrong influences from getting around. He’ll have no questions, no accountability. He’ll go to his grave with total impunity, totally unpunished.

Unless something is done. Unless we stand up, reveal his sins and force him to back down. Anyone thinking this’ll happen of its own volition is mistaken.

Now we see him triumphantly bringing his troops home; we see him focusing inward. He’ll have his judgment to render upon the dodgers and everyone who has opposed him these last four plus years (some will fear that, and I did for a time, but why? That’s what we’ve been railing against all this time—the cowardice of his Machiavellianism). And now the real dance will begin, because it will be on our home turf. We failed to see it soon enough, or at least do anything to prevent him from getting this far. But we are not yet derelict in our duty. The great test of this generation is soon to be upon us. For the first time in a long time the American citizenry has a battle in front of it, a battle which will force us to decide what we want and then to act. And we have to act fast because, in deference to our aforementioned inaction, the man on the other side of the table is the one with most of the chips. And he will not hesitate to use them.

Vox Americani 20 June 2009

Chapter 2

Boxes

Meghan leaned back in the chair, James’ article dancing through her head. She was one of the first readers of Vox Americani after James had started it up—had liked it before most others did, and not just because it was his, even for all that that was worth. It was a look inside the head of an American, one of the world’s chosen, if their mythology was to be believed. From the blog, she got the full, sizable spectrum of American feeling: pride, disgust, hope, cynicism, curiosity, obstinacy, tolerance, usually all within the same paragraph. It was the wonder of an American’s constantly shaking and shifting mind, always thinking and feeling a thousand contradictory things, and always being unapologetic about it. This look into the American mind, at a time when the country—much as she could tell—was preparing to collapse under the weight of its own impossible promises, proved endlessly fascinating to her, never failing to make her stomach stir in piteous disgust, a feeling Vox Americani acknowledged and turned into something more healthy and productive because she wasn’t the only one. That’s the bit that had started surprising her some time ago: her faith in and adoration of a place she had never been—the visceral part of her that was very receptive to the myth making. Meghan adored it all. And, of course, it was all James.

Was there something wrong with your room? James called from the doorway.

Not really. She smiled as she turned around. He shrugged and entered the room languidly and collapsed on his bed. Somewhere in there, he groaned audibly. No more complaining about that job, she scolded. I can only get you the one. At least with your status. Shortly after moving into Mick’s house, Meghan had gotten him a job with a courier. It was probably the only job in the city that wasn’t going to ask any questions about his immigration status. When that knowledge failed to cheer him up, he tried to remember how it let him see Dublin from his bike and got him out in the open air, hoping it didn’t rain.

I wouldn’t ask you to get me a new one, he said. Anyway, complaining doesn’t mean I’m going to quit. I’ll complain now, get it out of my system and go back in tomorrow and start the process over again. That’s how we do it in the States.

Then you can’t hate it that bad.

James sighed and ran his hands over his head, through dark blonde hair. His wide eyes were half shut, brown circles lightly painted underneath on his light, very smooth skin; really, his beard was embarrassingly thin. Do you know how many times a day people hear my accent and want to know my take on everything?

How many times do you love telling them?

He laughed. "I don’t know, I guess getting to explain it makes me hate the job a little less. The ‘situation,’ he said the word with a lump of bitterness in his throat and then chortled again. I could be in a boiling desert right now with a fifty- pound bag on my back. Or dead."

Don’t talk like that, Meghan snapped.

I’m sorry, James said, sitting up on the bed. It’s not something I like thinking about, either but it helps make this better. I’m doing better than I can say for a lot of dodgers.

Or a lot of people back in America.

Those people are proud to be there. So many of them voted for Ward and cheer him on, whatever he does. They don’t know what they’ve lost.

Somebody should tell them.

He pointed at his computer. What do you think I’m doing on there?

It’s not the most effective medium, is it? Somebody over there should do it. Isn’t that what America is about?

It was. Americans don’t deal well in unpleasant truths. Not ones about ourselves, anyway.

What’s all this about, then? she motioned to the laptop behind her. You seem to do okay with the unpleasant truths.

James thought for a moment. I don’t like Ward, so telling the truth about him isn’t so unpleasant. Yeah, okay, maybe some of us can but it all comes down to political stands, more than anything.

Or personal slights, Meghan said.

It’s more than that, James rebutted, with a bit of bile in his voice. I can’t accept that he’s right; I can’t accept that what he’s done has been in the national interest. But there he goes, doing whatever he pleases because he can. He wins by scaring people, he starts a war, he starts another war, he starts up the draft to get resources for his war, and then he uses them to start yet another war. And he gets accolades for it back home. Accolades. He slowed down and his voice grew tired. This was an old rant and even he was getting tired of it.

Meghan stood up and walked to the bed to join James. You get so worked up about him. So does Conrad, but he doesn’t get the way you do. Don’t make it personal, James. Hate what he does, hate what he stands for, but if you want to be his judge, you can’t hate him.

It’s so hard not to.

I know. They sat in silence for a moment. He was gazing out the window; late in the day, the sky turning purple.

James turned to look her in her lush, green eyes sitting just below her tight, ink black curls that neatly contrasted with her porcelain skin. What do you think of when you think of America? he asked. It sounds self-serving, but...

You don’t live in today’s world without having a thought about America, she said. When you look at Ward as an avatar for the country then, yes, it comes off bad. I mostly think of the things I hear from you and there’s a lot negative but only in the context of him. You’re just as quick to talk about the good, when you can leave him out of it. And I prefer that part of it: the big, wide-open spaces, and the vigor of all those people. You don’t get that in an old country like this one. And I know those things can come with downsides but it’s a country of opportunity and things being shite now doesn’t mean they will be forever.

James nodded, no longer looking her way. Out the window again, Meghan thought. She didn’t have to tell him any of that. Most of that had come from his mouth at various times and with perhaps slightly different phrasing. She looked at him, glaring out the window and wondered what went through his head when he rambled so eloquently. Speaking was difficult for her: the way her heart throbbed and her hands shook, knowing that your thoughts were up front and vulnerable and only your words could protect you. Did he ever get that? How could he turn it on and off so effortlessly? And what wouldn’t he talk about, given the chance?

That’s when she felt it—her arm around his shoulder. She reflexively pulled away and started rubbing at her forearm, feigning poise. She began to wonder how