Coming of Age: Volume 1: Eternal Life Read online

  “You didn’t file an agreement.”

  “No, it was all fairly … casual.”

  “Then you’d better straighten it out before we take this case against them. I don’t care which side we represent, and at this point I wouldn’t mind taking their retainer fee as well as racking up some court time. You’d better go over there and get a signed agreement.”

  “Yes, sir. Right on it.”

  * * *

  Every morning John Praxis read the Wall Street Journal, which he paid extra to have delivered in paper form rather than reading it online. He trusted the order and emphasis given to the stories and summaries when the editors laid them out in page format. He had trouble focusing when all the stories blinked and rotated in the same screen space and all seemed equally important. He felt he might miss something more demanding of attention than all the rest. But not this morning. This morning the news and its import were inescapable.

  A week ago the United States had applied to the International Monetary Fund for debt support. All of the economic pundits noted the irony in this, as the nation was the fund’s single largest contributor, with nearly 18 percent of its “special drawing rights”—which was a euphemism for a potential claim on the country’s non-gold foreign exchange reserves. But nearly all of the pundits also noted that the U.S. had gone broke partly through its foreign aid and international police activities “in service to humankind.” And others had sermonized about turnabout being fair play.

  This morning the International Monetary Fund had responded with a preliminary agreement, but one based on the U.S. accepting certain underlying principles of the United Nations program for sustainable development. The media quickly dubbed these the “Twenty-Nine Points.” They included, as a series of bullet points, raising fuel taxes to curtail energy use and cancelling extraction leases on public lands; imposing new air and water controls and “improving” land-use permitting to limit growth and development; establishing new land-use policies designed to “bank” large areas of the countryside as wilderness or “future wilderness” areas; creating agriculture and food distribution policies designed to curtail meat production, limit dietary intake, and provide food stores for famine areas; setting educational and cultural standards designed to encourage “appropriate” understanding of the world situation and compliant behavior; setting media standards to ensure “correct” reporting of news; imposing weapons controls on all citizens; establishing defense guidelines, including de-emphasis on military and nuclear technology; setting transportation and housing standards to de-emphasize private travel and “isolationist” living conditions; and controlling medical spending to avoid “unnecessary procedures”—“Like my new heart,” Praxis guessed—with immediate means testing for Social Security, Medicare, and health insurance benefits provided through the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act.

  The stated goal—stated plainly, in the preamble, for everyone to see—was to control the size and activity of the U.S. population through energy use, environmental, and economic controls and to bring U.S. lifestyles into line with the rest of the world population. Compared to the Twenty-Nine Points, the earlier requirements of the European Central Bank for bailing out the overspent countries of the southern euro zone were the equivalent of a harsh lecture and being sent to bed without supper.

  It’ll never happen, Praxis thought to himself. The government will never accept these terms. … Well, maybe not the U.S. government in abstract, as representative of the American people in all their wealth and power. But how about this government, the current White House and the ideologues staffing it? Would they be willing to fall into line?

  Suddenly, anything was possible.

  Praxis called his assistant, Ivy, and told her to dig Leonard and Richard out of whatever meetings they were in and send them to his office.

  Half an hour later his sons were sitting in the guest chairs on the other side of his desk. He had found the article in the Journal’s online version and put it up on the screen. “Read that,” he told them. “Starting with the bullet points.”

  “I saw it already,” Richard said.

  “Then let Leonard read it,” Praxis said.

  After two minutes, Leonard lifted his head. “So?”

  “It’s not going to happen,” Richard said, echoing Praxis’s first thought.

  “Yes, true, that’s probably the way to bet,” Praxis said. “But with this administration? Which is halfway there already on sustainable energy, environmental, and defense issues, and just bursting to pile on more regulations?”

  “Even if they accept the terms,” Leonard said. “What’s that to us?”

  “Oh, come on! Think strategically!” Praxis said, nearly shouting. “Look at our current backlog. Automobile use goes down—but then we hardly support it anyway, except for highway and bridge construction. Mass transit is even more favored, and that’s a plus for us. Water projects go away—but we might see an upswing in dam removals and environmental amelioration. Nuclear power stays dead—but then the government puts even more into solar and wind farms. Maybe we need to team up with or buy into a company making solar panels and wind turbines. Meat processing drops—but we see a rise in high-energy foods. So that’s more factories, with more processing lines. These Twenty-Nine Points are a roadmap to the new winners and losers in our business. We have to take them seriously.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Richard asked.

  “Study the backlog of projects, to see where we’re vulnerable. Study our current capabilities and marketing goals, to see where we can shift into the new paradigm.”

  “This is all premature,” Leonard said. “We don’t even know if any of these programs will pass. Legislation could be years away.”

  “You don’t get on top of a market swing by waiting ’til it’s already under way,” Praxis said. “When any fool can see what’s going on, it’s too late to start moving your feet.”

  “Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt to take a look,” Richard said.

  “But—” Leonard began, and his brother elbowed him.

  “Thanks for the, um, heads up, Dad,” Richard said.

