Problems with Tolerance

Shawna did not want to talk about tolerance anymore. For one thing, she was back to the same question that had nagged at her in San Francisco: Why was Adolf Hitler wrong and the Allied forces right? Following that train of thought, if all lifestyles and beliefs are equal, as Ms. Carmona insisted, then the Nazis should have been allowed to live out what they believed. If all religious beliefs and truths are equal, then Christians should be allowed to believe that lifestyles condemned in the Bible are wrong. If homosexuals are to be praised for their lifestyle, then straights should be praised for believing homosexuality is wrong. If everyone should have the right to choose, then pro-lifers have the right to believe that abortion is wrong. And yet she knew that Ms. Carmona—and Terilyn, of course— would not agree with those statements. Their logic regarding tolerance still sounded screwy to Shawna, but she did not want to embarrass herself by bringing it up.

For another thing, she did not like where Terilyn's train of thought was leading. Terilyn believed in tolerance for everyone—everyone, that is, except those she considered "narrow-minded," people like Shawna's parents and the people at Shawna's church.

Tolerance vs. Intolerance

Terilyn and Shawna sat in silence for several moments. Terilyn broke the silence, "TV says Bellardi's going to win. You know what'll happen if Bellardi becomes governor?" Terilyn asked. "What?" asked Shawna. "Ms. Carmona and teachers like her who try to teach us how to think for ourselves will have to leave North California. Bellardi won't allow them to teach here and 'pollute' our minds."

Shawna thought for a moment. "That's intolerant," she said finally thinking that's what Terilyn expected her to say. "Shawna," Terilyn exclaimed, "I think you're getting it!" "Getting what?" Shawna asked. "The idea about tolerance. You know, all people are equal, all lifestyles are equal, all truths are equal."

Shawna paused. "Yeah, I get it—at least most of it." Terilyn continued, "What's not to get? When you start firing people because you don't like their lifestyle or their religious beliefs or whatever, you're treating them unequally. You're intolerant. In fact, that's what Juanita Dunsmuir says about your mom's boss: 'A vote for Dan Bellardi is a vote of intolerance.'"

Too Busy for Me

Shawna was still confused about all the things she had heard at the conference in San Francisco, but she was not ready to accept totally what Terilyn and the others obviously already had about tolerance and spirituality. With her mother too busy even to answer her questions, Shawna desperately wished for someone objective to talk to. For the time being she had decided simply to enjoy her friendships with Terilyn without making a commitment on her beliefs one way or the other.

"Where's your mom tonight?" asked Terilyn. "She's home in front of the computer doing campaign stuff." "I thought her job was over after the debates." "She still writes faxes and stuff," Shawna said, the disgust and disappointment obvious in her tone. "And her boyfriend keeps asking her to do more. Like a dope she keeps saying yes." Shawna's disappointment was obvious. "Boyfriend? What boyfriend?" Terilyn asked.

“The campaign manager." "Robert Johnstone?” Terilyn asked.  “I've seen him on TV. He's kinda cute— for an old guy." "Yeah. I think he's got a thing for Mom. He's always calling her about something. I hate it." "I know what you mean," Terilyn answered. "I hate it when my mom gets a new boyfriend."

Too Close for Comfort

Ernie made periodic tours of the house and checked in often by radio with his squad of security guards positioned outside. He could put up with the boredom for three more weeks as long as it meant that Wes Bellardi made it through the election without further incident.

Ernie had just come in from one of his checks around the house and had rejoined Wes. "Hey, look at that," Ernie said, gesturing toward the television. "The latest polls are out. We're pulling farther ahead of the marijuana queen." They watched the figures scroll across the screen. The off-camera political analyst interpreting the data stopped just short of projecting a win for Senator Bellardi. Ernie added, “Apparently the debates woke up some people about what's wrong with legalized drugs and mercy killing and gays being coddled like a minority group."

 Wes did not move from his position on the couch. "I don't know, Ernie," he said. "Eleven percent still undecided. It's too close to call." Ernie shook his head. With all the advantages Wes enjoys, he can sure can be negative sometimes, he mused. The kid will probably find something to worry or gripe about even if the senator wins by a landslide.

