three deaths and a wedding.
self-paragraph by danji. tw: death, illness, guns, murder(?).
2009
He lost track of where they were about four hours ago, but, at least, he hasn’t lost sight of that pretty little blonde on his arm.
An inky blue-sky drapes over the New York City horizon. It’s as clear as he’s ever seen it, clearer than the haze of his post-grad years, bustling between internships, like the clouds have parted and the stars are twinkling because they know it’s his birthday.
He’s thirty. According to his watch, he turned thirty eight hours ago. They haven’t stopped celebrating.
“Zimmerman!” An old roommate slings an arm around his shoulder. He reeks of weed and cologne and the cud of spearmint gum being chewed between his teeth. “Remember your twenty-first? We were over there,” He points into the night, directionless, “Gramercy Park. You remember Rachel? God, I was gonna marry Rachel.”
Rachel had a penthouse. Beyond that, Wyatt can’t remember a thing about her. “Yeah, man. She was hot,” He slurs.
“Holy shit!” His roommate grabs his shoulders, shakes him, like he’s suddenly remembered–– “you’re thirty!”
He’s the first one of his friends to turn thirty. (First to have a job, only one not to leech off his father, or, God forbid, join a multi-level marketing business. But that’s just the perks of having Ivy League friends.) They haven’t stopped poking fun at him since they remembered his birthday was around the corner about a month ago. And now it’s here.
Well, it was about to be over.
Was it wrong to feel a little down? Feel inflated, all that pent up energy escaping into nothingness? It reminded him that he hated birthdays.
Something buzzes in his pants. He digs out his Nokia, brows pinching together. “It’s my dad.”
“You’re not gonna answer, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
A voice inside his head tells him to answer. “One sec.”
He holds his phone to one ear and cuffs the other with his opposite hand, moving to the outer-skirts of the rooftop bar, still feeling the music pumping through his veins. He’s tall enough that he could easily slide one leg over the top of the railing, hoist himself over the ledge, and free-fall into nothingness.
Warm alcohol sloshes in his stomach at the thought. He groans.
“Dad?”
“Son.”
“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Is mom okay? Is Mila––.”
“Your sister died tonight. Few hours ago, actually,” He says, gruff as ever, “we’re going over to the hospital to get her stuff. You should come down. Your mother would like that. Yeah, she’d like that.”
“You weren’t with her?” He pushes the heel of his palm into his eye sockets, seeing stars.
“No.”
“I’ll… I’ll drive up tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Was she––?”
“Oh,” There’s a pause, “that’s the hospital calling. I’ve gotta run. Happy birthday, son.”
-
He has no reason to suspect that today is going to be any different than any other. There’s campaign nonsense that crops up every now and again; finances, pushback, shitty scheduling. But, at the very least, Amanda usually has that covered.
It’s Sunday. He thinks, maybe, he should go to church. But, the second the thought crosses his mind, he finds himself deriding it–– who do you think you are?
Coffee is brewing. CNN is playing. Plaid sweatpants hang from his hips and the New York Times is flayed on the kitchen island, waiting to be read, as it flattens over the marble countertop. Timer beeps. He splashes half-and-half into his cup. Perches the reading glasses he swore he’d never use on his nose.
Huffs–– in that way his father used to huff, “just because he’s old”– and sinks into his first sip of caffeine for the morning.
Fuck, that’s good.
“Sorry, Bill. There’s a–– there’s a breaking story from Manhattan.” He lifts his gaze, briefly, to the news reporter tapping her earpiece. “The story is still breaking, but Fox is reporting that Jim Wittman is critically injured, yes critically injured, after a car crash in New York city. Mr. Wittman, who is a candidate for Speaker of the House is– is alive. We’ll let you know when we know more.”
He glances down at his phone. He makes a habit of keeping it turned off before eleven in the morning on weekends (for his own sanity). Maybe he lied before; today is a little different. Today he keeps it by his side.
A text message from his campaign manager lights up his screen.
Frank: Jim’s dead. Congratulations Mr. Speaker.
–
He’s been Speaker of the House for less than six months when Theresa Wright, President of the United States, is shot dead.
Zimmerman makes a speech at her funeral, shakes her family’s hands and addresses the sea of mourners who turn out at the White House, transforming the residency into a fucking garden–– with flowers and wreaths of mourning laid out on the law as far as the eye can see.
There are posters, too, demonstrating a renewed vigor in gun legislation. She’s in cohorts with Lincoln and Kennedy now. She’s a martyr.
“Of all the ironies about Theresa, a woman I called colleague and friend, perhaps the greatest was this––.” Another camera flashes, another microphone butts against the head of a journalist inches from collapsing from the unusual heat.
“A woman given the name of Saint Teresa was, in the end, the most selfless, compassionate, and honorable person I’ve ever met in Washington.”
They don’t expect him to dab his eye, do they?
No, he leaves that to the sniveling congresswoman standing behind him.
“This is not coincidence; this was, and is, a shining example of Wright’s indefatigable conviction.”
He clears his throat; it feels hoarse.
“And I wish she were still here today.” Maybe if she had quicker reflexes.
He hangs his head low, and there’s a pregnant pause before he raises his chin, focuses on the crowds, watching them blend together. They were all wearing black; like a massive ink splot that just kept expanding.
Thank God he wasn’t wearing his contacts.
“From my family, to yours–.”
He sees her father– a team of security insulating him – in the crowd. “We will get through this.”
He meets with Berkeley a few days after he’s inaugurated. After the funeral. After the briefing, and the statement from the House in support of Berkeley’s Presidency.
They toast to Wright. Ice cubes clinking together as they melt into whiskey.
“To you, Mr. President. To your family. And to our dear, departed Theresa who has… paved the way to this very moment, unwittingly.”
There isn’t the slightest trace of melancholy in his voice.
–
“Here’s a man whose luck doesn’t stop.”
They all raise their glasses to him, and to the bride by his side.
“It really doesn’t. I mean, who gets elected as Speaker of the House at forty? Who’s smack dab in the middle of the greatest political crisis since– I dunno, Chappaquiddick?”
Everyone laughs, including Donna. Wyatt’s lips crack into a grin.
“No, no. That’s always been the way Wyatt has rolled. Nothing ever got him down. Nothing’s out there to get him. And now, I mean, not that I noticed, but you’ve got a pretty hot wife, too.”
Wyatt’s father waves his hand, laughing as he does so, signaling that’s enough now as his wife curls into his side, a little teary-eyed, a lot tipsy.
“Here’s to Wyatt.” His eyes lower into the bubbles popping in his champagne flute. “May your luck never run out.”
“To Wyatt.”
“And may there always be more people who love you than hate you.”
