Chapter 2

It had been a strange visit. His little brother’s truck was dented in the front, and Daimon had claimed that it was caused by some invisible phantom. While Jen had measured Daimon for his tuxedo, he freaked out when she mentioned that he might have to help set up the eighteen tables at six o’clock the day before the wedding. Daimon claimed that he had been seeing those numbers everywhere. Eric had tried to explain to him that it was just coincidence, using, as proof, the time he and Jen had bought a jeep and then started seeing the same vehicle everywhere afterward. "Once something is brought to our attention, we start noticing it more," Eric had said.

It was strange for Daimon to act this way; he was usually the skeptical one, often to the point of cynicism. Normally, Eric would be more concerned about Daimon’s behavior, but unfortunately, he had more pressing things to worry about. He still needed to pick up some wedding items from their mother’s house, so Eric walked his brother out.

"Get some rest, Pitts," Eric advised, patting Daimon on the back on their walk out.

"I'm not hallucinating, Eric," Daimon countered. "You know me. Everything happened exactly as I told it." He no longer even resisted the demeaning nickname; it would have been in vain anyway. Eric had called him "Pitts" ever since he had convinced Daimon, fifteen years ago, to bite into the core of a peach, which Eric had promised contained magical seeds.

"I believe you," Eric soothed. "All I'm saying is sleep on it, and it will seem less..."

"Magical?" Daimon offered, smirking angrily.

"Crazy," Eric clarified. Eric had received more of their father's physical traits, with lighter auburn hair and a cleft in his chin that always made Daimon think of somebody stepping on a rake and being smacked dead center by the handle.

The brothers parted, Eric to his yellow Jeep and Daimon to his newly damaged truck. They pulled out of the subdivision, Eric leading like usual, and, at the exit, they continued in opposite directions.

~

Even though she lived just outside New Purley, Eric's mother had not seen him for weeks. As Eric pulled in, he was astonished at how little things outside had changed despite all the upheaval within. In the yard sat the same permanent nativity scene that had been installed his freshman year of high school. Daimon had asked his mother why she did not take it down after that Christmas, and she had replied that Jesus was reborn every time the sun came up. Daimon was always challenging his mother’s faith. In that respect, if not in any other, Eric's little brother defied their parents' rule of law. In every other way, Eric did. He always had.

The house was a single story ranch house set in a desolate field. While a few lonely trees broke up the relentless flat land, the wind found its way around them easily. During winter, the localized wind chill was always ten degrees colder than the rest of New Purley, or at least it had felt that way. The closest tree to the house, an elm with branches ending prematurely at cut-off stubs, still cradled the remains of a treehouse that he, his brother, and his dad had built. Old bicycle handlebars spun and bobbed on the end of a rope connected to a rickety floor joist. Eric smiled as he recalled the time he had lathered the handlebars with Crisco and told Daimon to take a running head start at swinging on it.

Surprisingly, the front door was locked, so Eric dug through the gravel landscaping until he found the spare key. The kitchen and living room were empty, but the television was on, broadcasting the news. As usual, it was reporting on a recent attack on New Purley by the terrorist group Excel. Though usually nonviolent, the attacks had been going on for the past few years. Sometimes the group hit a bank and stole money. Other times, it was a public place, like a park. The group seemed to expect only fear, never demanding political change or requesting additional money. No one knew who the gang was; the terrorists always wore masks that concealed their identities. According to the television, this latest attack had been on a daycare facility. Luckily, it had been hit after hours, and nobody was hurt.

“Mom?” Eric hollered.

Hearing a shuffling of paper from her bedroom, Eric followed the sound down the hallway. “Hello?” he asked, sensing something unusual. “It’s Eric.”

“Oh!” he heard in reply. His mother's voice. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I thought I would pick up the tablecloths for the wedding,” Eric explained, turning into the bedroom. Marilyn Camano’s back was to the hallway, and her hands were frantically snatching loose pieces of paper scattered on the violet flower print comforter covering the bed.

“What are you doing?” Eric asked, suspicious.

