II: Sunday Morning

-/-

-/-

About a year before, we'd started letting Marco sneak a GameBoy into church. The rule was that he wasn't allowed to use it during choir performances, but as long as he kept it discrete he could use it during the sermons. Despite the dirty looks we sometimes received for it, I was sure that the other attendees were happier having to put up with it than put up with a bored, squirming nine year-old, and I knew there was a limit to what my son would put up with to keep me happy.

This Sunday even the GameBoy couldn't keep Marco entertained. It was the day of Jake's birthday party, and Marco was upset that he couldn't help Jake set up. Apparently the theme was Captain Planet, and Marco wanted to set aside the best party favor bags for himself and Jake. His greediness didn't bother me, as I knew full well that if someone asked him for the best bag he'd relinquish it. My son was often a handful, but he was always very good at sharing, and did have a genuinely sweet nature.

It was almost easy to forget that, however, when he was suggesting for the umpteenth time that we go off-road to get out of the traffic we were stuck in.

"How come you're going so slow? I saw these cars on TV that could go right over that cement wall. Why can't you get one of those cars?" He impatiently tugged at chunks of his hair, yanking out from his head. It was a habit he'd picked up from Peter, only it looked ridiculous because his hair was longer.

"Those cars are for expert drivers in car shows, honey. I don't know why you're so impatient. You're still going to be there way before the other kids," I said, for probably the eighth time in the last ten minutes.

"It's Jake's birthday. If I'm not there for the whole thing Jake's going to sit in the back while everyone else has fun," he said matter-of-factly. I sometimes forgot that my son brought out the more social side in people. Jake, especially, seemed to thrive on the little pushes Marco gave him.

"Well, you're not going to be late. And believe me, I'm no happier about this traffic than you are. I have something important to get to." As the days had passed, I'd gotten more and more antsy about this Sharing thing. Wagering your career on something will tend to do that.

Marco picked at the wrapping paper on the Nerf football we'd gotten Jake and squirmed in his makeshift booster seat. He'd decided he was too old for an actual booster seat, but given his height we'd decided to outfit the regular seat and belt with extra padding anyway. He'd been none too pleased. "I bet it's not as important as a birthday party."

"It could be. Your dad and I have a bet going. If he's right about this, I have to stay home more often and we might move to a new neighborhood. So it's pretty important."

He looked concerned. "A new neighborhood? But we've always lived in this house."

"Then you better hope I win the bet." Finally, we reached the exit back to our neighborhood. "You're not even the teensiest bit excited about me being home more?"

He thought about that, then grinned. "A little. But only if it doesn't mean more chores."

"What, you don't want to be the handyman when I start my garden?" I teased. He stuck his tongue out. "We're here. Try not to tell Jake it's a football until after he opens it, alright? And I'll pick you up at four."

"How about four thirty?" He said hopefully.

"How about four?" I repeated, then watched as he ran up and rang the doorbell. Jean let him in. From the car, I could see Jake and his brother Tom peeking into the party favor bags.

I drove fairly quickly, and despite the possibly contrary opinions of the other drivers I drove fairly well, to the part of town where The Sharing building was. I was anxious and excited; a victorious campaign, especially after all indicators pointed to a loss, could make my career. I could work for better candidates, candidates I agreed with more, and I could demand higher pay and better hours. A winning track record would open a wealth of possibilities for me.

The Sharing wasn't exactly in the slums, but the area certainly needed some upkeep. The only businesses around seemed to be laundromats and pawn shops, with the occasional fast food joint squeezed in. Mostly the block it was on seemed deserted – a few cars parked here or there, but none of them looked new or even that they'd been left there recently.

Except for at the building for The Sharing itself. It stood like a well-kept bastion of maintenance on the scraggly city block. The windows shined a little too brightly; the walkway was a little too well swept. A few clean, new-looking cars were parked outside. Something about it struck me as off-putting, like someone trying to cram wholesomeness where it didn't belong.

"Odd," I said to myself. "Very odd."

I parked in the lot next to the other clean cars and walked up to the building. On the front door there was a poster with an insignia on it, something that looked like the top half of a person reaching for the sky. The poster read "The Sharing: living for something greater" and in smaller print "open every day, all hours".

"Living for something greater" sounded like it was a few steps away from Kool-Aid to me, but a lame slogan wasn't enough for me to run a smear campaign on. I walked in.

The first room looked like a cross between a waiting room and a recreational lounge. A big pool table sat in the middle of the room. Folding chairs lined the wall. The walls were covered with more laminated posters, all shouting more slogans like "Sharing Souls is Our Goal" and "Be Something More Than What You Are". A few people, two teens and one middle-aged man, were doing something on a computer together. They were all laughing, so I assumed it was some sort of game.

"I'll be right with you!" A blonde secretary said, much too cheerily to make me feel comfortable. She scuttled out of the room.

