A New America

Chapter 1

John Duke felt sick to his stomach. He sat in the dark in the living room of his Brentwood home and stared at the blue glow of the television screen. His shirt was off and his chest was still heaving from the hundred push-ups he’d done. Five sets of twenty repetitions, with three minutes rest between sets. He considered his morning push-ups to be one of the few things that kept him sane in the world, only now the world was intruding.

Election Day commuters in Los Angeles woke up to a jolt early this morning, the television anchorman said, when they found anti-Donald Trump protesters blocking the 101 Freeway. Here’s our action news reporter Jaime Hernandez live on the scene. Jaime?

Jaime Hernandez stood beside a Los Angeles freeway, holding a microphone. Yellow police tape stretched out behind him. He smiled, showing teeth that were Hollywood-white. Thank you, Terry. I’m here on the 101 Freeway, where less than an hour ago, protesters had both sides of this freeway blocked, stalling traffic for up to five miles in both directions. A spokesperson for the protesters said they were calling attention to white-on-black police violence, as well as media bias in favor of Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump.

John continued to stare at the television, its glow reflecting off his face. With his solid build, dark hair and classically straight nose, he’d been told more than once in his forty-eight years that he resembled a Roman gladiator.

Jaime Hernandez continued: Tensions flared between motorists trying to get to work and the protesters. Police report one car stolen and at least two dozen cars had their windshields smashed by protesters, who claimed they were exercising their right to peaceably assemble.

A white man in his thirties appeared on screen. Blood dripped from an ugly gash on his forehead. They said they were appropriating my car in the name of black justice, the man said, and then they just drove off with it.

They’re animals, John said.

They’re protesting injustice, Susan Duke called from the kitchen.

John turned his head to the sound of his wife’s voice. A shaft of light shone from the open doorway of the kitchen into the darkened living room and he saw Susan’s shadow move in and out of it. He heard a kitchen cabinet door squeak open and then close with a click, and the sound of running water from the faucet. He turned back to the television as Jaime Hernandez said, Police also report three motorists were pulled from their cars and beaten by the protesters. One male was treated on the scene for minor injuries. The other two, one male and one female, were taken to the hospital and both are reported to be in critical condition. Police say there were no arrests.

They’re animals, John said again.

A glass shattered from the kitchen.

John pointed the remote at the television and turned it off. The black leather chair crinkled underneath him as he shifted his weight, set the remote atop a pile of movie scripts on the table next to him, and rose. His shirt was draped over the back of the chair. He picked it up and slid his arms through the sleeves as he walked to the kitchen.

Susan stood at the sink, rinsing a bloody slice on her finger. Blood from the cut dripped into the cold running water, swirled around the white porcelain basin and disappeared down the drain. Pieces of broken glass lay on the floor behind her.

John bent down to pick up the pieces. Without turning around, Susan said, Don’t! You’ll cut yourself!

He ignored her and picked up the larger pieces. They landed with a clatter in the wastebasket. He took a dustpan and brush from the kitchen closet, swept up the smaller shards of glass, and poured the clinking mess into the wastebasket. When he finished, he replaced the dustpan and brush in the closet. He stood behind Susan and watched her silently. Was this the same woman he had married nineteen years ago?

Her long brown hair still hung down to the middle of her back, the same as when they’d met, and she’d kept her shape, she was only a little thicker in the hips and waist. Nineteen years. For a Hollywood marriage, such as theirs, that was unheard of.

She kept her back to him, shoulders hunched, her eyes focused on the blood seeping out of the gash on her finger. I won’t be here when you get home tonight, she said quietly. She waited for a response, but he gave her none. I’m going to Linda’s. She and Mark are having a party tonight to celebrate the election.

That’s news to me, John said.

She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder. It’s news to you, because you weren’t invited. She turned back to the sink. I’m spending the night there.

John’s eyebrows arched high. He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and stepped back into the living room.

Wait! Susan called. She turned off the faucet, wrapped a paper towel around her finger, and followed him. John, wait! You know she doesn’t want to talk to you.

He stepped deftly around a couch and chair, avoiding her, and dialed a number.

Did you hear me? she said.

Shhh!

Veronica Duke entered from the hallway, followed by her friend, Becky Hagen, both girls dressed in their pajamas and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Veronica had her father’s dark hair and her mother’s green eyes. She flipped a switch on the wall and three lamps and an overhead chandelier filled the room with light. What’s all the shouting about? she said. Her voice was high, almost like a child’s. Together with her diminutive appearance, she looked more like a fourteen-year-old than her real age of eighteen.

