In unaware emulation of a web-bound fly, Timon Finch sits in his private office listening to the fan chopping air. To his staff, Timon is the nepotized spider. One that secured his father's corporate web and burrows within, burning energy only for the thread pulling knocks on his door. He is a tall, well-dressed man when he is at work. Coldly handsome with his dark hair well kept—combed off to each side and sundered by a clean line he had anxiously arranged that morning.
Timon slouches in his walnut leather office chair. The chair creaks as he leans back and forth, slightly rocking himself. Through the grainy, pale window adjacent to his office door, Timon can watch vague bodies traversing the office, like the insects testing plants near his web. His finger taps the organized mahogany desk as he waits to make his expected announcement. Like the many lonely kings that overflow historical texts, Timon's purpose is limited to public announcements and final signatures on half-read documents vetted by the company board.
Timon leaves his desk and feels thousands of tiny needles in his legs as blood regains the ground it has lost in his long-sit. After opening his door to the rest of the office, he is confronted by the vague bodies behind the pale window. He leans against the door frame watching the faces pass, each more grey than the last. A familiar repulsive feeling comes over him as black suits drift by: He imagines all the effort it had taken to get themselves here, working for him—spending years at desks preparing themselves to spend years at a desk. All the obstacles they have overcome, and all to support a family of their own to do the same. He falls back into his office, closing the door lightly behind him.
At his desk, he brings out a brown paper bag containing his lunch. In it, MaryAnne left a scrap of paper with a pen-drawn heart—just as always. He pulls out the heart and opens his drawer, reaching in and pushing aside a box of staples to retrieve a clear plastic container where he stores such hearts. He pops it open, and it nearly overflows with these hearts. He stuffs in the new heart anyway and presses it shut after a short wrestle with the container. He knows he would never do anything with the hearts, but he keeps them because tossing them would feel sacrilege.
He thinks of the first few she had left for him, which are tightly packed at the bottom of the container. He remembers the warmth he felt from them — he would hold them for a moment to absorb their emotion, then transfer them to the container. But more recently, it turned into a direct transfer from bag to container, like a small deposit into a bulging bank account.
...
At this time, MaryAnn was on her way home from the office where she works as an editor for a local publication, The Marmot Periodical. She had been scheduled to leave early to relieve the homeschool teacher who had been educating their children at the Finch household.
As MaryAnn leaves the city, her phone rings, vibrating on the passenger seat, and she takes it—finding the caller to be from the periodical. The roads are nearly empty, and the particular area she travels is notoriously vacant of police. So she answers the phone on speaker and holds it in her free hand.
"Hello?" MaryAnn says to the buzzing phone.
"Is that you, Mary?" the voice asks, sounding familiar.
"Sarah?"
"Hey, yeah, it's me. I think you're being called up tomorrow. They want to know if you are leaving early again or..."
MaryAnn thinks for a moment.
The road is forested in sections, with discrete gas stations and homes that can be vacant or fully operational. She is never sure.
"MaryAnn?"
"Hey, Sarah. Sorry. I'm driving—but no, no. I don't need the day off, but let them know I can't be in until nine."
"Okay, no problem. Babysitter?"
"Yeah. I got to go, alright. I'll see you tomorrow."
"See you. Tell Marie I said hello. And sorry about the hectic day today—we can't control the world, we can only report on it," she says with a laugh.
Just as MaryAnn ends the call and throws her phone back on the passenger seat, it rings again.
MaryAnn reaches for the phone but hesitates. It's the homeschool teacher—Mrs. Zarate. Mrs. Zarate was always urging her to come home so that she may leave. She is always paid for any extra time spent, but it is always at the expense of her other students.
MaryAnn allows the phone to ring three times before she succumbs to the pressure—answering it on speaker again.
"Mrs. Zarate, is that you?" MaryAnn says, but the voice responding is robotic and broken.
"...Have you... but it is too late, let me kno-..."
"Hey, I can't hear you. I think I'm in a bad area. Zarate?"
"Marie...that's why Havel's book got wet...tell...have to go."
"I'm almost home, Mrs. Zarate. Just five minutes, please."
"See you, see you."
Zarate hangs up before MaryAnn can find a straight in the road where she can look away and end the call.
As she reaches the threshold of her neighborhood, MaryAnn's thoughts drift back to her conversation with Sarah. That day at work, there was a press release from Moscow about tensions between Russian and Ukraine. The release was nebulous and did not involve any direct threats, but The Marmont Periodical knew their competitors would be spinning the story to excite and pull more viewers. When she left, it was still up in the air whether or not the Periodical would follow suit.
