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The newscaster's voice cuts through the noise of the room, sharp and somber, and it causes a chill to run up my spine.
Kerry Walker, the enigmatic Senator from Virginia and his wife, Merrill Compton-Walker, were killed in a helicopter crash this evening on their way back to Washington D.C from their home in Southern Virginia. The helicopter experienced mechanical failure upon takeoff. A full investigation is underway.
I can hear the collective gasp just before the room goes silent which amplifies the newscaster’s stiff voice. The phone in my pocket vibrates. Dexter Rausch, my father’s chief of staff, is displayed on the screen. I clutch the phone so tight I think the screen might break, but I don’t answer it. I didn’t like speaking to Dexter before, and I certainly don’t want to speak to him now.
The newscaster goes on to talk about Kerry Walker as if he knows him, speaking of his strong sense of justice because of his humble upbringing, but he doesn’t know anything about the real Kerry Walker. He doesn’t know Kerry Walker, the father or Kerry Walker, the husband.
All I can hear is the blood pumping in my ears as I watch the TV, the visuals of the crash site now imprinted in my mind, and yet it feels as though I’m watching a movie and not real life.
“Dare?” Alistair's voice is close to a whisper as he places a hand on my shoulder. The weight of it feels heavy and foreign as I’m brought out of my thoughts and back to reality – back to the blaring TV as the newscaster continues on about my father’s career.
“One sentence.” I hold up a finger to him in anger, but it’s not him I’m angry with.
Alistair shakes his head in confusion.
“They couldn’t give my mother more than just one sentence.”
“I think – I think you’re in shock.”
Spinning around the room, I notice everyone staring at me, their mouths open, eyes wide, waiting for what I’m going to do or say. I feel like a fish in a fishbowl.
“Get out!” I roar, but I only gain the attention of those within earshot, because the rest of them seem to be swallowed up by the TV.
“Dare, come on.” Alistair grabs my arm, trying to calm me down. “You need to go home.”
Home? Where the fuck is home?
I turn to Alistair and I hate the way he’s looking at me. He’s never serious. He’s the guy you get high with, pick up girls with, stand on top of a pool table and quote Emerson with—not the voice of reason. “If they won’t fucking leave, I will.” I shake off his hand and push my way through the crowd of shocked and confused faces.
The phone in my back pocket vibrates relentlessly, and I pull it out again to see Rausch’s name on the screen.
I stare at the phone as I wait impatiently for the private elevator doors to open, aware of everyone’s eyes on my back. I can still hear the television in the background, which is now the loudest sound in the room.
Kerry and Merrill Walker, who met in law school, married six months later, lived in a one-bedroom apartment around the corner from the non-profit Kerry worked at to support a wife who was then pregnant?—
With me.
The phone in my hand continues to vibrate, and the screen lights up with too many text messages to comprehend. I don’t even remember the elevator ride down, but the minute I exit into the crowded casino, I drop the phone in the nearest garbage can, glad to be rid of it.
There’s something I need at this moment, more than my phone – more than I need to breathe.
“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to serve you any more.”
Behind the bartender is a glass wall reflecting light from the chandelier that hangs in the center of the room. Luckily, I can’t see my reflection through the bottles of liquor—not that it would deter me from demanding another drink.
The bartender doesn’t look like he’s budging, so I dig into my pocket and pull out a few hundred-dollar bills, slapping them ceremoniously in front of him with the same pointed look he’s giving me. Some scholars might argue that math is the universal language, but I would beg to differ and say that it’s money.
Squinting, I try to make out the name tag on the lapel of his black vest. Slowly, the letters line up. “Another shot, Tony,” I demand.
He shakes his head with a disgusted look as he pushes the bills back towards me. “Not gonna lose my job for some overprivileged drunk who’s just gonna go home to his penthouse.”
“Are you discriminating against the rich?” I ask, slurring my words. “I think there are laws against that.” I search my brain to remember discriminatory law, but everything I learned in law school is currently swimming in whiskey.
Tony stands to his full height, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ll ask you nicely to leave, but if I have to ask again, it won’t be nice.”
Laughing, I gather the money and try to get up from my stool, but gravity has other plans. As the room spins and my judgment clouds even more, there is one thing that becomes clear in my mind… a single thought that has plagued me since I saw the news about my parents.
The framed poem that hangs in my father’s office behind his chair – the “Boston Hymn,” his favorite of Emerson’s. I would stare at it while being lectured. Good looks and money will only get you so far in life, he would say to me, and I would tune out the rest because it didn’t matter. I was still going to be the degenerate son of Senator Walker, the son he had to hold press conferences about and explain my indiscretions to the media.
