Let Them Eat Tea

By Coleman Maskell

Let Them Eat Tea is a political comedy romance sci fi adventure novel set a few years in the future. A new right wing political party has come to power, a composite of the former Libertarian party and TEA party. Among other cutbacks, the new regime is dismantling all public health services. The main character is a biochemist who loses his government job and relocates to a new job in the Caribbean. With a new Caribbean girlfriend, and friends both on the islands and back in the USA, he battles to stop a frightening epidemic that is quickly spreading to every country with a Caribbean coastline, including the now helpless USA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coleman Maskell
• Release date: Jul 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476307954

Book preview

Let Them Eat Tea

A political romance comedy adventure

by

Coleman Maskell

Wynne Cofield

© Copyright 2012, Coleman Maskell, Wynne Cofield

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* * * Table of Contents * * *

Chapter 1 – Deer Hunting

Chapter 2 – Nick and Marie

Chapter 3 – St. Lucy

Chapter 4 – LiberTEA Injustice for All !

Chapter 5 – World Harmony Cafe

Chapter 6 – Dinner at the Farm House

Chapter 7 – Setting Off

Chapter 8 – Charlie and Katrina

Chapter 9 – Winter in the North

Chapter 10 – On L'Isle Barjot

Chapter 11 – Meeting the Crocodiles

Chapter 12 – Night in the Village

Chapter 13 – Hospital in Winter

Chapter 14 – The Waterfall

Chapter 15 – Dinner at the Apartment

Chapter 16 – Back at the Lab

Chapter 17 – Politics as Usual

Chapter 18 – Charlie's Lab Results

Chapter 19 – Night in America Continues

Chapter 20 – Kat and the Kitten

Chapter 21 – Greenhouse

Chapter 22 – A Visit from Doug

Chapter 23 – Charlie Drinks the Tea

Chapter 24 – Greenhouse, White House

Chapter 25 – The Liberty Tea Company

Chapter 26 – A LiberTEA party

Chapter 27 – Back on St. Lucy

Chapter 28 – Water and Sand

Chapter 29 – The Jungle Is Neutral

* * *

Chapter 1 – Deer Hunting

Autumn is brisk and crisp but not yet cold. The sun lies low in the west. In the forest, a few struggling dark green pines stand out in stark contrast against the tall bare hardwood trees. Orange and gold leaves lie scattered on the ground beneath. Three men outfitted for deer hunting move quietly along the route of a deer path, fanned out a few yards apart, carefully observing their surroundings for any sign of deer. Two Secret Service agents accompany the three hunters, taking positions on the far right and far left. Squirrels overhead run leaping away through the branches as the men approach. Occasionally a retreating squirrel pauses and turns to throw a nutshell or a pinecone angrily at the intruders.

Walking between President Sheppard at the center of the group and the Secret Service agent flanking them on the right, Eugene Wright stops to point out a barren patch about waist high on a tree trunk. He looks over to make eye contact with Sheppard. Bark has recently been stripped away, possibly by a hungry deer. Sheppard stares at the spot, then looks at the ground beneath it. The thick ground cover of loose dead leaves and twigs makes it impossible to see any tracks. At eye level, on another nearby tree trunk, they see a second bare patch.

At that moment, off to his left, toward the west, Sheppard hears a slight rustle of ginger footsteps moving through dry leaves. From the corner of his eye he catches a flash of brown motion only a few yards away, moving through the trees where a bark-eating deer might be. With one movement he snaps the butt of his hunting rifle to his shoulder, spins and fires in the direction of the sound.

Nick Wright sees it happening and moves faster. As he darts to cover behind the trunk of a large oak, the buckshot from the older man’s gun whizzes past the spot where Nick had stood an instant before, close enough for him to hear the air ripping.

From behind the tree, Nick shouts out to his trigger-happy friend, Whoa, there, Shep.

