Fork in the Road

FORK IN THE ROAD By Scott Turner Chapter 11

"If you come to a fork in the road, take it." -Yogi Berra

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that occasionally contains rather graphic depictions of sexual activity between consenting adult men. If that's no your cup of tea, or if it is illegal for you to possess or read such material, then please go elsewhere. This story is copyrighted, 2008, and may not be reproduced, reposted or published without the expressed permission of the author.

From Chapter 10:

Scott dug into his backpack to grab the phone and see who had called. He stopped short of the curb across the street from the bottom of The Hill. "Marty?" he uttered out loud. Then he thought, `In the middle of the day? That's weird.' He hit the call back function and let it ring.

Marty answered on the first ring. "Scotty?" He sounded really strained.

"What's up, bud? Calling in the middle of the day? What's goin' on?"

Marty sniffed. "It's Jill. I'm at the hospital now." There was a long pause, and then Marty sobbed into the phone. "It's leukemia, Scott. It's mother-fucking leukemia!"

Scott's chin fell into his chest and his eyes clamped shut tight. "Oh, shit. There's only one hospital in Rockford?"

Marty sucked in some air. "Yeah."

"Stay there. I'm on my way." He folded the phone, did a one-eighty and headed for his car.

CHAPTER 11:

Coming off the elevator on the sixth floor, the sign directed Scott to the left. He read the third `restricted to family' sign as he strode through the double doors to the Intensive Care Unit. The unit was round with about a dozen rooms around the periphery. A circular island in the center of the floor appeared to serve as both a reception area and a nursing station. Scott strode up to it and put his hands on the counter.

"Yes sir? May I help you?" A pencil-thin woman in nurse's garb welcomed him curtly.

"I'm here to see Martin Anderson and, if I can, his wife Jill. I'm Marty's cousin, although we're more like brothers. I'm hoping you'll help me find him."

She sighed. Well, the `family only' notice you saw normally refers to immediate family, but Mr. Anderson could use some company. I'm pretty sure his wife is asleep right now and I think he's in the family lounge." She pointed over her shoulder to a short hallway with an open door at the end. Then she pointed to a sink and a cabinet. "Please be sure to wash your hands coming and going from Mrs. Anderson's room and put on a mask from the cabinet above the sink every time you enter."

Scott nodded and thanked her. He slid out of his coat as he walked around the reception island and down the hallway. He walked into the small room. It was divided several ways by partitions that tried to create some illusion of privacy between four or five groups of family members. But Marty was the sole occupant of the room. He stood alone next to a small couch looking out the window. He turned. Scott dropped his jacket on the floor and opened his arms. Marty took three steps and fell into him. He sobbed, tears immediately soaking Scott's shoulder and his shirt collar.

"GOD DAMN IT, Scotty! God fucking damn it!"

Scott used one hand to stroke his back, the other to stroke his hair. "Ssssshhhhhh. It's gonna be okay." Scott kissed his cheek. "Really, it's gonna be okay. Ya' gotta believe that, Marty."

His best friend sobbed again and gripped the front of his shirt. All he could do was whimper into Scott's chest. Scott patted his back. "C'mon, Marty, let's sit down." Scott led him to the couch and grabbed a Kleenex from the box near the phone, then another and another. He sat Marty down and wiped his face before handing Marty the tissues. Marty blew his nose and wiped both eyes again.

His head fell back on the top of the back of the couch, and he sighed an enormous sigh. "Thanks for coming."

Scott grinned a little. "Like I had a choice. Don't thank me. I had to come." They sat in silence for several seconds until Scott spoke. "So, can you fill me in? What's going on?"

Marty shook his head and rolled his eyes as his lower lip quivered. After a deep breath, he said, "she just wasn't getting any better, only worse. On top of the fever and the aches, I noticed her losing weight and getting paler, and there was this shortness of breath. I finally demanded that I get her to the clinic. They did some blood tests and I guess all sorts of red flags went up on the various blood counts. We got red cells, white cells and platelets, and Jill's were all fucked up.

"So, they shipped her over here and they did more tests, and finally a bone marrow biopsy. Evil thing, that. She cried for hours `cuz of the pain. And they're gonna have to do more of those as we go on. Shit, she'll be addicted to morphine by the time we're done with this shit, cuz' she's not going through that again without some serious pain meds. They actually roll you onto your side, puncture the pelvic bone and suck out some marrow to get a good look at the source of those blood cells. Fuck. I didn't even know that's what bone marrow did for us."

Scott shook his head and grabbed Marty by the hand. "I guess I didn't either."

Marty squeezed Scott's hand. "So, a couple hours later, the doc comes out and says she has what's called ALL: Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia."

"Oh, shit!"

"It gets worse." Marty put his head on Scott's shoulder. ALL is damned rare at somebody her age. I always thought leukemia was leukemia. I didn't know they had different brands."

Scott shrugged in ignorance and Marty continued. "But those with his type are normally between, like, the ages of seven and fifteen. At that age they have a great cure record. Sometimes it develops if you're over forty-five. But for somebody sneaking up on thirty like she is, it's a bitch to deal with according to the doc."

