44. Graham
44
GRAHAM
“ C riminalizing it just means forcing it underground.”
I glare at the junior senator from Nevada in the right corner of my Zoom screen and fail to hold in a scoff. My image fills the center of the screen as I speak. “They said the same thing about abortion, but how many back alley clinics have they turned up?”
The question is met with silence.
“That’s what I thought. And I could say the same thing about guns. It’s an old argument and, quite frankly, it bores me. There are laws on the books in nearly every state criminalizing sex work. This would at least apply a consistent penalty and supplement the bill in a substantive way.”
One of my fellow committee members agrees, taking the focus off me. “The bill needs teeth. Otherwise, it’s gonna read like a memo and be equally ineffective. Anybody here not have kids?” he asks.
No answer. I keep quiet, immediately bracing myself against the image trying to take over my entire field of vision. It’s as stark now as it was the day I held my son in my arms. As much as I refuse to think about it during waking hours, not a week has gone by without a nightmare in remembrance of him. So many times I’ve questioned the decision to hold him—to look at him. Avery insisted, and I’d felt pressured by everyone involved, but I thought it would help with closure. Instead, it’s turned into something I can only describe as a trauma.
“This bill keeps our kids safer,” the gentleman from Kentucky goes on. “No more pornos when they’re scrolling whatever bullshit they’re scrolling these days?—”
“Oh, like what? The social media platforms all have?—”
“What they have isn’t enough. This ends it. Full stop. These Only Fans idiots need to get real jobs and keep their sex lives to themselves.”
I sigh behind the fist covering my mouth. On screen it looks like I’m focused and deeply in thought. Really, I’m trying to keep quiet so no one looks at me.
The sex trafficking bill we’re trying to hammer out with one lonely Democrat is the single biggest piece of legislation the senate has attempted in the three years since I arrived in Washington. The comprehensive package is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. On the surface, it purports to “Protect the Children” by allocating resources and funding to law enforcement and border officials. Deep down, it’s an evangelical Christian’s wet dream—making sex work and pandering federal crimes.
The Dems love the spending of course, and don’t seem to object to removing more power from states. But they’re queasy about encroaching on what they say are first amendment rights to free speech.
With all the studying of constitutional law I’ve done since my election, I can’t deny there’s some overreach here, but if there were a challenge in the courts, we’re confident the law would stand. After all, why should someone doing something illegal have more rights than a child has to grow up in a world that’s a bit safer, more innocent ?
Growing up sheltered and safe is better than all but encouraging people to choose to make a living by selling their bodies. And maybe if I can save one kid from being trafficked and forced into a life of prostitution, my time on the planet won’t be completely wasted.
The bill wasn’t my idea, but my father is practically feral for the passage of it. It’s all he and I ever talk about anymore, and it’s not all bad. But no legislation is all good, either.
“What about drugs?” the Democrat asks.
“What about them?” someone says.
The senator from Oregon starts talking about rehabs and recovery centers. Socialized behavioral health services. I tune out, counting on my aide who’s also on the call to pay closer attention and send me his notes later. I return a text from Holden, confirming I’ll be in town to attend his housewarming this weekend at his new Upper East Side apartment.
He replies, telling me to come early if I can.
I can. I’ve got nothing better to do this weekend other than what I usually do when I’m in town, which is a form of wallowing I never would have thought myself capable of, and yet…
As the call wraps up, I text Bradley, my aide.
Me
Did you get all that?
Brad
Yes senator. I’ll email my notes. Give me an hour.
According to my phone, it’s six o’clock. I check in with myself asking the usual question. Could I eat? The answer is its usual, sure. If you want.
I’ve looked it up, and the technical answer is that I don’t fit the criteria for clinical depression. I’m still functional. While I lack interest in most things, my mood hasn’t interfered with my work. I have enough energy to fake it during all the TV interviews I’ve done. I look forward to my morning showers, and I sleep a normal amount.
On the downside, I have tremendous difficulty generating a smile. A laugh? Ha. Those are so forced and fake, I’m surprised no one’s called attention to them.
A small head peeks into my study behind the cracked door. I lift my brows at the young intruder. “May I help you?” I ask as formally as I can manage.
“Mom wants to know…” Rowan gulps. “Pizza?”
I arch a brow. “ Mom wants to know, does she?”
Rowan’s spine stiffens, and she lifts her chin. “That’s right.”
“And what kind of pizza does your mom have in mind?”
Rowan moves to stand in front of my desk. Her dark curls are scraped into a tight French braid. Her eyes are huge and blue—I’m assuming her long lost father’s trait, but they’re lined with thick black lashes like all the Lawthers possess. “She’s open for negotiation on that topic.”
“I see. Well, you can tell your mother it’s pepperoni or nothing. I’m not in the mood for negotiation, and since we’re on my dime, I’m holding all the cards.”
My niece nods solemnly. “I’ll make sure she understands, sir.”
I manage a half smile.
She beams back, her new braces gleaming. “Thanks, Uncle Graham.” Rowan slow walks back into the hall, but I hear her pace pick up as she heads for the living room.