When MaryAnn gets home, Zarate stands out on the sidewalk, waiting for her in the light afternoon breeze.
...
An hour later, MaryAnn is sitting on the marble floor outside the kitchen with her daughter, Marie, assisting in building a wooden block house. Mrs. Zarate had been teaching the children about human evolution that day, and she had left out a whiteboard display titled "The Ascent Of Man," written in bold black marker. There was a printed image of the progression from ape to human, with a vague marker drawing of Africa. Considering the children are so young, MaryAnn wonders if they can understand the subject—but this thought is interrupted by a dangerous block placement by Marie.
"That's good, dear, be careful. Don't let it fall," MaryAnn says as Marie places the highest block yet.
While attempting to place a roof on the structure, half of it collapses and clatters over the marble. Marie growls tantrumously but soon finds herself smiling as her mother leans in for the rebuild.
In the kitchen, the microwave time expires and chirps.
"One moment, dear," MaryAnn says, "take a seat at the table."
MaryAnn stands and straightens out her green shirt before walking to the microwave and pulling out a steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese. After stabbing a fork into it, she places the bowl on the fogged-glass dining table where Marie had already sat down.
"Your father should be home soon. Would you like to watch cartoons?"
"Okay."
...
Several potted plants grow tall beside large casement windows that disrupt the royal blue wallpaper of the Finch living room. Jack chases Havel through the space where Marie watches cartoons beside her new blockhouse, their course set through the blocks. Her structure is gracelessly demolished by Havel, who trips over its north side like it were a wooden crate left on an active racetrack. Even after his fall, Havel clutches the stolen stuffed animal that triggered the chase—Jack's stuffed animal. Jack stands over Havel and rips the animal from his hands.
Before walking off, Jack kicks Havel hard in his ribs, sending Havel to wail in pain.
Their mother rushes to seize Jack by his upper arm, then drags him over to Havel.
"Help him up. Now!" She yells, darting her eyes between the boys.
"Stop it!" Jack yells back at her, standing firmly with his arms crossed.
"Just do it. And apologize."
Jack lets down his hand resentfully to help Havel up. Havel wipes the snot from his upper lip and lets Jack pull him up.
"I'm sorry..." Jack says with lingering annoyance while extending a hand for Havel to shake.
"Me too," Havel says back, shaking his hand.
"Get him an ice pack for his side," MaryAnn says to Jack.
Jack brings an ice pack from the freezer to Havel like a mortician wheeling in the last body of his career.
"You're not my mom," Jack says to MaryAnn before walking off to his room.
MaryAnn watches him leave. It was true after all—and his red hair was a constant reminder of it.
"Don't be like this, Jack—" she says before his bedroom door slams shut.
...
Timon hears a knock at his office door.
"Come in," he calls out like a half-asleep librarian.
The door is opened slightly, and his secretary, Charles, leans through.
"I got some documents for you to sign, sir."
"Come in," he says.
Charles walks in wearing his iron-grey suit, holding a maroon plastic binder thick with documents and a newspaper, juggling them as he closes the door behind. Charles approaches Timon and tosses the newspaper on his desk before sitting down.
"Not looking so good, is it?" Charles says.
Timon grabs the paper and holds it to view. He sees in large bold letters: RUSSIA MAY DECLARE WAR ON UKRAINE.
Timon presses back in his chair. He hasn't been following the news lately, as it seldom affects his detached and privileged life — leading to his ignorance of the situation.
"Oh, my God..." Timon says under his breath.
"You think we will back them?" Charles asks.
"Jesus, I don't know."
"They're NATO. It's not unlikely we would help out."
In the American way, these men search out and cling to the latest yellow journalism like it were the nectar of a Venus flytrap.
Timon drops the paper to his desk and swats it aside, groaning. After reflecting, he changes the topic.
"Okay, what do you got?" he says in a low, hoarse voice.
Charles reaches into the binder and pulls out a small packet of papers. He flips through the packet and studies a page.
"Yeah—here you go," he says, handing over the packet, "some legal work for our California branch."
Timon surveys the paper and signs it, then hands it back.
"You hear from Phineas lately?" Charles asks while fitting the packet back into his binder.
The question confuses Timon, considering he hasn't talked to Phineas, his father, for years.
"No, not recently. I have hardly thought of him," Timon lies. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, I was thinking, he sure will be safe if anything were to happen. Sitting pretty on that island of his."
"If he's still alive. It's been nearly a decade since we spoke."
Saying this aloud revives something within Timon, something he cannot fully understand at the moment. A feeling in his throat like a rotting hand breaching its grave.
