26. Very Different View

DARREN

It's getting closer to the exam date, and I've been spending hours each day trying to cram in as much information as I can. I massage my forehead, hoping it'll relieve the headache that's starting to form. The bar review course I purchased has been immensely helpful, but staring at the computer for hours at a time wears on my eyes.

"You look good behind your father's desk," Rausch says from the doorway as he makes his way inside.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his dress pants and looks around at the small changes I've made.

I packed away some of his personal effects, and the degrees and recognitions that hung on the walls. However, I couldn't bring myself to remove the framed Emerson poem. It still hangs on the wall behind me, and Rausch's eyes settle upon it as he stands in front of the desk.

"Very different view from this side," I lean forward.

"Very different indeed." He takes a seat and crosses his legs.

"I think this is the first time we've been in the same room together without yelling at each other."

"Why do you suppose that is?" he queries, a knowing smile on his face.

Perhaps my aversion to sparring is because I need something from him.

Instead of answering his question, I get right to the point. "I went to the house in Lynchburg."

His lips are pressed tight as he waits for me to continue.

"I'm sure you knew he didn't live there anymore." I don't need him to confirm it.

"I suspect he is a transient." Once again, he neither admits nor denies that he knows anything. I simply don't care anymore.

"I met his neighbor, Ethel." He makes no indication that he knows her, so I continue.

"Did you know that Rori Colton voted down a bill to freeze property taxes for seniors?" I ask, the echo of anger still vibrating through me.

"The Governor has already made his decision, there is nothing you can…"

"I don't give a shit if he takes my father's seat. I do, however, give a shit about Ethel and her neighbors who can't pay their property taxes," I raise my voice slightly.

"I'm not following you here." He clasps his hands in his lap, as if settling in for a long tale.

"Investors are driving up property taxes, and there was a relief bill that none of their representatives voted for."

"Careful, Darren, or people might think you actually care about someone besides yourself."

I laugh. "To you, politics is about having control," I accuse because the real selfish one is Rausch. "Not following the interests of your constituents."

"Is that what you think your father did?" he accuses me. "Follow his own interests?"

His question catches me off guard.

"I think he went into politics for pure reasons, but," I falter, because even I don't want to admit that I looked up to my father my whole life, but that politics had corrupted him and party lines forced him into decisions he didn't want to make. I knew this, not because he confided in me, but the ever-present conflict in his eyes, the tiny crow's feet, and the clench of his jaw told me that story every time I looked at him, "that won't be me." Even as I say it, I know how na?ve that makes me sound.

A careful smile spreads on his face.

I rise from the chair and round the desk, but instead of leaning on its edge, I walk over to the bookshelf. "Did you know that I was trying to get laid after a bump of coke and way too many drinks when someone turned on the TV and I saw the mangled helicopter?"

Rausch makes an indignant noise.

"I was so inconsequential that no one called me."

"Darren, I tried calling you but you wouldn't pick up," Rausch offers, turning in his chair to face me with an apologetic look on his face.

"You knew the minute the helicopter went down." It's not a challenge, nor am I looking for confirmation. "You knew before the press, even before the fucking ambulance driver."

"Darren…" he sighs like a warning not to tempt him into telling the truth, because sometimes the truth can be unbearable.

But I have to know.

"What was more important than warning me?" I question, turning away from him and looking at the bookshelf again in order to give myself some space.

"Am I not allowed to grieve?" He stands abruptly. I see the pain in his eyes that he's always so careful to hide. I know that look, because I see it in the mirror every morning.

For a moment, I'm taken aback by his sudden rush of rare emotion; as if his heavy plates of armor have been stripped off unwillingly – aggressively. The moment is so heavy the air feels charged in this office, in the place where my father's presence still lingers like the scent of aftershave long after its use.

"I was his son!" I yell, giving into my emotions.

"Do you think that your grief trumps everyone else's?" Rausch demands.

"Yes!" I raise my arms in the air. "That's how it works, Rausch. It is my blood, my legacy, and I had a right to know before anyone else."

Rausch casts his eyes to the ground and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He slumps back into his chair and adjusts his tie. "I was in shock," he explains, in a cool, and careful manner. "I tried to hold off the press…"

But he doesn't finish the sentence because it doesn't change what happened. It will never take back the pain in that moment when I saw the news, but it doesn't overshadow the fact that my parents are no longer here.

"I regretted being in Vegas when I should have been at the lake house with them, on the helicopter with them." Rausch's eyes snap to mine. "And when my friends wouldn't leave the suite, I did."

I take my seat behind the desk once more, feeling the weight of it – always feeling the weight of it. Rausch sits on the other side, rapt with attention, and surprisingly no condescension in his stare.

"I went into the bar intent on drinking myself into a state where I wasn't burdened with the knowledge that I was alone. When I got thrown out and I was sitting in that alley, I realized that the only two people in this world that would miss me if I ceased to exist, didn't exist anymore themselves."

His expression turns to one of sadness, and dare I say, maybe a bit of understanding.

