Chapter 3

“I’ll call you back,” Henry said to his wife, dismissing the call without waiting for her response.  “Hey,” he shouted to the bartender, “could you please turn one of these to a news station?” he said, pointing his finger at the wall of screens above the bar.  The urgency in his voice sent a ripple through the lunchtime diners, causing everyone in the bar to turn their attention first to Henry, then to the bartender.

The tall slender young man scrambled to find the remote control for the bar’s satellite system.  As far as he could remember, no one had ever turned the televisions from their various sports channels.  Once he found a remote, he began pressing the changer both up and down, pointing it to the different corners of the bar, hoping to eventually find it’s matching receiver.

The bar patrons now sat quietly; their gazes quickly shifting from screen to screen, to the bartender, to Henry, then back to the screens.  All had done their best to hold the belief that the violence in the city was a temporary state.  Henry’s demand brought their fears back to the surface.

After 15 seconds of scrambling, the large screen in the rear began to change one channel at a time.  “Channel 45.” Someone shouted off to Henry’s right.  The bartender quickly keyed in 45.

There appeared to be a panel discussing something.  The byline read Washington D.C.  A red banner was plastered across the bottom of the screen with white letters reading “SPECIAL ALERT.”

“Get the sound on.” Someone else shouted.  Play-by-play of a European soccer game corresponding with one of the screens in front of the bar continued to drone on.  The bartender scrambled below the bar to find another remote.  He resurfaced holding two, clicking buttons wildly in different directions.  Patrons looked impatiently to the front of the bar and to the rear screen with the news report.  They cut to a correspondent in front of what appeared to be an empty airport security check point.

Suddenly the play-by-play audio was replaced by a cooking show.  The bartender dropped one of the remotes and quickly keyed in 45 on the remaining.  “…..at 12:15, Eastern Time.” The correspondent finished midsentence.  “There is no word from representatives when the strike is expected to end.  We have off-the-record reports that we are looking at days rather than hours.”

“Thank you Keith,” the anchor said.  “We’ve been told the President will make an appearance in the press room shortly.  We will be prepared to break away for that.  Charles,” he said, turning his attention to the analyst sitting beside him, “what are we to make of this?”

“This is troubling. This is troubling” the analyst repeated, buying himself time to gather his thoughts.  “In the past two months this country has seen the bankruptcy of 15 cities with populations greater than 100,000.  Hundreds with smaller populations have also sought bankruptcy protection.  In efforts to avoid insolvency, Los Angeles, Denver, Atlanta and Detroit have all cut civil service pay to federal minimum wage.  We’ve seen the result of that.  The workers have, for the most part, walked off the job.”

“But what’s left to do?”  He continued.  “There is no money to pay these people.  The cities have borrowed to their limits.  They can’t print money like the federal government.  There is just nowhere to turn.”

“But what is extremely unsettling is the organization of this response.” He continued in measured sentences, “It appeared overnight across the country.  Claiming benevolence, but teaming with violence and intimidation.”  He removed his glasses and stroked his right temple with his free hand.  “I believe the government has underestimated the ability of these groups to organize.  I believe they have underestimated the effectiveness of these new forms of communication.  I think we were getting used to the nearly perennial appearance of these protests, generally harmless.  We’ve faced these economic issues before.  Perhaps not to this extent, but this response snuck up on us.  Long term, I’m not exactly…..”

“I’m sorry Charles,” the host interrupted his analyst, “we are getting word the President is about to speak.”  The screen switched from the anchor desk to a view of the Presidential podium in the White House press room.  “The press is assembled.” The anchor said, filling in the silence.  “We are expecting the President any moment now.  Looks like we are holding on for a moment.  That might have been a false alarm.  Any way Charles, you were saying?”

“I was saying, I’m not exactly sure what the end game of this is.  In an election year, the President will certainly have to walk a thin line.  He obviously cannot be dismissive of what has occurred.  Much of this movement is his base, but certainly not a majority.  He cannot lose the center.  He cannot write off the moderate vote.  He needs it desperately.”

“Will he force an end to the strikes?  Will he bring in the national guard to fill in for the absence of police presence?” the analysis asked rhetorically.