Protecting Wes

As much as Ernie Cruz liked young Wes Bellardi and was committed to his protection, serving as his bodyguard was downright boring. Other than what he had to do to fulfill his obligations to his father's campaign, the kid stuck pretty much close to home, sleeping, reading, or watching TV. But Ernie had been appointed as his shadow, and he took his responsibility seriously. On weekdays Ernie drove Wes to headquarters, taking a different route into town each day for security's sake. Then he sat around the office for a few hours until the senator's son had completed his tasks. It was amazing how much reading you could get done in three weeks when there was nothing else to do, he realized.

Weekends were tough. Wes tried every possible excuse to skip the debates, but they seldom worked. His father expected him to be in attendance, "particularly since your mother can't be there. We must present a strong family unit." Wes had grudgingly agreed, and Ernie had accompanied him. Thankfully, to date, there had been no problems, no attacks, and no need for Ernie to test his mettle at defending his longtime friend's only son.

Politics Get Personal

Wes would thank Stevie someday after the election for encouraging and tutoring him. Right now she would be happy just to see a spark of enthusiasm or excitement from the young man. But whenever she was tempted to throw in the towel on Wes, she seemed to hear Dougie challenging her: "Hang in there, Mom. He's just like me. He needs you." No way could she ignore such a plea.

 

If all this were not reason enough to stay with the campaign, there was Robert. Robert was the prototypical North California man: committed, sensitive, principled. His good looks and devastating smile don't hurt any, either, she thought, smiling to herself as she relived their brief ride together to the lake a couple of hours earlier. We even have the same taste in music, she mused. How refreshing to ride in a car with someone who appreciates classical sounds instead of that country twang that Jon's always listening to. As hard as she tried not to, she could not help but wonder what direction their relationship would take—and how far it would go—once the election was over.

Stressed

For the first time since Dougie's death, Stevie found herself tempted to take tranquilizers again. She felt the need for something to serve as a buffer between her and the grinding, incessant pressure of the debate team and the fax bulletins, something to quiet the gnawing guilt over her failures at home and work. Then, of course, there was the constant anxiety fueled by AntiCrist's threats against her candidate, his wife, and particularly their son Wes, who reminded her of her own son who was lost to drugs. She tried not to allow herself even to think about Jon and that felon he had welcomed into her house, but the fear of what could happen nagged at her more than she liked to admit. The temptation to get a prescription for just enough tranquilizers to get her safely past the election was strong, but so far she had been able to resist it.

Robert Johnstone had been a big part of the reason she had resisted. His very presence seemed to exude a strength that infused Stevie with a resolve to see this trying time through— minus tranquilizers—one day at a time. And with each of those passing days, the attraction between Robert and Stevie grew. Where once she felt uncomfortable when he was near, now she found herself missing him when he was not.

Behind the Scene

"All right, Robert, let's have it," Bellardi said, yielding the floor to his campaign director. Without the television makeup, he appeared anemic. What had been predicted to be a cakewalk to the governor's office had turned into a dogfight with the well-financed, well-coached folksinger, Juanita Dunsmuir. Repeated threats and sporadic violent attacks from an elusive terrorist had lined his face with concern and pushed his wife to the brink of an emotional breakdown.

Adding to Bellardi's burden, a recent discovery hinted that stress and fear were not the only causes of Patricia's difficulties. Robert Johnstone had told Stevie privately that Patricia had been diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer's. Senator Bellardi had sworn his inner circle to secrecy and strictly forbade the medical findings from being released until after the election. In public, he remained the picture of confidence and enthusiasm, Stevie had noted. But at times like these she wondered if he would be able to hold it together until the election.

Critical Moment Lost

"Mom, I'm home." Shawna dropped her bag and jacket inside the door and listened for a response. Her mother flashed a "be with you in just a minute" signal. After five minutes, she received an "almost finished" hand signal. This is stupid, Mom, Shawna grumbled to herself. It's Sunday. It's supposed to be family day. Can't you talk to these people later?

Finally her mother was off the phone. "How was it?" she said, swiveling toward Shawna. “Did you enjoy the conference?" It was the perfect opportunity to ask her mother about tolerance. "They talked a lot about being tolerant of other people," she answered tentatively, testing the water. "Being tolerant, that's good, honey," her mom said. Shawna blinked with surprise. "You think tolerance is good?"

Before Stevie could respond, Collin burst into the room. "Mom, I got to level X-fifteen," he chirped excitedly, video game in hand. "You've got to see this," he said, grabbing Stevie by the hand. Shawna began to fume inside at the interruption. She suspected that Collin was just as unhappy as she was about having to share Mom's precious free time. He left in a huff, unable to persuade his mother.

