Debt Bomb Page 19

  She found her husband under the stairs in front of the washer and dryer. He was doing laundry.

  “What is going on down here?” she demanded. “My mother is all by herself upstairs.”

  “So what?” Aaron grumbled from the couch.

  “You don’t talk about your grandmother like that,” Andrea said.

  “If it wasn’t for her, I’d be at baseball practice instead of here,” Aaron huffed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “All the money got spent on Grandma’s medicines so they had to cut the school’s baseball team. We just moved here and already my favorite thing in the world has been taken away.”

  “Okay, everyone upstairs,” Andrea announced.

  “But Mom—”

  “No buts. Now. Everyone upstairs.”

  Ryan emerged from beneath the stairs. He looked beaten, with bags under his eyes and an overgrowth of stubble on his face.

  “But I have to finish the laundry,” he said.

  “Nice try,” Andrea said. “Everyone up, now.”

  Aaron slammed the Xbox controller on the small table in front of the couch. Then the three of them trudged up the basement stairs, Andrea following and herding them up like cattle. They all sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Ryan, bring my mother down, will you?”

  Ryan grimaced. “I’ve had enough. All I do is help her get around. And all she does is complain. She’s your mother. Why don’t you get her?”

  “Dammit, Ryan, if you want to stay married, you get your ass up there right now and bring her down.”

  “Fine,” said Ryan, irritated. He got up from the table, forcefully shoving his chair in, and went upstairs.

  Aaron and Michelle laid their heads on the table, preparing to ignore the conversation.

  A few moments later, Ryan came back with Mamie clutching his left arm. She winced in pain with every step from her arthritis. Andrea pulled out a chair from the kitchen table, and she and Ryan seated her mother and pushed the chair in. Then Ryan and Andrea sat down.

  “Okay, what is going on in this house?” Andrea said.

  No one answered.

  “I mean it, someone better tell me what is going on, or I—”

  “Fine, Mom, I’ll tell you,” Aaron blurted. “This is all her fault.” He pointed to Mamie.

  “What are you talking about?” Andrea had no idea what had gotten into her son. “What is all Grandma’s fault?”

  “All the kids are saying the school had to cancel the baseball team and the other sports teams because there is no more money to pay for them,” said Aaron. “The kids say it’s because we had to pay for old people’s medicines and food and homes.”

  “Yeah,” interjected Michelle. “And they had to cancel the after-school art classes because they said they didn’t have any money anymore.”

  Aaron continued, “The kids at school say it’s your fault, Mom, and the old people like Grandma. They said you took away the money for the school’s baseball team to pay for all the stuff old people get.”

  Curse those little brats at school filling her kids’ heads with nonsense. And curse their parents for feeding their kids the nonsense they took to school to torment her kids.

  Except it wasn’t nonsense. It was true, and Andrea knew it.

  She took a breath. The kids deserved an explanation.

  “Listen,” Andrea said to Aaron and Michelle, “I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for everyone. But this is not Grandma’s fault. It’s not any one person’s fault. But things are bad for a lot of people. A lot of their parents are losing their jobs. Be thankful that’s not happening to you. You’ve got a roof over your head and food on the table.”

  “Yeah, but big deal. Life sucks,” said Aaron. “No baseball. And I’m losing all the friends I’ve just started making at school because they say this is your fault, Mom. It’s not fair.”

  “You’re right. It’s not fair,” Andrea said. “But no one said life was fair. And you’re not the only one suffering.”

  “I don’t care about anyone else’s suffering,” Aaron replied, annoyed.

  Andrea froze, stunned by her son’s callousness. She and Ryan hadn’t raised their children to be uncaring ingrates. Had they really become this spoiled, this bratty, this selfish? Her first instinct was to unleash some unadulterated maternal discipline.