The shot remained of the press room.  The bar patrons continued to poke at their meals robotically, eyes fixed on the large screen above the bar.  Members of the press corps milled around in front of the camera.  Men frantically placed recording devices near the front of the room, and then quickly retreated to their assigned seats.

“He might, but these are not all government employee unions.  Obviously, these people are free to assemble.  It will be difficult to sort out the peaceful protestors from those who are looking to cause trouble.  He could flex some muscle, but again, he needs to walk a thin line.”

“Oh, here we go,” the anchor jumped in excitedly, cutting off the analyst again.

At the left of the screen, the President emerged from the hallway and walked to the podium.  The sound of clicking of shutters and the whir of recording equipment filled the background.  There was no pomp and circumstance to this appearance.  The President was all business. 

He placed a few pages on the podium and shuffled through them while the press and the world waited for him to speak.  He fidgeted briefly then looked up regarding the crowd of reporters.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began haltingly.  “what initially began as a general strike yesterday in Los Angeles has now developed into a nationwide movement.”

Los Angeles? Henry thought to himself.  He largely ignored the news while he was at his in-laws cabin, but he thought he might have heard something about problems on the west coast before now.

“Our nation has a long, very healthy tradition of respect for our labor movement.” The President continued.  “Our nation understands that this tradition of organized labor has guaranteed generations of working men and women a place in our democracy.  Without organized labor,” he continued, looking down at his notes briefly, and returning his wizened gaze to the camera, “our economy would collapse under the demanding plutocratic rule of big money and corporate interests.”

Henry worked hard to process the lead up to what seemed to be a very concerning announcement. 

“For that reason, my administration will not act to disrupt this exercise of our most basic rights.  My administration will respect this strike.”

“Is he fucking nuts?!” a man one table over exclaimed. 

Another man in the rear of the bar stood and began to clap slowly.  A man at his table turned, looking incredulously at his friend, asking in disbelief, “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s about time we finally stood up to these corporations,” the standing man shouted angrily at his friend. 

Annoyed at the disruptions, Henry turned back to look at the apparent friends, now locked in a heated argument.  He turned back to the screen and attempted to absorb the President’s words.

“We have been informed by strike leadership in New York that they will be prepared to commence negotiations in 48 hours.  My administration will meet with organizers and assess their demands.  It is our intention to use this opportunity to help usher in a new, more equitable economy.  Although this process may result in some inconveniences, it is our sincere hope we will emerge a stronger, more just nation.  We will not squander this opportunity.” He stated with conviction looking almost straight through the television set into Henry’s eyes.  Henry shuddered.  “We will not return to injustice.  We will not back down from our duty to history.” The President concluded, folded his few sheets of paper, ignored the jabbering press corps and return to his sanctuary.

Henry frantically fumbled for his phone.  He punched his wife up on speed dial and held the phone to his ear, ignoring the explosion of conversation around him.  Jeff sat across the table from Henry, staring at the television in amazement.

“Karen?” Henry said frantically.

“Did you see that?” she asked. 

“Was it on in the airport?”

“Yes.  What do I do?  48 hours?”

“Karen, get to a car rental company quickly.”

“I did that an hour ago.  They left already.”

“How about a taxi?”

“Nope.  No busses, no taxis, no rentals.  Nothing.”

“What about Tom?  Have you called him?”

“Good idea.  He’s gonna be pissed, but what else can I do?”  Henry heard a click on the line.  “Oh,” she chirped happily, “he’s calling me now.  Can you hold on?”  His line went dead.

“Jesus Henry, this is not good.” Jeff said, slowly shaking his head side to side.  Henry did not respond.

“Okay,” Karen was back on the line.  “He’s coming to get me.  I guess I’ll just hang out here.  I won’t be back until very late.  I’ll call mom.”

“Be careful Karen. I love you.”

“Be careful?” Her voice cracked slightly in response to her husband’s admonition.

“Leave me at the shop.  I’ll take care of everything there.  You get home to Lisa and the kids.  Please make sure Lisa got Max this morning.”  Henry sat in the passenger seat of Jeff’s company truck.  He was scrolling through emails on his phone.  The correspondence varied between customers cancelling, and inquiring whether McRoss was going show up.