Glancing down, he notices a few medium-sized forked branches nearby on the ground. It strikes him suddenly that they look a lot like five-prong buck antlers. He snatches two of them up quickly and attaches his white pocket handkerchief flag-like onto one of them between two of the prongs. Holding the branches out from behind the tree at deer antler height, he jiggles them up and down. The flag waves. I surrender, he announces in a shout, continuing to jiggle the white flag on the makeshift antler. I give up. Don't shoot.

Eugene, the third hunter, laughs, eyes glistening. I didn't know you were so scared of Cousin Nick going after your job, Quick Draw, he directs a remark at the gun happy President. You do know you can only serve eight years, right? They told you that? Cause they tell me that's still a rule up there. Getting rid of Nicky here won't help you any with that.

Come on out here, Nick, the embarrassed shooter calls to the man behind the tree, ignoring Eugene's barbs. I'm not going to shoot you. Stop it with that handkerchief, will you? Get over here.

Nick drops one branch and pops the other up into the air and then sideways to the ground, grabbing off his handkerchief as it falls. Standing straight, he struts out from behind the tree, smiling broadly, folding his handkerchief and replacing it in his pocket as he strides rooster-like toward the others. Eugene's eyes are still sparkling with suppressed laughter. Sheppard looks grim and embarrassed.

Sheppard clears his throat. Now listen, Nick, I'm sorry about that, that incident there, he says, slapping the other man on the back.

Sheppard then grasps Nick around the shoulder in a friendly conciliatory way, drawing him near like a close friend and confidante. He leads him a few steps away as if to distance them from the event.

Right sorry. You know I didn't mean to shoot at you there, he continues in a lowered conspiratorial voice, still walking slowly toward nothing in particular. I thought it was a deer over there for sure, he continues. After a pause he gives a little laugh and adds, Glad you’re not hurt.

Nick just smiles and continues to accompany the president, saying nothing. The two men stop walking when they reach Eugene, whose eyes are still sparkling a little with the enjoyment of Sheppard's discomfort. Sheppard looks Nick over and brushes off the arms of his jacket with both hands, relieved to find no damage anyplace.

You're good as new, Sheppard announces, angling for a 'no harm, no foul' outcome. Like it never happened. After pausing to stare into the other man's eyes, he adds slowly, I guess the women are going to think this is pretty funny too. Probably accuse me of being careless. Guess I'll get an earful. He pauses and stares at the younger man, waiting for a reaction.

Nick waits several seconds for effect before answering, still looking into Sheppard's eyes. No reason the women need to hear about this, he finally answers, to the visible relief of the man who has just emptied two barrels of buckshot at him. The less said about it the better. We don't want it leaking to the press. It'd be bad for the campaign. I still need you to help out with that campaign for the 37th Amendment, he says pointedly. Nick has coupled the campaign for the Right To Work Constitutional Amendment together with his hopes of succeeding President Sheppard in the next national election. We only have about a year to campaign, he continues. We don't need any distractions from that. We don't want any bad press.

Nobody says anything for a time. The men's eyes are still locked on each other. Finally Sheppard nods. The campaign. Best thing for everybody if we devote our efforts to that, he agrees, and slaps the other man on the back again.

Best thing all around, Nick answers with a smile. Right, Eugene? he solicits the other man's agreement.

Eugene Wright nods and shakes his head at the same time, still smiling wryly, eyes still twinkling, but looking as though the burden of suppressing the laughter has just increased its weight. Absolutely, he agrees, grinning. You bet.

As they stand contemplating their situation and the future, a muffled thump catches their attention. The Secret Service agent on their left has discharged his weapon, the sound barely audible through the silencer. Twenty yards further away a big five-prong buck leaps up, twists in the air, and falls limply to the forest floor. Its front legs twitch as it tries to raise its head one last time. Then it lies still, panting, heart pounding, eyes wide. The dying buck has suffered a clean wound to the chest through the shoulder very near the heart.

Better if you finish it off, Mr. President, the agent addresses Sheppard. The two men exchange a quick unemotional glance. Sheppard reloads his rifle and walks over to where the deer still lies panting. He fires point blank and the deer lies still.

Don't you have to account for firing your weapon? Eugene asks the agent, wondering if the procedure is actually the same in reality as what he's heard.