  But she hesitated. Her son might be acting selfishly, but he was precociously perceptive. Andrea had lashed out at the American people for saddling the country with ruinous debt to feed their insatiable appetites. She’d stomped her feet about earlier generations of Americans leaving her with this mess to solve. Her son’s anger was an unrefined and unfiltered reflection of her own feelings. The only difference was that he was thirteen and unable to restrain himself the way she could. How could she get angry with him? She understood him and, deep down, agreed with him.

  No, scolding the kids wasn’t the right approach.

  “Aaron, Michelle, I understand what you are going through, believe me I do,” Andrea said quietly. She took Aaron’s hand. “You both are right. What we are going through is awful. And I am so sorry this is hurting you. This isn’t your fault, and I don’t blame you for being angry.”

  Unconvinced, Aaron shook his head.

  Andrea had a thought. “Why don’t you get the kids at school to go to the park after school and organize your own baseball game?”

  “None of the kids at school want to play with me. I just started making friends and now they all hate me because of what you did. I’m locked out of all the games at recess. I sit alone in the football bleachers. And no one will eat lunch with me in the cafeteria. I sit all by myself.”

  “What about me?” asked Michelle. “I just made friends with Stephanie down the street, and now she’s leaving school. I have no one to play with.”

  “Stephanie Brown left school?” asked Andrea.

  “Yeah, she did.”

  “Why?” asked Ryan.

  “She said her parents needed her to stay home and help around the house,” said Michelle. “Her father lost his job and her mother is working at night so they can pay for things.”

  Andrea and Ryan exchanged a look. Stephanie Brown’s father worked for the government. He’d probably been laid off. In addition to everything else, Andrea was responsible for forcing kids to quit school to work. She pictured ten-year-old Stephanie washing dishes and doing laundry like some Oliver Twist street urchin, her little fingers getting wrinkled and cracked as she scrubbed soap off dishes and folded clothes.

  What have I done? thought Andrea. I am despised. My family is despised. Everyone is in misery, all because of me.

  “We’ve had a major uptick in admissions for depression at the hospital,” said Ryan. “I have double the case load I had two months ago. And half the pay. All these people are Medicaid or Medicare patients. Half of them can’t pay a thing.”

  Her family’s every word was another jab to her chest. She felt alone, even at home. She had no sanctuary from the horrors she’d unleashed on the country, on her neighbors, on her family. She wanted to crawl in a hole and hide from the world, never showing her face in public again. Maybe she could live like a hermit on some secluded beach off the grid.

  “I don’t care what you say,” Aaron said. “All this has ruined my life.”

  Andrea could see she hadn’t gotten through to the kids. It was once again time to commit candor.

  “Aaron, Michelle,” Andrea said. “Look at me.”

  “What, Mom?” Aaron replied, still moping at the table.

  “I know exactly how you are feeling,” she said. “I feel the same way. I do. But there are times in life where we have every right to be angry but we have to bear it. In fifty years, we will all look back and remember how we got through this horrible period of our lives. And, hopefully, we’ll learn not to get ourselves into this situation again. Every generation of Americans has had its trials. The Civil War. The Great Depression. World War I. World War
II. The Cold War. The COVID pandemic. This is your trial, and as hard as it is to understand now, someday you will look back on this as a shared experience that forged your generation.”

  As she spoke, she felt as though she was working to convince herself as much as her children.

  “I wish I could make things better. Nothing pains me more than to see you suffering. But understand, we will come out of this, and someday it will be just a memory. I know it is hard for you to see that now, but you have to trust me.”

  Aaron exhaled. “I’m still angry,” he said in a subdued voice. Andrea was getting through to him.

  “Of course you are,” Andrea said, still holding his hand. “I don’t blame you. You have every right to be angry. But I don’t want you to burn yourself up. Bottling up your anger will only hurt you. It won’t fix what’s making you angry. Keep your chin up. Things will get better, I promise.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Michelle interjected. “How can we have the right to be angry but not get angry?”

  Andrea hesitated. “You know, you can help me save America. You can be part of the team that’s working to get America back on her feet.”