“Are you sure.  I want to get home, but I don’t want to dump you with the shop.  I assume we’re taking a few days off until this gets wrapped up?”  Jeff asked.

“I’m not taking our equipment out again.  Doesn’t sound like Atlanta has any police protection.  I don’t know what’s going on in any of the suburbs.   I think we had enough fun yesterday, true?”

“True.” Jeff conceded.  “Are you just getting the guys at the shop organized and heading home?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing else?  You’re not going out anywhere else are you?  Karen will kill me if I let you do anything other than get your ass home.”  Jeff scolded his older brother-in-law.

“Nothing else.”

As they pulled into the parking lot in front of the shop, Jeff stopped the truck and let Henry out at the front door.  “See you tonight.” Jeff said.

Henry gave a dismissive waive and shut the truck door. 

The shop was situated on an industrial lot just off of McFarland Parkway.  It was a steel building, painted white with a large dark blue sign bearing the name McRoss in their signature gold letters.  There was a small blacktop parking lot in front of the building with a gravel drive on the north side of the building leading to a rear gravel lot.  Under the company sign was an industrial door leading to the front offices, which took up two stories at the front of the building.  There were windows in each of the offices overlooking the front lot.  Jeff and Henry occupied the two offices on the first floor just off the small lobby.  All other office staff, bookkeeping, sales, etc. shared a common space above them.  Henry and Jeff’s offices each had a window and a door directly attached to the large rear shop.  There was also a hallway between the shop and the front lobby. 

As Henry entered the lobby he could hear raised voices in the shop.  He walked through the lobby to his office and looked through the back window.  There was a group of his men huddled near the large overhead door at the rear.  They seemed to be engaged in a very heated exchange. 

Henry prided himself on the great team he had assembled.  Each and every one of them put in a full day’s work.  He was quick to recognize toxic personalities, and eliminated them from his employ quickly.  The McRoss team worked well together with very little conflict.  For that reason, he was surprised to come upon what appeared to be a very aggressive argument.

Marcus Tanner was a 19 year old high school graduate from Cumming.  He joined McRoss last summer following his graduation.  When he joined the company he was living with his parents.  His pregnant girlfriend Christy was then still a junior.  She lived with her parents, also in Cumming.  Within one year after starting with McRoss, Marcus had been promoted to crew chief, found an apartment in Alpharetta and married Christy.  With the exception of the day his son was born, Marcus never missed a day of work.  He would have worked through the birth of his son, had Henry not insisted. 

Marcus was a great employee, and Henry admired his drive.  He knew Marcus would not be satisfied to remain a crew chief.  Henry thought with some experience, he would make a very good salesman for McRoss.

But now, Henry could see the young man uncharacteristically aggressive, voice raised, finger pointing at some unknown target.  Henry opened the door and walked through.  “Marcus” he shouted, to no effect.  “Marcus!” he yelled as loud as he could. 

The crowd was immediately quiet as all heads turned to see Henry marching toward them.  “Mr. McRoss?” Marcus said with both surprise and relief. 

“Mr. McRoss?” said a slightly deeper voice from behind the crowd of his men.  The voice brought chills down Henry’s spine.  He exploded in a cold sweat.  He couldn’t place the voice, but it triggered an immediate Pavlovian response.  Henry stopped midway across the shop, and craned his head looking through his employees to make contact with the eyes that fit that voice.  He could see movement in the group of men, as one forced his way from the rear of the crowd. 

Out of his employees emerged a very bad memory.  The stocky thug from Mitchell Street gave Henry an evil grin.  “Mr. McRoss.”  He said again, this time taunting, like a cat with new-found prey.  “So I think you and I have met.  I didn’t realize you were the ‘big guy’.”

“You know this guy Mr. McRoss?” Marcus piped up from over the thug’s right shoulder.

After a brief hesitation, Henry suddenly realized the guy was on his turf, surrounded by his men.  His demeanor eased a bit, and he resumed his slow pace to the rear of the shop.  Henry observed another man in a suit and tie struggling through the group to stay near the thug. 