  * * *

  Outside, in the broad hallway of the thirty-eighth floor, safely beyond the closed doors to the chairman’s office, Leonard turned on his younger brother in anger. “What was that all about?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Richard said. “He’s clutching at straws.”

  “Getting senile, if you ask me. Making us sit down to read the newspapers, like we were kids back at the breakfast table.”

  “He doesn’t have a plan. He’s gone totally reactive. He thinks the government can bail us out with a slew of new programs, when it was government spending—on the infrastructure programs that are now drying up for lack of funding—that got us into this jam in the first place.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Oh, I’ll look at the projects in hand, make a few calculations, write a report. By the time it lands on his desk, Dad will have forgotten all about this.”

  “Until he gets some new bee in his bonnet.”

  “Then we’ll write a report on that one, too.”

  * * *

  Antigone Wells was certain, intellectually, that she had once before visited the thirty-eighth floor of the building on Steuart Street. She must have come here during the St. Brigid’s pre-trial negotiations, when they were seeking a settlement with Praxis Engineering & Construction. But she could call up no actual memories of the place. The walnut-veneer paneling with their framed views of famous bridges and dams, the beige-colored carpeting—so hard to keep clean—and the glimpse of sunshine on San Francisco Bay and Treasure Island beyond the broad window at the end of the hallway, these should have been memorable. But the memories must have died when her brain exploded and was overwritten by new cells ready to make fresh memories.

  The rather severe young woman from the reception desk—all angular shoulders and legs and rhythmically swinging butt
—led Wells down the hall to the last secretarial station, which was situated in front of wide double doors. The elderly woman sitting there looked up with a smile. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Wells.”

  “Ah, yes, um—” Wells couldn’t hide her confusion.

  “I’m Ivy Blake, Mr. Praxis’s personal assistant.”

  “Of course you are, Miss Blake.”

  “He’ll see you now.”

  The woman took her into the chairman’s office. The first thing Wells saw was the paired portraits of two young women, both with ruddy features, skeptical eyes, and notably unsmiling mouths. Both existed against quickly brush-stroked backgrounds. Seeing them, she felt time slow, and she was more certain of her questions than her answers. Then something undefined in her brain whispered, Modigliani, and the world started moving again. Did she know that from before? Or was she guessing?

  She focused on the man behind the desk. She recognized John Praxis immediately this time, from their encounters on the rooftop. He seemed younger somehow, more alive, more alert. She guessed this was because he was also thinner than before, taking better care of himself now. She also guessed that he was farther from death’s door than before. They both were.

  “I’m glad you could take time to see me, Mr. Praxis,” she said.

  By now he was standing, coming around the desk, taking her hand. “We used to call each other by our first names—Antigone.”

  “Yes, we did. But that was friendship, and this is business.”

  “Uh-oh! Are we in trouble again? Do we face each other at sword’s point?” He offered her a guest chair and resumed his seat.

  “Well, you’ll have to tell me,” she said. “One of your subcontractors—Subatai Electric—wants to bring suit against you for nonpayment of their bills. They approached us to take the case, but I believe we have a conflict of interest here.”

  “I’m not familiar with them,” he said mildly. “Accounting practices happen in the bowels of administration. Should I call our chief financial officer? He would be the one—”

  “The conflict isn’t between you and Subatai,” she said quickly. “Rather, with our firm. I believe you once intended to put Bryant Bridger & Wells on retainer. You spoke of it the last time we met. That would create a conflict.”

  “Oh, yes. I did intend. I mean, I still do. You’re a good attorney, Antigone. With the mayhem that’s coming, we’re going to need all the talent we can afford.” He paused. “Oh, not against this Subatai thing. I’m sure our Legal Department can settle their hash with one hand tied. But with the federal government in default, rough times are ahead.”

  “Do you foresee a lot of lawsuits?” she asked.

  “I foresee a lot of new law being made. And then challenges and suits coming out of that. Our corporate staff know how to navigate in calm waters—routine, rule-based stuff like contract and tax work. But this is a new situation, and we’re all in a barrel going over the falls.”

  “I hear you,” she said quietly. “Although … I don’t know whether to be excited or afraid.”

  “Fear is a good choice. But I find excitement the more attractive response. Since I’ve already been dead, more or less, it’s hard to work up a feeling of decent terror over a little thing like a national bankruptcy.”

  Wells smiled at that. “Death does give one perspective.”

  “Shall we start at a hundred thousand a month? Subject to the usual constant-dollar multiplier? It’s been a while since I’ve retained a personal attorney, but I think that covers the math—if inflation still applies when the money’s all gone south.”

  “Is this a personal arrangement?” she asked. “I thought you meant corporate.”

  “I can’t guarantee this firm will exist beyond the next couple of months, Antigone. But I know I’ll be here. Either way, I’ll need access to a good legal mind.”

  “All right, done. We’ll tell Subatai to take a walk.”

  “And get ready for the high jump ourselves.”

  * * *

  When John Praxis went home that evening, he found the house dark and empty. From the garage he entered by the back door, through the laundry room, and into the kitchen. For all its being in shadow, the interior’s hard surfaces, the counters, cabinets, and appliances, were immaculate and gleamed with moonlight reflected from outside. This was not Adele’s doing, except in a loose, supervisory capacity. Their cook, Miranda, took pride in leaving the kitchen—and as much of the rest of the house as she considered her province—spotless.

