Little White Lie: De-Anon Part 3
“And what are your opinions on the matter, America?”
No response.
“America?”
A snore.
“America!”
The blonde Nation woke with a start, almost falling out of his chair in the process. White walls. Oil paintings on said walls. Dimmed light. Christ, where was he?
The President's eyebrows creased with concern, the kind a father gives their sick child. The Vice President leaned back in his chair, his face a cross between irritation and concern. The rest of the staff mirrored their expressions.
Suddenly it fell into place like a key fitting into a lock. The Roosevelt Room. Healthcare meeting. The Speaker, her aides, the VP, his aides, the President, and him. Right.
“That's the fourth time you've fallen asleep, son,” the Vice President spoke. “Are you sick? How's the economy doing?” He asked the last as an aside to the attendant to his right.
“I'm fine,” America said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Memories of no wait, stay a little longer kicked him in the stomach and gripped his heart. “Just...just a little tired, Boss.”
“We're all a 'little tired,' son,” the Vice said before the President could get in a word. “But this is major, major legislation that we're working on here. We can't have our Nation falling asleep during these meetings.”
“Not like you've really consulted me before,” America said under his breath.
“Did you say something?” The President asked. America shook his head, waved off the comment, and moved closer to the table.
Once conversation picked up America wished for it to stop, or for sleep to come once more. Their voices a drilling hum of legal nuance. America thought of China's warning and the near heart attack he gave him last year. America had mentioned this encounter to the President, who simply smiled and said everything was going to work itself out in the end. And America believed him. Like he always believed his politicians because they were just looking out for him.
Some nights he would wake up feeling as though someone had stopped his heart, stirring the woman next to him out of slumber. She would ask what was wrong and he'd ask her to go back to sleep. Some days he would stare at the proposal before him with contempt. Other days, with gleaming hope. He didn't want to think about it. Put it to the side. Maybe next term. Maybe we should worry about other things.
His headache spread to his neck and reached to his toenails. Maybe he should get an aspirin.
When Emily met his family, it wasn't over steak and potatoes. In fact, it wasn't supposed to happen at all. Alfred had done everything he could have to make sure of it, even though Veneziano kept asking questions like the goddamned TMZ.
The first she met was his brother, Matthew, at a gas station of all places. She'd asked if he knew an Alfred Jones because their resemblance was simply uncanny. He replied quite frankly, because that's what Canada was, frank, that they were indeed brothers, but he had no idea who she was. Emily laughed it off and said she was Alfred's girlfriend and wondered why, in the year-and-a-half they'd been together, she'd never been mentioned. They chatted for a moment, and left on good terms, because Matthew was also very, very polite.
It was about twenty-seven minutes into House, the disease had shown new symptoms and he couldn't tell if it was going to be a happy ending or a sad one, when Canada burst through the door, demanding what in the hell America was thinking. A girl? A human girl? You're actually jeopardizing your National integrity for a girl?
“What's the problem?” America asked, pausing the DVR, leaning back in his chair, putting his Bud down.
“You-are-” Canada couldn't make out the words and his face was rapidly turning Heinz Ketchup red. He stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, the red not faded.
“It's not that big of a deal,” America said, taking another sip of Bud.
“A year-and-a-half isn't that big of a deal? A year-and-a-fucking-half?” Canada was all rage now, his curl bobbing. “Have you even been paying attention to what's been going on in the past year-and-a-half or have you been too busy getting laid?”
A stab. America rose to his feet.
“Is this why the market collapsed in 2007? Because you were too busy being pussywhipped to notice your financial market collapsing? Is this why you're stalling on healthcare, because she's on the Far Right-oh no, let me guess, a Tea Party Member-and you don't want to upset her? Is this why? Is this why you stalled on Afghanistan? Is this why-”
America was in his brother's face. “Shut the fuck up, Matthew. You don't know what you're talking about.” The corner of his eye twitched.
Canada pushed him back.
“I don't know? I dont-Alfred! We're Nations! I know you think you own the goddamned world, but we don't have the luxury to just fucking do whatever we want to do.”
“It’s not a matter of want. I need this!”
“What? Pussy? Head? A little something to get you through the day?”
“You don’t know what it’s like!”
“Oh for Chrissakes, Alfred, listen to yourself. I’m a Nation too, in case you fucking forgot for a second or something.”