“Hey, looks like your face messed up my boot,” the stout man said with an evil smile, pointing at Henry as he chuckled.  “I had to hose your blood off when I got home.  Thanks a lot.  You know you guys almost ran over one of my friends.”

“I’m glad to see you again.” Henry said, now with the confidence his majority status gave him.  “I was wondering if I was going to be able to find you guys again,” Henry continued toward the man, extending his hand in feigned courtesy.  “I’m sure the police will be interested to meet you as well.  And your name is?” he ask, leaving the sentence to be completed by the thug.

“Ericson.  Joey Ericson.”  He ignored Henry’s extended hand of mock friendship.  “What police?  I am the police.”

Henry considered his words.  “You know, I wouldn’t consider you a very bright man, coming down here.”  Henry’s eyes scanned his men, non-verbally communicating that Ericson was greatly outnumbered here in Henry’s shop.

“I’m not concerned,” Ericson said, lifting his t-shirt slightly to expose the grip of a handgun.  “So you’re the boss, huh?”  He continued,  “I didn’t know that yesterday.  Interesting.”  Ericson rocked back on his heels surveying the shop, taking in every corner, and all its contents.  “So, one truck, one lift, the trailer ain’t much of a trailer anymore either.  Lot of good stuff in here still.  You keep a clean shop.”

“Can I help you Mr. Ericson?”  Henry asked, his frustration evident in his tone.

“You take good care of your equipment, but not so much your people.”

“Listen, you asshole,” Marcus stepped toward Ericson.

“Hold on Marcus,” Henry stepped to Ericson’s side and extended his left arm to block Marcus.  “Hold it.  Stop.  Let me deal with this guy.”

Ericson turned toward Marcus.  “Listen little boy, shut up sit back and let the adults talk.”

Marcus looked at Henry, nodded, and receded back to his place next to his coworkers.

“Mr. McRoss?” said the man in the suit, quickly stepping toward Henry.  “My name is Anthony Renovitch.  I represent Mr. Ericson’s organization,” he said, extending his hand toward Henry.

“Which is?”  Henry asked, this time ignoring Renovitch’s courtesy.

“EJC, Economic Justice Collective.  We are made up of several NGOs, non-profits, workers organizations.  We work with these groups to ensure fair representation of the lower and middle classes in the economic power structure.  We act as a coordinator for these various groups.  We make sure there is a good use of resources, no duplication in their efforts.  You know,” he continued with a smile, “we organize people.”

“Whatever,” Henry spat dismissively.  “Get to your point.  What are you doing here?”

“After your altercation with our grassroots volunteers yesterday, Mr. Ericson alerted me that your employees may not have proper representation, and….”

“And you wanted to come down here and get your pound of flesh,” Henry interrupted.  “Get the hell off my property,” his voice raised as he pointed to the rear door.  “Get the hell out of here and do not come back.”

 “I’m sorry Mr. McRoss,” Renovitch continued.  “We are conducting a survey today.  We will have our vote tomorrow.  We are not going anywhere.  Now if you will just instruct your men to cooperate we can get this done and let you all get back to work today.”

“No one here is cooperating with you.  Get the hell out of here before I remove you myself,” Henry said sternly.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me Mr. McRoss.”  Renovitch said without moving.  “We will leave when we are ready.”  He turned his back to Henry and faced the group of employees.  He pulled a small stack of papers from a folder and extended them to the gathered men.  “If you will please each take one and answer each question to the best of your ability.”

Henry took three steps to Renovitch and shoved him toward the rear door.  Renovitch caught himself, but the forms slipped from his hands, scattering on the pavement of the shop floor.

Ericson lifted his shirt and removed his weapon, pointing it at Henry’s face.  “Do it again,” he challenged. 

Henry grimaced, considering his options.  He stared at Ericson trying to size up his intent.  After an extended standoff, Henry reluctantly turned and walked back to his office.

Renovitch was on his knees, gathering up forms.  Henry’s employees turned away from Renovitch and Ericson, slowly retreating to their respective tasks.  Marcus stood next to Renovitch watching him reorganize the papers.  “This survey will help us help you,” Renovitch shouted to the retreating men.  “Like it or not, there will be a vote tomorrow.  It is better that you are informed.  It’s better if you complete these surveys.”