He started sobbing again and Scott just held him. He scratched and rubbed Marty's back some more. "Sssssshhhhhhhhh. It's gonna be okay, Marty. We're gonna beat this shit. Fuck whatever the odds are. Jill's strong. She has you and Ashley and Little Scotty and you folks are going to get her through this."

Scott clenched his eyes tight to fight back the tears, and he felt Marty's head nodding against his chest. "Fucking right," Marty whimpered weakly. "We're gonna beat this shit."

Scott stroked his brown hair again. "Atta boy. Keep that up." They sat in silence for a couple of minutes with the left side of Marty's face against Scott's chest. "So, what's the plan? What's next?"

Marty sat up and he sighed. "Well, they already started round one of chemo here. But I want to get a second opinion and continue treatment up at the UW Hospital. Best cancer research and treatment place in the area."

"Good move. There ya' go. See? You'll get the best for Jill up there." He patted Marty's knee. "So, where are the kids? Grandma's and grandpa's?"

Marty nodded. "Yeah they're at Jill's folks' place. They're all coming over here tomorrow when she'll probably be awake. She'll want to see the kids and we want them to see the hospital. We're looking at some serious hospital time, on again, off again for who knows how long. Don't want Ashley or Lil' Scotty to be freaking out about it. They're going to have to see the hospital as a good place to be."

"So Jill's asleep?"

Marty nodded. "Hopefully for the night." It was only a little after four o'clock in the afternoon.

"You hungry?"

Marty had to think about it. "Now that you ask, yeah, I'm starved. Had a Butterfinger around noon, but otherwise nothing since yesterday."

"I'm gonna go out and get some pizza or some KFC or something. You go hold her hand and talk to her, and I'll be back with something close to real food by five." He kissed Marty's forehead. He noticed a deck of cards on the other end table. "Then we'll play a few hands of cribbage. Maybe I'll even bring back a six-pack."

Marty stroked Scott's cheek with the back of his hand. "What would I do...?"

"Stop it. I'm hungry." He wasn't really. "And you'd be doing the same thing. Go see your wife and I'll go see `The Colonel.' I spied one on the way into town. Greasy chicken, greasy potatoes, greasy biscuits and drippy slaw. That's good eatin.'"

At two a.m., Scott tucked a blanket around his buddy who'd finally crashed on the couch. He kissed his forehead once more and snuck out of the room. He could still get back to Madison in time to bag a few hours' sleep before heading to the Capitol.

Scott was walking down the hill when the voice hit him from behind. "Six voicemails, four e-mails and three text messages with no answer? What's up with that, Scott?"

Scott stopped and turned. "Uhm, well mostly I've just been real busy." Greg scanned his apprehensive face. "And, uhm, I guess I didn't want to do anything that might get in the way of whatever you've going with Nick."

Greg bit his lower lip and he nodded. "Yeah, I figured that little surprise over the weekend was playing a part of your hiding out from me. Can we talk about it?"

Scott thought about it. Part of him wanted to say "no." But that would be petty, especially if Greg had something he thought he needed to say. "Well, it's getting kind of cold. We're not far from the WSA office and that's where I was heading anyway. Let's go over there and we can talk. They walked the next several minutes in silence. Once inside the office, Scott introduced Greg to Walter and the two of them walked toward the stairs. "If anybody calls or stops by, I'm going to be busy for a while, Radar. I'll let you know when I'm free again."

Walter chimed behind him. "You got it, Scott."

Scott waved Greg inside the small office and gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. Once he'd hung up his coat and taken his seat, Greg looked him directly in the eyes. "So, what's going on? Is this jealousy I'm getting from you, are you ticked off about something else, or is it simply `I've been busy'?"

Scott cleared his throat. "I don't know, Greg. I'm kind of trying to figure that out myself. When I stopped by your room that morning, it was kind of a shock to be sure." He leaned forward on the desktop. "But you have to remember that you'd told me you couldn't get out of town with me because of team obligations. I guess I'm kind of ticked that you didn't tell the truth about Nick coming to town."

Greg hung his head a little. "Yeah. I'm sorry about that. I wasn't sure what was going to happen with him, and didn't really want to get into it with you. It's not like you and I have ever said we were an exclusive thing, ya' know."

Scott nodded. "True enough, but then why didn't you just tell me `Nick's coming to Madison and I'm spending the weekend with him?' If there was no sense of guilt in your mind, you wouldn't have lied about it."

"Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have thought it was simply none of your business. But let me ask you something. Have you `been with' your friend Marty lately?"

"We've talked and seen each other, but haven't messed around since you and I started."

"And would you if you had the chance?"

Scott mulled it over for a second. "Not sure. Under current circumstances, probably."

"And would you tell me about it if you did?"

"Under the current circumstances, I doubt I'd feel any need to."

There was a long silence, finally broken by Greg. "Well, maybe we need to change the current circumstances."

Scott pinched his lip and gazed past Greg at the clock on the wall. "I don't know, Greg. What I'm feeling right now is that we need some time and space between us." Greg slumped in his chair, and Scott continued. "I've got plans for Homecoming weekend, and I don't know for sure where that's going to go." He sighed. "Well, I have an idea, but I'm not sure that she and I are at all on the same page."

