Read The Newman Resident Online
Authors: Charles Swift
The Newman Resident
THE NEWMAN
RESIDENT
Charles Swift
Fifth East Publishing
2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual incidents or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Fifth East Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2014 by Charles Swift
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0989979407
ISBN-13: 9780989979405
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014930059
Charles Swift, Provo, UT
To Denise,
for always believing
CHAPTER ONE
R
ichard walked down the steps from the school, careful to look benign for the hidden cameras. The Newman Home convinced parents it focused on teaching and nurturing and caring, but it also touted its security. No one in, no one out—not without permission from three bureaucratic levels. Drop your baby off, come back in 18 years, and he’ll still be there, safe and secure and too smart for the rest of his life.
He walked toward the subway station, but when he got to the corner, he turned right instead of going straight. A bit risky, no question. When he made it around the corner he stopped, surveying the intersection and checking behind just to make sure he was alone. Hundreds of people filled the streets, honking in traffic or dodging one another on the sidewalks, so he couldn’t be sure nobody was following him. Newman’s Level Two Security blended in with the scenery, but he hoped he’d been around the guards long enough to sense if they were close.
Graffiti covered the seven-foot concrete wall surrounding the playground, an image of a school with dollar signs in the windows and the caption “Bring the children home.” He dragged his fingers along the wall as he walked, as if to make sure the school didn’t disappear before he could get to his spot. When he got to the
hedges, he reached behind a bush and pulled out the old wooden crate, the word “whiskey” barely legible on the side.
Richard stepped up on the box and peered over the wall at about forty children in safari uniforms. Climbing ropes looked like jungle vines, a lion and giraffe watched over the slides and swings, little huts and bridges stood only a few feet off the ground but probably felt like tree houses and bridges high in the rainforest to the children. The kids he saw looked older than his son. He spotted a class, maybe around Christopher’s age, on the lawn, under some young shade trees. Most of the children sat on the grass, listening to one of the Newman teachers. A couple of others were on a nearby bench, reading. Off in the far corner, a child was sitting alone, drawing or writing on a pad of paper, but Richard couldn’t get a good look at his face.
Richard concentrated but just couldn’t be sure the boy was his son.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
Richard jerked around and saw a neighborhood security guard, his hand on his club.
“Got your fill of looking at little kids, buddy?”
“It’s not what you think,” Richard said, getting down and shoving the crate behind a bush with his foot. He backed away, keeping eye contact with the guard.
“Never is,” the guard said, pulling out his club, “and I never care.”
“I’m an attorney. City Ordinance 1465 says I have the right to be retained without the use of force until a police officer arrives.”
“The use of deadly force,” the guard said.
“Well, I can assure you—”
“Takes a long time to find a cop in this town now days, what with all the budget cuts and everything.” The guard pulled out his club. “Anything can happen.”
CHAPTER TWO
O
pening title: RESIDENT CHRISTOPHER CARSON. FIRST STEPS. Richard paused the video on the title, wondering, once again, what kind of father would miss his son’s first steps. He had turned off the Monet and the Picasso and devoted the living room screening wall to Christopher’s video—a video almost six years old now. The Newman Home had sent more recent clips, but this was the moment he kept coming back to, time and again.
He sat on the floor, back against the white leather couch, pressing the ice compress against the back of his head. He made sure the sound was off, glanced one last time at the closed bedroom door, and whispered, “Play video.”
Christopher was wearing the Newman summer uniform: khaki shorts and a shirt covered in little pockets. He looked like a happy explorer stumbling his way through a toddler safari. Such a little boy. How old was he when this video was made? Nine months? Ten? How could it be possible to walk that early? Seems like bone development or inner ear balance or something ought to be warning it was too early to walk. But here he was, taking his first steps.
Richard heard Carol start the shower.
“Slightly increase volume,” he said.
Christopher leaned against the sofa, trying to decide if he should step forward or not. He stroked the soft fabric of the cushion, some sort of plush, almost furry, cloth, with a print of bright green leaves. Animals stuck their heads through the foliage, their friendly expressions both cartoonish and authentic. Nothing was repeated on the cloth: each leaf was unique, and there was only one of each animal. Seven in all: giraffe, elephant, gazelle, zebra, gorilla, leopard, and lion. Richard had memorized their faces and checked them each time he watched the video, half-expecting some change in an expression or an animal missing. A wallpaper print of tall grass covered the walls, almost making Christopher look like an ant on the jungle floor. The light in the room was gentle, easing its way in from a large window off to his son’s left.
