Fatherless: A Novel (2 page)

Julia Davidson
took a sip from her second glass of ice water. Pretending to study the lunch specials, she tried piecing together her transformation
from rising star to plunging rock. Was it a specific story? The inevitable shift in reader tastes? Or had she lost her edge?
A few years ago editors eagerly accommodated her busy schedule rather than the other way around. Now only one even returned
her calls.

Paul Daugherty’s manicured hand gently squeezed Julia’s shoulder from behind. “Sorry, Jewel. Couldn’t get away. Been waiting
long?” Fiftyish and impeccably groomed, Paul had a pudgy frame that reeked of freshly applied cologne, overpowering the smell
of warm garlic bread and a passing pasta dish. The fragrance, like the man, seemed indiscreet.

“I just arrived myself,” she lied. “Thanks for carving out the time.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m always eager to see my favorite journalist.”

Former favorite
, she thought. Just that morning Julia had read another sloppy piece by Paul’s new go-to gal, Monica Garcia.

“Don’t you mean
columnist
?” Julia jabbed to remind him of her diminished post.

Paul waved his index finger at the naughty comment. “Shame on you. I know dozens of great writers who would kill for the top
RAP column.”

A compliment or threat
? she wondered.

“And your numbers remain respectable by any network’s standards.”

“Respectable”? Is that like “a nice personality”?

“Thanks, Paul. And I appreciate all you’ve done to make that happen.” A bit of flattery, even if undeserved, seemed judicious.

“What can I say? Our target demographic loves your stuff. And you can still turn a phrase like nobody else.”

Still? Past my prime at thirty-four.

“Welcome back, sir,” the waitress interrupted. “Shall I have the chef prepare your usual?”

“That would be lovely, Debra.” Paul was more loyal to a pasta dish than he was to the woman who had propelled his career.
Before acquiring Julia, Paul had sat in a cubicle suffering the mindless tedium of copyediting. Now he managed features and
columns for the second-largest media company on the planet.

“Let me guess.” Paul dug deep to remember Julia’s favorite. “Salmon salad?”

“Please,” Julia said to the waitress, who retrieved her menu.

“Got a man in your life yet?” Paul’s usual question.

“Nothing steady.” She disliked small talk. “I’m meeting another one of Maria’s friends at the theater tonight.”

“Promising?” Paul prodded.

“I have low expectations.”

Both smiled as Paul turned to business. “You’ll be pleased to know that I come bearing gifts.”

“I hope they’re better than your last gift.”

“Hush,” Paul said, raising a finger to his pursed lips. “I think you’re going to like this one. It could be a big story.”

“Feature story?”

“That depends on what you find.”

“Find?” Julia swallowed back rising indignation. There was a time when Paul’s team had delivered the material she needed for
a feature.

“Just listen, Jewel. We’ve contacted the plaintiff who initiated a wrongful death lawsuit against NEXT Inc.”

Nothing connected. “I don’t follow.”

“You wouldn’t yet. It was a small story that ran about seven months back. Some eighteen-year-old debit scheduled himself for
a transition. His mother freaked out and attacked a clinic employee.”

Paul paused to receive his glass of diet soda. Winking a thanks while sipping from the straw, he waited for Debra’s departure
before leaning into Julia. “Anyway, the woman died.”

“The employee?”

“No, the mom. Get this. She slipped during the attack and smashed her head against her own son’s transition bed!” He leaned
back, smiling at the comic irony.

“Who initiated the lawsuit?”

Paul seemed irritated at Julia’s anemic sense of humor. “That’s the really interesting part. The invalid boy had an older
brother who blames the clinic for both deaths.”

“Both deaths?”

“Yeah. The older brother said the appointment was made three days before the kid’s birthday. He was eighteen for the actual
transition, but they accepted his online registration while he was still a minor.”

Julia took an unnecessary drink while considering the story’s potential. It was uncommon for someone that young to transition,
but not unprecedented. And there were a thousand cases of distraught loved ones or religious nuts trying to interrupt transition
deaths at the last minute.

“And?”

“And we want the boy’s story,” Paul explained.

“I thought the boy was dead.”

“Not the debit kid, the brother.” Paul moved slightly back so the waitress could slide his hot dish onto the table. Eyeing
it eagerly, he continued. “We want to portray him as a pawn of greedy lawyers.”

“Greedy?”

“Sure. Every other transition dispute has been settled out of court. This one went all the way, even demanding punitive damages.
NEXT plans to appeal, of course.”