Greg's brows peaked. "She?"

Scott smirked. "Kind of an old girlfriend, yeah. We used to bump ugly whenever possible. The girl could make you work up one hell of a sweat." His smile widened. "This is partly your fault, you know."

Greg tilted his head. "Huh? Mine?"

"Yeah. Kelly asked me to go with her a couple of weeks ago. I told here I'd think about it. Then, when I intruded on you and Nick in all your post-humping glory, the first thing I did when I got home was to call her to say `yes.'"

Greg just rolled his eyes.

Scott propped his chin on the palm of his hand. "Tell you what, Greg. Let me get through Homecoming. Gives us both some time to think about one another and ourselves. If you're still interested in me, ah, `that way,' then give me a call. I ought to know for sure where my head is...and, uhm, where my heart is, by then."

Greg could tell the conversation was over. He stood and sighed. "Well, not exactly the answer I was hoping for, but I guess it's the best I can do."

Scott remained seated and he nodded. "And I think it is the best, for both of us."

Greg turned for the door. "Okay then." He opened the door and paused with his hand on the knob. "I'll see you around, I guess. You take care. And, uhm, have a good time at Homecoming."

"Take it easy, man."

Greg just nodded and left.

Thankfully, Scott didn't have to don the tux in order to watch the parade from the curb on State Street. He'd go back to the apartment and put on the monkey suit before the game and then pick her up at the sorority house in a couple of hours. As her convertible approached, with Erik the Adonis on her left, he stepped off the curb, whistled and clapped. "Hey, Kelly! Looking good!" And she was. It was a chilly day, so she had a long coat over her formal and a scarf wrapped snuggly, but she looked absolutely fantastic. And she was obviously relishing the moment. She looked to her right and her face lit up. She shouted. "See you in a couple hours!"

The Homecoming Game against Indiana was later than usual this year. Scott had a lined trench coat that he had to have cleaned, but still wore his thermals under his tux. He knew he'd be standing in the cold alone much of the day during the game. Kelly would be doing photos with Erik and the half-time lap around the stadium and the crowning on the field. He filled a silver flask with bourbon and put it in the breast pocket of his coat. This might help keep me warm,' he grinned. He got the studs in the shirt fixed correctly and the bright red cumberbun was in place. Craig had to help him affix and adjust the red bowtie. It was one of those cheesy clip-on jobs, thank God, but needed to be hooked in back and then adjusted for comfort. He had a bourbon and coke with Craig before his roomie held the jacket open for him to slide into. Buttoning the jacket and checking himself in the mirror he had to admit, Not too shabby, guy.' It was nearly the last happy thought he had all day.

They took their seats with the Homecoming Court on the forty yard line and down close to the field, which was a good thing. Kelly met and greeted untold dozens of brothers' and sisters' off and on for most of the first half, and that got old fast. Then she and Erik were off for any number of photo shoots and they climbed back into the convertible for their half-time lap. Scott poured half of the flask into a tall Coke and waved as the car crawled past. Kelly got her crown and a big bouquet of long-stemmed red roses that would certainly freeze and die completely before the day was over. At the end of the third quarter, Scott got up and went to the men's room, bought another Coke and emptied the rest of the flask.

Wisconsin was ailing from some injuries, but the truth was Indiana just plain sucked this year. Just about any other Big Ten school might have beaten the Badgers this day, but the Red and White held out for a 21-17 win. After hanging out for about thirty minutes for some of the marching band's famous "fifth quarter" performance on the field and dancing a few polkas on the track, they made their way to Scott's car. Kelly waved her hand in front of her nose. "Whew. Scott. I do believe you've been imbibing a bit during the game."

He shrugged. "Just brought a little bit of anti-freeze along for the game. Not to worry. It's all gone and I'm fine."

She grabbed his arm. "I know you are. But don't overdo it tonight. I plan to keep you up late."

He giggled. "Oh, you naughty queen you."

"Three parties are `must go's' and another two are optional. I thought we'd just play it by ear."

Scott nodded. "My ears are working just fine."

He found a parking spot on the street centrally located among the three houses they needed to visit. Suddenly Scott wished he still had some bourbon left. He felt he needed some numbing to get through this.

A minute after entering the first sorority house, Kelly was surrounded by a dozen or so of her `sisters.' Scott took her coat, unbuttoned his own and tossed them both on a couch in a small office labeled "Coat Room." Then, he promptly made his way to the keg. He shot the breeze with a half dozen guys who seemed to be having about as much fun as he was. Kelly came and found him and dragged him onto the dance floor. They shook it up real good during one song, and then pressed their bodies together in a tight embrace for a slow mournful number from Sade. Kelly kissed his neck a few times, sending shivers down his back. He kissed her ear. "I'm glad you're here," she whispered.

"The pleasure's mine." He slurred the sentiment a bit, but wasn't sure he really meant it anyway.

The scene was nearly identical at the next two stops. Scott tended to their coats, Kelly ran off and jabbered with her brothers and sisters and Scott had a few beers with a handful of Ken dolls next to the keg. By house number three, the bowtie and the top stud from his shirt were secure in a coat pocket. He and Kelly hit the dance floor for a third time and swayed slowly to the instrumental jazz being played. Scott was not familiar with the artist, but by this time he didn't really care. The alcohol was having its usual effect, and he wanted to get her back to the hotel.

