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Authors: Ferrett Steinmetz
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from home schooling, sending Aliyah to endless battalions of psychiatrists and pediatric trauma experts despite Aliyah’s shrieking protests, interrogating teachers to get their recommendations.
And the federal troops were the only experts. By law.
He tried to push the image away, but it kept recurring: Imani, picking up the phone to call 1-800-SMASHEM. Aliyah, tear-gassed and hooded. Aliyah, out in the Arizona desert, tortured until her spunky rebellion leaked away.
Paul mouthed the words, figuring out how to tell Imani what was really happening. And as always, he imagined a doctor holding up a hypodermic needle that contained an experimental cure:
We think this treatment has a ninety percent chance of curing Aliyah’s psychological problems , the imaginary doctor told him gravely. But if we’re wrong, this shot will destroy your daughter’s brain beyond repair.
Are you ready to risk that?
His phone alarm buzzed. It wouldn’t do to be late to the mayor’s office when he was being called on the carpet.
“I have to go,” Paul said. “I promise I will call you later.”
“All right.” She breathed in through her nose, regaining composure. “Thank you, Paul. It’s not fair to dump this on you, I know. And… you’re a good man. I just wish we could have…”
Paul hung up before she could finish that sentence. He stormed off to the mayor’s office, swallowing back frustration. Paul hated lying. He hated liars . Yet Imani had divorced him because he’d had to lie about his love of ’mancy to her.
And now, to save his daughter, he had to layer falsehoods on top of falsehoods….
Paul’s tension rose as the mayor’s office came into view. All the paperwork flowed through City Hall, New York’s beating heart, where things got catalogued and approved.
Politicians, Paul thought, were fatty clumps sticking to the walls of an aorta – clogging the flow from time to time. But the strength of bureaucracy and good records kept New York City functioning. Paul had read histories of the time before building codes, when cheap landlords built wooden fireplaces and uninspected meat markets had sold horrific surprises…
Bureaucracy was the best tool humanity had to fight dishonest men.
But aren’t you dishonest, Paul? a voice at the back of his head whispered. They’d lock you away if they knew what you really were. You don’t try to fight City Hall, you slither in and subvert it…
He’d do anything to protect Aliyah.
A secretary escorted Paul to a small meeting room. No one was there, but he’d expected that; Paul had learned that in City Hall, some people waited for you to arrive, and others you waited for.
The meeting room was furnished in a way Paul could only describe as “stately”: leather upholstery on polished wood chairs, gilded frames with oil paintings of New York’s turn-of-the-century skyscrapers, a cut-glass pitcher of ice water waiting for him. A cozy place, designed to impress.
Paul closed his eyes, summoning up the strength to face down the mayor himself.
The door opened.
“…David?” Paul spluttered as his ex-wife’s new husband, David Giabatta, entered the room.
“I am a senior member of the mayor’s cabinet, Paul,” David said coldly. That chilly tone was unusual for David. He turned everything into a joke, that politician’s trick to transform vindictive insults into jocular ribbings. Paul couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t seen David smiling that salesman’s grin.
David was not smiling.
Well , Paul thought, at least I know why he’s not at home with Imani . The mayor had summoned his hatchetman to talk to Paul.
David sat down across from Paul, as far across the table as he could get. He straightened his tie – Imani had once confided in Paul that David had his tailor cut his suit specifically to display his muscular form. He looked presidential, solemn, disappointed.
He lowered his face into his hands.
“You could have had it all, Paul.” His
And the federal troops were the only experts. By law.
He tried to push the image away, but it kept recurring: Imani, picking up the phone to call 1-800-SMASHEM. Aliyah, tear-gassed and hooded. Aliyah, out in the Arizona desert, tortured until her spunky rebellion leaked away.
Paul mouthed the words, figuring out how to tell Imani what was really happening. And as always, he imagined a doctor holding up a hypodermic needle that contained an experimental cure:
We think this treatment has a ninety percent chance of curing Aliyah’s psychological problems , the imaginary doctor told him gravely. But if we’re wrong, this shot will destroy your daughter’s brain beyond repair.
Are you ready to risk that?
His phone alarm buzzed. It wouldn’t do to be late to the mayor’s office when he was being called on the carpet.
“I have to go,” Paul said. “I promise I will call you later.”
“All right.” She breathed in through her nose, regaining composure. “Thank you, Paul. It’s not fair to dump this on you, I know. And… you’re a good man. I just wish we could have…”
Paul hung up before she could finish that sentence. He stormed off to the mayor’s office, swallowing back frustration. Paul hated lying. He hated liars . Yet Imani had divorced him because he’d had to lie about his love of ’mancy to her.
And now, to save his daughter, he had to layer falsehoods on top of falsehoods….
Paul’s tension rose as the mayor’s office came into view. All the paperwork flowed through City Hall, New York’s beating heart, where things got catalogued and approved.
Politicians, Paul thought, were fatty clumps sticking to the walls of an aorta – clogging the flow from time to time. But the strength of bureaucracy and good records kept New York City functioning. Paul had read histories of the time before building codes, when cheap landlords built wooden fireplaces and uninspected meat markets had sold horrific surprises…
Bureaucracy was the best tool humanity had to fight dishonest men.
But aren’t you dishonest, Paul? a voice at the back of his head whispered. They’d lock you away if they knew what you really were. You don’t try to fight City Hall, you slither in and subvert it…
He’d do anything to protect Aliyah.
A secretary escorted Paul to a small meeting room. No one was there, but he’d expected that; Paul had learned that in City Hall, some people waited for you to arrive, and others you waited for.
The meeting room was furnished in a way Paul could only describe as “stately”: leather upholstery on polished wood chairs, gilded frames with oil paintings of New York’s turn-of-the-century skyscrapers, a cut-glass pitcher of ice water waiting for him. A cozy place, designed to impress.
Paul closed his eyes, summoning up the strength to face down the mayor himself.
The door opened.
“…David?” Paul spluttered as his ex-wife’s new husband, David Giabatta, entered the room.
“I am a senior member of the mayor’s cabinet, Paul,” David said coldly. That chilly tone was unusual for David. He turned everything into a joke, that politician’s trick to transform vindictive insults into jocular ribbings. Paul couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t seen David smiling that salesman’s grin.
David was not smiling.
Well , Paul thought, at least I know why he’s not at home with Imani . The mayor had summoned his hatchetman to talk to Paul.
David sat down across from Paul, as far across the table as he could get. He straightened his tie – Imani had once confided in Paul that David had his tailor cut his suit specifically to display his muscular form. He looked presidential, solemn, disappointed.
He lowered his face into his hands.
“You could have had it all, Paul.” His
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