"I didn't think you would approve of tolerance," Shawna said. "If you mean accepting people where they are, of course I approve. That's what the Bible teaches. Jesus loves everybody just the same, and so should we." "But what about—" The telephone cut her off in mid-sentence and Shawna was in no mood to come in second to a brother or an advertising deal or the first governor of North California. She had finally ratcheted up her courage to explore this confusing topic with her mother. It was the kind of heart-to-heart conversation her mother always said she welcomed. So much for mother-daughter intimacy, Shawna thought as she left for Terilyn's apartment without leaving a note . . . she probably won't even notice I'm gone.

Questioning Tolerance

Shawna's brain was overloaded with thoughts and questions and conflicts from her two days in San Francisco. At times during the general sessions and seminars, everything she heard and experienced seemed so logical and exciting. At other times, Shawna wondered if she were the only sane person at the conference.

Where had all this stuff about tolerance and individual values and equal truth and equal lifestyles come from? Not to mention the big interest in ancient religious beliefs and practices. And what did it all mean? Shawna was careful to play along and keep her doubts to herself. To call into question verities clearly unimpeachable to others would have been an act of social suicide. But Shawna had come away confused, especially about the topics Ms. Carmona and Terilyn and the other girls seemed so sure about.

It was time to talk to Mom. She would not tell Mom everything, such as Ms. Carmona being involved in reading horoscopes or her strange beliefs about spirituality and higher powers. Nor would she tell her about the discussions she often had with Terilyn regarding tolerance and truth and spirituality. If she liked what she heard, fine. If not, she could blow it off and believe whatever she wanted.

Safety First

"Dad, I really don't need a bodyguard." Wes was pacing the family room at the ranch as he spoke. His voice was still hoarse from a chest cold. "Of course you do, Weston. This crazy man may try something again. I don't want anything to happen to you," the senator said,  dressed in jeans and ready to head off to another campaign appearance.

Thanks to the quick action of county fire crews, the Bellardi place would be livable during repairs. "Maybe I should just go back to school," Wes conceded. "At least I'd be out of the way." The senator shook his head. "No, Son, that wouldn't do any good. If this AntiCrist person decides he wants to come after you, he can track you down there easily enough. There's work to be done, and we need to maintain a positive family image, especially with your mother ... gone for a while."

Wes's jaw line twitched as he pressed his lips together. "I'm worried about her," he said softly. "Do you think she'll be all right?" Daniel replied, "Your mother will be fine. She just needed some time away. Campaigning is very hard on her." Wes knew there was more to his mother's absence than campaign pressure, but he also knew that, with Mike Bragan in the room, his father would not pursue the subject. Returning to their original topic of conversation, Wes said, "I'm very uncomfortable with someone shadowing me everywhere I go, Dad." Daniel replied, "And I'm very uncomfortable with your being alone. Ernie is a good man. He won't be a burden to you, and knowing he's with you eases my mind when I'm gone." Wes sulked back to his room, knowing the argument was futile to continue.

Inviting the Devil Home

Stevie was astounded to the point of disbelief that Jon had confronted the young hoodlum at County jail and forgiven him to his face. You weren't there, she challenged Jon silently as he told his story, when those bullets exploded through the kitchen window. You didn't crawl over shattered glass in panic to find out if our little boy was alive or dead. Had you been there, Jon, and felt the terror I felt, you might not be so quick to get chummy with the sociopath who tried to kill Collin and me. If anything you should have protested such a short jail sentence.

 The final part of the story left Stevie numb and speechless. Jon had volunteered to serve as a citizen sponsor to someone with a rap sheet frighteningly similar to Eugene's. And now that kid was actually living in the house—her house—with Jon. He slept in one of her beds, ate at her table. It was as if Jon had invited the devil to be his roommate. The only word she could utter at the end of the story was, "Why?" "Because he needs a sponsor and there wasn't anyone else available," he said.

“Actually, I think God wants me to help him," Jon said less defensively. Stevie remained unconvinced. "OK," Jon said, as if playing his trump card, "I'm also doing it because Ben reminds me a little of Dougie. I know that sounds funny since they seem to have little in common other than their age and their slight builds. But there's something ... I don't know, maybe I'm reliving an opportunity I missed." Stevie felt the temptation to gloat rise within her. So you have a Dougie project too, Jon, she thought, knowing she would never say it aloud. But when we finally compare notes on these two young men, you'll discover that a young writer and governor's son has far greater potential for success than a dropout gang member.

