Call Forth the Better Angels

By James P. Wohlsen

Senator Herb Benjamin, a tireless leader of his Republican Party and the people of Pennsylvania, seems destined for greatness when death comes calling sooner than expected. As Republican leaders vie for the late senators coveted seat, his son, Clark, is appointed by the governor to fill the remaining two years of his fathers term. But there is only one problem: Clark is a moderate Republican who is stubbornly focused on staking out his own course, much to the displeasure of his partys leaders.

The current Democratic presidents legacy is being tarnished by his refusal to commit to a military response to the presumed assassination of the Israeli prime minister. Vice President Carolyn Meadows is front runner for the next presidential election until her candidacy is jeopardized by her support of the presidents unpopular foreign policy stance. As politicians pay the price for not following the orthodoxies of their respective parties, the presidential campaign becomes overrun by blackmail tactics as Clark Benjamin quietly begins to plant the seeds of an innovative idea.

In this gripping political tale, partisan gridlock spells trouble for both Republicans and Democrats as politicians from both parties rebel against their leaders and leave the door open for radical change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491735091

James P. Wohlsen

James Wohlsen is an Air Force veteran and retired trust banker. He earned a degree in History and Political Science from Gettysburg College and a CEBS designation from the International Foundation of Employee Benefit Plans and the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. Jim and his wife, Cyndie, reside in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

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Copyright © 2014 . James P. Wohlsen.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3510-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3509-1 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014910327

iUniverse rev. date: 6/24/2014

Contents

Part I A Gathering Of The Storm

Herb Benjamin’s Story

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

The President’s Story

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Part II Politics, Prerogatives & Conscience

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

Part III Waiting For Vesuvius

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

Clark Benjamin’s Story

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

Part IV The Sleeper Arises

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

Carolyn Meadows’s Story

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

Jake Castor’s Story

73

Cast Of Characters

About The Author

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To my father and mother, who always taught me to think for myself rather than blindly and uncritically espouse the ideas of others.

Also to my wife, Cyndie, for her encouragement and tolerance for the time this book has taken away from our retirement.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For any first-time author, the help and advice of others is absolutely essential. Despite having written dozens of term papers while in college and hundreds of reports during my working career, I will freely admit to be being a terrible proofreader. I can read a page a dozen times and still not catch a grammatical error or misspelling.

Literary style is the very essence of fiction writing, and while I hope I am developing my own, I really appreciated the suggestions of others.

Finally, if this book does nothing else, I hope it will open the eyes and souls of readers willing to question their preconceived notions, biases, prejudices, and feelings about people with whom they disagree.

In particular, I would like to acknowledge the following people and groups, without whose help this book might never have seen the light of day.

A big thank-you to my old fraternity brother Dave Anderson, whose casual offer to read my draft manuscript turned into a second job in itself. Perhaps I should have known better than to ask a retired teacher and English major to serve as my primary spelling and grammar editor. When I asked what format he wanted (electronic or paper), he immediately opted for the latter, confessing that he was old-fashioned. When he e-mailed me with the news that the edited manuscript was in the mail, I awaited its arrival with great anticipation. His notes on the cover page were all positive, so I was hopeful, but it only took till the dedication page for the red-pen corrections to start to rear their ugly heads. Like a teenager fighting a bad case of acne, the little red pustules began erupting on almost every page. How I had managed to pass high-school English, much less college, was a wonder to me now. Clearly, I was comma and hyphen challenged.

To my brother-in-law, Marvin Ruch, I thank him for his open mind and willingness to suppress his own political leanings. I realize that for many people with long and strongly held political beliefs, this book cannot be a comfortable read, and in truth, it was never meant to be. I wanted to challenge readers, at least while digesting this novel, to be open to the ideas of others and acknowledge that no single group or ideology has a monopoly on good ideas. Marv acknowledged that this was not his normal book genre but told me he very much enjoyed the story and some of the ideas expressed, and from him, that was high praise.

