CHAPTER THIRTEEN – DENBRIGHT
THE NEXT GREAT AMERICAN RENAISSANCE
An irritating gaggle of public relations officers, mostly Fiona and her usual assistants, crowd around the Director's desk. But I just stare out the window as they discuss our plan to address the fallout from the bombing. My eyes fixate on the blast site and fog surrounding the Colosseum.
"You have to respond..."
"The second lockdown won't hold for long. The refugees' riots will only grow worse..."
"We can minimize the damage if we frame you as the victim."
A fiery impulse courses through me, and suddenly I slam my fist on the desk. The crowd silences. "Everyone... out...." I hiss. "And take these with you!" I toss back the speech drafts. My staff's eyes widen, and then they scramble to exit the office.
Alone atop the glass tower, every instinct tells me to smash my computer. Or throw something against the window. Not losing my head takes every ounce of self-control I have. Because whatever I do in the next twenty-four hours, I have to do absolutely right.
"This is never going to stop, Michael. Not like this..." I whisper into the silence.
As a torrential rain pounds against the stained-glass windows, I turn to my computer and pull up a blank document, but something immediately feels wrong. So I grab a stack of paper and pluck a pen from the cup on my desk. Staring down at this blank page is harder than completing any intelligence report. How do I write a speech that a young, hopeless Michael Rhodes—and millions today just like him, thousands right here at this base—could have rallied behind? How do I give that rousing address only the most transformative leaders have ever pulled off? The Abraham Lincolns? The Susan B. Anthonys? The Martin Luther Kings? The leaders tasked with uniting a population desperate to destroy itself?
But Michael Rhodes has trailblazed a worldview even the Red Doves' victims can follow with the proper disillusionment. If past tyrants can sink nations on false pretenses and scapegoats, Michael can certainly tear us apart on valid criticisms. This war will not be won with weapons alone, but with hearts and minds. I just hope my counterargument is enough to paint people's bleeding feathers white again.
No lack of self-validation can stand in the way of something much bigger. My inability to lead effectively and satisfy my constituents has cost children their lives. I have always had the credentials and experience, but something I cannot be taught is that indescribable quality leaders must have. Whatever strength or madness I have had locked inside me all these years has to come out now. Or CANARY doesn't stand a chance in easing the chaos to make meaningful steps toward finding the Red Doves.
So, I put pen to paper, ready to actually speak to my people for the very first time....
* * *
After spending a night asleep at my desk, I rise early to prep for the speech on my own without Fiona's stylists. When I pull on a copy of A Refugee's Guide to CANARY, the office bookshelf swings open to reveal my bedroom. I march toward my closet and pull down a dusty bin from the top shelf. Inside is an embroidered tulle evening dress with blossoming pink flowers stitched across the fabric, matched with a rosy hijab. I drape Tallulah Jane Denbright's favorite holiday dress over my shoulders and stare at the picture of my parents on my nightstand. I am a dead ringer for my mother, but the similarities stop there. Her ruthless eyes that have not seen the sun in years pierce into me from the photo. My mother was the epitome of tough love; I would not have been as motivated in my CIA career without her consistent, sometimes cruel, insistence on my succeeding. Now Mom eyes me down from a past life as if urging me to follow my more assertive instincts today.
Staring at myself in the mirror at the age I should be retiring, I am suddenly an idealistic nineteen-year-old again ready to take on the world. My violet eyes have hardened into something sharp, something merciless. I hold my gaze in the mirror and imagine the disgruntled refugees eyeing down the same caramel face, wishing me dead. Then I turn and step out of the shadows of my bedroom into the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows.
Two security guards are waiting at the bottom of the marble steps. "Ready?" I ask, carrying a binder holding my speech. A sting lingers in my hands from writing all night.
"Yes, Director," the guards says.
"And my speech is being broadcast around the world as I instructed, correct?"
"Yes. We have cameras on top of the Infinity Court, library, Medical Circuit... all aimed at Brandmand Tower. Bomb squads swept the Quad for explosives. Some refugees tried to refuse leaving their compartments to come to the speech, but we managed to secure a big crowd."
I nod and dart out of the Director's office where an old friend greets me. "Aaliyah, I was just coming to—" The stripe general pauses and knits his eyebrows. "Where do you think you're going?"
I pause and set my jaw. "I didn't get the memo saying I had to run my entire schedule by you." I try to brush past him.
"What's this?" Maddox snatches the binder and flips to the speech. "You can't be serious. You're the last person they want to hear from right now. Why wasn't I briefed?"
"Because your opinion on this situation frankly doesn't matter. Now give me the binder, Maddox."