I shot at an animal that seemed to be menacing the president, the agent answers coolly, holstering his weapon.

Yeah, he was in danger of not bagging anything today, Eugene observes.

The agent looks at his eyes, half smiles for a second, then looks away again in the direction of the president, saying nothing. He walks over to where the president stands with Nick looking down at the big five-prong buck.

I'll carry that for you, Mr. President, the agent offers, and picks up the dead buck without waiting for an answer. It weighs as much as a grown man, at least 150 pounds, but he throws it over his shoulder with apparent ease. Shall we be heading back now, Sir? he asks in the same even tone of formal politeness.

Sheppard nods. Thanks, Stan, he adds. Then Sheppard takes point as the group heads back toward the isolated turnout where the cars are parked.

Back at the road, Stan throws the deer carcass up into the bed of Nick's big white 4x4 Ford truck. Nick and Eugene get into the front seat and start the engine. The president joins Stan and a waiting Secret Service agent in a sleek low black unmarked American car with tinted bulletproof windows. Their other Secret Service companion from hunting duty enters a third vehicle, joining another agent who has waited guarding the cars while the hunting party wandered in the woods. The crackle of radio contact sounds out from both government cars as the agents check in before proceeding. Then the three vehicles pull out onto the road and head as a convoy for Eugene's family farm a few miles away.

Boy, it's been a nice little vacation for me here these last few days, Gene, Nick says to his cousin as they pull out. I almost hate to get back on the campaign trail.

Almost, Eugene laughs, but I guess duty calls.

That's it. Duty calls, his cousin answers.

Nothing to do with egomania, Eugene adds. Wanting to be president or anything like that. It's just selfless service to the country, right?

Hey, absolutely, Nick answers, and they both laugh. Nothing egotistical about me.

Right, because egotism would be a flaw, Eugene suggests.

And I have no flaws! Nick completes the thought like a high school boy, and they both laugh again.

It's been that way since they were kids. Here in the country, going hunting with his cousin again, it feels like nothing has changed, as if time has been indefinitely suspended.

Time, of course, goes on.

They return to the farm for one last family dinner. Then President Sheppard will return to Washington and Nick Wright will return to the campaign circuit of end-to-end rallies, speeches, appearances and interviews. The presidential election is only about a year away, and time moves quickly. Away from the farm, outside the magic bubble of hunting and camaraderie, time is passing quickly and the world is clearly changing. Nick wants to steer that change.

Chapter 2 -- Nick and Marie

They look like a couple, sitting on a garden bench on the little hill that forms the front lawn of the big hotel. Inside, the convention is just getting underway. Nick is due onstage to speak soon. For the moment the two sit together on the sculptured bench on the manicured lawn, she on his right, angled towards him, neck arched to look up toward the sky, as if suspended in a frozen excerpt from a Norman Rockwell painting. They look like models posing for a glossy magazine advertisement for the good life.

Feeling tense with the usual mild stage fright, the two try to relax by breathing deeply in the autumn air, immersing themselves in the ambience of the location, listening to the small birds chirping in the well-kept trees. Like children they look for patterns in the clouds.

Those puffy little clouds coming up there, Marie starts a sentence, and trails off. She points up at the smoke rising into the sky from a house fire down the block, almost behind her on their right, invisible to her. Those are people's heads in the crowd -- the audience walking in. Supporters coming to cheer you on, she finishes with a little laugh. She has never been compassionate, and she isn't clever; but she looks good and she has a quick smile. Those are factors that served her well a dozen years ago as a high school cheerleader, and they continue to serve her well now in politics.

Nick looks past Marie, down the block outside her field of vision, where a tall pale willowy woman stands in front of a three-story brick apartment building adjacent to the burning house. She holds a baby balanced on one thrust out hip, bouncing it gently. Near the attractive woman stands a pretty little girl Nick estimates to be about six or seven years old. The little girl is holding a cat, trying to calm it. The cat is pale, fluffy, pretty and soft like its owners. So the woman must be younger than thirty, he reasons, and then briefly turns his attention again to the clouds and the fact that Marie has spoken and is probably waiting for a response.