“Some people are too stupid to be helped,” Ericson taunted loudly, waving his pistol wildly in the air.  “How about you?” he chided Marcus, returning his gun to his waistband.  “Smart enough to take what’s been taken from you?”

Marcus briefly stared down Ericson then turned to follow his boss to the office.

“See you tomorrow boys,” Ericson taunted his prey.  “See you all here.  9:00 a.m..”  He chuckled, retreating through the large overhead door with his suited-cohort.  

Marcus found Henry seated at his desk on the phone.  He gave him a quizzical look.

“I’m calling the police,” Henry said, answering Marcus’ eyes.

“Are there any?”

“We’re going to find out,” he answered.  “Oh,” Henry quipped, pleased to hear someone pick-up at the other end of the line.

“911,” the lady said, followed by a brief pause, “What is your emergency?”

“Great,” Henry continued.  “I was worried there for a second.”

“How can I help you sir?” the lady asked with some impatience in her voice.

“This is Henry McRoss on McFarland.  We’ve got some problems over here today.  I need an officer to stop by and remove some trouble makers from my property.”

“What happened sir.”

“Two gentlemen are in my shop.  One has a gun,” he continued, “maybe the other one does too, I don’t know.” 

“Have they discharged the firearm?”

“No ma’am.”

“So there are no injuries?”

“No ma’am.  I just need an officer to come by and have these people removed.”

“Do you know who these people are?” The dispatcher continued.

“One’s named Ericson and the other was some Russian sounding name.”

“He was a Russian?”

“No ma’am, just a Russian sounding name.  He is an American.  Well I think he is.  Is someone coming?”

“No one has been injured?”

“Not yet,” Henry answered curtly.  “Are you going to send an officer?”

“I’m sorry sir, you are calling from Alpharetta?” she asked her equipment.  “Yes you are.  I’m sorry sir, there are no Alpharetta patrols today.  At what time did the altercation begin?”

“What do you mean there are no patrols?”

“Alpharetta is on our log-only schedule.”

“What exactly is a ‘log-only schedule’” Henry asked, adding air-quotes for the benefit of no one in particular.

“This week there will be no officers in your community.  We are only logging incidents, and if there is time when we have personnel available an officer will follow-up with you.  What time did this incident occur?”

“But Alpharetta isn’t bankrupt, is it?”

“We are following a regional directive sir.  Based on some issues with other municipalities, the metro counties have taken over direction of law enforcement,” the dispatcher continued dispassionately.

“So our police are in Atlanta fighting the riots?” asked Henry, exasperated with the response he was getting.

“No sir, today your officers are in Fairburn.  There should be some coverage by the middle of next week.”

“So what’s the point of talking to you?”

“Well sir,” she continued patiently, “you can give us some details of the incident and the officers will investigate when coverage is returned to your area.”

Ericson was right, Henry thought to himself, he was the police.  “Thanks, but I don’t think you’ll be able to help.”  Henry hung up the phone.

Marcus was standing patiently across the desk from Henry.  “What’s going on sir?”

“I was kind of afraid of this, but it looks like we don’t have any police in this city.” 

Henry stood and walked through the shop doors.  Marcus followed closely behind him.  “Listen up everybody,” he shouted to his men.  Ericson and Renovitch had apparently left the property.  “Anybody in the yard?” he asked the assembling men.  “Bring them in here.  I want everyone to hear this.”  A couple men scrambled out through the overhead doors to assemble the men working in the gravel lot out back.  Marcus ran upstairs to alert the office staff that the boss was calling an urgent meeting.

Henry waited for the flow of people to stop.  There were about 25 laborers surrounding him.  The five office girls came out through the lobby following Marcus.  When everyone settled, Henry began.  “That’s everyone, right?  No one is out on jobs?” He asked the assembled employees.

“Just Jeff,” one of the office girls answered.

“So, if you hadn’t figured it out yet,” Henry began, “that fat mouthy SOB was one of the guys who attacked Jeff and me yesterday.  Who talked to him?” Henry watch several hands go up.  “What did they tell you guys?”