I took a seat. Drummed my fingers against my briefcase. Crossed one leg over the other, then reversed them. I was not good at sitting still. I had a mind for thinking and working quickly, not for sitting around waiting for perky secretaries. I turned on my tape recorder, in case anything incriminating came up while I was here.

Eventually, she came back, followed by a large Hispanic man. The man approached me, extending a hand. "Ms. Salazar. We're very pleased to see you here."

It wasn't entirely uncommon for people to recognize me, especially politicians and media men. Part of my job was extensive networking. But I couldn't place this man's face. I shook his hand, searching his handsome features for some familiarity. Nothing. "I'm pleased to be here. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"My name is Jorge Gutierrez. I'm an Inner Member here at The Sharing." He smiled warmly. Seductively, maybe, to some women. A bit too friendly, to me.

I kept it all business. I'd dealt with creeps and with misguided, well-intentioned klutzes, and I couldn't tell which one he was, if any. "I see. And what exactly is The Sharing?"

"We're a community. A safe haven for anyone who's ever felt like they weren't realizing their potential. We bring people together."

I'd worked on enough campaigns to know a vacuous buzzword when I heard one. I raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "That doesn't tell me much, Mr. Gutierrez. Now, what I really want to know is what any of that has to do with non-violent offenders. Community's nice, but it doesn't quite require a pit stop on the way to jail, does it?"

"Oh, but you should see the work we're doing with non-violent offenders!" He said enthusiastically. "If you'd just come back here, we can show you why our program is so helpful in steering troubled people in the right direction."

He motioned to a door behind him. Instinctively I didn't want to go into a room alone with a strange man I'd barely met, but the secretary got up and stood next to him, as if she would also be with us. With a nod, I followed him.

I wasn't sure what to make of any of this yet. Counseling services, maybe? For as much as they tried to present a welcoming front, I still had no idea what they were doing in here, or if I could use it for our campaign. I pushed down my unease and tried to appear as unfazed as possible. Gutierrez kept speaking to me in vague colloquialisms, hinting that they were giving non-violent offenders a new purchase on life in exchange for good behavior.

"And," he said. "You'll note that the judges have been so pleased with our methods that our people receive reduced sentencing, and we have not had a single case of recidivism yet."

"Sounds a bit too good to be true. Why aren't you working with the violent offenders, then?" Gradually the posters lining the halls faded away, replaced by Dali prints and framed photographs from the Hubble telescope.

"We're a fledgling organization, Ms. Salazar. Surely, as a political player, you understand that we'd jeopardize our reputation by taking in violent offenders. And all of our people have to do something for us in return. That's a lot easier when someone gets a fine and community service than when someone goes to jail for a few years."

"Oh? What kind of favors do they have to do for you?"

Gutierrez stopped to unlock a door, using some sort of pass-card. "Recruitment, and the like. The Sharing isn't just for criminals. We mean to make it a community center for everyone, regardless of who they were."

I lingered over one of the Dali prints. A white-haired human head, hair shaped into the crevices of a brain, reflected a tree under a stormy green sky. It was an odd piece of art for counseling services, but then again, so was most Dali. "So you're a religious organization."

"No, not at all. We're far more secular. And our work is far more important than evangelisms."

They led me down two flights of rickety, but clean, stairs, into what appeared to be a basement. That there was a lower level to this place surprised me, but everything was brightly lit, which was somewhat comforting. More people were waiting in the downstairs, only they weren't laughing. They all looked as if they were playing Russian roulette.

I looked at one of the people in surprise. "Hedrick? I didn't think you were-"

And then I saw the shackles and the cages in the back.

I tried to bolt, but Gutierrez grabbed me by my arms and tried to force me down. Instinctively I slammed my foot down onto his, crushing his instep with my kitten heel. He screamed in pain. It was a good sound, the sound of potential escape. I slammed my elbows back and caught him under his ribs, spinning out of his grasp and running for the door.

I wasn't going to bring this up to the campaign, I thought. I was going to call door-to-door to every police officer in the phonebook about it.

I'd almost made it to the door when my feet were stolen out from under me. The secretary! She'd grabbed my ankle. I twisted in her grasp, kicked, grabbed her face in my hands in an attempt to gouge her eyes out. She recoiled and released me to bring her hands to her bleeding face, but by the time she did so, Gutierrez was on top of me, with handcuffs.

My face was in the carpet and the cuffs were on my wrists before I could react. An instant later I felt similar restraints around my ankles. Gutierrez pushed his foot into my back, hard enough to hurt.

"That's enough, Ilsen. We don't want to damage the body." Hedrick said, sounding more authoritative than he ever had as my child's principal.

"The body"? Were they going to rape me? Torture me? Kidnap me and kill me? Would Marco be waiting for me at four o'clock for a mother who was in a lifeless bundle at the bottom of the river? Would Peter come home to dead wife? My mind flashed through a hundred terrible scenarios, each worse than the one before it.

If only I'd known that their plans for me were inconceivably worse.