There's the podium, he says, pointing with artificial exuberance at a boxy dark cloud slightly to their left. The rounded puffs of smoke from the fire look more like women's boobs to him, but he doesn't say so. And look, there's a big silver limo, he adds, drawing Marie's attention to an elongated cloud still further off to their left, away from the direction of the fire.

Marie focuses her glazed blue eyes intently up at the clouds while Nick turns his attention back to the events around the fire. In front of the burning house, the homeowner is arguing with a big football fullback of a man in a red and yellow private fireman suit, with a big red hat. A matching red and yellow private fire truck sits parked across the street.

Listen, Nick imagines the big fireman saying, gesturing at a nearby fire hydrant. If my guys put out this fire, I have to pay the city for the water we use. I have a government issued card I'm required to put into the meter on that hydrant there. Otherwise the water doesn't come out. The city sends me a bill for the water the next day. If you don't pay me now, I can't pay the city tomorrow. The day after that, the city cuts off my water supply to put out other fires. Fires happening to people who can pay. It's as simple as that.

But five thousand dollars! the homeowner must be exclaiming next, looking up and flinging both arms towards the heavens, spinning on his feet to turn half away and then immediately turning back again. He lets his arms drop to his sides and shrugs in a gesture of helplessness, asking where he can get five thousand dollars on such short notice. Surely the city doesn't charge you $5,000 for the water, he ends on a hopeless note, and looks down at the sidewalk before looking back up into the private fireman's eyes. Unrelenting eyes.

Well, if he can't afford to pay the firemen, Nick reflects coldly, let his house burn. He should have had better fire insurance. Or he shouldn't own a house. We don't need freeloaders and parasites that don't pay their own way. They're a danger to the community and a drag on society. They cost us all money.

As the two men argue energetically on the front lawn of the burning house, a man in a business suit appears on the roof of the adjacent apartment building. Maybe he’s the owner of the building, or maybe a manager. He douses the roof of the apartment building with a garden hose. Next to him on the roof another man, dressed in dirty work clothes, is already dousing the exterior wall of the building on the side facing the fire.

My guys have to get paid, the big fireman back on the ground is saying quietly but firmly. They have families to feed. Mortgages to pay. Water bills.

As the men argue, occasional flaming pieces of tinder burst from the house onto the surroundings. One lands near the little girl and frightens the cat. Suddenly and quickly, forcefully, the cat struggles and squirms, bursting from her arms in a leap. It races full speed away from the fire, towards the hotel lawn where Nick and Marie sit on the picturesque bench. The little girl runs after the cat. The woman comes chasing after the little girl, baby transferred instantaneously to her shoulder, where she clutches it tightly as she runs.

The girl catches up with the cat next to a medium size oak tree not far from the bench where the two politicians sit. The cat stops and rubs itself against the rough bark of the tree, turning back to look at the girl, purring. The girl stoops to pick it up. She holds it close in her arms. Soothing the cat with long strokes, she comes over and installs herself on the bench, next to Marie. Marie moves away reflexively, closer to Nick. About that time the mother arrives, and Nick rises to greet her.

Nick B. Wright, he introduces himself with a practiced grin. Always happy to meet a voter. He stretches out his hand to shake hers, but she only stares at the outstretched hand. What might your name be? he asks, unperturbed. He wants to touch her, even if it's only a handshake for now.

Marie dislikes both children and cats, and she dislikes attractive young women even more. She rises quickly to introduce herself, offering an outstretched hand, hoping to interfere with Nick's maneuvers by distracting the woman. That, she realizes, is something they don't need right now: Nick getting himself into trouble with a woman before the elections next November.

The cat is perhaps frightened again by the sudden movement, or maybe it simply returns Marie’s animosity. In any case it hisses and darts out its claws in a quick sure motion, scratching Marie’s outstretched hand. Then the cat bolts off again, towards the hotel, with the child on its heels. Marie shrieks in disgust and recoils. The woman looks at them both for only an instant and takes off without ceremony in pursuit of the child and the cat.