  “How’s that?” Aaron perked up.

  “You and your sister have a chance to set an example for the kids at school and the rest of the country. What our country needs right now is to stiffen its upper lip and dial back the anger. So much of this country is angry. I see it every day. The talk radio and cable TV firebrands and their Debt Rebel Gang buddies that dumped me? They weren’t worried about the debt. They were angry. And to be honest, they had a right to be angry. People called them racist, sexist, religious zealots, illiterate and uneducated hicks, and who knows what else. The smart set told them to sit on the side of the road and sip a Slurpee, laughed about their lack of sophistication, and called them troglodytes for trying to maintain traditions that had been uncontroversial for two thousand years. Thing is, anger doesn’t pay back debt.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Michelle asked.

  Ryan gestured to Andrea. “What we can do now is look forward, not backward. Your mother and I are making less money right now, so we need to make cutbacks around here. No more restaurants or going to the movies for a while.”

  Aaron sighed and Michelle put on her pouty face. “I can keep playing the Xbox, right?” asked Aaron.

  “Yes, but we could take the opportunity to make some changes around here too,” said Ryan. “More family time. We’re going to start doing more things together. I’ll teach you how to make a lasagna.”

  “Your father is a good cook,” said Andrea.

  “We can ride bikes,” continued Ryan. “Read some books. We have five groaning bookcases full of books in the basement your grandfather left us. Work on some photo albums.”

  “And spend some time with your grandmother,” said Andrea.

  Aaron and Michelle both nodded. They were downcast—who could blame them?—but they were accepting. It was all Andrea could ask of them.

  “All right, you two. Bedtime,” said Ryan.

  Aaron and Michelle dragged themselves up the stairs, heads hanging.

  “We taught you well,” Mamie said.

  “I wish I completely believed what I was telling them,” Andrea replied. “I’m not sure I convinced them. I’m not sure I’m convinced myself.”

  “You did fine, honey.” Mamie gently rubbed Andrea’s back. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time before. I know you are stressed. We’re all on a knife’s edge.”

  Andrea gave Mamie a hug.

  Mamie continued, “The kids are going through a very hard time. I’m not sure your father or I could have calmed them down the way you did.”

  “Practice makes perfect.” Andrea smiled ruefully. “And Lord knows I’m getting plenty of practice.”

  “Where are we going?” Andrea asked as she ducked into the presidential limousine. Known as “the Beast,” the multimillion-dollar custom Cadillac had armored plating, bulletproof windows, and fine leather seats. It even carried two pints of the president’s blood in case of emergency.

  “The Pentagon,” President Murray responded. “We’re going to try plan B to get Mason to give us the money we need to keep fighting.”

  “What? After he gave me the brush-off yesterday at lunch? There’s no way he’s going to come around. He’s more than content to let us twist in the wind.”

  President Murray adjusted his glasses slightly.

  “We’re going to fight this war, dammit.” He smacked his armrest for emphasis. “We simply can’t let the Chinese sink American ships with impunity. And we can’t sit idly by and watch the Chinese gobble up Taiwan. Every country in the world will conclude American security guarantees aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. It will be open season for the world’s worst actors.”

  Sixteen black cars, trucks, and vans made up the presidential motorcade. Some of them appeared to be carrying enough sophisticated equipment to land men on the moon.

  Why do we need sixteen tricked-out vehicles to take the president five miles across the river to the Pentagon? she thought. I bet this motorcade costs a million dollars.

  “Do whatever you have to do to convince him, Mr. President,” Andrea said. “In four weeks, there will be no more money for the troops or the war. Unless you can convince Mason and Congress to amend the emergency budget to get more funds, this war will stop in thirty days. I’m sure the Chinese know this.”

  “I’ll do everything I can to convince him.” Murray’s unsteady voice betrayed his uncertainty.