“They told us they were going help us transfer the company to employee-owned.”  Steve Kohn, a forty-something employee spoke up from Henry’s left side.

“What?” Henry laughed in disbelief.

The other employees turned to Steve, deferring to him and his tenure with the company to communicate the full story to their boss.  “He didn’t tell us he was the guy who beat you up.  He just came in and said he and that other guy could help us make the company employee-own.  He said if we worked with them we could take the place over.”

“How the hell….?  What are they talking….?”  Henry stumbled around trying to make sense of the story.  “What’s the vote he was talking about?” finally settling on a question.

“He said the survey was first.  That was to assess the company’s fairness in use of assets, whether we’re paid enough as a percentage of your profits as stated in your tax records,” Steve paused for a moment, then continued uncomfortably.  “He had those with him.  Nobody looked though boss.  He wanted to show ‘em, but nobody looked.” 

Henry scanned his employees, and all shook their head somberly, yet vehemently.

Steve continued on with the story.  “He said after the surveys were reviewed, they would determine if our company qualified.  They said there was a new program that could force you to sell.  They had money to fund our purchase and said we could pay them back out of the profits.  That’s what they said the vote was for tomorrow.  They said you couldn’t stop the vote.”

Henry silently surveyed his troops.  He debated how to proceed.  He believed that his employees were happy with him as their boss and would remain loyal.  He thought he treated everyone fairly, but recognized it was impossible to know for sure.

The silence eventually became uncomfortable to the point Marcus could no longer be contained.  “We wouldn’t do that Mr. McRoss,” he blurted out.  A flurry of muffled assents quickly followed.

“That’s what was going on when you came in,” Steve continued.  “We were telling them to take a hike.  The guy never showed us the gun until you came.  Shit, Ted just about jacked the guy,” he chuckled, indicating to his coworker on the other side of the assembled employees.  “Glad he didn’t.”  Everyone chuckled, imagining to themselves how nice it would have been to see Ted stomp on the bully that beat up their boss, yet thankful he didn’t do anything rash.  Ted pantomimed wiping sweat from his brow.

“Well you say you don’t want to work with those guys,” Henry began, “but I don’t want to have any ambiguity about where we all stand.  I don’t know what rules they are operating under.  I don’t know if they can do what they claim they can.  I’ve never hid the fact from you guys that I am proud of what I did here,” he said, placing a great deal of emphasis on “I”.  “I’ve never pretended that I don’t make a lot of money.  I do.”  He paused again, considering his next words.  “But this is my company.  I worked hard for this company, and started it from nothing.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate every bit of work you guys do, but I think I show you that by paying you well.”  He turned to his right and demurred, “well I think I pay you well.  You all seem to stick around.”  The gathered employees let out a collective good natured laugh at their boss.  They knew he paid well, and they respected the fact that he was never hesitant to get his hands dirty with them. 

“Although I can assume I’m doing good by you, I can’t know it for sure.”  He paused, thinking again about his next words.  “I’m gonna assume that if you want to vote to steal my company from me, those guys are going to be very pleasant and very helpful to you tomorrow.”  He briefly looked around the room, trying to read into the eyes of his people.  “If, on the other hand you want to tell these guys to get lost, I think it is going to be very ugly for all of us.”

“There’s no way…….” Steve piped in, and was quickly interrupted by his boss.

“Hold on,” Henry held the palm of his hand up to Steve to silence him.  “If they want a vote, we’ll have a vote, but we do it on our terms, not theirs.  Anyone who wants to do what these guys are suggesting, raise your hand right now.”

The room was silent.  All heads slowly turned from side to side as coworker cautiously locked eye with coworker.  Man to man, to office staff, to laborer, they peered at each other, confident there would be no raised hands, but fearful of any unexpected crack in loyalty.

Henry waited, giving his people ample opportunity to weigh their options.  “And those that want to continue as we have?”

In response, all hands were raised.

“Great,” Henry announced, “then none of us are going to want to be here tomorrow.  911 dispatch told me there is no police protection in the city.  I’ve got no idea what’s going on.  Who has family at home right now?”  Henry saw several hands go up.  “Okay, you guys get out of here.  The rest of you, please stick around and help me batten down the hatches here.”