“Look, Paul, I’m not sure—”

“I know what you’re thinking, love,” Paul interrupted. “But I really think this could be interesting. And our editorial board
considers it very important. There are people who will try to misuse this story. You can imagine the headlines,
Youth Initiative Causes Teen Suicide
or
Distressed Mother Killed During Illegal Child Transition
.” Paul sniffed in contempt. “We need to get ahead of this story before some crusading reporter plays it wrong.”

“So they want the brother demonized?”

“In the most fair and balanced manner possible,” Paul said wryly.

Julia took a bite of salmon to buy herself a moment to think. She doubted the story could hit big; just another seemingly
frivolous lawsuit against one of the most respected nonprofit organizations in the nation. Transition clinics enjoyed a stellar
reputation. Most readers would quickly scan the headline before moving on to more significant topics, the kind Paul had been
assigning to Monica Garcia. But she couldn’t risk refusal.

“OK, Paul,” Julia began. “I’ll do it.”

“Great!”

“But on one condition.”

“Condition?”

She breathed deeply.
Here goes
.

“I want the next big exclusive.”

“This
is
the next big—”

“Then why didn’t you assign it to Monica?”

A lingering silence shifted power to her side of the table.

“Don’t look at me like that, Jewel.” Paul reacted like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You know I wouldn’t
hold back on you.”

Three words exposed his ruse. “
Return to Guyland
.”

Paul had given the story to Monica. He had pirated the title from Julia’s Pulitzer-winning feature
Guylanders
, the very story that had catapulted Julia and Paul to the top of RAP Media Syndicate.

“She did a good job on that piece,” he said sheepishly.

“You leveraged my reputation and my prior research to give her a big break.”

“I never…” Paul stopped short. He had lost this argument before. He owed her, plain and simple.

“Please, Paul. Don’t make me beg. You know I need this.”

“OK, Jewel. You win. Take the lawsuit story and you’ll get the next big feature.”

“Thank you, Paul.” She meant it. Her window was closing fast. If she didn’t release a major piece soon she would find herself
tumbling all the way to the rocky bottom, where feature writers and columnists became story consultants and research assistants.

He pulled a card from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. A name, Jeremy Santos, along with a phone number and address.
“He’s expecting you at noon tomorrow.”

“You already said I’d interview him? But I just—”

Paul flashed a scheming grin and winked. It reminded her of the old days.

Julia took another bite of her salad, this time enjoying the taste. She glanced around the restaurant, noticing the admiring
gaze of a handsome young man seated at a distant table. He seemed embarrassed as he forced his eyes back onto the menu.

She felt a long overdue flicker of confidence.

“Are you
serious?” Kevin Tolbert felt the pit of his stomach land somewhere between
This could be big
and
Don’t say anything stupid
. “Here? Today?”

“That’s the rumor,” Troy’s voice continued through the phone. “They say he plans to make a surprise visit to the summit this
afternoon. And get this, no press allowed.”

“Franklin? No press? Wonders never cease…” Kevin’s voice trailed off as he gazed out the panoramic window overlooking natural
red rock formations surrounding the Camelback Resort. He hesitated. “A reliable source?”

“Excuse me?” Troy snipped, his words followed by a low growl.

“I know. I know. You wouldn’t include it in my daily briefing unless the source was solid. Sorry.” Kevin appreciated the thousand-mile
protection afforded by Troy’s decision to remain in Washington, DC, to mind the office. Troy had been taller and stronger
since the two met at Littleton Middle School in 2019, giving him the perfect angle to rub Kevin’s head in a sandpaper motion
whenever irritated with his “little buddy.” The routine began when Kevin accidentally spilled Troy’s carton of chocolate milk
all over the prettiest girls in seventh grade. Troy avenged the girls the only way a junior high boy knows, through physical
violence.

The head-rub had remained Troy’s go-to attack ever since. Their new roles as congressman and chief of staff only relegated
the practice to places hidden from public eye. Neither had been willing to give up the most intimate sign of a friendship
that had spanned high school, college, three successful business ventures, and their recent victory over four-term congressional
incumbent Nicolas Long.

Kevin changed the subject while gently patting his own head. “What else have you got?”

“Ever hear of NEXT Inc.?”

“It rings a bell. Transition services?”

“That’s the one,” Troy said. “They got nailed in a high-profile lawsuit. Wrongful death.”

Troy paused to let the pieces assemble in Kevin’s mind. He had always admired his best friend’s ability to connect dots and
anticipate the next move. Troy’s role, the years had confirmed, was to provide straw that Kevin could weave into gold: trade
convention rumors, market trend analysis, financial projections on declining small businesses poised for turnaround. Once
Kevin understood the landscape and opportunity, Troy’s role shifted to that of a loyal general who could protect and implement.

