Anthony
Anthony was quite pleased with the September debate, the voters responding favorably to his story about Jack and decidedly unfavorably to Johnson’s admission.
He grinned, staring at a copy of the day’s top headline: “Johnson Slumps after Short String Reveal.”
“Obviously I feel badly for Senator Johnson,” an anonymous voter was quoted, “but I don’t feel comfortable electing someone who can’t commit to a full term.”
“I really admire Johnson’s talents,” said another, “but I worry that having a short-stringer lead our country might make us look weak in front of other nations. Especially one who won’t even say the exact time he has left.”
A third phrased it most bluntly: “Sympathy doesn’t get you votes. Strength does. And we’ve seen that in Congressman Rollins.”
Even now, the shooting at the August rally remained a boon for Anthony’s campaign, his image a paragon of fortitude. After the incident, a brief flurry of rumors had attempted to offer a motive for the attack, short-stringers and their advocates desperately searching for something to explain the woman’s rage that wasn’t the string in her box. But most theories quickly evaporated, met with silence from the subject herself.
Which was why Anthony never expected the emergency meeting called by his campaign manager and head of oppo research.
“We found something,” they said. “About the shooter.”
One of the men slid a folder of papers in front of Anthony: two birth certificates, one death certificate, and a copy of a scanned article from Anthony’s college newspaper about the night that a boy died at a frat.
“But they have different last names,” Anthony said. “You’re telling me the shooter and this boy were related?”
“Her half brother, apparently.”
Fuck.
Anthony thought that night was behind him. It was three decades ago, after all.
“Give me a minute,” Anthony said, holding the scanned article closely.
Of course Anthony remembered the boy. He was one of a handful recruited by Anthony’s fraternity simply for the fun of it, dragged along in the pledging process with no real prospect of becoming a brother. And yet, the pledges always believed it was genuine, Anthony recalled. That was what made it funny.
Anthony was president of the frat at the time, but he hadn’t picked the boys. That was the pledge master’s forte. Anthony couldn’t remember exactly why that year’s crop had been chosen, though they were usually plucked from the poor kids on Pell grants or other government aid, boys who could never afford the dues, who couldn’t dream of fitting in with the sons of the captains of industry.
Anthony’s recollections of that particular night were sparse and disjointed and jagged, pieces of shattered glass: He remembered that someone kicked the boy’s dirty sneakers, trying to rouse him. He remembered that someone else vomited on his own brand-new loafers, after realizing what had happened. He remembered the back of the boy’s head, a mop of thick, dark hair, thankfully turned away from Anthony as the boy lay on the floor, inert. He remembered the sharp, stabbing panic, leaving him dizzy and breathless.
But Anthony didn’t remember much of what came after, when a group of the boys’ fathers—Anthony’s included—rushed out to campus in the middle of the night and huddled in the office of the college president for nearly two hours before phoning the local police.
The boy had simply been a party guest, it was decided. The boy drank too much, of his own accord. The cause of death was alcohol poisoning, and the death was ruled an accident.
As fraternity president, Anthony was called upon to provide a public statement, with the help of his family lawyer, mourning the tragic loss of life and offering up his thoughts and prayers. He looked like a true leader, everyone said, someone who would do great things.
And Anthony’s life marched forward.
The shooter’s, apparently, had not.
“But she hasn’t said anything? About her . . . brother?” Anthony asked.
“She’s been totally mute since the arrest. They think she might have some sort of PTSD from killing that doctor.”
“Then let’s keep it that way,” said Anthony. “This story was buried once before.”
After his colleagues left, Anthony downed two glasses of scotch, trying to numb his nerves. He decided not to tell Katherine. She would surely overreact.
The boy could have left at any time, Anthony reminded himself. That’s what the brothers had said back then. They may have told the boy to drink, yelled at him even, and maybe, yes, a few of the more aggressive brothers had poured liquor into the open mouths of the pledges, and perhaps some dull objects （footballs or basketballs, most likely） had been thrown at them, too. But, technically, the door was never locked. The exit always an option.