Angry at the Perpetrator

Listening to her ex-husband tell about Ben Hernandez and all that had led up to his moving in with Jon, Stevie rolled through a kaleidoscope of feelings. Her initial reaction was that she was glad she had not blurted out something like, "So you're dating again, is that it?" Then she was shocked to learn that Jon had actually gone to jail and visited Eugene Hackett, the young thug who had been involved in both the assault on Jon and the drive-by shooting—indeed, the two events were morbidly connected.

 Stevie's anger about the shooting flared anew at the identification of a culprit. She was incensed that the kid had been let off so easily after what she regarded as two counts of attempted murder. She was also miffed at Jon for withholding from her for almost three months information about Hackett's arrest and incarceration.

Something Else

After a ragged silence on the phone with Stevie, Jon asked, "So, what about Bellardi's wife and kid? Who's taking care of them?" "Patricia is with her mother in Redwood City until the elections," Stevie explained. “Trouble in paradise?" Jon asked. "No, just stress," Stevie explained, parroting the party line.

"And the boy?" Jon asked. "He's a young man, really; twenty years old. Lives at the ranch. I think they assigned a security cop to him yesterday." Stevie was momentarily revisited by her maternal feelings for the boy—he seemed more boy than man to her also—who reminded her so much of Dougie. She decided not to say any more about Wes.

After a pause, Jon spoke with hesitation in his voice. "Steve, there's something else I've been meaning to talk to you about, if you have another minute." "Sure," she answered. "What is it?" From a distant dark corner of her mind, one thought rushed to the front of her brain. Jon has a girlfriend. He's going to tell me he's dating someone. Why else would he sound so tentative about something he's been meaning to talk to me about? He has a lot of nerve saying he's so worried about me and then popping this kind of a surprise on me.

Ex-husband Concerned

Stevie picked up the phone, "Hello," she said, her voice husky from sleep. “It's Jon. Thanks for picking up."  "It's been a killer weekend," Stevie said over a yawn, wincing at the poor choice of adjectives. "I didn't get to bed until one." "It sounds like a war zone up there," Jon said. "I've been a little concerned about the kids' safety—and yours, too, of course. This AntiCrist is a real nut, a loose cannon. Somebody could get hurt." Stevie replied, "He's a crackpot, an amateur. He can't even spell antichrist." "Then why haven't the cops found him?” Jon replied sharply. "Stevie, my concern is, if AntiCrist can get to Bellardi, he can get to you too. I mean, the nut may blow up campaign headquarters or a hotel or an auditorium trying to hurt Bellardi, and you could get hurt or killed—and maybe the kids too. I just don't like it. That's all I have to say."

 

Stevie was flattered at her ex-husband's concern and rather surprised to hear him express it so pointedly.  It occurred to Stevie that no one else she knew had voiced concern for her safety in the wake of AntiCrist's attacks. Hearing someone say with sincerity, "I'm worried about you," warmed her inside. The fact that these words came from her ex-husband—someone who was no longer required to care—made her appreciate them more.

A Different Plan

Jon's houseguest had come into his life as a result—indirectly, at least—of the incident six months earlier, when Eugene Hackett had physically attacked him at the rec center and then peppered the front of his house with a .45. When Jon had spoken to Hackett at the Los Angeles County Jail, he had assumed that the confrontation and subsequent forgiveness would be the end of it. God, however, seemed to have other plans.

Jon was officially notified by the county that Eugene Hackett was being released. The letter also stated that Eugene's home had been foreclosed upon. However, a citizen sponsor had been found, a sort of big brother "to assist Mr. Hackett in returning to the community as a productive citizen." Citizen sponsors, the letter explained, provided safe, positive living environments as well as mature guidance and companionship. The letter closed with an invitation for Jon to let them know of anyone who might be interested in becoming involved in the program.

 

Jon had argued with God about it for several days but his resistance was short-lived in the face of such an obviously God-ordained opportunity. Apart from the intervention of a caring adult, Eugene Hackett would likely be an L.A. gang fatality in a matter of a few years if not months. Jon knew that mercy and compassion were every bit as important to God as justice. Once justice had been served, it was time to exercise love. So Jon had volunteered to become a citizen sponsor. As a result, Ben entered Jon's life.