Nothing much had changed since the move to Washington. The same alliance that had built a successful investment enterprise
now sought to influence the national debate. Troy’s role as campaign manager and then chief of staff fit like a glove. Kevin
Tolbert possessed the brains and charisma needed to debate in Congress, woo donors, and charm the press. Troy Simmons had
the heads-down determination and street-smart radar required to keep his little buddy on track and away from trouble. Each
needed the other. Both knew it.

“How many transition lawsuits have been settled out of court?”

Troy had anticipated the question. “So far, all of them.”

“What makes this one different?”

“Two deaths, a young man and his mom.”

“A double transition?” Kevin asked.

“No. The mother tried to stop the procedure. She died from a severe blow to the head. The clinic claims it happened when she
slipped and fell during an attack.”

“And the son?”

“He scheduled his appointment while a minor, a pretty clear violation of the age and non-compulsion guidelines established
three years back.”

Kevin noticed several summit participants reclaiming their seats around the conference table, carrying small plates of cookies
or fresh fruit.

“Looks like round two is about to start,” Kevin alerted Troy. “Give me the bottom line on this one.”

“I have a hunch the case could be important no matter which way it goes. A small chink in the armor?”

“Unlikely,” Kevin said dismissively. “Too soon, anyway. I don’t think this group will entertain further restrictions on transitions
during a budget battle. We’ve already cut into the bone.”

Kevin felt a tap on his shoulder, Congresswoman Nicole Florea silently reprimanding her last straggler.

“Gotta go.” Kevin bought patience with an apologetic nod and just-one-more-second gesture.

“Kevin,” Troy scolded, “don’t forget why we’re here.”

“I know why we’re here, Troy. But we need to pick our battles. Or at least fight them in a sequence that might give us a chance.
We agreed. The deficit comes first.”

“You know as well as I do that the deficit will get worse, not better.”

The room’s noisy chatter dwindled as the group quieted for the next item on the summit agenda. “I hear you, Troy,” Kevin whispered.
“We’ll talk about it later.”

The call ended, freeing Kevin to attempt an inconspicuous reentry. Approaching his spot at the conference table, he winked
effortlessly at anyone who happened to notice the late arrival, one of many small habits that made Kevin easy to like.

Easy for everyone but the hostess.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Mr. Tolbert.” Nicole Florea of Nevada would have preferred it if Kevin had declined
her reluctant invitation to the summit. For more than two decades she had been the de facto leader of the Western State Caucus,
a respected fixture in the political establishment with a gift for melding the group’s diverse opinions into a generally unified
front. Kevin’s youth and independence made her uneasy. So did his popularity among the nearly three dozen congressional leaders
attending the summit.

A handsome thirty-six years, Kevin Tolbert carried himself with poised confidence that fell sufficiently shy of conceit. His
blond hair and trim, athletic build suggested a high school letter in tennis or wrestling. It had actually been soccer, lining
him up for a full-ride scholarship to the University of Colorado, where he had graduated with honors one week before marrying
his high school sweetheart. “Any man who could snag Angie Greer can do anything!” Troy had said during the best-man toast.
Few acquaintances were surprised to learn of Kevin Tolbert’s election as sixth district representative for the state of Colorado.
Most of them had donated money and volunteered time to make it happen.

Kevin glanced at the next item on the agenda.
Census briefing
.

The group had tackled relatively simple topics before lunch, like taxes. Only two in the group supported Nicole Florea’s proposal
to eliminate what remained of the dependent tax break, meager as it was.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she had argued and lost.

Kevin’s persuasive opposition shifted the momentum, in part due to the cute picture of his own growing brood. “Look at these
adorable faces,” he playfully pled. “Do you want to make it harder for me to create the next generation of taxpayers and politicians?”
The warm laughter handed him control. It also foretold Florea’s decline.

“If I can draw your attention to the top of page three, you will see our preliminary estimates.” Kyle Journeyman appeared
nervous, like a child trying to explain a report card filled with D’s and F’s to parents he had assured would see A’s and
B’s. He told the group he had given the same confidential briefing to five other Washington groups in his role as a strategy
consultant to fiscal conservatives. The reaction must have been less than positive. “I should emphasize that these calculations
will likely change as we fine-tune the numbers.”

They had come to expect caveats and qualifiers from political consultants. Everyone knew that a string of overly optimistic
projections had deepened the present crisis by blindsiding party leaders with a staggering deficit increase. Six years earlier
the Western State Alliance had supported the president’s domestic spending agenda, expecting marked improvement. But they
had used flawed projections. The party now found itself in damage control mode, trying to salvage what little credibility
remained among angry voters fearing America could become the next economic domino to fall. The president had assured them
they could avert the kind of trouble engulfing the rest of the world through courageous fiscal austerity. He had even managed
to implement most of the controversial “Youth Initiative” proposals he promised would create a million jobs while reducing
swelling entitlement spending. But none of it had been enough. The deficit snowball continued to grow.