"And the only person who cared enough to see if I was okay was a fucking hooker, as you so gently called her. She could have left me that night, I'd already paid her, but she didn't, because I'd kicked Alistair out, and if she left, there would be no one there to know if I had aspirated in my fucking sleep! And how did I repay her?" I ask, feeling a heaviness in my chest that gnaws at me still. "I got her fired from her agency so she'd need the money I offered her to marry me."

There's a deep crease in his brow.

"Darren, I didn't—" His voice is low and laced with remorse.

"You didn't need to know in order to treat her with respect. Even after all of that, do you know where she is right now?"

Rausch sits perfectly still, his fingers laced together in his lap.

"She's delivering necessities and clothing to Compton House." I jab my finger against the wood desk forcefully enough to cause a jolt of pain to run through my knuckle. "My mother's charity." I don't need to mention all of the other things she's done since she got here, because I don't need to explain what a good person she is to him. Whether he believes me or not is irrelevant, but he will treat her with some modicum of respect.

"I might have paid her to marry me, but I didn't pay her to be a good person."

"I'm sorry, Darren," he apologizes in an unsettlingly quiet voice.

"I didn't tell you that to garner an apology," I explain, and he tilts his head in confusion. "I told you, because…" I falter, unsure myself why I needed to tell him, "because I needed to say it out loud."

Saying it out loud makes it real. My truth of that night.

A knowing smile settles on Rausch's face, but it's not sinister or malicious. It's the smile of a man who has worked out a puzzle, putting the last piece into place. I wonder what he thinks he knows.

Instead, he asks, "What do you propose we do about Ethel?"

"Ethel's already been taken care of." I settle back in my seat with a raised eyebrow. "What's the point of being a billionaire if you can't help people?"

"Money is not the solution for everything, and it's definitely not sustainable." He points out something that I already know. "Although I'm glad to hear you're spending it on other things besides…"

I stop him before he says something pretentious and asinine.

"Which is the reason I asked you here. Rori Colton's seat will be empty," I take a deep breath because now that it's out, now that I've said it, I can't take it back.

"What happened to not caring about politics?"

"Money runs out, but power is evergreen." I never wanted to be a politician, but the world continues to spin, and with it comes change.

"Or your term is up," Rausch points out ominously.

"Are you already saying I won't get re-elected?" I joke.

"Maybe you should have inferred I had confidence that you got elected in the first place." He raises his eyebrows at me, a hint of playful amusement on his face. This is what he wanted all along. Why shouldn't he be happy about it? He is the kingmaker after all.

Will he make a king out of me?

Politics is his playground, his pitch, and no one has the track record for wins that he does. If I want to do this, then I need him.

"So you think I have a chance?" I ask, my insecurities coming through, because I am well aware of my past and my present. I'm not a saint, and although everyone has skeletons in their closet, mine are, well, not flattering.

"You have the advantage of being Kerry Walker's son, and before you accuse me of being callous, I say this putting aside my own personal feelings. Now that he has passed, it gives you a certain advantage with the public. If you're worried about certain indiscretions, there are things that can be minimized, but nothing that we can't handle."

"Are those things Evangeline?" I inquire cautiously.

He shifts in his seat uncomfortably, and I already know the answer.

"What does she say about this?" he asks.

"That's for me to worry about."

"If it's your desire to bring her into this with you, I will do my best to protect her," he offers shockingly.

My first order of business is to pass the bar, and the rest will come.

"You should warn her about this," he offers. "Winning an election is nasty business."

"It's just Representative for a small district in Virginia." I shake my head.

"And Barrack Obama was once a senator for the thirteenth district of Illinois." He levels me with a stare.

"He was a Democrat." I raise my eyebrows.

He rests his arm against the back of the chair. "Virginia has voted for Democrats in presidential campaigns since 2008, and the only former confederate state to vote for Hillary Clinton over Donald Trump."

"This is information you just happen to have in your back pocket?" I jest.

He presses his lips together, and then I know. He gathered this information because my father was going to run.

"Well, then that's good news in my favor," I broach the subject of party lines.

Rausch smiles, not what I expected since my father was a Republican. I expected him to give me a speech about following in my father's footsteps and losing voters.

"You're not disappointed?"

"Only if you lose," he offers. "But don't forget that we used to be called the Democratic Republican's." There's a gleam in his eyes.

I nod, sitting back in my chair, and twirling a pen between my fingers.

"I have a favor to ask," I say with caution, because asking for a favor comes with strings, and it's those strings that could make me very uncomfortable.

"Of course," Rausch laughs as if he was waiting for this. He places his hands on either side of the chair, his left hand gripping the edge like the Lincoln Memorial. Rausch might be made with the hardness of marble, but he's still just a man – and men still have a taste for revenge.

"How friendly are you with Senator Jonathan Langley?"

Rausch laughs. "Washington is a landscape that breeds chameleons. Friends can shift into enemies like the day shifts into night."

He folds his hands in his lap. "What are you after, Darren?"

"He can be a problem, as I'm sure you know."

"Let's not start this off with false pretense. He was a client of Evangeline's. If you want to bury him, then let's not pretend it's political."

I scowl. Of course he's right.

"Alright then."

"I'm sure you know the terms," he reminds me that nothing, not even information, is given freely.

I nod.

"Then what do you have in mind?"