"You ever think of visiting him?"
Timon laughs on autopilot while his mind studies itself.
"Maybe I'll have to if bombs start falling," he says with a smile.
Charles laughs and pulls out another packet of paper. He folds back a selection of pages and hands it over to Timon.
"This one is to increase security in our building. The protests are making people uneasy around here."
Timon reads over the document, seeing it allows the hire of three additional security guards. He signs above the designated line, hearing sirens in the street below through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk. It wasn't abnormal to hear sirens — he had only then become aware of a siren that had been bellowing for the last hour. Timon goes to his window to view the busy street below. He peers down at the large crowd of protestors holding paper signs, watching as they move into the street to block traffic. He, the detached penguin. They, the restless masses.
"That's all I got for now," Charles says while packing his binder, "I'll be back tomorrow. Have a good evening, sir."
Timon observes the street below as Charles leaves the room and closes the door behind him. Police vehicles close in on the protesters from every street, with officers sprinting down the sidewalks beside them. Protestors throw rocks, and even their signs, at the advancing officers. He hears the faint squeals of a megaphone telling the protestors to leave. Some walk off down an alley, but a majority stay. A black armored truck slips its way through the traffic and stops near the protestors. The truck births a team of shield-bearing riot police—some carrying menacing black batons. They form a line and begin to march toward the protestors. An ancient display. A horse-mounted officer carves through honking traffic and penetrates the group, scattering them. Eventually, they disperse in all directions, with many left behind in handcuffs. Timon turns away from the window and sits back at his desk. He reads the newspaper headline again and massages his throat.
...
A few hours later, Timon notices his staff packing their things. He checks the clock and realizes it's time to close the office, so he pulls the microphone across his desk and holds down the speaking button.
"Alright, let's call it for today. Get home safe, we will see you all in the morning."
Timon releases the speaking button. His job is done. He slides paperwork into his brown leather briefcase, tightens his tie, and throws on his suit-jacket.
Timon takes the elevator down to the basement garage to meet with his driver, Patrick. He finds Patrick standing in a tan suit beside his black town car as usual.
"How are you doing, Mr. Finch?" Patrick asks Timon as he props open the backseat door.
"I'm well. How about you?"
Patrick closes Timon's door and walks around to the driver's side.
"I'm doing alright," he says as he sets himself in the front seat. "Going straight home?"
"Yeah, let's get out of here before the protests block up the roads."
"Might be a bit late for that."
Despite the protests, Timon is anxious to leave the office. His conversation with Charles placed him on an internal merry-go-round where intrusive memories would join him for a moment's spin, only to jump off without reason. The roused recollections materialize mostly as forgotten relics of his father. His smell, like a smokey serpent. His voice, always booming at his mother from another room. Of course, the scent of his father's island in the Philippines. In rejection of these memories, he attempts to remember his dead mother, but it is of no use. His throat stress only swells more in this work.
Patrick drives them out of the parking lot and into the street where the protest Timon had seen is now gone, and everything resumed to normal on the road. While they are still in the city, he sees small groups with picket signs, but nothing large. He watches protestors being arrested and an army of police patrolling the streets.
"It was much heavier earlier today. Has been all week," Patrick says, "today especially, though. It's been hard to drive through the city. Remember this morning?"
Timon remains quiet. He thinks of how earlier this morning they were stuck in traffic due to a thick assembly of protestors. They marched through the street like nature reclaiming the earth. They walked right over cars. He remembered watching them pass by his window. There must have been hundreds of them. Timon ended up getting to work hours late, but so did everybody.
They leave the city and take the highway toward Timon's neighborhood, arriving just before eight. They drive slow by his neighbors' gated properties. Behind the gates are elaborate, beautiful mansions of great size, inhabited by pseudo-jubilant families alone within the sprawl of their richly decorated lands.
Patrick parks the car outside of the Finch house, where Timon shakes his hand from the backseat and says goodbye.
In the night, Timon halts on the sidewalk to view his house with all the windows lit up. The two-tiered home has an exterior of ash-painted wood with pearl accents framing the windows and along the rim of the roof. He watches MaryAnn through the bay window of the kitchen doing homework with Marie. Above the window is the intricate, artfully made railing encompassing the wrap-around deck.
Timon turns to the city in the distance—its orange glow bleeds up the surrounding atmosphere with an intensity that blocks out all the stars in the sky. He looks down and sees the reflection of the city lights in his shoes.
Timon rounds back to the house and walks the scatter-stone path, which rides through the grass to his cherry-red front door.