Kevin reached for the bound blue notebook that had been distributed during the break.

As he flipped past the cover and introductory remarks his eyes landed on the chart embedded in the executive summary on page
three. As Journeyman braced himself for reactions, Kevin joined the others absorbing the data with periodic outbursts of disbelief.

“This can’t be right!”

“Am I reading this correctly?”

Solitary comments swelled into whispered commotion as the bewildered delegates leaned toward one another to unpack the implications
of numbers more sobering than any had anticipated.

Florea slowly rose from her chair, walking toward the podium with page three of the report still open before her wagging head.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “please direct any questions to Mr. Journeyman and hold your comments for now. We have
scheduled a solutions brainstorm session later this afternoon.”

“Solutions?” muttered an older congressman from Arizona on the opposite end of the room. “Moving deck chairs on the
Titanic
.”

“If I may?” Journeyman continued. “I’d like to draw your attention to several underlying trends that could prove useful as
you explore policy options.”

“Yes, please,” Florea responded eagerly.

“We are all alarmed by the revised trend lines. New data coming out of the census office forced us to revise earlier projections.
The president’s numbers were based upon 2030 data.”

“And it took two years to disclose it?” someone objected.

Of course it took two years,
Kevin thought.
Bad news travels slowly in Washington.

“We now know that the fertility cliff has been steeper than expected,” Journeyman was saying, “which will lower projected
tax revenue starting in 2048. We also adjusted upward end-of-life management expenses as a percentage of GDP, which wipes
out all of the savings gained from the severe cuts approved in 2038. Please flip to the data summarized on page nine and you’ll
see that…”

Tuning out of the formal presentation, Kevin began reading through the full report. He trusted his own interpretation of the
data more than a political consultant’s script.

The situation looked grim. Four years after the launch of the president’s controversial programs the aging population curve
showed no sign of flattening. It now matched levels seen in Europe and Asia ten years earlier, just before their financial
implosions. It appeared a century of declining birth rates had finally driven the United States past the same irreversible
tipping point.

Kevin knew the data would force both political parties to finally address realities no one wanted to face. For nearly fifty
years demographers had been predicting the devastating economic and social consequences of a decreasing pool of young people
burdened by the needs of a rapidly aging population. Few had heeded those warnings or paid attention to what was happening
in places like China. No one had noticed the erosion beneath the feet of a billion workers flexing their collective economic
muscles. How quickly the tables had turned.

Japan had seen it first, offering generous tax credits for every kid born. But a few thousand yen can’t offset eighteen years
of child-rearing expenses. Japan now laid claim to the oldest average citizen on the planet.

Even Russia’s signing bonuses for prospective immigrants hadn’t made much of a dent. Why invest three mandatory years working
an elder-care job when America remained a land of relative prosperity and opportunity? So they came in droves, buying the
United States an extra decade of growth.

Growth turned to stagnation in 2024, the year Kevin graduated from high school. Virtually every segment of the population,
including the once-fertile immigrants, was reproducing at far below replacement level. The economic pyramid flipped and began
to teeter and strain under a top-heavy load. By the time Kevin graduated from college the social safety net had begun to rip.

“This year the youngest of the nearly sixty million baby boomers turned seventy-eight.” Journeyman’s comment reclaimed Kevin’s
attention. “The oldest, four million of them, turned ninety-six. These seniors hold most of the nation’s wealth and are twice
as likely to vote as any other segment of the population. As you know, few of those votes come our way.”

“The bottom line, ladies and gentlemen, is that we are getting squeezed from both directions. The cost to care for our oldest
citizens continues to rise while the pool of working, taxpaying citizens continues to shrink. These new trend lines require
a downward tax revenue adjustment of about eighteen percent over the coming decade.”

“But that’s almost a trillion dollars in lost revenue annually!” objected someone seated to Kevin’s left.

“One point two trillion,” Journeyman clarified. “Keep in mind, only a fraction of those sixty million boomers generate any
productive economic activity. The few who can afford it pay about ninety thousand dollars per year in medical and care expenses
to remain independent. The rest rely on their kids, diverting another thirty million people from working a full-time job or
building a profitable business. The combined GDP hit runs about five trillion per year.”

The door flew open. Senator Josh Franklin entered the room as if on cue, two aides trailing closely behind.

Nicole Florea leaped toward the podium like a tail-wagging puppy delighted by a master’s homecoming. She knew, along with
everyone else in the room, that recent polls made Franklin the party favorite for a potential 2044 presidential run.