First Shift - Legacy

wedge around his collar. He imagined her sitting around, staring at her phone, waiting and waiting.

It didn’t even ring on his end before she picked up.

“There you are,” she said, her voice soft and drowsy, her tone hinting more at relief than anger.

“Sweetheart. God, I’m really sorry. I totally lost track of time.”

“That’s okay, baby.” She yawned, and Donald had to fight the infectious urge to do the same. His jaws cramped from the effort.

“You write any good laws today?” she asked.

He laughed and rubbed his face. “They don’t really let me do that. Not yet.” His jaw and neck felt constricted from the swallowed yawn. “I’m mostly been staying busy with this little project for the Senator—”

He stopped himself. Donald had dithered all week on the best way to tell her, what parts to keep secret, what was classified. He glanced at the extra monitor on his desk. Anna’s perfume was somehow frozen in the air, still lingering a week later.

Helen’s voice perked up: “Oh?”

He could picture her clearly, had a sudden satellite image of their neighborhood outside of Savannah, the roof of his house cut away like in a CAD rendering, Helen in her nightgown, his side of the bed still immaculately made, a glass of water within her reach. He missed her terribly. The guilt he felt in spite of his complete innocence made him miss her all the more.

“What does he have you doing? It’s legal, I hope.”

“What? Of course it’s legal. It’s… some architectural stuff, actually.” Donald leaned forward to grab the finger of gold scotch left in his tumbler. “To be honest, I’d forgotten how much I love the work. I would’ve been a decent architect if I’d stuck with it.” He took a burning sip and eyed his monitors, which had gone dark to save the screens. He was dying to get back to it. Everything fell away, disappeared, when he could lose himself in the drawing.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think designing a new bathroom for Mr. Thurman’s office is why the taxpayers sent you to Washington.”

Donald smiled and finished the drink. He could practically hear his wife grinning on the other end of the line. He set the glass back on his desk and propped up his feet. “It’s nothing like that,” he insisted, his mouth burning. “It’s plans for that facility they’re putting in outside of Atlanta. Just a minor portion of it, really. But if I don’t get it just right, the whole thing could fall apart.”

He eyed the open folder on his desk. His wife laughed sleepily and yawned.

“Why in the world would they have you doing something like that?” she asked. “If it’s so important, wouldn’t they pay someone who knows what they’re doing?”

Donald laughed. “Hey, that hurts. And besides, I’m really good at this—”

“I’m sure you’re wonderful at it.” His wife yawned again. “But you could’ve stayed home and been an architect. You could work late here.”

“Yeah, I know.” Donald remembered their discussions on whether or not he should run for office, if it would be worth them being apart. Now he was spending his time away doing the very thing they’d agreed he should give up. “I think this is just something they put us through our first year,” he said. “It’s like hazing us with busywork. It’ll get better. And besides, I think it’s a good sign he wants me in on this. He sees the Atlanta thing as a family project, something to keep in-house. And he actually took notice of my work at—”

“Family project.”

“Well, not literally family, more like—” This wasn’t how he wanted to tell her. It was a bad start. It was what he got for putting it off day after day, for waiting until he was exhausted and tipsy.

“Is this why you’re working late? Why you’re calling me after ten?”

“Baby, I lost track of the time. I was on my computer—” He looked to his glass, saw that it held the barest of sips, just the golden residue that had slid down the tumbler after his last pull. “This is good news for us. I’ll be coming home more often because of this. I’m sure they’ll need me to check out the job site, work with the foremen—”

“That would be good news. Your dog misses you.”

Donald smiled. “I hope you both do.”

“You know I do.”

“Good.” He tried to fish those last drops out of his glass, was too tired to get up and pour another. “And listen, I know how you’re gonna feel about this, and I swear it’s out of my control, but the Senator’s daughter is working on this project with me. Mick Webb, too. You remember him?”

Cold silence. Donald peered into his empty glass.

“I remember the Senator’s daughter,” Helen said.

Donald cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, Mick is doing some of the organizational work, securing land, dealing with contractors. It’s practically his district, after all. And you know neither of us would be where we are today without the Senator stumping for us—”

“What I remember is that you two used to date. And that she used to flirt with you even when I was around—”

Donald laughed. “Are you serious? Anna Thurman? C’mon, honey, that was a lifetime ago—”

“I thought you were going to come home more often, anyway. On the weekends.” He heard his wife let out her breath, the phone rub against her cheek. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we both get some sleep? We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure. And sweetheart?”

She waited.

“Nothing’s gonna come between us, okay? This is a huge opportunity for me. And it’s something I’m really good at. I’d forgotten how good at it I am.”

A pause.

“There’s a lot you’re good at,” his wife said. “You’re a good husband, and I know you’ll be a good congressman. I just don’t trust the people you’re surrounding yourself with.”

“I understand. But you know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”

“I know.”

“Okay. Look, I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“Hm. Now that’s one thing you aren’t all that great at. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep tight. I love you.”

She hung up before he could ask what she’d meant. What wasn’t he good at? Being careful? Or keeping promises?

He looked down at his phone, saw that he had a dozen emails waiting for him, and decided to ignore them until morning. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to will himself to not feel sleepy, to think clearly. He shook the mouse to stir his monitors. They could afford to nap, to go dark a while, but not him.

When they blinked to life, a wireframe apartment sat in the middle of his new screen. Donald spun the wheel on his mouse and watched the apartment sink away and a hallway appear, then dozens of identical wedge-shaped living quarters squeeze in from the edges. The building specs called for a bunker that could house five to ten thousand people for at least a year. Donald approached the task as he would any design project. He imagined himself in their place, a toxic spill, a leak or some horrible fallout, a terrorist attack, something that might send all the facility workers underground where they would have to stay for weeks or months until the area was cleared.

The view pulled back until another floor appeared above and below, still zooming out, layers sandwiched like cake, empty floors he would eventually fill with storerooms, hallways. There were entire other floors and mechanical shafts left empty for Anna—

“Donny?”

His door opened—the soft knock came after. Donald’s arm jerked so hard his mouse went skidding off the pad and across his desk. He sat up straight, peered over his monitors, and saw Mick Webb grinning at him from the doorway. Mick had his jacket tucked under one arm, tie hanging loose, a peppery stubble on his dark skin. He laughed at the startled expression that must’ve been plastered across Donald’s face and sauntered across the room. Donald fumbled for the mouse and quickly minimized the AutoCAD window.

“Goodness, man, you haven’t taken up day-trading, have you?”