The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (28 page)

Ben gripped the accelerator and revved the engine.

“I demand an answer!”

“
Look.
” Ben pointed at the guy’s neck
.
“Your holy underwear is showing.”

His young
face became red. He signaled the others and they turned to leave, but suddenly he turned and kicked the front wheel
of the motorcycle
. It was a strong enough kick
to cause the
GS
to tip sideways
. Ben struggled to keep it up, but all he managed to do was slow the fall
as
the bike
dropped
on its side.

Ben
expected the four
m
issionaries
to jump into their car and
escape
, but they didn’t.
Instead, they
circl
ed
the
GS
, trying to figure out how to lift it up. Ben pointed at the rear rack and grabbed the handlebar himself
.

When
the
GS
was
back
up
, Ben put down the
kick
stand
and looked
for damage. There was none.

The one who had kicked the bike held both hands up. “Please for
give me. I didn’t mean to cause harm.
”

“Go away before I cause you harm.” Ben got back on the GS and rode off.

Chapter 35

“
What’s this, M
om
?
” Ben had just entered his mother’s small apartment and was helping Keera out of her
coat
when he saw the unlit candles, wine bottle, and braided challah bread on the dinner
table
. “
Why are we celebrating the Sabbath in the middle of the week
?”

“Do you ever
come here on
a
Friday night?” His mother kissed him and Keera.

“You know we can’t,” Ben said. “Keera works Friday nights.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs.
Teller
,” Keera said.

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart.” She held Keera’s hands and looked her up and down—mostly up as Keera was a foot taller. “You look wonderful! But it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you put on a
few pounds, yes?
”

Ben sighed, but Keera laughed and said, “I’ll try.”

They sat at the table.

Mrs.
Teller
lit the candles with matches
, and Keera chanted the Hebrew blessing in her traditional
Falash
Mura
tune, unique to the Jews
of Ethiopia.

The two of them covered their eyes, and Keera repeated after her the Hebrew words. Ben
then recited the blessing over
the wine and bread.

“Wonderful
,
” Mrs.
Teller
said
. “I made matzo ball soup from scratch, with chicken legs, just the way you love it.”

“This is a message,” Ben explained to Keera, gesturing at the candles, bread, and wine. “She’s signaling that you’re the chosen one, and here’s how you do a Jewish dinner on Friday night, even if it’s Monday.”

H
is mother carr
ied
the soup bowls on a tray
.
“
Is it a sin to encourage my
only son, who’s dating a gorgeous med
school student, to
marry her before someone else—with more brains in his head
!
—steals
her from you?”

Keera pretended to concentrate on the soup, but eventually she met Ben’s eyes and they burst out laughing.

Ben wiped his lips a
nd chin with a napkin. “Sorry, M
om.”

“What’s so funny?” She slurped a spoonful of hot soup. “Life is not
only about
fun and games.
Nothing wrong with taking
responsibility for
the
people you love.”

“It’s a code,” Ben said. “She wants grandkids.”

“Is that also a sin?
God forbid
that
m
y son
should
grow up
a little
,
find
a
real
job, and support you so you don’t have to work on Friday night
s
.”

“Mom!”

“He works pretty hard,” Keera said.

“Taking pictures?” Mrs. Teller
collected the bowls. “
I read an article in
Modern Women
m
agazine by a very famous psychology professor about how some people prefer photographs to actual life. They prefer to be observers
rather
than participants. Isn’t it interesting?”

“Fascinating.” Ben pulled his camera from the bag and snapped a few photos of his mother and Keera.

“You see?” Mrs. Teller
went to the kitchen
. “What did I tell you?”

Keera
laughed.
“
Was he better as a boy
?”

Speaking from the kitchen, Mrs.
Teller
said, “He wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. Especially in the years
after…well,
growing up without a father
…h
e kept testing me
. Every other day there was a
note
from a teacher about a schoolyard scuffle
or a call from another
mother
about one of Ben’s pranks
.
”

He
rolled his eyes.