Maddox looks dumbfounded by my sudden abrasiveness, but then he puffs up his chest to maintain his standing. "Aaliyah, this'll just rile everyone up."
"That's ironic, coming from you..." I pluck the speech out of his hands and march onward, leaving him fuming and alone in the hallway.
As we wade through the bustling government floor, I turn to one of the guards. "Contact the dungeons and have security bring the Sedona detainee to the Quad. He needs to see this."
"Will do, Madame Director..."
My security detail and I reach the elevator and ride down to the second floor of the CANARY Building. We march down the golden spiral staircase into the Commons and trek along the glass walkway spilling out to the north end of the Quad. A vast sea of refugees bordered by guards stands around Brandmand Tower. Cameras are mounted along the rooves of the Medical Circuit, Infinity Court, library, and CANARY Building. A press box full of reporters is set up on the Infinity Court steps. Some refugees shout words of protest as they gather in the Quad, but the rest of the crowd seems rather subdued after the memorial explosion, peering at the ground with solemn, numb expressions. Either because they believe nothing will change or because they realize violence only hurts the most vulnerable among us.
I take a deep breath and will myself to repurpose the tingling fear in my veins into something more. Something I have never had before. A good kind of pain. The temporary kind that changes people for the better. I ignore the voices in my head telling me to stand down and shut my mouth. I do not wait for the guards to prop open the door for me but push against the glass and step into the naked daylight myself.
Within seconds, a chorus of boos spews from sections of the crowd. Some refugees remain quiet, as if ashamed of the heckling. Ashamed of the consequences of our disagreements. Before anyone can storm me, security guards converge from all directions and form a blockade as I stride across the Quad to the open archway at the base of Brandmand Tower. As I glance across the crowd, the boos feel deafening, the taunts disheartening, but I did not come here for forgiveness. Or even the acceptance I have craved for so long.
I spot the Sedona detainee, flanked by guards, in shackles on the library steps. His eyes dart around the chaotic, contentious scene that must prove Michael's vision of the world accurate. But someone has to change this Red Dove's perception of what this country can still be, even if Michael never reaped the benefits of attentive leadership.
So I raise my voice to the sky, hoping he will finally hear me:
332 Berchrow Drive. Emporia, Kansas. Up the cracked driveway pavement. Past the burnt patch on the front lawn. Through the busted-in screen door and across the dusty kitchen floor. Take a right. Walk fifteen steps. Look left. The framed letter on that wall should have been able to come true. I'm sorry the world denied you.
In the middle of nowhere. West of Kabul in Iraq. Down the dirt path in enemy countryside. Crouched behind a bush with your best friend. Waiting for a call to stop a nuclear war that never started. The blast on that truck never should have been able to kill Louis. I'm sorry the world denied you.
One block away from unreachable opportunity. Shamefully asking me to sit down for a lunch you could not afford. Your eyes struggling to escape that night in Iraq. The medicine you needed should not have been locked away in a glass tower. I'm sorry the world denied you.
Back at the house we both knew all too well. Watching your father ration away his life. Watching you ration away your own life caring for him. Surrounded by a neighborhood of loving people only appreciated between drink binges. I barely knew you, but I knew you needed an escape. For once, I wanted the world to accept you.
But I knew my luxurious comforts never suited you well. As much empathy as I gave to you, you had to give the people still being denied the world. I understand why you eventually had to leave my glass tower in the sky and fulfill your mission. But pain begets greater pain when left untreated, and with each Red Dove abduction, the same agony from your open wounds is inflicted onto others. Over and over until we are all denied the world...
However, as much as I cannot excuse what the Red Doves have done, I cannot excuse what the American government has not. Everyone carries a burden, but those in power have opted for the privilege of carrying thousands more. Many want the image of lifting others without holding the actual weight after the picture has been taken. We need leaders who can break your cycle of denied pain.
I know you are searching for a solution. We all are. But crisis is solved by pouring medicine inside, not gasoline outside. If we set fire to the other side of the room, the whole house collapses when we could have just repainted the walls. A house divided cannot stand, after all. And our children, unaware that the house needed work, are left to burn when they should have been able to sing into their golden years....
The refugees, derived from every walk of life around the globe, stand close together on a plain that suddenly feels small. The Quad remains silent as the memory of what has been lost, intertwined with the fateful words of my speech, lingers over the scene. For one brief moment, the dissenting, violent mobs seems placated as we see each other for the first time.