Christopher inched along, keeping his hand in constant contact with the cushions, until he got to the end of the sofa. He looked behind, like he was making sure he wasn’t being followed, then back ahead. He moved his foot out, then slowly took his hand away from the couch. His face was tight with seriousness, concentration. Next, his other foot came forward. The sofa seemed far behind him now; he was on his own and knew it. His arms moved to keep his balance, and he stepped again.
Then he fell. He didn’t just plop down on his padded rear, but toppled on his side. Hard.
Every time Christopher hit the floor, Richard’s body jerked. He wanted to jump up and run through the screen to pick up his little boy. But, every time, he was beaten to it by a young woman who had been standing behind the video camera. She knelt down beside Christopher.
“Come on, Christopher,” she said, “you can do it. Get up.” She wore the faculty summer uniform that matched the kids’ khaki uniform with pockets.
His bottom lip curled out, a sure sign that tears would follow. Richard had learned that face before they’d enrolled Christopher.
“No need to cry, honey.”
It pleased Richard that she knew the sign. But it bothered him, too.
“Let’s get up and have some more fun,” she said.
Slowly, without any contact from the woman, Christopher sat back up. He crawled to the comfort of the sofa, then pulled himself up again.
The woman on the video, still kneeling, urged Christopher to walk toward her. Holding onto the couch, he glanced at the thick carpeting on the floor, then back at the woman. Richard braced himself for what was about to happen. Christopher looked directly at the camera, right into the lens. He didn’t smile, he didn’t cry, he didn’t change his expression at all. But, just for that second or two, he looked directly into the eyes of his father, as if asking for encouragement or love or empathy, and getting nothing.
Richard had never said a word to Carol about the feeling of powerlessness that overcame him every time he experienced that moment in the video.
The woman picked up a small, furry lion from off-camera and held it out to Christopher, calling his name. It wasn’t the Winnie the Pooh bear Richard had left with him when they’d enrolled him, but it was a beautiful, almost realistic-looking lion that matched everything else in the room. The little boy watched the lion as the woman moved it in tiny circles, then he let go of the sofa and took a step...then another...then finally took two more quick steps, almost tripping into the lion. The woman, smiling broadly and looking up at the camera, hugged Christopher and handed him the lion.
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “You’re my little lion cub!”
She looked to someone off-camera, her smile gone. “Mark down four steps. Awareness level three.”
“Richard.”
“Switch video,” Richard said, a little louder than he’d wanted. Now the wall was covered with the latest news on CNN. The President was signing something at a table, flanked by Senators from each of the four corporate political parties. Directly behind the President stood the Big Four—the CEOs of the four ruling corporations in the United States. All those political leaders spread across the screening wall like mildew.
“I thought you were going to bed,” Carol said.
“I was,” he said, “but I got caught up in the news.”
Carol stood in the doorway, arms folded.
“So, what’s going on in the world?”
“The President just signed an executive order,” he said.
“For what?”
“She’s extending the stay of the troops.”
“That’s odd,” Carol said. “She looks awfully happy for a President who’s making our troops stay longer. The Senators look pretty happy about it, too.”
“Well, you know, ‘Keep the Homeland Safe’ and everything. If we fight them there, we won’t have to fight them here. It’s just—”
“Richard, that’s enough,” Carol said, coming into the room and standing directly in front of him, her back to the screening wall. “I saw this same clip earlier today. She’s signing an addition to the Education Rights Bill, Richard, closing the last of the public schools.”
“There were still public schools left?”
“That’s not what we’re talking about.”
“Sure it is. Raise the bar on public schools, threaten to have private schools take over if the public schools fail, then
don’t give the public schools the funding they need to succeed. Result? The privatization of public schools. Corporations own our country.”
“We’re not talking about education policy—we’re talking about how you’re lying to me.”
“I’d rather talk about something else.”
“Pause video,” she said in a commanding voice. “They called, Richard. You didn’t bump your head on the subway, you fell on the sidewalk when the guard hit you.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You didn’t want to let me know you were at Newman again.”
“What right do they have to stop a father from seeing his son?” he asked.
“The right you gave them.”
“If I’d known—”
“Switch to previous video,” she said. Behind her, the paused image of the woman hugging their son covered the wall, filling the room with stark light.