Dr. G. Terry Madonna is a professor of public affairs at Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, as well as the director of the Center for Politics and Public Affairs. Terry is well-known in Pennsylvania and beyond for his understanding of politics and the political process. In all honesty, I was surprised when he agreed to read my manuscript and was delighted with many of the insightful comments and ideas that he offered.

My neighbor Scott Smith is a corporate attorney and registered independent. The broad premise of this book was designed to appeal to this type of voter who finds himself not comfortable with the ideology or candidates put forth by our two major parties. My conversations with Scott helped reassure me that I was not the only voter who questioned the status quo of today’s politics.

The folks at my publisher iUniverse, provided invaluable suggestions and guidance. A special note of thanks to my assigned content editor whose book writing expertise and extensive understanding of this genre was most helpful.

Finally, I need to especially thank Jim Bush, a former colleague at Fulton Financial Corporation. While Jim and I are not always in complete agreement on the political and social issues of the day, I truly value his thoughts. His beliefs are derived from a logical and honest perspective that allows us to remain good friends, regardless of our mutual positions on a given issue. Jim is also an insightful writer whose suggestions on sentence structure and story development provided useful aid in the development of the manuscript. He also arranged for a road trip to Washington, DC, so we could visit the second home of our nation’s political leaders.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

At the beginning of each chapter, the reader will fine a few lines of commentary. While some may view these sections as epigraphs their primary function is to situate the reader within the mental framework of the character and themes that the chapter follows.

Chapter Three will introduce the reader to the character who is the current occupant of the White House. Throughout the novel, his name is never revealed. At various times he is referred to as the president, the commander-in-chief, that man in the White House, and the boss. In the development of this character, I tried to pull traits from past presidents and other leaders. The reader is free to apply his or her own guess as to the names, but I wanted this character to remain unnamed.

PREFACE

In the early spring of 1861, a self-educated, largely unknown, and certainly underappreciated politician from the western frontier was sworn in as the nation’s new leader. His election had set into motion a series of events that would nearly destroy America’s grand experiment in democracy and ultimately cost that politician his life.

In those days, a state’s political leanings were not identified by a color but rather by geography, economic commerce, and moral attitudes. The resulting war that would tear at the soul of the nation had not yet started. Perhaps it might have been avoided had the politicians and other leaders of that day taken to heart the reasoned arguments of the new president’s inaugural address. In the closing paragraph, Abraham Lincoln would plead:

We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

Sadly, the better angels found but silence in the leaders of that day. Since then, the country has endured and survived many additional challenges, brought on or exacerbated by unyielding passion or partisanship. Survive though we have, one can but wonder what might happen if enough better angels would arise to challenge the norms of history.

Part I

A Gathering of the Storm

Herb Benjamin’s Story

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My time is almost here. I can feel it. I guess good things do happen to those who are patient. After all of these years biting my tongue, I will soon be able to speak my mind without encumbrance, and people will listen.

Growing up, I was smart, but not too smart. I came to view myself as above average in that I seemed to be better at things than most of my friends, but never excelled at any one thing. I knew people who were smarter or more athletic or popular, but none in the aggregate.

We lived in the suburbs in a very nice house, but I always shared a bedroom with my brother. In fact, come to think of it, I never had my own bedroom until I graduated from college. For my siblings and me, life was upper-middle class, although I didn’t know what that meant until I reached high school. I came of age during the 1960s. Civil rights, the Vietnam War, the rise of the counterculture were all part of my world as I transitioned from living at home to going off to college.

Despite the rebellion that simmered among some of my peers, I maintained a respect for authority and a belief that the government knew best. While others marched in protests or burned their draft cards, I joined the college ROTC, seeking to demonstrate that not all young people hated the war or despised the existing order.

From my earliest memories, I wanted to be the president of the United States, and because most of those exalted fellows had also been lawyers, my college courses were designed to prepare me for law school. But a funny thing happened during my senior year: while I made the Dean’s List, I was tiring of the academic grind. Despite being accepted at law school, I opted to fulfill my six years of military obligation as soon as I graduated.