He whispered into her ear. "Are we done with the `command' appearances now?"

Her "mmm hmmm" was muffled in the nape of his neck.

"And we have a room at The Concourse?"

"Mmm hmmmm."

"And you suppose there's a bed in this room?"

She looked up at him. "I insisted when I made the reservation."

He kissed her forehead and giggled. "Atta girl. Good thinking." They swayed another minute. "So you figure that bed could use some company?"

She slid her hands inside his coat and up his back. "I'll bet it wouldn't complain in the least."

Truth be told, he shouldn't have been driving. The trip to the hotel was only four blocks, but negotiating the parking garage was a bitch. They both fished their overnight bags off the back seat of his car. He followed her to the entrance to the hotel from the parking garage, admiring her perfectly shaped ass, which was still perfectly shaped even under her long coat.

After checking in using the sorority's credit card she led him to the elevator. The door of their room hadn't quite closed behind them when his hands grasped the collar of her coat and she stepped out of it. Before she could turn around, he'd unzipped the back of her dress half way. He wrapped his arms around her, closed his eyes, and kissed, licked and nibbled her neck. Kelly just moaned softly and tilted her head back to give him complete access.

Kelly turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled his head down for a deep, long passionate kiss. His right thumb and forefinger fumbled and found her zipper again and he slowly dragged it down to the small of her back. She gripped the satin lapels of his tuxedo coat and slid it off his shoulders. The dress fell to her ankles at the same time. She stepped out of it and rubbed Scott's chest. Kelly's fingers fumbled with two more little black dots in the buttonholes. She tickled him a little as she reached around and unclipped the bright red cumber bun. He was happy to be rid of it, even if it did match her dress perfectly. Scott turned her around and eased her back onto the bed. He hooked both thumbs under the hem of the slip she was wearing and slowly peeled it up her quivering torso. Kelly sighed and rubbed the back of his head while he licked and nibbled through the fabric of her silken bra. He straddled her thighs and peered down on her while she fumbled with his belt buckle.

Then he was thunderstruck. "NO!" He stood up and refixed the belt. "No! Kelly, this is a really bad idea."

Her face contorted and she half sat up. "What? What the hell are your talking about?"

Scott ran his fingers through his hair and turned his back to her. "Oh, shit! I'm so sorry,Kelly! This just isn't right." He did a quick one-eighty to face her again. He reached for her hand but she slapped his away. "This is just a really bad idea, Kelly. In the bigger picture, this is just a really bad idea."

"What bigger picture? It was your idea to come back here!" She reached up and swatted his arm. "God damn it, Scott, I thought this is what you wanted! You get yourself wasted, whisper sweet nothings in my ear, get me half naked and then shout no?"

He was putting his shoes back on as she pulled half of the comforter across the bed to cover herself. "I know! I know this looks and sounds irrational, and I'm really sorry, Kelly. I'm really, really so damned sorry." He picked up his coat and jammed his arms into the sleeves. Scott wiped his face. He stammered. "I...I just can't explain it right now. It's just a bad idea. I was wrong and it's all my fault!"

Kelly shook her head, still in disbelief. "So, you're just going to leave? No explanation? And what the hell am I supposed to do? And just stop telling me how fucking sorry you are. That's obvious. You're beyond sorry right now."

"Oh, Kelly, but I am so fucking sorry. But, yeah, I gotta go and I gotta go now." He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his hip pocket and set it on top of the TV. "I'll pay for the cab. You have the room for the night. Stay here. Take a cab back to the house. Do what you have to do, but what I gotta do is just leave and leave now. I'm sorry Kelly, but this is best." He heard one of her shoes hit the door a second after it closed behind him.

Monday afternoon, as Scott pulled into the lot, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. There were thirty, maybe forty students outside the front door of the WSA office. About half carried signs. Most of the placards were innocuous and merely said, "VOTE!" but a couple were more hostile, "NO FEES FOR FAGS!" Elliot Lyman was at the front of the crowd. The photographers from both student papers were on hand snapping shots for tomorrow's editions.

"Jesus, Lyman," Scott muttered before opening his car door, "you need to get a fucking hobby or something."

Scott said, "excuse me" about a dozen times as he wove his way through the crowd. He climbed the half-dozen steps and turned. He held up his hands to try to quiet the crowd. Eventually the "Vote! Vote! Vote!" chanting stopped, although most of the signs remained raised. He was nearly shouting. "Ladies and gentlemen. We will vote on the fees issue, but we'll do it in due time. I am advised that some of our members are studying the proposal that came out of committee. They are concerned about its substance, its priorities and by the message it represents to many of our classmates. They are currently working on one or more amendments, as is their right. It is also their obligation. We've been elected by ALL the students to represent the interests of ALL students.