You okay? Nick asks.

Marie makes a guttural disgusted sound and shakes herself like a wet lap dog. It's time for us to be in the convention, she says. You're on stage soon. So saying, she walks off regally toward the hotel, expecting Nick to follow her. He watches the swaying motion of her hips for a minute as she walks away, then follows as expected.

Inside the hotel, Marie retires quickly to a ladies room to tend to the scratch on her hand. She has a small bottle of liquid bandage in her purse, like a small bottle of clear nail varnish. The scratch isn't bleeding, but it’s starting to flush, with a bright red line down its center. She applies the clear liquid over the scratch with the little brush in the bottle cap, and almost immediately it seals the wound. She feels a slight stinging, but the redness soon begins to fade. Wonderful stuff, that liquid bandage, she thinks to herself, calmed by having dealt with the situation, feeling in control again. She watches the wound dry in the air, turning the hand this way and that so the varnished patch catches the light. In a few minutes nobody will even notice the scratch. When it seems dry, she applies a coat of skin tone over it from a lipstick-like beige make-up stick. There, good as new, she congratulates herself again.

She turns to the mirror and smoothes her hair, then applies an unneeded refresher to her lipstick and makeup. She flashes herself a big smile and looks at the perfect white teeth her parents paid to have straightened, and she now pays to have whitened regularly. They really do look a lot like pearls, she thinks to herself, glancing back and forth between her pearl necklace and her smile. She smoothes her hair again and turns to go rejoin the convention. Someone has to keep an eye on Nick, she sighs.

The lobby is a party of red white and blue balloons, bright banners and upbeat music. She quickly catches up with Nick. It's a big crowd, and everyone is well dressed. The hairstyles and makeup look like they've been done for magazine covers. Maybe they have. A lot of these people reasonably expect that their photos might be taken anytime, and the photos might turn up anywhere. The two politicians walk quickly, but not too quickly, through the milling supporters and fellow crusaders. Marie holds back at the end while Nick makes a grand entrance through the massive double doors that stand open.

Banners proclaim pithy slogans like Be right with Nick and Wright to Work, celebrating the Right to Work cause the pair have attached themselves to.

By Right to Work, of course, they mean break up the labor unions. Big corporations have been pouring big donations not only into the party, but into his personal campaign fund, all in the hope and faith that Nick Wright is the man who can prevent workers from trying to start labor unions where now there are none, and break the power of unions already in existence. Collective bargaining is a nightmare for the oligarchy. They want the freedom to be able to hire and fire workers at will, and not be bothered by the restraints of safety regulations or other nonsense about working conditions. With Nick's charm and rhetoric behind them, it looks more and more like they might soon get their wish on a national level.

When the band leader catches sight of Nick making his way to the stage, the band strikes up his signature variation on Johnny Be Good, which has been altered just enough to dodge the copyright. The crowd chants Nicky Be Right. Confetti is thrown from balconies and cascades down over the crowd like wedding rice. Balloons are released from nets. He ascends the stage amid wild cheering and faces the crowd, both arms raised like a sports star.

I come before you today, he begins, adjusting the microphone, holding up his right hand as if to quiet the crowd. In fact he thrives on the admiration and affection, and is in no hurry for it to end. Still, he raises his hand higher, and raises his voice louder, repeating, I come before you today. The crowd quiets a little, and he continues, not as a candidate, but as a fellow CRUSADER. His loud emphasis on the word crusader, followed by a pause, signals the supporters to explode again into cheers.

Marie wanders over to the food tables. It's not time for her appearance onstage yet, and she's seen Nick's act plenty of times. She may as well try the appetizers.

The otherwise air-conditioned room is adrift in smells of little cakes and fancy confections, backed by an undertone of solidly American food like hot dogs, fried chicken, and popcorn, overlaid on the lighter scents of expensive perfume and after-shave. Marie doesn't like hot dogs or popcorn, but they look great in photos that might appear in magazines to be seen by the base. The fried chicken she doesn't mind eating, but it isn't immediately recognizable in photos, and it's