I close the binder and open my arms to the crowd. "Before he became King Tourtombee, the leader of the Red Doves was a man named Michael Rhodes. And, yes, the stories are true. I did know him... Understood how he felt... How you all feel...." The refugees' faces soften, maybe because they anticipate some teary-eyed apology. "But here's the brutal truth you don't want to hear: any of you advocating for violent overthrow of our leadership here are no better than the Red Doves. I don't care how just your cause may feel or even be; killing others is inexcusable. Any conspirators in the bombing will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Michael is an opportunist exploiting your negative emotions toward leaders like me who keep his ideology appealing, and you are falling right into the Red Doves' nest. You're being tricked by cheap, populist rhetoric that only incites violence and distracts from valid criticisms of our government's dysfunction. I call on all of us to stop the bloodshed." Some of the refugees' softening faces harden, defiance serving as their immediate instinct.
I continue, "That being said, I haven't been the leader you need and deserve. I wish I could come out here and smooth things over with some shiny new lead, but today isn't that day. But rest assured... no more lockdowns. No more 'bread and circuses.' No more sugarcoating the threat we face. My administration will be rolling out a slew of new policies in the coming days: weekly town halls, daily office hours, civilian liaisons to oversee bureaucratic departments, independent arbitration review panels for government press releases, and more. These policies will help CANARY embody the philosophy that government bears fortune when used properly as a tool for the masses, but enables corruption when used improperly as a commodity for the few. And I promise to do everything I can to prevent anyone from feeling like setting off a bomb is our best chance at meaningful change...." The refugees in the crowd seem taken aback by my tonal shift from condemning to understanding. Perhaps many were expecting my speech to land hard on one side of the aisle, either cowering to their threats or threatening them into cowardice. But as gray clouds swirl overhead, and one half of the refugees claps while the other half scowls up at me, I grow reassured that the world is not a binary dichotomy split evenly between good and evil.
My security escorts me through the crowd back toward the CANARY Building. As we pass the library steps, I stop in front of the detained Red Dove, who looks confused and overwhelmed. I pat him on the shoulder, and for the first time, he does not cringe. His body language is stiff, but his golden-brown eyes hold an eager curiosity. Maybe this was the first time he witnessed leadership that was neither dysfunctional nor tyrannical.
I welcome the Red Dove with a smile. "We're not here to keep you locked up. I want us to trust each other moving forward." His lips upturn to the slightest degree. "Guards... stop the Plodder treatment. Show our guest around Main Campus. Galleria, Aviary, orchard, Monorail... all the fun stuff. Director's orders!" I wish Maddox were here to contest releasing the kid from solitary confinement twenty-four hours a day. The idea of challenging the stripe general fills me with renewed anticipation.
Fiona and her team hurry over to me from the press box. Fiona's freshly sprayed hair remains stock-still in the wind as she flashes me a grin. "Glad we didn't go with our version after all!" She scrolls feverishly on her tablet. "You're already getting positive feedback on social media. Still some doubters, of course... We need the Charlevoix mission greenlit soon, Director."
"We'll be ready," I insist.
Bradley approaches and claps me on the back. "Looks like somebody finally found her CANARY cry...."
When I gaze into the general's eyes, they hold the intensity of someone trying to reach another in pain. Only Bradley knows the silent gaps between the spoken sentences, the film reel of moments I spent with Michael, the world of lost memories I had to set aside before ever speaking publicly about my time with him....
* * *
The past few weeks had rolled by in a comfortable rhythm. I would suffer under the thumb of my overbearing boss for eight hours a day, but then Michael would pull a grin out of me with one pep talk at the kitchen island while I was still dressed in my sky-blue pantsuit. Michael's belongings, his few spare items from home along with the growing pile of goodies bought around the city, started accumulating around the penthouse. Every stray amenity around every corner reminded me I was no longer alone. And Michael seemed satisfied, for the first time in his life, as he read the newspaper every morning after another hearty breakfast.
One night after dinner, I watched Michael clean the dishes in the kitchen as I sat reading on the couch. He pushed his flowing chestnut hair back with his calloused hands as he scrubbed the sauce off our dinner platters with a focused look in his gray eyes. For a fleeting moment, I imagined a version of reality where the sound of Michael clattering china while cleaning dinner became permanent.
"Remember the plates go up top," I reminded him.
"Trust me... by now I know where everything goes." Michael placed the polished serving bowls under the sink, the plates inside the upper cupboards, and the glasses on the other side of the refrigerator, no instructions needed. I surveyed his bustling figure with his pale skin glistening in the light of the chandelier, but then the gray and violet eyes joined, and I quickly glanced down at my book. Michael cleared his throat and said, "What was this dish called? I already want to eat it again."