"We can't just railroad this proposal through without adequate scrutiny. The process and procedures have got to be sound, they need to be fair to everybody. If, after considering alternative points of view, a majority of our members are comfortable with the committee's recommendation, then so be it. In the meantime, our bylaws and the University's regulations guarantee that funding from student fees for all of the various groups will continue at last year's levels. Nobody is being harmed by the lack of premature action on the committee's recommendations."

The burly guy with one of the obscene signs shouted "No fees for fags!" About a third of those assembled applauded.

Scott inhaled deeply and swallowed hard. "You, sir, have obviously given this question much contemplative thought. You're very deep. I take it you refer to the many gay, lesbian and bisexual students on campus who also pay those fees and who are entitled to a voice in their own student government. I'm afraid, sir, that I can't agree with you or your graceful sentimentalities. We're in the democracy business and the equality business here, and all of our students will be represented as long as I'm the President of the Wisconsin Student Association. And I promise you there will be a vote. Right now, however, I can't make any assurances as to when that will take place. Have a great day, folks."

The crowd booed in unison, and they resumed the chanting, "Vote! Vote! Vote!"

Scott waved, turned and opened the front door.

Walter leaned on the counter and looked over his glasses. "Having a good day, chief?"

Scott emptied his mailbox and shrugged, "Oh, just me and about forty of my closest friends enjoying a spirited disagreement of philosophy and political practice." He winked at the clerk. "It's healthy. Keeps the mind sharp." Radar chuckled and shook his head as Scott lumbered up the stairs.

An hour later, just as he was disposing of the day's mail, the phone rang. "What's going on Radar?"

"Sonja Weiss is on her way up."

"Oh, good. Thanks." He hung up the phone and walked to the door. "Ms. Weiss," he extended a hand. She had a very firm grip. "Very good of you to come by. How are you today?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Believe it or not, still trying to shake the after-effects of one hell of a Homecoming celebration. You have a good time this weekend?"

Scott motioned her to a chair and slowly sunk into his own. "Uhm, it was okay." He quickly switched the topic. "You should have been here earlier. You missed my little party out front." Sonja's face questioned him. Scott grinned and related the little interchange out front.

She shook her head. "Better you than I. I'd have been screaming back at them, `fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!'" She grinned. "Hey, you were great on the radio. Loved it when you asked that little worm if he whacked off. I'll bet he doesn't know how."

Scott smiled. He'd enjoyed asking it the question. "He says he does, but I doubt it." There was a pause. "So, let's quit wondering about Elliot Lyman's sex life and talk shop. Where are we on votes?"

She sighed. "We only have eleven locked up. Could be thirteen by the end of the week. We're not going to have the sixteen we need by this month's meeting. You need to keep that travesty of a proposal bottled up for a while. In talking with some of the members, I've heard that Lyman plans to move that the proposal be pulled onto the floor for debate and vote."

Scott frowned. "But I set the agenda."

Sonja scrunched up her face. "Jesus, Turner. Read your fucking bylaws. He can pull a proposal off your desk, if it's been approved by a committee, with a two-thirds vote. With only eleven on our side right now, he could possibly meet that margin. Not likely, I think, but possible."

"Think you can get the other two to stop a two-thirds majority? The meeting's only two weeks away. I was going to set the agenda today so that we can post it next week."

"I'm hopeful and fairly optimistic. They might want something in return."

"Like what?"

"Guarantees of funding certain groups the way they want."

"Well don't go hog-wild and make promises we can't keep."

She shook her head. "You think I'm a dumb shit? Remember, Turner, I've been doing this longer than you have."

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to offend."

She chuckled. "Offend? Hell no. Annoy maybe, but you got to do a lot better than that to offend me."

"Okay, didn't mean to annoy."

"Aw, screw it. Annoy away. Besides, I hope Lyman makes a move in session to pull the proposal. I want a crack at that little weasel. I want to debate him on this in public. You shouldn't get to have all the fun."

Scott shuddered at the thought of engaging this woman in a public debate.

Sonja crossed one leg over the other and scratched her chin. "Well, if you had all that hubbub out front today, I'll do what I can to make sure the gang at The Cardinal' gives it good treatment. There was really a guy out there with a sign that said No Fees for Fags?'" Scott nodded. "Shit. I hope their photographer got him. That'll be perfect! Shows these goons for the primates they really are."

Scott grinned. "My thoughts exactly. I caught two folks furiously taking notes when I was talking back to them. Hopefully, I dished up some adequate copy for both papers."

She waved a hand. "Ahhhh...'The Herald' will fuck it up or misquote you or snip it up so what they decide to print is way out of context."

He nodded. "I know." He glanced at his dark computer screen. "I haven't opened my e-mail inbox yet, but I expect the complaints will start flooding in, if they haven't already. I'm going to hammer out a response to e-mails on both sides of the issue and save them so that all I'll have to do is copy and paste answers between now and the meeting." He looked at the clock. "Well Sonja, I need to get my ass to class." He stood. "But I'm really glad you stopped by. We haven't had much chance to chat or work together. I like your style."

They shook hands again. "You're a pretty good egg yourself, Turner. We'll beat this little shit to a pulp and enjoy it every step of the way." She giggled a husky giggle. "God, I do love politics." She released her grip on his hand. "Well, I'll let you go. Let's keep in touch."

