“So, your mother mentioned there’s a boy you’ve been seeing,” he said, as casually and good-naturedly as possible. He expected her to roll her eyes and clam up, but he was surprised to find not a hint of annoyance in her voice.
“His name is Dylan, Dad. He’s a good guy, and I like him a lot.”
“That’s great, sweetie. I’m happy for you.”
“And if you promise to behave,” she said, “I might even bring him home to meet you.”
He grinned and sipped his coffee. It was steaming hot, and it made him realize how cold he was. “How did you two meet?”
“An APS event.”
“APS?”
“You know,” she said. “Americans for a Peaceful Society. Remember I told you I joined up?”
“Oh, the peaceniks . . .” said Morgan, chuckling, He sipped more coffee.
“I think the preferred term is pacifist, Dad,” she said, with an edge of irritation to her voice.
“In the sixties they called them hippies.” He had meant the comment to be good-natured, but he knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time.
Alex scowled. “I guess it would be too much to ask for you to take me seriously.”
Morgan frowned. Things seemed to have taken a turn rather quickly. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“I know what you meant,” she said dryly. “I know how much respect you have for people like—well, people like me, I guess.”
“Of course I respect you, Alex,” he said. “But you have to admit, this whole pacifist thing tends to be a bit . . . unrealistic, don’t you think?” He was trying hard not to anger her, to humor her, this new passion of hers, but he could tell he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. So much for being a master of deception, he thought.
“Dad, do you know what’s happening out there? Do you know how many soldiers are dying in our wars? How many civilians? Just innocent bystanders, at home, going to work or to school? Do you know, Dad, what our government does to terror suspects, many of whom turn out to be innocent?”
He nodded. He wanted to tell her he knew more than she could imagine. He wanted to tell her things he had not only heard about but seen. Instead, he bit his lip and let her continue.
“So maybe APS is a small ripple in a big pond. So maybe I can’t change the world. At least I’m doing something.”
Dan bit down harder, doing his best to keep from saying something he might regret. “Maybe, Alex. But the truth is, there are evil people in this world. People who would much rather you and I and everyone we know be dead. It’s not like we go to war just for the fun of it. The people who make those decisions always weigh everything carefully, to make sure it’s really, absolutely necessary.”
She scoffed. “Right. And even then, it still never seems to solve anything, does it?”
“Isn’t it ironic,” Morgan said, grinning in an attempt to change the tone of the conversation, “that we’re fighting over this?”
One of the eggs in the skillet let out a loud pop. Alex sighed. “How about you go sit down, I’ll bring breakfast in a minute, and we’ll forget I ever mentioned anything?”
It may not have been much, but it was a peace offering of sorts. Morgan took it as an opening. “Truce, then?”
“Truce.”
“Hey, listen,” he said. “I was saving this until after breakfast, but, you know, the Bruins are playing at the Garden this Friday. I thought you might like to go, too.”
“Yeah, Dad,” she said, with a measure of genuine excitement in her voice, though still tempered with her irritation. “I’d love to.” Sports had always been their bond; whatever the arguments between them, this common ground brought them together. He wondered if it would be enough as she grew older and drifted further and further away. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he would do anything for her happiness.
“Okay, then,” he said instead, and he turned to walk into the dining room. The table was set for breakfast for two, the silverware slightly askew but with pretensions of luxury, like linen napkins clumsily folded into fans, and a copy of the Boston Globe sitting neatly next to his plate. What a sweet kid, he thought, even if she was a little misguided by her own naivety. He sat heavily into the chair, relieving his knees with a sigh, and shivered at the chill of his damp shirt against his skin as he leaned back.
He picked up the paper and flipped through to the National section, which had a long piece on Lana McKay, an up-and-coming senator from Ohio who was making waves in Washington. A fresh face in politics, she had been catapulted into the national spotlight in the past year by her powerful appeals to ethics and political reform. She was bold, had a reputation for getting things done, and had emerged as a presidential hopeful in the next election. Morgan knew well how political fads came and went, and he knew even better that politicians sang a radically different tune inside their cabinets than they did to the press. But even he thought there might be something to this one.