  The little American flag and the flag with the presidential seal on the hood of the Beast, trimmed in gold braids, fluttered in the breeze as the limousine raced the five miles to the Pentagon.

  Within ten minutes, Andrea and President Murray were walking through corridors of the inner sanctum of the American defense establishment. The corridors were lined with mahogany paneling. Portraits of past Defense Secretaries lined the walls. Every office was filled with large racks of commemorative coins, framed and folded ceremonial flags, detailed desk models of various weapons systems, statuettes of eagles and flags, and other knick-knacks. What Andrea wouldn’t do to get the dollars spent on all those baubles back.

  An army staffer led them into a conference room where Secretary Andrews, Admiral Wilkerson, and General Ogden were waiting.

  “Jesus, look at this door,” Andrea muttered. “It must be two feet thick.”

  “One and a half, ma’am,” said the staffer.

  “This must be the most secure conference room in America.”

  “They don’t call it the Tank for nothing,” he said. “It’s got lead-lined walls, soundproofing, and a few other things I can’t talk about.”

  The room wasn’t just secure; it was downright opulent. The audio/visual equipment couldn’t be more than a year old. Brand-new plaques of the seals of each branch of the armed services hung on the wall. The leather of the chairs, embossed with the seal of the different armed forces, still looked and smelled fresh. The Pentagon staff had placed the president’s special chair with the presidential seal at the head of the long oak table. They’d even put out a special coffee mug with the presidential seal.

  “You might be the first OMB director ever to set foot in here,” Secretary Andrews said with a look of disgust on his face.

  “I might be the first OMB director ever to dictate war strategy,” she responded. “History I could have done without making.”

  “We could have done without it too,” Admiral Wilkerson grumbled.

  “Ease up, Admiral,” President Murray said. “All of our nerves are frayed. Don’t make things worse than they already are.”

  “My apologies, sir.” The admiral nodded.

  President Murray briskly went to his seat at the head of the table. “Everyone sit down. Is Mason on his way?”

  “No idea,” said one of the Pentagon staffers.

  Andrea sat against the wall in the row of chairs set up f
or staffers. Only the military men sat at the table. Admiral Wilkerson and General Ogden seated themselves beneath the video screen at the other end of the long table opposite the president.

  A knock at the door interrupted the awkward wait.

  “Congressman Mason,” President Murray said. “Glad you could make it.”

  A wave of anxiety flushed through Andrea when Mason walked in. She gripped her padfolio tightly to stifle her quivering hands.

  “I appreciate the invitation. Sorry I’m late. Had a committee meeting that went overtime.”

  Lying jerk, she thought. Mason did a radio interview with the PureCon Radio Network every Wednesday morning. It had probably run long.

  “I wanted Congressman Mason joining us today because it’s important he understand the situation in Taiwan when we negotiate the budget,” President Murray said.

  “If we negotiate the budget,” Mason chimed in.

  Grumbles filled the room at Mason’s rude rebuke of the president.

  President Murray acted as if nothing had happened and started the meeting. “You all know why I’ve called you here. I know things are bad. But I want to understand exactly where things stand and our strategy for where we go from here.”

  Admiral Wilkerson began the presentation. An aide in the back clicked open the presentation on a laptop. A hush fell over the room as the picture of the hulk of a naval vessel appeared on the screen, its battleship gray charred to black.

  “This is the USS Florida,” said Admiral Wilkerson. “She was hit by a surface-to-surface missile. You can see the thirty-foot hole on its starboard side scorched at its edges. Somehow she managed not to sink and we towed her to the Philippines.”

  Jagged, twisted metal was visible inside the ship.

  “Jesus,” Murray said. “Did anyone survive?”

  “I’m warning you about the next photo,” Wilkerson said. “This one is graphic.”

  “I can handle it.” The president gestured to the aide running the presentation. “Put it up.”

  Andrea wasn’t sure if she could handle it, but she wasn’t going to object. The less attention on her, the better.