“You don’t have the weight of the world on your shoulders, Matthew!”
“The fuck I don’t I’m-”
“Have you? I've got both sides of the spectrum screaming at my ears that we need this or we need that, or we shouldn't be spending money here, but we can spend it over here. And then I get shit from all you guys because I can't balance a fucking checkbook and I've got checks bouncing everywhere. And my banks were doing something that I, Matthew, me, Alfred Jones, was not aware of.
“My government is trying to do something it’s never done before. I’m scared, Matt. I’m scared that one day, I’m going to wake up and be like fucking Prussia-a Nation without a goddamned country to go with it.”
“It’s really not that bad, a single payer. If you would get over your anti-commie bullshit, none of this would have happened.”
“This isn’t about healthcare, shit, Matt, it’s about them doing shit I didn’t agree to. It’s about the splitting of my nation right down the middle of the political spectrum. I was in Missouri right before the Civil War and it felt a shitton like this. I can’t afford to have that happen again.”
Alfred blinked.
“And my military!” his voice hoarse now. “Those guys are the best in the world, but do you know how far spread they are? I’ve still got bases in Italy, sixty year old bases with no function. Don’t even ask me to go into my entitlement programs.
“Not too long ago, China saw me and said my spending was so out of control that he was going to pull back on lending. That he’s going to ask for the money back. Matt-do you realize how much money I owe that Nation? Do you?”
“You should-”
“Don’t patronize me, you asshole. I’m attacked for just existing. When was the last time you saw a Down With Canada rally, or your flag burnt, stomped on by fucking ragheads who want to blow you up? When was the last time, Canada? When was the last time!”
Alfred was hysterical now.
“Everything I do is wrong. Everything I don't do is wrong. I'm losing my fucking mind, Canada. I can't sleep, I'm having trouble eating. I can't tell you how many packs of cigarettes I've gone through in a day.
“Emily takes me away from all that. She doesn't see me as America, the Nation. To her, I’m Alfred Jones! Nineteen year old NASA intern extraordinaire. She loves me for me. For the Alfred, not the America. She doesn’t know and it’s wonderful and amazing, and until you’ve been loved by a human girl, you can’t understand. I don’t want to hurt her. I…I love her.”
America smiled now.
“And what were you planning on saying when marriage begins to creep around? What were you planning on doing when she realized you never aged? Christ, America, what would have happened if you had a kid with this chick?”
“I don't know...I was...I was thinking-”
“No you weren't. You weren’t thinking. You never get yourself into these situations because you were thinking too hard. You were just looking for another way to get out of your responsibilities. But now this hole's about to get bigger than your britches can handle. You need to end this.”
America couldn't say anything.
“If I find out that you're still with her in a month, I'm going to tell England and he won't be as nice about it as I am.”
Canada ran his hand through his hair and sighed, turned on his heel and started to walk out when he stopped.
“You know, Al,” Matthew said over his shoulder. “You’re not the only one whose ever feels alone.”
The sun descended an hour ago. It was now ten o'clock, nearing eleven. The moon cast long shadows and the stars twinkled and winked. The summer air was sweet with roses and the last bits of cherry. Of car exhaust and homeless piss. Thick. He couldn't breathe. Ambulances chirped and cars zoomed by. He wished he could run as fast as the cars. He wished he could be the wind.
Alfred finally reached the iron gates to Emily's apartment. He buzzed her number. Asked her to let him in. A crackle in response.
It was late, but it was Saturday and Saturday was when she talked to her cousin in San Francisco, six hours behind.
The rose he'd bought bit his palm. Petals shivered. One fell to the ground. The humid air clung to his shoulders. Cicadas and crickets sang; their chorus growing louder.
He buzzed again.
Stopped himself from speaking. Leaned his head on the long metal gate.
Buzzed again.
Twirled the rose in his fingers. Remembered the first time he told her he loved her. It wasn't humid at all. A bright, sunny, breezy day in DuPont Square.
Buzzed again.
Asked her to open the door. He was sorry for missing their date again. He was sorry that he never saw her anymore. He was sorry for leaving her without so much a word last month and gone for three weeks. There were things at the shop that required his attention. He couldn't get away from them. He was sorry for snapping at her the other night when she asked what was wrong. He was sorry he was getting sick all the time.