Susan turned to Veronica, but said nothing. Becky watched them both curiously. A year older than Veronica, she was soft and round and seven months pregnant, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Susan turned to her with a cold stare. Becky brushed blond hair back over her ear and smiled. Susan turned away.

John held up his hand for silence and spoke into the phone: Hi, Linda. It’s me.

Two miles away, in the living room of her own Brentwood home, Linda Duke-Johnson clutched the house phone close to her ear. She was younger than John, and her hair was lighter, but she shared her brother’s classical features. Behind her a six-foot-long paper sign hung on the wall. It was lettered in crayon by a child’s hand and read HATE FREE HOME. Around the words were hand-drawn pictures of flowers, unicorns and snowflakes. Expensive glass vases filled with flowers stood on a shelf above the sign. More flower-filled vases sat perched on tables around the room. At the sound of John’s voice, lines etched across Linda’s face. What is it? she said, her voice shaky.

Nothing, just heard you were throwing a party tonight.

Linda clutched the phone tighter. It’s not my party, it’s Mark’s.

Oh, it’s Mark’s party.

We didn’t invite you, Linda said, beginning to fan herself with her free hand, because we didn’t think you’d want to come. She shut her eyes, took a breath and said, We’re going to celebrate Hillary’s victory tonight.

I see. And what if Trump wins tonight?

The color drained from Linda’s face. Don’t say that name!

What name?

"That name!"

Trump?

Aaah!

What’s the matter with you? John said. Calm down!

Susan waved a hand in front of her husband’s face and whispered, Don’t you have a meeting to go to?

John motioned at Susan to shut up and turned his back to her.

Veronica plopped down on the couch. Becky eased herself down on the couch next to Veronica. They watched as Susan reached over John’s shoulder and grabbed for his phone. He ducked and pulled away from her. Speaking into the phone, he said, Listen, Linda, I’ve been thinking, I’d really like to go to Mark’s party tonight.

No, Linda said.

Why not?

Because you can’t.

I thought we were above this, John said. I thought our family loyalties came first.

Linda fanned herself rapidly with her free hand. That’s not the issue anymore, John. This isn’t one of your movies. It’s real life, and real life has consequences. You’ve alienated yourself from this family by supporting that man for president, and I don’t want you coming tonight and disturbing my guests.

I thought they were Mark’s guests.

"They’re our guests and you’re not coming. Okay? Now I have to go."

Hold on a second. Susan told me she’s coming tonight, and I know Veronica wants to go.

Veronica waved her hands frantically from the couch. No, I don’t!

Becky looked at Veronica and then back to John.

Well, if Susan and Veronica are both coming, John said into the phone, then I want to come too. I promise I won’t disturb your guests.

Linda’s eyes were closed, her body stiff as a plank. It’s too awkward, John.

Life is awkward.

Look, it doesn’t matter what you say, okay? Your very presence will disturb people.

Why?

You know why.

Because I’m voting for Trump?

Don’t say that name!

Mark Johnson strode into the room and snatched the phone from his wife’s hand. He held the phone to his ear with one hand and stroked his beard with the other. Who is this?

It’s me, Mark, John said.

Linda collapsed on the couch, hyperventilating and fanning her face furiously with both hands. I’m having an anxiety attack!

What did you do to Linda? Mark demanded over the phone.

He said the name! Linda wailed from the couch. He said the name!

I asked her about the party I’m not invited to, John said.

We don’t want anyone coming tonight who isn’t voting for Hillary, Mark explained. It’s just too uncomfortable.

I’m not going to disturb your guests.

I didn’t say you would, but people are very sensitive about this election, and you’ve been very vocal about who you support. This is an inclusive family, okay? We don’t believe in hate in this house. We believe in being inclusive and our party is going to be inclusive.

If your party is so inclusive, John said, why can’t I come?

Oh, I can’t breathe! Linda cried from the couch.

Mark glanced at his wife and spoke harshly to John over the phone. Look at what you’ve done to Linda. She’s having an anxiety attack.

Why? John asked. Because I said the name Trump?

Yes, because you said the name Trump!

Don’t say that name! Linda shrieked from the couch.

Mark shouted into the phone: Dammit, John! Now you’ve got me doing it.

This is retarded, John said.

It’s not retarded, Mark shouted.

Don’t say ‘retarded’! Linda screamed.

The two Johnson children poked their heads into the room from the hall. Four-year-old Amy ran to her mother. Six-year-old Billy stood and watched.

Mommy, do you want some water? Amy asked.

Yes, honey! Yes! Bring Mommy some water!

Amy ran to the kitchen.

Mark lowered his voice and spoke to