Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [4]
He checked his watch—past 1 p.m. already—and ducked into his office, shuffling through his sheaf of notes and reports. Irritated, he thought, We could meet a thousand times and still not fess up to the truth: America is addicted to oil, and the cost of the addiction is tearing the nation apart. The massive cost of that addiction—and the accompanying transfer of wealth to often-hostile oil-producing countries—had a destabilizing effect on national security and the economy. The addiction also aggravated the ravages of climate-change. The dual disorders were overwhelming the system, but nobody seemed to hear the alarm bells. He glanced over at the picture of his wife, Maggie, and their two young daughters, Melissa and Amy, taken aboard Air Force One. He reflected, sadly, My generation is mortgaging their future and sticking them with the payments so that we can live the good life today.
His family was in Palo Alto this week, visiting Maggie’s mother as she recovered from gall-bladder surgery, and he missed them dearly. On impulse, he decided to give Maggie a call. She picked up her cell phone on the second ring.
“Hi, Mags, how’re you doing?”
“Clayton! What a nice surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure? You haven’t been laid off or anything like that, have you?”
He laughed, glad to hear her voice. “Everything’s fine. I just miss you and the kids and wanted to check in. Is everything okay with everyone? How’s your mom?”
For the next five minutes they talked about everything and nothing. Maggie and the girls were flying back on Saturday night, and she suggested a Sunday dinner with his brother, Jack. Clayton loved family dinners, and Maggie knew her man.
“That sounds good to me. I’m scheduled to appear on Nelson Fitzwater’s Financial Issues and Answers show at ten on Sunday, but I’m free as a bird after that.”
He heard Maggie’s groan as he said his good-bye. She absolutely despised Fitzwater and his style of browbeating his guests into submission.
Just then, his secretary advised him that Jack was waiting for him. This brought a smile to his face. He relished the hard-fought handball battles he had with Jack in the new White House gym. The vigorous workouts improved his frame of mind and helped him maintain a weight of about 190 pounds on his six-foot-two frame. At age forty-nine, he was secretly proud of his physical fitness.
“C’mon in, Jackson! Are you prepared to get your butt kicked today?”
“I’m always prepared, big shot, but I sure don’t see anyone around here that packs the gear to do it.”
“Before I forget, Maggie was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with us Sunday night when she gets back from her visit out west.”
“That depends. This isn’t going to be one of those ‘let’s fix Jack up with a nice lady’ nights, is it?”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that we haven’t seen you around much lately, and my daughters keep saying they want to see their Uncle Jack—though I can’t for the life of me understand why,” he said with a smile. Clayton ignored the blinking call line as they left for their battle in the White House gym.
Mankato, Minnesota
13 September 2017
Pastor Veronica Larson turned the page of the Mankato Free Press and sighed. On top of another stiff hike in gas prices, another local plant was closing and layoffs continued to mount. Mankato, a Minnesota town of over 33,000 people, was her home, and she loved the small-town feeling and work ethic of its people. It was painful to watch the rippling effect of rising fuel costs on agricultural production and the toll it was taking on the local economy. Boarded-up buildings and rising unemployment levels were two visible manifestations of the blight that troubled her greatly.
In response to this bleak situation, Veronica had created a formal ministry in Mankato called “Life Challenges.” It was a support group focused on the socioeconomic and personal problems of her congregation and others