He stopped. Exhaled. Ran his hands through his hair. Little white lies, right? Just little white lies.
“Emily,” Alfred said into the intercom. “Emily, Beautiful, let me up. I'm sorry.”
The speakers crackled in response.
“Alfred?”
Her voice was tinny, and unusually high.
“Emily, honey, I'm so sorry about...about everything. Please let me-”
“Stop. Lying. To me,” she said. There were tears in her voice. Alfred's heart sank. He wanted to reach to her, wanted to hold her close and touch her hair and kiss her kiss her kiss her until her tears stopped.
“Emily...”
“I've...I've had enough, Alfred Jones.”
“I'm sorry,” he said, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
“How can you just stand there and spout I'm sorry I'm sorry. I know what you did. What you do.”
And Alfred remembered. I'm going to tell England. His body felt like it'd been shocked. An out of body experience. But he could still fix it! If it was about him being a Nation, he could still salvage this!
“It's not what you-”
“Is that it, Alfred? Almost two years we're together and all you can say is, 'it's not what you think'?”
Static.
“Emily, please. Just let me explain.”
“I'm going to give you three minutes to get off this property.”
“Emily...”
The intercom buzzed and fizzed, hacking as if it had the flu. Alfred tapped the gate. Was this a moment where he should fight? Was this a moment where he should walk away?
Alfred found himself reaching for the heavy metal around his neck. A necklace that was about as old as he was. He had to replace the chains several times, but the medallion was still the same. An old Protestant cross. Arthur had given it to him when America was still a colony and he could barely say the word Jesus. Before Canada had come along, he and England lived in a two-story house in Virginia...actually not too far away from where he stood today.
The cross was made of a combination of gold and iron and a host of other metals. It was durable for a child, but not strong enough against the bayonet of a British soldier's rifle. It rained that day, when he declared himself free and independent with the voices of a thousand people wanting him to be a Nation and a country. It rained that day when the bayonet grazed his chest and his ward could not pull the trigger.
America's answer had always been there, as close as the pendant he wore. He dropped the flower and turned on his heel, walking towards his truck. Wondered why it started raining.
The president had come and gone, and so had several others. The United States had not collapsed, and neither had its capitalist system. The budget had been cut nearly in half, but the road there wasn't easy at all. They'd scaled down the military, scaled down entitlements, scaled down, scaled down, scaled down, until America could breathe again and the world kept on keeping on. The Middle East was still proving to be a problem- Iran had attempted to fire a nuclear warhead at Israel, and made an ass out of themselves in the United Nations, sparking another decade in the Middle East.
In the course of fifteen years, he had aged about five. His jawline was more square, his voice even deepened a bit, his shoulders stronger. Instead of benching a tank, he could bench a tank and an SUV. He was still congenial, still charming and suave as ever, but matured. Of course, he still laughed at fart jokes and liked to do the ole shaving-creme-in-hand-feather-on-face prank when England had fallen asleep at the UN.
Fifteen years had gone by when he ran into Emily Jayson again. She was in her mid-thirties holding the hand of an eight year old, pushing a stroller with a baby. They were in a Macy's in DC. The snow was falling. Christmas was near.
She saw him first.
“Alfred? Alfred Jones? Oh my God, is that you?”
“In the flesh.”
They hadn't left on good terms, but time heals all wounds and Emily wasn't one for holding grudges in the first place.
“You look like you've barely aged at all!”
I haven't.
“How have you been?”
“Great! Just...amazing. Married with two kids in the suburbs. Ha ha, the American dream is still alive. Are you married?”
To the Constitution and my constituents, but otherwise, no.
“Nah. Working too much.”
“You were always working.”
He asked her if they could catch up, talk over some coffee or Mexican. She opted for coffee. She introduced her children to him, the oldest was Abby, the youngest, Dennis. They left on good terms. Emily had Christmas shopping to do. Thinking of his family, he said he did to.
The next day, he met Emily at a quaint Starbucks on DuPont. It was as easy to talk to her now as it had been fifteen years ago. She worked for a natural resources company as a manager. Good money. Her husband was an ex-lawyer-now-politician. Her kids were great, even when they hardly saw their father.
America took her hands into his and looked into her eyes.
“There are something I need to clear up.”
And so America did. He told her everything, covering nothing up with little white lies.