Agoraphobia

Day 4781 (Deeds Darker Than The Blackest Night)

It was over three years after Uncle Peter's death, and I was still not completely comfortable in my role as community leader. However, I didn't let my discomfort show. Instead, I did my best to project an air of confidence I didn't always feel.

For the last three years, Nichole and Beth had been lobbying for change. And during that time I had learned there was no such thing as a humble opinion. 

Beth, for example, wanted me to repeal the Freedom From Religion law to allow for the teaching of "Christian values" to children. I told her, "I'll consider it.", which was my tactful way of saying "Hell no!". The last thing I wanted was a bunch of little Jeannies running around, setting fires.

The strongest advocate of change was Nichole. She wanted democratic voting implemented immediately and the voting age limit reset to eighteen. Nichole had mellowed significantly over the years. In fact, I considered her a friend, despite the fact we saw very different futures for our community.

Nichole wasn't the only one who wanted democratic voting implemented sooner. Even Grandpa Kevin supported the idea. But Uncle Peter had written into law that democracy was to be implemented "twenty years after the peak", only seven years away. I'd no intention of changing that. But I wanted to be diplomatic. That's why Nichole, Beth, and I were sitting on the couch together, talking about the age limit. It was July 5th. The weather was hot, but a cool breeze was blowing through the house.

"Why won't you consider restoring the age limit to eighteen?" asked Nichole.

"Why are you opposed to literate people under eighteen voting?" I countered. "Why should your opinion matter, while a seventeen-year-old's does not?"

"That's a ridiculous question." huffed Beth, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"I don't think so. Why deny the right to vote to young people?"

"Adults are more intelligent than children," reasoned Nichole. "As a result, adults vote more wisely than children. That's why only adults were allowed to vote before the peak."

I twisted my mouth into a skeptical knot. "Were uneducated adults allowed to vote before the peak? Were mentally handicapped adults? Were the senile? Were illiterates? Of course they were. The age restriction had nothing to do with 'intelligence'."

"I see." she said not seeing. "Then why do YOU think there was a eighteen-year age limit?"

"For the same reason women, blacks, and non-land owners were (at one time) not allowed to vote... It was a method of oppressing a powerless minority by keeping them powerless."

"Apples and oranges, Samber," countered Nichole. "Besides, what do you care if the age limit is restored to eighteen? You're not under eighteen."

"Even though I'm not gay, I still care about gay rights. Even though I'm not a minority, I still care about minority rights."

"This stupid conversation is getting us nowhere," protested Beth.

"I don't know what to say," I said, knowing exactly what to say. "I'd agree if you were right."

Just then, Uncle Peter's eight-year-old son, Odo, came into the room. He was followed closely by Kim, who was twenty-one at the time, and Grandpa Kevin, who was carrying Odo's school bag. I seized gratefully on the interruption.

"Well, hello, Odo!" I called out to the boy. "I've not seen you all morning."

For reasons I couldn't have guessed at the time, Odo hid himself behind Grandpa Kevin. Kim, I noticed, looked strangely concerned. And Grandpa Kevin's face was utterly blank.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

Kim shot Grandpa Keven an intense look.

Several beats passed by in silence. The delay grew noticeable.

If the answer was "no", it was too late to sound convincing.

"No," answered Grandpa Kevin at last. He clasped his hands behind his back in a rigid pose. "Nothing is wrong." His voice was as inscrutable as his face. "A personal issue has come up, and the three of us need to speak to you privately."

"Is Odo in trouble?" asked Beth.

"No, nothing like that," responded Grandpa Kevin evenly, his poker face still firmly in place. "We just need to speak privately with Samber." At first glance, he appeared normal. But when I looked closely, I could see an almost imperceptible hint of tension around Grandpa Kevin's eyes. I suspected something was TERRIBLY wrong.

"All right," I shrugged. "Let's go to your bedroom."

"Ellis's bedroom on the top floor would be more private."

"Fine," I agreed with a raised eyebrow.

I followed Grandpa Kevin, Kim, and Odo up the stairs to the third floor. Great-Uncle Ellis was on his bed, reading.

"Ellis," said Grandpa Kevin flatly to his brother. "I need you to wait in the hall and guard the door."

"Why?" miffed Ellis, slightly annoyed with being shooed out of HIS room.

"Don't be fucking difficult! Just do as you're told!" Grandpa Kevin's poker face dropped away, revealing a troubled man, seething with barely contained anger. "Just... just... please... wait out in the hall, Ellis. Guard the door, and please don't let anyone eavesdrop." Grandpa Kevin raked fingers through his hair with a shaky hand. "I'll explain everything later."

"Okay, Kevin," replied Great-Uncle Ellis, worry lacing his voice. "I'll be in the hall if you need me." He left the room and closed the door carefully, so there was barely a click.

I turned on Grandpa Kevin, "What in the FUCK is going on?!"

Grandpa Kevin let out a long sigh as he sat himself in a chair. "Odo was playing hide and seek earlier today. While hiding under a bed he discovered a loose floorboard. Underneath, he found a locked diary. He broke the lock and read the diary."

"I'm sorry," blurted out Odo. "Please don't be mad."

Kim placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "What you did is not a big deal, Odo. Samber is not mad at you." Kim looked up at me. "Odo read something in the diary he didn't understand and showed it to me. I read a couple entries... What I read concerned me enough that I read more. I showed it to Kevin... Now we're showing it to you."

Grandpa Kevin unzipped Odo's school bag and pulled out the diary. "I've marked selected entries with a highlighter," he noted, passing the diary to me.

"Is this Uncle Peter's diary?"

"No. It's Nichole's."

I read it.

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