The war was winding down, and I didn’t want to miss out on all the action—or perhaps the perceived glory—but as fate would have it, all my active-duty time was spent in the States. With my honorable-discharge papers in hand, I marched home, not expecting or receiving the welcome accorded to prior or future generations of those who served their country.

With the nation’s economy transitioning to a peacetime footing, jobs, even for college-educated veterans, were not readily available. Eventually a tip from an old buddy, combined with my air-force navigational training, landed me a job on a sailing ship scheduled to circumnavigate the globe.

What the hell; I was still single, and having missed all the supposed adventure during my military career, this opportunity seemed tailor-made for my midtwenties sensibilities. So, with my parents seeing me off in Florida, I embarked on the next chapter of my life.

It’s funny how fate can interfere with one’s hopes and dreams. Just as the last spasms and inglorious ending of Vietnam had denied me any war stories for my grandchildren, so too did my father’s fifth and final heart attack, eight days after my departure, end my adventures as a sailor.

The loss of my father brought my mother’s cancer back from remission, so I returned home to be with her in her final months. Her passing forced me to grow up and age beyond my years. It also refocused my attention back to my boyhood interest in politics.

I eventually landed a job with a non-profit organization that specialized in finding housing for low and moderate income individuals, but my off-hours were devoted to the Republican Party. Not since my days as an unpaid volunteer for Richard Nixon had I experienced the thrill of a presidential election. Marriage and children would ensue in the coming years, but politics would remain my first love.

Ed Foltz had been the congressman in Pennsylvania’s 19th congressional district for over ten terms. In most elections, the Democrats didn’t even bother to offer the electorate a challenger, so dominant were Republicans in this part of the state. Ed would eventually hire me to run his local office, and he would tutor me in the fine arts of Republican politics. He battled prostate cancer, and although he recovered sufficiently to keep his seat, he never again would wield the power or clout that he once did. His diminished capacity and the urging of local leaders would eventually lead him to retire, and with his endorsement, I would smoothly replace my mentor in Washington.

Fond as I was of Ed, he held some ideas and supported some legislation that was not exactly to my liking, so when I assumed his seat, I saw nothing wrong with staking out my own course. This assumption proved problematic. Apparently running the local office, rather than the one in Washington, had not fully prepared me for how the game was played. I would learn and follow the lead of others. In any event over the next three terms, I earned my stripes, and when John Bumellon’s wife finally had enough of his philandering, I jumped at the chance to return the Pennsylvania Senate seat to the Republicans.

What a relief to have to run for reelection only every six years rather than every two for the House. In the Senate, my tenure has garnered both respect and a position to actually get things done. My standing in both Pennsylvania and here in the Capitol have now afforded me a unique opportunity. The president has done a decent job during his two terms, but I sense that the country is looking for a change, and truth be told, so am I. I’ve been the loyal soldier and fought the good fight, so perhaps now it is my turn to move beyond above average to sit at the head of the class.

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1

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Could I but hope that my life will have purpose beyond what is expected of a man, husband, and father. When I face my Maker, I want not the praise of my fellow men, but rather their respect.

F or such a public man, death came very privately. Herb Benjamin was sixty-two when the dull ache in his head exploded. He felt no real pain but knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. Like a sand castle built too close to the water, his legs buckled as if undermined by a wave. His vision, though somewhat blurry, could still focus on the open bedroom door.

Mary Benjamin had just returned from walking Mikey, a chore normally handled by her husband. She knew the routine and immediately set about making his early-morning breakfast. Early morning, differentiating from midmorning or late morning. In a word, the dog loved to eat. Opening the refrigerator to retrieve the cooked rice and beef, she hardly noticed his absence from her side. Ten seconds in the microwave would warm the contents just right before being inhaled by the ever-hungry miniature poodle. Turning to place the dish on the floor, Mary was surprised at finding herself alone in the brightly lit kitchen.