Scott nodded. "Absolutely. Have a good one, Sonja."

She turned and bounded out of the room.

The following morning Scott picked up both campus papers. Each one had placed the news of the protest on page one, below the fold, complete with a clear photograph that complemented the story. `The Badger Herald' ran a photo focusing on Elliot Lyman, and three "VOTE!" signs over his shoulders. Their reporter interviewed Lyman after the protest and they quoted him extensively. He lambasted Scott for his "obvious indifference, even hostility, toward the significant number of students we represent." The only snip from Scott speaking on the porch was, "Right now, however, I can't make any assurances as to when that vote will take place. Have a great day, folks." He sounded like an arrogant, indifferent twit.

In The Daily Cardinal' there was a picture of the big knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing moron with the" NO FEES FOR FAGS' sign. Nobody had called to interview Scott, but he was quoted. "We're in the democracy business, the equality business here and all students will be represented as long as I'm the President of the Wisconsin Student Association. And I promise you there will be a vote." Scott grinned. Downright statesmanlike, if I do say so myself.' `The Cardinal' largely ignored Lyman, save a reference to him that described the committee's proposal and the origins of the controversy. All in all, Scott was pleased with the coverage.

Maureen poured two glasses of Chianti while Scott tossed the Caesar salad and he filled a couple of plates. They'd been discussing campaign financing. He sprinkled a little more Parmesan and some croutons on each and set them on the table. "But it's like that tired old adage that we're entitled to the best government money can buy."

Maureen reached into the oven to remove the baked spaghetti she'd prepared and set it on top of the stove to set a bit while they ate their salads.

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, that's about the most cynical way to express it, but it's not far from the truth. It is, like it or not, part of the game." She set down his glass and took a sip from her own after sitting and unfolding her napkin. "Scotty, we've had this discussion. In order to run for office, you need to be able to get your message out there. Newspapers, radio and TV stations aren't going to give the advertising away. We get a preferred rate, but it ain't free. The post office isn't going to mail our crap at no cost. So you have to raise money." She stabbed at her salad and filled her mouth. "Mmmm." She chewed and swallowed and took another sip. "Good work on the salad my boy." She paused and stabbed at a crouton. "And on the other side of things, there are or will be candidates you agree with and believe in, like yours truly or your dad. Your right to support them with funds has pretty consistently been protected by the courts as another example of free speech. Writing a check to a candidate is just another way of saying `This is what I believe.'"

She put down the fork and wiped her lips with a napkin. "But, you know Scotty? There's another very real element to this that people don't like to admit because it sounds a little bit downright undemocratic. The folks writing the checks usually know what the hell is going on. They've studied the issues; they're paying attention to the real facts, even when the facts seem to compete. Are they self-serving? Sure as Hell. Do they conveniently ignore some of those facts? Hell yes, and it's our job to sort it all out. But they're also pretty well informed. Believe it or not, even highly paid lobbyists do a service to the legislative process.

"You're a voter now. How many of the folks standing in line on Election Day are both patriotic and incredibly naive? How many don't really understand the impact of the rhetoric they're buying into? How many are voting for this one or that one just because they're good looking or give a really good speech, or because their mom or dad or boss or union leader told them what's really in their best interest?"

Scott didn't have an answer for that. He swallowed the romaine he'd been chewing on and sipped his wine. "But if what I'm hearing is true, we have this flood of money coming in from Iowa and Illinois."

She shrugged. "Well, folks across the river and south of the border have legitimate interests in the southern and southwestern part of the state. Some of them might want to invest in economic development here. Others might want to retire here. We ought to encourage that. Maybe out-of-state political contributions will evolve into out-of-state investments that help bolster the economy of what has long been the most rural, poorest section of the state. We grow on their dime. Not necessarily a bad thing."

Scott scoffed. "Bullshit. Large chunks of Milwaukee are the poorest parts of the state. When are we gonna see an effort to combat unemployment, the drop-outs and the youth crime `in da hood' to the east of here?"

She put down her fork and wiped her lips again. "When their dumb-ass lawmakers quit fighting among themselves and get their shit together. But they'll never see any out-of-state dollars that make a difference. That'd come from the Chicago area. There's no incentive for folks in Chi-Town to invest up here when they have the same problems in their own back yard. They're busy buying their own politicians, and they have it down to an art form."

She cleared the salad plates and set them in the sink. While she sliced into the richly sauced and cheesed pasta, she continued. "Besides, I'll be real honest. Senator Frick's proposal, as I understand the way it's shaping up, is good politically. Ted Hackett can support it and Maureen McCarthy can support it and it gives us both some pro-business bona fides going into the next election cycle. It'll undermine the bad guys when Ted and I run in the fall. Who knows, maybe some of those out of state dollars could come my way."

Scott blinked. "And you'd take it?"

"Hell yes, as long as it's `clean.' That is to say not if they expected any promises in return. I have never, and I mean never, done any quid pro quo fund raising. I've never sold a vote and never will. But if I accept donations like that and they make a difference, I know I can do a lot of good in areas that could change peoples' lives in many other ways state-wide."

"Aw, Maureen, I know you can't be bought like that, and I know you'll do a lot of good in the A.G.'s office."

