The Elect

E.Q. Humphreys

A young man in a form-fitting grey suit opens door 402 and senses a slight contrast in his lower periphery. He picks up a manila envelope off the Venetian rug. He reads:

My Noah,

Your father will win the Senate race. Kirkland took the money and will drop out Monday, claiming health concern. Be happy, baby. It’s clean, money and handshake, simple. No more violence. And please be proud of your father. He is making history, the first Independent win. West Virginia needs change, you know that. 

We return to the Huntington house Thursday. He expects you, seven thirty. Just you, dear. A Milton family celebration. Karen will be just fine alone for a night. Nothing personal, she will understand. We know this will be, one would say, a sensitive time for her.  And do not blame yourself. We know Karen came first. The politics at your wedding ceremony was the inspiration. You made history, my Noah. Be happy, and burn this letter, as you know.



Pocketing the letter, Noah steps to the living room phone. Relying on moonlight, he removes and rereads a worn business card from his trifold.

E.Q. Humphreys

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