"Chicken Biryani. I can make it again next week. Usually pull one of my parents' recipes out for Thursdays..."
"I thought we agreed on some authentic Kansas cuisine for Thursdays," Michael replied with a chuckle.
"You said your favorite food from home was an 'everything' bagel with cream cheese."
"Because it has everything you could ever need! And the bagel's the ultimate struggle meal, let's be honest. But this spiced Chicken Biryani, man... Chef's kiss...."
"Well, if me cooking the meal means you're on clearing duty, I'll be whipping it up every other day!"
Michael grinned. "I haven't been that messy, have I?"
"No, you've been a very pleasant guest, Michael Rhodes," I replied with a smile.
Michael flicked off the kitchen lights. "Good to hear. All right, well... I'm going to bed."
I immediately shuffled on the couch to make space for him. "Are you sure you don't want to stay up and do something?"
"No, I should get some sleep."
"You can watch me read my book," I joked. "C'mon... when's the last time you heard a nice bedtime story?"
Michael chortled. "What are you even reading?" He neared the couch and sat beside me.
"Just started 'The Body.' Stephen King..."
"And what wisdom does Mr. King have to bestow upon us?"
I laughed and began reading aloud under his stare. "Chapter one. The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear...." I stopped to consider the author's words.
"You think the narrator ever finds his understanding ear?" Michael asked.
I pondered the question. "I think everyone finds one eventually. The question is: does he unlock the important secrets close to his heart or stay silent?"
Michael scoffed and shifted away from me on the couch. "This guy already sounds like the sensitive type that would spill his deepest secrets."
"You're so stubborn. I think he's just honest, even when it's difficult."
Michael crunched his eyebrows and shifted his eyes toward the murky skyline. The dark brew of emotion simmering beneath his eyes was surfacing again. "I'm just opinionated. But life is better when you have your walls guarded and stay silent. You never know who to trust with 'the most important things.'"
"And what are 'the most important things' for you?"
"Same as everyone else..." Michael risked a fleeting peek in my direction, and my eyes met his.
"The guards at the wall need a break eventually, don't they?" I whispered.
We held eye contact, and for a splice of time, the feeling of deprivation that had plagued both our souls all our lives felt alleviated. Our missing piece was floating in the air between us, and all we needed to do was reach out and grab it. Because nothing so sacred burned bright for long, and soon the missing piece would escape through the glass windows and out across the shadowy city, never to be exposed in the light again. But Michael's arms remained locked at his sides as the fluttering in my stomach grew unbearable.
Michael broke off the connection and rose to his feet. "You should keep reading to find out what he does while I get some sleep." My stomach deflated. By some disheartening irony, as the missing piece floated away, nothing stood between us now.
But as Michael retired for bed, I could feel his eyes glued to me. I tentatively tilted my head, and he tossed me a crinkle-eyed smile as he snuck away down the hallway toward his bedroom on the other side of the penthouse. The indentation of his body remained on the couch, and a similar chasm started opening inside my chest. I eyed the now-empty kitchen, and the silence suddenly felt louder than the clattering dishes. Down the hall, I heard Michael answering a phone call from his neighbors in Emporia. His charismatic tone reverberated along the passage, across the living room, and through the windows toward the vast metropolis. For Michael, even the miles of blinking buildings never held a candle to the dimly lit shacks of Emporia.
But a couple weeks later on New Year's Eve, Michael and I stumbled back from Times Square together. We had to hold hands to avoid losing each other in the roaring crowds. When my icy fingers slipped through his, I panicked until we reconnected. The warm inside of his palm tugged me toward safety. "I got you!" Michael hollered back at me, his voice cutting through the frosty breeze.
We broke free from the crowds and veered down a tangle of side streets until we reached Onassis Place. We staggered across the lobby and headed upstairs laughing all the way. Michael took another sip from the vodka jug in his hand, and we traded the drink on the elevator. Both our faces were frosted and our cheeks rosy, but something else was warming me up....
As soon as we entered the privacy of the penthouse, Michael pulled me in for a hug. "Thank you, Aaliyah! Just thank you!"
"For what?"
"Just... for cutting me a break." Michael's voice broke. I knew he was thinking about his father; he always did when he was drunk.
"And thank you for not being like the others."
We shared a smile. With the alcohol inhibiting our senses, no important thing would go unspoken. No missing piece would go unreached. So when Michael leaned in for a kiss, I matched him. The next minute passed in a whirlwind of inexplicable euphoria. I barely even knew what hit me. All I remembered was taking off my shoes by the doorstep.
And leaving the rest of my clothes with them....