She continued, waving a spatula in his direction. "I stake my claim on the important issues, and folks who agree with me sometimes support me with a contribution. And you're damned right I'm gonna take those donations. But God help the stupid bastard that shows up this spring or summer, check in hand, and says something like `If you promise this, that or the other thing, then I've got this big fat check for your campaign.' First I'm going to take his name. Then I'm going to throw the sorry son of a bitch out of my office." She set down the plates of steaming pasta.

Scott broke into the French bread. "Why take his name?"

She took the loaf and broke off a chunk for herself. "Because he'll go to the top of the list of donors to look into if I win. I'll track that bastard's contributions with a microscope. I find somebody selling votes outright, and somebody's going to jail." She cut into her pasta and lifted the forkful.

"Even legislators?"

She nodded as she chewed and swallowed. "Especially legislators."

She chortled. "You don't like the out of state money. Fair enough. Wait until the wonderful `independent expenditures' kick into gear this summer and fall."

Scott's eyes narrowed and his head moved forward a bit. "Huh? What's that?"

"Give you a hypothetical and a real example. You're gonna love this. Let's say you're devoted to an issue, but not any one candidate. Just for fun, let's say you're Mr. Pro-Gun,' and you live in, say, Texas. You spend your energy, time and probably some money of your own to establish an organization of like-minded citizens who support your conception of the rights of gun owners. Remember, you're not behind any single candidate, but have a serious devotion to the issue. You raise a ton of money for that cause. Then you pay attention to who is running for what, and where, and how they stand on your issue. You know that most efforts to impose regulations on gun ownership and gun use come from state legislatures, not from D.C." She shrugged, "Oh, I know efforts like The Brady Bill' get all the national press, but the real efforts come up in state capitols across the country." She folded her hands and leaned. "So, you survey the landscape. You look for sitting members or candidates for state office who either agree or disagree with your point of view. You assess if they need some help to stay in office, or in getting elected to office. And you decide if they are worthy of being tossed out or elevated to office because of their position on you issue. You don't contribute to a campaign or a campaign committee like the one Senator Frick is responsible for. Instead you run your own ads or send out your own mass mailing against the opponent of your guy or gal. You never mention your candidate by name and, ostensibly at least, there's no coordination between your organization and the campaign you want to favor." She took another bite and swallowed. "Though, honestly, that's usually a crock of shit. But you run ads or send mailings out that say things like `If Lefty Larry is elected to office, they'll be kicking down your doors and confiscating your eight-year-old son's bb gun. You're in Texas, collecting money from all of the country and spending in on political issue ads in Wisconsin."

Scott put down his fork. "You gotta be shitting me. Tell me you're making it up."

Maureen grinned and shook her head. "Hey, I've been targeted myself by that crapola."

"Really?"

She nodded. "There's a group in Michigan that's deeply devoted to the whole charter school/school choice and home schooling agenda or movement or whatever the hell you want to call it. Strictly anti-public schools and public school teachers. They're a very well-funded organization founded and supported in large part by the crowd at Amway. Now, as you know, our public school districts are largely instruments of government that are created and regulated at the state level. We write the compulsory attendance laws, we establish teacher licensing standards, we establish student testing expectations. School districts are still largely local branches of state government."

Scott nodded. "That I know."

"Well, I've had two viable challenges since I first ran for office; once during myfirst race. And the other was eight years ago. Now, I'm consistently on record in support of public schools. Philosophically, I'm wedded to the idea of a good mandatory public education is the great equalizer.' It's how we try to guarantee every kid the greatest opportunities, regardless of their family's income. I despise the notion of education and opportunity based on the ability to pay. To this group, that makes me the devil's cousin." She put down her napkin and picked up the bottle of wine, refilling both glasses. "So, in both instances, it was the same pattern. Without a major media market in our district, they used the good old mass mailing. The Saturday before Tuesday's election day, their literature hit our mailboxes. Maureen McCarthy, according to them, was basically all about higher property taxes to support government run schools, kidnapping children and forcing them into sub-standard classrooms and supported preventing parents from having any voice in their own children's' education. I was pure evil. And when they drop the literature on Saturday, it's kind of hard to respond effectively by Election Day three days later."

Scott picked up both empty plates and carried them to the sink. "That's insane! That's got to be illegal!"

She sipped and snorted. "Pesky little thing called the First Amendment, Scotty. `Congress shall make no law...abridging the freedom of speech.' And that's true even if it's a wild exaggeration, an inaccurate interpretation or a gross distortion. The fact remains that I have always supported public schools. If they want to spin it that way, they have the right." He sat back down and sipped a bit more wine. "Thing is, both sides do it. The Left and The Right are equally guilty of that bullshit." She paused. "It's probably going to happen to your dad, you know, once he starts articulating his views on any of the hot button issues out there. He's going to be fair game too."

"So a group in Michigan, accepting money from New York, Florida, Alabama and Bum Fuck Egypt will be spending money to influence state elections in Wisconsin."

She winked at him. "Welcome to the real world, my friend."

"How do you fight shit like that?"

