Page 69 of Queen of Ruin

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 naïve 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.”

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