“And again on December the nineteenth.”
“And then I get to show you my world.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Then comenow.”
“Good-bye, Tiana. Study hard. Stay well.”
“You are such a strict prefect.”
“I’myourprefect.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
Colin needed another eight days to reach the point where he knew it was time to go public. The work was not done. Not by a mile. But just the same, he needed to start putting things in motion. He arranged to meet Roland and Aaron the next day. Downtown Wilmington, City Club, lunch, his treat. He wanted to discuss this out of their office, reduce their risk of being drawn away by some other pressing need. He hoped they would give them a table by the window, from where they could hopefully catch a glimpse of what Colin intended.
That evening he went for a walk. The air was cooled by a strong northerly wind, a presage of the season to come. The stars created a silver wash overhead. The surrounding port city’s energy seemed incredibly intense, such that he only made it a hundred meters down the sidewalk beforereturning to the academy’s main quad. He walked two circles, safe here, able to focus all his intent upon what was about to happen.
But when he returned inside, Roger Eames invaded his sheltered cove.
As Colin walked the central corridor, his father’s voice reached out from the television room. Gripping Colin, hauling him into where he had no choice but to look. There he was, Roger Eames, standing by a podium decorated with over a dozen microphones, the sleeves to his dress shirt rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. He gripped the podium. And he raged.
The sound of rasping anger took Colin straight back. Mentally he became the small child tucked away in the corner, waiting for the moment to flee upstairs, escaping the man’s barely controlled wrath. Colin could not fully comprehend the words. Just like his worst childhood moments, watching his father take down the half-gallon of Maker’s Mark and sit at the kitchen table and vent. Because that was precisely what he did now. He glared out over the crowd. And he vented.
Twice the camera pulled back, revealing the candidate his father was introducing, then sweeping over the audience. The crowd was massive. The arena stretched out in every direction, a dozen tiers of screaming people risingbehindthe stage. And so many of the faces shared his father’s rage.
Colin had done his best to avoid even glancing at the rising tide of election fervor. He had refused to allow even a shred of his attention to be dragged away from the work at hand. What he saw now assaulted him like a physical blow. He could not fully take it all in. His father was not merely addressing this enormous crowd. He gave voice to their own fury. Each time he stopped, they waved a sea of posters: DRAIN THESWAMP. LOCKHERUP. TRUMP FORPRESIDENT.MAKEAMERICAGREATAGAIN. The printed words and the shrill cries and the ecstatic rage implanted on the sea of faces, they assaulted him.
His father looked straight at the camera and said something about the man who was going to change the way Washington did business, the next president of the United States. …
Colin forced himself to turn and walk unsteadily from the room.
CHAPTER41
When he arrived at City Club the next day, Colin still bore the remnants of his father’s invading force. Instead of launching into the topic at hand, he found himself trying to describe what it was like being assaulted as much by the crowd’s reaction as seeing his father raging at the podium.
“Roger Eames has become one of Donald Trump’s champions,” Aaron said. “I must say the two seem made for each other.”
“It is exactly what I saw.” The crowd’s excitement and fervor and anger reverberated through him and the room both. “I don’t understand it.”
“So many feel the same way.” Roland was as somber as Colin had ever seen. “If Trump wins—”
“God forbid,” Aaron said.
“If he does, and I think there is a very real likelihood that he will—”
“The polls say otherwise,” Aaron said.
“The polls, the polls. I see so many people taking comfort from the polls,” Roland replied. “And you know what I sayto them? You are not looking at these crowds. The way they stand in line for hours, waiting for a chance to be in the same room with this man.”
Aaron turned and looked out the window. Old Town Wilmington moved to a quiet and stately pace. The wind remained strong, the day reluctant to warm up despite the midday sun.
Roland went on, “And who are the people taking these polls? Do they come from among Trump’s supporters? Hardly. They are young, multiracial, intelligent. They are from a different strata of society. A differentuniverse.”
Aaron sighed and remained silent.
“These pollsters, they claim to interview a diverse population. But do they ask what these people think of the pollsters themselves? Of course not. And what happens? The people who are being asked, the ones who know what these young intelligentsia think of their candidate? They lie. That’s what. They lie.”