Political Science 101

Chapter Thirty-Eight

THE DAY after Halloween had always been an exhausting one in the life of Ray Doyle ever since the birth of his son, Will. Every year, he and his family would lavishly decorate their house, front yard, and themselves to festively welcome trick-or-treaters with a fright and a scare and a laugh and a sugar rush. Their Halloween nights over the years had lasted into the early morning hours, no matter what day of the week the day happened to occur. But he didn't care and his son Will—from when he was a toddler up through his teenage years—loved to help his father turn their house into an annual spook extravaganza. Ray's neighbor once labeled him the Clark W. Griswold of Halloween. And every year, this always made the day after Halloween a slow and sleepy one.

That is, until this year. This year, on November 1st, Ray Doyle wasn't tired at all. He was sadly wide-awake as he entered his office a full ninety minutes earlier than usual.

* * * * * * *

Today would be a difficult day for Ray Doyle.

The cool spring air seemed relaxing to his lungs as it flowed into his office through the slightly-opened window behind his desk; it was like the remaining spirits of the bitter-cold winter were being chased in by the approaching spring and summer. But that didn't seem to matter to Ray as he was immediately warmed by a freshly-poured cup of coffee and Amber Green's beautiful golden smile.

It was a fairly normal early morning in the office — a comfortable sunny morning in May, though the afternoon was supposed to quickly cloud-up and become overcast by the time evening sat in.

The normal work-a-day business of state-level politics drew the morning by quickly, making way for a relaxed and overcast afternoon of catching up on constituent correspondence, reading-up on legislative bills, and covertly avoiding lobbyists roaming through the Missouri State Capitol building. And by five-o-clock, only Ray and Amber remained in his office, quietly finishing their tasks-at-hand.

The late-afternoon/early evening brought a comfortable fatigue to both of them. Amber kept glancing at Ray, and he at her. But neither seemed to want to break the flirtatious grinning silence that had lasted unusually long; the suspense was driving Ray insane. Finally, he spoke.

"You know," he said, "you shouldn't spend all your Friday nights here. I can't be very good company."

"Oh, it's fine," she said. Getting up from her work table and strolling to Ray's desk. "I'm finished with these," she said smiling as she sat a stack of folders down Ray's desk in front of him. He looked up at her, ignoring the stack, and smiled.

"Thank you," he said, trying not to appear pleased with her close proximity to him, but failing. She grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up next to his, closer than the traditional Social Contract would permit, but neither of them seemed eager to invoke any of its stipulations.

"What are you working so hard on?" she asked inquisitively.

"This is the new version of the latest gun rights bill," he said, closing the bound notebook, intent on giving Amber his full attention. He turned to her and suddenly realized just how close to him she really was, and he moved slightly closer. "It's the same old debate about guns. Democrats want to get rid of anything that looks like a gun and Republicans want to arm anyone who has graduated from pre-school." Amber chuckled at Ray's hyperbole. Her laugh enlivened him.

They both paused in silence again, their smiles fading into looks of seriousness. The stillness in the room grew. It felt like tension, but they felt completely comfortable. It felt like trepidation, but they felt completely fearless. It felt like iniquity, but they felt completely sinless.

Ray turned his office chair slightly in Amber's direction, facing her a little more. Their knees touched. Neither seemed to mind. Neither moved. The devil on Ray's shoulder whispered greatly into his ear.

Human existence is a perpetual series of decisive moments. The entirety of life is predicated upon the direction each decision leads. Sometimes in life, two very pivotal roads do indeed diverge in a wood. And sometimes, for some people, the road taken really does make all the difference. Often, these paths appear in an instant and vanish just the same with each passing decree of life. Sometimes, a person's choice is of little (or no) consequence. But eventually, everyone steps on Bradbury's butterfly.

For Ray Doyle, Bradbury's butterfly came in the form of an ill-timed phone call.

* * * * * * *

Ray stood at his desk in the empty office with his back to the door, staring out the window at the cold November rain.

Nothing lasts forever.

Minutes that felt like hours of silence were broken by the click-clack of a woman in expensive shoes entering through the office door that Ray had apparently left open. He knew it was not Amber, though part of him still longed to see her golden smile. He knew it was not Samantha, the wife of his youth and the love of his life; She was trying to become part of his past. Thus, it was mere apathetic curiosity that prompted Ray to slowly turn around.

"Have you ever read any Edgar Allan Poe?" the mysterious woman asked. Ray was confused. Very confused. Who was this woman? Why is she in the office so early? And why the hell did she ask about Edgar Allen Poe? Befuddled, Ray remained silent.

The woman dressed of high class and her voice was filled with money. Her dark navy raincoat looked as though its price tag had once displayed a number that exceeded what any sane human should pay for a raincoat. He could not see what she wore beneath her expensive cloak, but he estimated her apparel to be of similar quality. And as she stood—this woman of late middle age—she stood with confidence and authority.

"Poe," she said again, "history's greatest writer of fear. Sure, guys like Stephen King can write horror, but Poe wrote fear." She paused, waiting for Ray to get somewhat of a grasp on the situation.

"You'll have to excuse me," Ray said with a discombobulated look and a tone of confusion, "but it's very early in the morning and I have no idea what the hell you're talking about." He thought his tone and choice of words may have been somewhat rude, but he found himself not caring.

"Well," she said with a chuckle, "I've been reading Edgar Allan Poe since I was little. There's something about his work that is so wonderfully dark and so genuine and so...genuine." She grinned.

Ray tried to return the smile, but only felt awkward.

"You, Ray Doyle," she continued, "were an English Literature major for your first year and a half of college at UMKC, before changing it to Pre-Law. So I know you—"

"Yes," Ray interrupted, "I've read a bit of Poe." He narrowed his eyes. "Do I know you?"

The woman stepped toward him.

Ray took a subtle step back, still unsure of what was happening.

"You do now," she said; an impish grin crept across one side of her face. "I'm the woman who is going to get you into the United States Congress."

"Well," Ray said, turning his head an rolling his eyes, "I already have a campaign manager, and we have not yet decided if that is what we'll be doing next year."

"I'm not talking about next year," she said, pausing to lengthen her grin, "I'm talking about next month."

Ray turned his head back to her quickly, realizing that she was probably referring to the vacant position left by the late Arnold Jenkins, whose murder six months earlier remained completely unsolved.

For unknown reasons, the congressional seat had remained vacant through the confusion, turmoil, and fear prompted by the assassination and the subsequent murder investigation. The Republican governor had not yet named a successor.

"Who the hell are you?" Ray asked intently.

"My name is Lenore Sable, and I can make this happen."