Keeping her back to her son, Marilyn continued grabbing the papers. In her explanation, Eric could hear sniffs, revealing that she had been crying.

“I’m just...picking up. Going through some old things.”

Leaning over, Eric picked up one of the last remaining sheets of paper. His mother told him to stop, snatching at the sheet unsuccessfully. Marilyn was visibly distraught. Strands of her long brown hair had stuck to her cheeks from her falling tears. The area surrounding her brown eyes were puffier than normal, on account of her crying. Her breathing deepened frantically. “That’s not yours,” she pled.

Conflicted, Eric paused for a moment. Ever since his parents' split, he had become more protective of his mother, filling in for his absent father. Perhaps he was making up for the frustration he had caused when he was younger. He certainly did not wish to upset her, yet he also wished to fix any issue that did so chronically, whether that be a leaky faucet or an uncomfortable memento. Marilyn Camano was rarely forthcoming when it came to her own well-being, often forcing Eric to take matters into his own hands.

He turned away from her, fending off her attempts at recovering the information. The paper itself was bordered by the logo of the New Purley Moralist Political Party. Apparently it was an in-office memo, which was not unexpected; Eric’s father had been, and as far as Eric knew, still was an active member in the local conservative party.

At first, Eric did not understand what justified his mother’s reaction. The memo merely outlined the details of a meeting: minutes, Eric thought they were called. There were a lot of motions, financial talk, closed session discussion, and dry business talk. However, further down on the memo sat a peculiar sentence: Present members unanimously approve fundraising at Little Red School House.

Eric’s expression must have been visible, for Marilyn let go of his arm and backed away, slowly descending onto her bed. “What is this about?” Eric asked, with an unexpected, demanding tinge in his tone. Marilyn lowered her head and avoided eye contact. After a few seconds of irritation, Eric returned to the living room and looked at the television. The broadcast was just finishing, but he caught the name as the banner ticked across the bottom of the screen: The Little Red Schoolhouse latest target in domestic terrorism.

Eric slowly made his way into the bedroom. Marilyn had not moved. Holding out the memo in front of her face, Eric asked, "What is going on?”

Another sniffle preceded her response. “It’s nothing,” she said, her face stern but voice shaking. “Leave it alone.”

“Am I crazy?” Eric continued, ignoring his mother’s plea. “Why is the building on this memo the same that's on the news?"

“Stop it. Yes, you’re acting crazy.”

Eric reviewed the memo. In the top right hand corner was a date, placing its creation just a few months ago. It must have been one of the last items brought in by his father because he moved out soon after. Though he had returned to remove some of his belongings, his father obviously had not taken everything. Eric was not even sure where the man lived. He had broken contact with his sons after he moved out. Neither he nor Daimon received much of an explanation, but his parents’ marital trouble had started long ago. The separation was just the next step in a long, divisive, and cold relationship. Actually, Eric had thought that the separation was good for everybody. No more tense silences. Regardless, Marilyn's current silence regarding the memo was grating his nerves.

“Damn it, mom! Tell me what’s going on!”

“Language!” she retorted, face stern, with voice to match this time.

“Are those terrorists after dad? Did he do something to piss them off?”

“How dare you! Of course not! Respect your father!”

Reeling, Eric was speechless for a moment. “Respect? After everything you’ve gone through with him, you still demand respect for him? Even if he’s not involved in that attack, he’s still an asshole!”

Eric felt the slap across his cheek before he could even register Marilyn’s hand in the air. Immediately, her hand recoiled to her own face, covering her mouth, which was wide open in horror. Eric was stunned. The sting was sharp and tingling. He could not recall a time his mother had ever physically reprimanded him. His father had, of course. Sometimes with a belt. But this slap was a side of his mother he had never seen before. Shame clouded his defiance; Eric was perpetuating the very behavior he condemned in his father. He was disgusted in himself for his hypocrisy, his mother for her weakness, and his father for his abandonment.

Eric marched out of the house, crushed memo in hand, to the sound of Marilyn's sobs. Perhaps it was best not to deliver the tablecloths. After all, they had been used at his parents’ wedding.