“We are closed until next Wednesday.”  He started to walk to the yard to begin securing the property.  “One more thing,” he shouted to get everyone’s attention.  Please check with Kim to make sure she has your most current phone numbers.  If things don’t get sorted out, we may be off more than a week.  Kim, put that list on my desk before you leave.  And call the other shifts and tell them what’s going on.  You guys,” he said pointing at the Marcus and two other coworkers, “start organizing in here.  Everything in the yard has to fit in here before we leave.”

Lilly Grant stared intently at the large puzzle pieces scattered across the coffee table.  She bounced up and down and hummed to herself as she considered how they all fit together.  Two and a half years prior, Jeff and Lisa Grant adopted Lilly with the help of an agency near Birmingham Alabama.  Lilly’s birth mother was 17 years old at the time.  The identity of Lilly’s birthfather was unknown, or at least that is what the birthmother claimed.

During the first year of their marriage, Jeff and Lisa held off having any children.  Lisa wanted to be a stay-at-home-mom, and Jeff whole-heartedly approved.  In order to do that, they knew Jeff had to reach a point in his career where he could support the entire family.  Luckily for the couple, Jeff excelled at McRoss much as McRoss excelled in the market.  After their second year of marriage, they were both ready for the transition.

Unfortunately, after two years of trying, nothing happened.  Lisa became dispirited, and Jeff could only console her.  They tried procedure after procedure, to no success.  Eventually they recognized that if parenthood were a role they were meant to play, they would have to accomplish it through adoption.

On Lilly’s arrival, any doubts the couple had about their ability to welcome the new addition to the family were quickly allayed.  Lilly immediately captured her adoptive parent’s hearts and each member of her extended adoptive family.

She had deep brown irises that blended nearly completely with her pupils.  Her eyelashes were cartoonish in length, elegantly curled to perfection.  She had perfectly smooth mocha skin.  And almost from the day they held her, she seemed to bare a perpetual, calm loving smile.

When Lilly heard the garage door open, she lifted her head from her task and cheerfully exclaimed, “Daddy!”

Jeff met her in the kitchen, coming to one knee for his welcome-home hug.  “Daddy,” she said matter-of-factly, continuing on with complete gibberish that obviously meant something to her.  She gesticulated and pointed in varying directions, telling a very complex which was completely lost on her father.

“You’re kidding?” Jeff asked, responding with as much importance as she infused into her incomprehensible report of the day’s activities.  “Give me a kiss?” he cheerfully asked.

“No,” she answered coyly.

“Then I’ll steal one,” he playfully warned.  Jeff lifted her in the air, tickling her midsection as she writhed and giggled uncontrollably.  “Come on, give me a kiss,” he chided.

“What are you doing home?” his wife asked as she entered the kitchen.

Jeff lowered Lilly and shifted her over to his right hip.  “Did you watch any news today?”

“Nope.  Hey, Max is out there peeing all over my rose bushes.  When is Hen coming to pick him up?” she complained while organizing the daily mail on the marble countertop.

“I don’t know.  Soon.  The news, did you watch it yet today?”

“I said no, what’s up?” She set down the mail and looked at Jeff.

“It’s getting weird out there.  Apparently a lot of things are shut down.  Did you hear from Karen?”

“No, why?” she asked, concern suddenly entering her voice.

“No flights today.  Henry said she’s stuck in Minneapolis.”

Lisa grabbed her purse from the kitchen table, removed her cell phone and punched up her sister’s number. She paused for a moment.

“Hi Lisa,” Karen answered.

“Karen!  Where are you?”

Jeff set Lilly on the kitchen floor and walked to the sliding glass door to watch Max digging up his wife’s flower bed.

“I’m still in Minneapolis.  Tom is on his way.”

“What happened?” Lisa asked her sister, ignoring Jeff standing at the window with all the information she sought.  He opened the door and headed out into the garden to try to cover up the evidence.  He shooed the young lab out of the dirt and tried to conceal the hole by wood chips over it with his boot.

“Jeff,” a concerned Lisa emerged from the kitchen sliding glass door.  “the power just went out.”  She was holding her cellphone up for Jeff to see.  “I lost Karen.”