Not Giving Up

During a press conference at noon on Saturday, Senator Bellardi had made clear his intention to continue the campaign. He was so adamant about not giving up, Stevie had noted while listening, that he seemed to mock the peril facing him and his loved ones. She had never seen such resolve blaze from his eyes before. It had caused her to wonder about the balance of his commitment to family and career. He seemed intent on pushing through to victory at all costs. His goals for North California were important, but were they worth the loss of a wife or a son?

 During the Saturday evening debates on the topics of crime in general and legalized drugs in particular, Senator Bellardi was his confident, articulate self again, as if the fire had never happened. He took his characteristic black-and-white hard line on crime issues and adequately defended his position against Juanita Dunsmuir, who pressed him on the gray areas as she had during the abortion discussion. It was not a resounding victory Stevie had assessed, but she was confident that the senator was inching farther ahead of his challenger in the debates, just as she had hoped. A victory party until midnight had drained the last ounces of Stevie's energy. She fell asleep grateful for a Sunday morning with no responsibilities.

“AntiCrist”

Senator Bellardi had been driven home in the middle of the night to view the fire damage and talk with his security staff. The note from AntiCrist (his spelling) was discovered early Saturday morning. News of another attack, especially one that could have destroyed the senator's home and killed his son and housekeeper, sobered Stevie. Hearing of AntiCrist's threat to purposely hurt someone—particularly someone the senator loved—gripped her with fear.

Even though Robert had made it a point to assure her that Wes had escaped the blaze unharmed, Stevie still had felt moved to call him. When she finally reached him late Saturday morning, her protege was as non-communicative as ever, but Stevie was relieved just hearing his foggy voice. She wanted to implore Wes to quit the campaign and fly back to the university. Whoever AntiCrist was, he was crazy enough and crafty enough to make good on his threats—and Wes might very well be a target. So she urged him to be careful. Every thought of harm coming to Wes reminded her of the tragic overdose that befell her own Dougie.

Exhausted

It had been a grueling weekend for Stevie, not so much physically as emotionally. Though very little of her time had been required by Senator Bellardi and the debate team, Stevie had spent the last forty-eight hours wound tight, ready at a moment's notice to help out as needed. Then for two hours each evening she was on the edge of her chair emotionally during the Bellardi-Dunsmuir debates. Stevie had the sense that each question, each comment, each word uttered on the platform in front of the television cameras bore directly on her future in North California. Every Bellardi gain was a personal gain for Stevie and her children. Every glimmer of a Dunsmuir success felt like a personal defeat.

 Being so close to Robert Johnstone all weekend had also taken an emotional toll on Stevie. Although they had not spent any time alone together, Stevie was constantly aware of his presence. She found herself counting the days until November so that she and Robert could finally begin spending personal time together. Even more taxing to Stevie's emotions this weekend had been the frightening event at the Bellardi ranch.

Fire!

Ernesto "Ernie" Cruz, a high school friend and supporter of Dan Bellardi,  was a California Highway Patrol who took an early retirement from the CHP and formed a security patrol company. His four armed officers were stationed unobtrusively in the darkness around the Bellardi ranch. Once every two hours—the four men checked in on the radio, surveyed their quadrant, and then rotated to new positions. Suddenly, one of the men yelled over the radio, “Fire, Ernie!  Part of the back of the house just lit up like a torch."

Ernie called the county fire district as he ran back toward the house. He was puffing, “You guys look for some garden hoses. I'm going inside to get the kid and the housekeeper out." Wes Bellardi was sick with a cold. The room reeked of cold medicine. Ernie shook the young man, who seemed drugged and helped him mumbling and stumbling out the front door. Then he took off for the housekeeper, who met him whimpering with fear. "Elena, it's a fire, but you're all right," he assured her, then ushered her quickly out the front door to the driveway where Wes sat stunned on the cement. Thanks to the men's quick work, the Bellardi home would be saved and the fire damage would be minimal.

 During the fire crew's mop-up, Ernie Cruz toured the perimeter of the house. Everything was secure except the door from the backyard to the attached garage. The county fire chief told him off the record that arson was a strong possibility. They would later find a single sheet of paper in the tray of the fax machine at Bellardi headquarters,  "The fire was no acident [misspelled]. Belardi [misspelled]must quit north [should be capitalized] California. Next time someone you love will get hurt. AntiCrist [should be antichrist]."