I lean back in my chair and look up at the ceiling. It was risky, bringing Theresa back to the city where she went wild in high school, but after some minor adjustments, our new living arrangement is going great.
Once my father let me out from under suicide watch, my first visit was to my sister. She’d been exhausted—working two jobs and overwhelmed. Her two kids were in constant trouble at school for being late or falling asleep in class. I’d been angry at the situation and angrier at my father for hanging her out to dry. To my surprise, she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol for months, and was sincerely trying to get her shit together, but as with so many single moms, she couldn’t get ahead.
It took some convincing to get her back to New York, but ultimately I sold the Chelsea apartment and rented a place on the Upper West Side after looking into the schools. Shortly thereafter, Theresa, Rowan, and my five-year-old nephew Carter moved into the three-bedroom in a relatively quiet, older neighborhood. It lacks the glitz and prestige of the UES, but the proximity to the park and the museums—has been great for the kids.
Before joining them in the kitchen, I indulge myself by pulling up the location sharing app I never deleted. Every time I open it, I pray to God he hasn’t either.
A soft breath of relief sighs from my chest when I see Silas’s location. He’s in his new apartment. It’s my favorite place for him to be. Obviously there’s no way of telling whether he’s alone unless I go down there and see for myself, but the handful of times I have, I’ve only ever seen him passing by his windows. Therefore, it’s become my default assumption.
Throughout the year since we parted ways, I’ve watched him go from Queens to Manhattan. Hotel to hotel. Building to building. He hasn’t been to Queens since January. It took me two weeks to piece together that his mother must have passed away, and that was the closest I’ve come to calling him. I’d held the phone and wept silently from my office in DC until my tears ran dry, and still I was left with choked sobs that eventually had me dry heaving over the toilet.
Pathetic.
In March, I found her gravesite and laid a huge arrangement of white lilies against her modest headstone. I sat for an hour in the drizzly cold, telling her what I’d done. How I’d loved him. How I’d hurt him. I didn’t ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.
Her name was Rosalyn. I’m not sure he ever told me that, but I think of her and that day at her grave a lot, wishing I’d said more. Wishing I met her when he’d given me the chance.
Anyway, I think Silas has a new lover. I know he works at The Eastmoor, but there’s another building on the Upper East Side where he spends evenings and nights every weekend or so. I should probably be happy for him. Or maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t know. This is my first time having an ex or being an ex. I’m not sure how it’s supposed to work. I only know I’m jealous. Bitterly so.
“Knock, knock.”
I glance up at my big sister. Her dark brown curls are particularly springy today framing her thin face. She’s wearing overalls and a striped t-shirt that looks like something a kid would wear. She’s got her glasses on, but they’re shoved up in her hair. “Are you ordering the pizza, or should I?”
“I don’t mind.” I say switch into a food delivery app. I order the usual two pizzas as she takes the seat opposite my desk.
“How was your call?”
“Obnoxious,” I say. It’s the best word for it.
“I can’t tell. Do you love your job or hate your job?”
“Mixed bag,” I reply.
“So you’re not running again?” she asks, and I hear the note of hope in her voice.
I give her a flat look, and she responds with pursed lips. “Daddy’s boy.”
“Fuck off.”
She laughs, and it sounds so easy coming from her. I wish my parents could see her now, but she won’t allow it. I don’t blame her. When they turned their back on her, she did the same, also lifting a big middle finger to the church.
My father hasn’t said a word about her being here, which he has to know with the way he keeps tabs on me. Still, he’s never brought it up. I can’t even begin to understand it, and I have to assume he hasn’t told Mom, because there’s no way she wouldn’t want to see her daughter and the only grandchildren she has. Right? Or is that just one more thing I’m telling myself to justify my obedience and stay sane?
Although, one could argue my relative sanity. Theresa certainly would. She thinks I made a mistake capitulating. That I gave up Silas too easily. But when I ask her what I could have done differently, she’s got no answer for me except to do what she did. Say fuck it all and leave.
But look how that turned out.
It’s the thing I think but never say.
The thought of my family turning their backs on me makes me hyperventilate. I may be a prisoner, but the accommodations are comfortable enough.
“What’s he up to tonight?” she asks.
“Dad?”
She gives me a knowing look.
I sigh. I hate how well she reads me. “He’s at his apartment.”
“Which means you’ll be checking your phone the rest of the night.”
“Only a few more hours,” I tell her. If he hasn’t gone out by ten, he’ll likely stay home.
“Fun. Well, do you want to play a few rounds of Go Fish while we wait for the pizza?”
“I have more calls to make,” I tell her. “Sorry.”
“If you say so.” She rises. “Don’t work too hard. It’s movie night, and you’re welcome to join.”
“Thanks. We’ll see. But let me know when the pizza gets here.”
“You look like you need a hug.”
I’m sure I do. And I accept the one she offers while I’m still in my chair. She squeezes me tight and kisses my cheek. “I’m here if you need to talk.”
“I can’t take you seriously in this outfit,” I tell her .
Because the thing is, I already know what she’ll say. She’s team Break Free. The lone but very loud voice on that side. But she’s not loud enough to drown out the obligation I feel. The loyalty ingrained in me since birth. Family first and always.
And only.