Maureen thought for a minute. "You stick to your guns. You clarify, first for yourself, what you believe in and you don't waver. If you have the time to respond, you call the group the liars they are and call on your opponent to repudiate the lies." She shrugged. "Of course, most of the time, the opponent can say Hey, that's not my ad. I didn't say those things and I can't control anybody other than my own campaign staff.' But then you just deliver. If you do make it into office, you stay true to your vision and you deliver for the folks back home. Your first term in office is the key. Conduct yourself in a way that will help the folks down the street recognize the lies for what they are, and then you'll be fine." She thought a moment longer. "But then, too, you have to anticipate and expect it. You need to develop part of your standard stump speech and press releases that tells the folks, Now you should expect to hear this, and this and this about me. Now, let me tell you where they're going to be so very wrong.'"

"You think dad's anticipating this crap?"

She smiled. "If he's been listening he is. He'll do fine." She sighed. "In two weeks I'll announce for AG one day and he'll announce for my seat the next. Then Marshall Oakes will have a conniption fit."

"Think he'll stay in once Big Scott announces and you endorse him?"

She sighed again wistfully. "I don't know. Where Marshall is concerned I never know for sure."

"And Randy?"

"I'm guessing he'll quit whether his dad runs or not. He'll want the old man to challenge your dad for the nomination. He's always been more enthusiastic about his dad running that you've ever been. But I'll bet all I have that he'll quit either way. And I'm not sure that's such a bad thing. He does a pretty good job, actually. He's smart as a whip. And when he's focused and organized, he can be indispensable. But I think he's inherited a couple of his father's weaknesses, and I'm not sure how loyal or effective he could be on my behalf under those circumstances." She gazed at Scott in what felt like a very motherly fashion. "Damn, I wish you weren't still going to school." Scott helped Maureen to preserve the left over pasta and salad, taking a helping of each home with him. They rinsed and scrubbed a little and filled the dishwasher. Then he wiggled into his bomber jacket, wrapped the scarf around his neck and slid into his gloves. He kissed her cheek at the door. "Thanks for the education tonight, Maureen." We winked. "And the food wasn't all that bad either."

She slapped his shoulder. "You're a little shit."

He winked. "Yep. G'night now. See ya' later."

He walked toward the car, his foggy breath leading the way. Interesting,' he thought. Kelly's name never came up even once.'

"What a shitty day," Scott muttered as he left campus. His afternoon classes had sucked. At the Capitol, Maxson had been out all day, and so had his executive assistant. It was Friday, and the brass weren't sitting in session, so Maureen was back in the district. Grant was in Milwaukee covering some local events for the pressroom. The senators' office staffers kept calling the caucus office looking for somebody to do their jobs for them. He was still jittery and doing a slow stew about the debacle with Kelly. He actually left the building with two voicemails unanswered, something he'd never done before. He was in a fowl mood on a dark gray day as he walked toward his car.

Brett would be over at Angie's for the weekend, and Craig was home in Rockford because his dad was in the hospital. So he'd go back to an empty apartment and be greeted by darkness, silence, and the fattest cat in the world and a bouncing chocolate lab with an obscene name that needed to pee. He stopped and looked at the car. "Fucking perfect." The right rear tire was flat. "Perfect fucking end to a perfect fucking day." He tossed his book bag into the car and then opened the trunk.

An hour later, Eric Clapton's voice greeted him as soon as he opened the door. It was the live, slow version of "Layla." His brows scrunched, since the cat certainly hadn't learned how to operate the CD player. He slowly walked up the stairs and dropped his book bag. The living room was dimly lit, which didn't make sense. Slowly, tentatively, he stepped down the short hallway to the living room.

The curtains to the front window were pulled closed. Two table lamps were lit, but each was dimmed by a towel draped over the shade. Greg stood holding two glasses of white wine, wearing nothing but a jockstrap. His hairy chest and smooth face shone in the muted light and his sheepish smile was disarming.

"Call the cops if you want. I broke in. I saw Craig yesterday and he said you'd be alone this weekend. So I came over a half hour ago and I shimmied up the rail onto the front porch. I knew you guys usually leave that door unlocked, so I took my chances. I figured if the door was locked, then I'd check the front windows, or wait out there until you got home." He held out a glass. "But you said I should touch base again after Homecoming, and that's a week ago, so here I am."

Author's Note: I was going to hang onto this chapter for a few more days so that I don't fall behind on the writing/editing/posting calendar. But as I proofed it once more this evening, listening to the local Madison news regarding the upcoming primary in Wisconsin, I thought I'd send it now. This chapter is dedicated to my satisfaction that for the first time in a long time, the Wisconsin primary might actually make a difference. For those of you who aren't political junkies like me, please be advised that the descriptions of campaign funding and propaganda practices described above are real. Likewise, many of the attitudes expressed by Maureen during her little political science lecture to Scott are alive and well. And, they'll be coming to your state soon. We're voting in our primary on Tuesday. I've already voted early (don't ask for whom, as I never tell), and I'm going to be working the polls near campus for about half of the day during the election. I love helping those young first-time voters get registered! (We can register at the polls on election day in Wisconsin)

Thanks again to my steadfast friend Kory for his careful eye and thoughtful comments.