“
And I had to work
to supplement the little
allowance
we
received
from t
he
navy
. I always worked in bookstores so that I c
ould
bring Ben with me. Even before he knew how to read, he’d sit on the floor and look through one book after another, searching for pictures. I think that’s when he fell in love with photography.
”

Keera helped her
bring
the serving dishes to the table. “And now,
as an adult,
is he more like his father?”

“Oh, that’s a tough one.”
Mrs.
Teller
considered the question
. “They’re different
.
My husband,
of blessed memory
,
was more
mature
d. He had to
be
, with
all
the responsibility
for the men under his command
.”

“It must have been hard, even before
you lost him
.
” Keera hesitated. “I mean, caring for a
child
while your husband
wa
s
so far away
.”

“But there was pride.” Mrs.
Teller
took a deep breath.
“I was so proud of him!
It’s diffe
rent for young people
today
. You assume that all politicians lie,
that all wars are wrong, that it’s all about money
. You’re cynical, and maybe you’re right
.
Wars make some businessmen very rich.
B
ut we were raised by the greatest generation, the men
and women
who fought the Nazis. W
e
were raised to
serv
e
our country
. W
e believed Bush and Powell and Schwarzkopf when they said that Saddam must be kicked out of Kuwait, that it was a matter of liberty and international law.”

“And now?”

“Now?” She gestured
vaguely.
“
Who knows? Did my husband
die for
freedom
or for
Exxon and Shell and
th
eir rich CEOs?
”

“You don’t really believe that
,
” Ben
said
.
“The first Gulf War was a just war. No despot would ever
again
invade another country
after they saw what
happened
to Saddam
in Kuwait in ninety-one.”

Mrs.
Teller
caressed his cheek
. “
Just like
your father, a
n
idealist
, t
rying to save the world, yes?”

“That’s right, M
om.
Every day.”

“Eat, children,” she said, “before the food gets cold.”

Ben forked a piece of meat and put it
o
n Keera’s plate.
“Eat
!
Eat! There are children starving in
Ethiopia
!”

Part
III
:

The Editor

Chapter 36

Ray
ran NewZon
Line.com from
her
late
grand
parents’
farm
in
northwest
Montgomery County.
A row of birch trees blocked the view from the country road, but up close there were visible signs that this was more than just another rural property.
Three
satellite dishes
sat on the roof of the main house
, which was covered with solar panels. An industrial-sized diesel-operated generator sat on
a concrete pad next to an
shed, where Ray’s
pair of
customized
van
s were
parked. A
video camera followed Ben as he walked up the steps to the
front porch. The lock on the door clicked open and he entered
small foyer
. Only when the door behind him clicked locked, a second door
unlocked
, allowing him inside. T
here were two elevators. Ben skipped both of them and took the steps
down to the basement
.

Ray’s
obsession with redundancy manifested again
in
the
multiple plasma screens that covered the basement walls.
Ray
was sitting
at a bank of keyboard
s
, h
er
back to a line of computer servers that hummed and emitted heat.

“Good morning,” Ben said.

“Here’s the man!”
She beckoned him
to a seat and pointed at a monitor. “Look at this rating chart
.
You’re still hot, baby
.
”

The chart tracked the tota
l visitor traffic on the NewZon
Line.com website and rated each story based on the number of hits
by
visitors who stayed on the story for more than
eight
seconds, which was the minimum time it took for an Internet-savvy person to absorb a headline, a photo, and the essence of one paragraph of text. Ben’s last news flash from the Camp David
Scenic Overlook
was at the second spot, right behind a
report about an alleged shooting at the president’s reelection campaign office in
Waterloo
, Texas.

“
It
’s yesterday’s news
,” Ben said
.

“It’s the
dead body.
”
S
he
manipulat
ed
a mouse to bring the news piece onto another screen. “
They love it. Do you
?”

Ben
stared
at the photo. It was the one showing Zachariah Hinckley just before his death, lying on the ground at the bottom of the prec
ipice, looking up at B
en. But his face was no longer blurred as in the photo Ben had sent to
Ray
yesterday. Rather, Zachariah’s face was clear and easily identifiable. “
T
ake it down
,
”
Ben said. “It’s not the photo I sold you.”