~

“What are you suggesting?” Jennifer asked, strapping herself into her underarmor as she dressed for work.

Glancing again at the crumpled memo, Eric explained. “When I walked in, mom was crying on the bed, surrounded by dad’s business notes. This letter talks about fundraising at the same facility that was just bombed by Excel. I think my dad has something to do with it.”

“First of all,” Jennifer began, sliding her boots on, “your mother isn’t exactly a robot when it comes to emotions. She was probably crying about the separation. Secondly, why would a terrorist organization be mad at your father?”

"Maybe they have something against the Moralist Party."

"Even so, the Moralist Party wasn't there during the attack. Nobody was."

"Maybe they wanted to disrupt the Party's fundraising," Eric offered.

“Why would they want to do that? To stop the party from receiving donations? The party would just move the event somewhere else.”

“Well, it would at least make their lives more difficult," Eric grasped.

"Or maybe it had nothing to do with the Moralist Party," Jennifer countered. "Maybe they’re just doing what they’ve been doing forever: trying to sprinkle fear wherever they can.”

Eric inspected the carpet as if an answer could be found there. After a few seconds of contemplation, he looked up. "What if ‘fundraising’ is code for ‘immobilize.’”

Jennifer snickered, “Or ‘immolate.’”

“That was tasteless,” Eric reprimanded lightly, cocking his head.

“Look, it just seems like a leap.”

“The pun? I agree.”

Jennifer shot a cold look at her fiancé before continuing. “You are seriously proposing that the Moralist Party is secretly backing a terrorist group? That’s like a diabetic holding a bake sale of sugar cookies.”

“What do you mean?”

Jennifer stomped her other foot into a boot. “It’s the Moralist Party. You know, ‘Family, Faith, and Freedom’? They might be quaint and out of touch, but they’re hardly violent.”

“You haven’t seen dad when he was angry. Once, mom considered taking Daimon to the hospital after dad found out he had broken into his gun cabinet.”

Jennifer stood up and pointed at Eric. “That’s serious. You don’t mess with a person’s gun.” She walked to a panel next to the bed and pulled out her holster. “I can’t very well investigate your father. There’s just no case.” Her fingers worked deftly, strapping on the holster tightly, which made her firm figure seem that much curvaceous. Eric ignored his dancing pulse.

“I’m not asking you to. Have there ever been suspicious reports about other Moralist party members?”

Jennifer fixed the braiding of her long, black hair. Even with the tight weaving, stubborn curly strands popped out like springs. Her arching eyebrows were also jet-black, complementing her dark complexion. “Eric, a quarter of New Purley’s population belongs to the Moralist party. Of course there are individuals who have had run-ins with the law. It’s just statistics.”

“Even individuals who chant ‘Family, Faith, and Freedom?’” he mocked.

“Yes, and we make sure to ask the political affiliation of every drunk driver," she returned sarcastically, "as well as their favorite band, hockey team, and domestic vehicle. It's totally common practice. Listen, it just doesn't make sense for a quarter of the populace to shoot itself in the foot."

Jen finished her braid and locked it with a black hair band. It was one of the last actions she performed during her preparation routine. Her shift had been bumped to the early morning this time to accommodate the officers who were managing the situation at the daycare center. She was assigned to patrol Freeport, a north-eastern part of New Purley close to the bay. It was one of the oldest areas of New Purley, having been colonized in the mid-1600's.

Jennifer kissed Eric on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Or maybe they just hate children,” Eric replied.

“Who doesn’t?” Jennifer finished, closing the door behind her.

Theirs was a unique relationship. Jennifer Lawson had been his commanding officer during basic training, and there had been an immediate connection between them despite the age difference. They had shared many nights behind the barracks after lights-out, dropping their guard and dismissing their rank, two warm-blooded humans enjoying validation from the other.

Jennifer had witnessed the dissolution of Eric's parents' marriage along with him, and it was her presence that had kept Eric stable. He felt as though he could never thank her enough. Regardless, considering the recent event with his mother, he knew it was time to reopen the wound.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3