  He went from room to room, lighting lamps and calling Adele’s name. It was just conceivable she had gone out—but where? Her Jaguar was still parked in the garage. He didn’t expect her to leave him a note. That kind of thoughtfulness was no longer Adele’s style.

  Praxis found her in the upstairs bathroom, across from her own bedroom and down the hall from the master suite. She was lying facedown on the marble floor, one arm angled up and the other down, like a broken semaphore. Her hips were cocked and legs spread out, with her toes pointing in. She was dressed, as he had often seen her in the morning, in a blue chambray blouse, khaki slacks, and red-velvet bedroom slippers. Her face was turned toward—or rather pulled away from, leaving a filmy smear—a puddle of clear bile edged with greenish froth. It smelled sourly of stomach acid and Jim Beam. She most have gone into the bathroom for something, stumbled or simply passed out, fallen, and then vomited.

  “Adele!” he called, suddenly afraid of her terrible inertness.

  “Adele!” He knelt beside her, wedging between the tub and toilet bowl.

  “Adele!” He touched her shoulder, shook it, and her upper body rolled loosely.

  If she had breathed in any of that vomit, she might have drowned. He shook her again and lifted her face away from the puddle. That action stirred something, because Adele coughed once, back in her throat, and started snoring.

  “Come on, dear,” he said softly. “You can’t lie here.”

  Praxis managed to stand over his wife, work his hands in under her armpits, and lift with his thumbs pressing at the soft flesh over her shoulderblades. He walked backward, pulling her up from the floor, onto her knees, and then upright and sagging against him. He half-walked, half-carried Adele into her bedroom, sat her down on the bed, and laid her across the quilted coverlet. He got dampened towels from the bathroom and wiped her mouth and face. He removed her slippers and clothing, then rolled her to one side, pulled at the bedclothes, and rolled her back, until she was lying under the sheets.

  He went to the medicine cabinet and got her bottles of aspirin and vitamin C and a big glass of cold water. He removed the child-guard caps, which Adele always found so difficult, and set everything up on her night table. He went back into the bathroom and used more towels to clean up the puddle. Then he sat down on the chair at her dressing table to watch and make sure she was breathing easily and not going to vomit again.

  It had been two or three months since he had last found her like this. Usually, she was asleep in her chair in front of the television, or on the couch with a magazine in her lap, and would rouse easily enough with a bit of coaxing. Most nights she was already in bed and snoring.

  He couldn’t help comparing Adele, who was willfully extinguishing her mind with alcohol, to Antigone Wells, who had suffered a massive vascular accident that took away her mind and then had fought bravely to regain her memory, her skills, and her mental acuity. The two women were enough alike in age—allowing Adele a few extra years—but they seemed a generation apart. Antigone’s face was clear and her eyes bright, her manner alive, her movements quick, and her outlook positive. Adele’s face was puffy and her eyes clouded, her manner dead, her movements slowed, and her outlook negative.

  Praxis knew he was being disloyal, but there it was. His wife was killing herself slowly. His new attorney—his former nemesis and then his friend from the hospital rooftop—had dragged herself back from extinction.

  He looked at Adele’s sagging face, tipped back and
snoring, and wondered what it would feel like to see Antigone sitting there in bed. She would be smiling, sharp witted, erect, ready for anything. …

  It didn’t pay to have such thoughts. He was too old to learn how to betray his wife, take on a mistress, and keep half of his life hidden in secrets.

  And Antigone Wells, he suspected, was not the sort of woman to accept a life in obscurity living with just half a man.

  * * *

  “Quick, turn on CNN!” Antigone Wells heard Ted Bridger say as he charged into her office.

  “What’s up?” she asked, fumbling for the online feed.

  “Just look!” he pointed to the crawler.

  “… Federal government to adopt U.N. criteria in exchange for monetary support … OPEC votes to discontinue pricing oil in dollars, all transactions in euros … Dollar loses status as reserve currency amid flight to euros and yuan …”

  “Interesting times, indeed,” she observed.

  “You know, this could be a bonanza for us,” he said.

  “It would—if any of our clients had money. But give me your thinking.”

  “If those ‘Twenty-Nine Points’ get adopted as law, and land-use policies are officially redirected toward wilderness and sustainability, that will all but shut down commercial and agricultural development. We’ll see a lot more work under the takings clause of the Fifth Amendment. Then those new media and ‘cultural’ standards—whatever that’s supposed to mean—will bring us more First Amendment challenges.”

  “Unless they just do away with the Constitution and Bill of Rights altogether.”

  “The government can’t do that without, first, a supermajority of two-thirds in both houses of Congress, then ratification by three-quarters of the states.”

  “Unless they just do away with Congress and the states.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He grinned. “No one would do that!”

  “Ted, I don’t know what anyone would do anymore.”

  “Well, you may be right. But if this goes through, people won’t like it.”

  “Yes, but will their indignation rise to the level of a lawsuit?”