"Here Mikey, want your breckie? A couple of additional calls failed to bring the familiar sound of dog nails skidding across the wood floors. A quick glance around the family room produced no pooch, so she yelled up the stairs. Herb, is Mikey up with you?"

At first, only silence answered her call, but then she heard the whimper of distress. Though not an uncommon tactic for the clever little dog, she nevertheless ascended the stairs quickly, as Mikey’s continued cries heightened her concern.

Her husband’s crumpled frame was not readily visible as she entered their bedroom, but a strange fear enveloped her being. Fear not for Herb, but rather for the wails, now clearly coming from the bathroom. She suppressed a scream at the sight of her fallen husband and immediately shifted into nurse mode. Thirty-two years as an RN, initially in a small community hospital and more recently in the skilled-care wing of a private retirement home, had taught her to keep her emotions in check. Instinctively she searched for a pulse and, upon finding one, exhaled for what seemed like the first time in minutes.

Herb, honey, can you hear me?

While not moving his head, his eyes slid to the right seeking to locate her voice. He wanted to answer, to tell her that he felt no pain, but silence bespoke his reply. He sensed her struggle to straighten his twisted body and dab the trickle of blood still traveling the contours of his cheek.

Finding that the cut was not deep, she cradled a hand towel under the wound and raced to the bedroom phone. Dialing 9-1-1, she spoke to the operator in lingo reserved to members of EMS and other health-care professionals.

Hello, my name is Mary Benjamin. I am calling from 1533 Beachwood Drive. My husband is Senator Herbert Benjamin. He has suffered some kind of an episode, and we need an ambulance stat.

Is he conscious and still breathing? asked the male dispatcher.

Yes, but his pulse is weak, and he hasn’t been able to speak to me.

Does he have any history of heart disease or vascular problems?

Yes, he suffered a minor heart attack fifteen years ago, but his condition has been successfully managed since then. He doesn’t appear to be in any pain, so I’m thinking his heart is not the problem. I’m a nurse, so I know what to do until the ambulance arrives.

The dispatcher replied that an ambulance was on the way and that he would remain on the phone until they arrived.

Suddenly Mikey’s muffled cries ceased, and Mary turned to see the small dog tenderly licking his now dead master’s face.

Herb’s eyes were still open, and his mouth rested in a slight smile, as was often the case when the two had played together every night. Mary wanted to scream, but all that followed were the hot burning tears of grief. Her partner these last forty-two years was gone. His quick and painless death had come in the way that both had hoped, but why now? In today’s world of modern medicine, sixty-two was way too young. She longed to awaken from this bad dream and find him buried with the blanket up to his neck like always, but this was not a dream, and as she stroked his ever-cooling face, her mind raced with concern for the future.

2

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I know my father loved me, though he seldom said the words. Why is it that men fear speaking in such terms, even be it father to son?

C lark Benjamin both loved and hated Sundays. It was the one day of the week where e-mails and phone calls did not dominate his time, but it also signaled the prelude of the same.

Only half listening to the local news on the TV, he sorted the Sunday News into two piles, the Lifestyle section and all the advertisements for Lynn, and everything else for himself. Moving to his office, he slid into the recliner, following his usual routine. No sooner had he gotten himself comfortable, than the phone rang. At home, Clark rarely answered the phone—or the doorbell, for that matter. After the second unanswered ring, he yelled, Are you getting that?

Finally remembering that Sundays were his wife’s one day to sleep in, he clamored out of the chair to get the phone before its next ring. Try though he might, he failed to mask the irritation at being interrupted.

Hello, Benjamin residence.

Oh, hi; is this Clark? This is Ted Dumont calling. Ted was Clark’s parents’ next-door neighbor.

Hey, Ted; how ya doin?

Oh, I’m fine, but your mother asked me to give you a call.

Clark’s irritation evaporated as he sat on his desk. What’s up?

Your dad appears to have suffered what may be a stroke, and Mary would like you to come right over.

Trying, with only partial success, to sound calm, Clark asked if his father was dead. Ted evenly replied that he didn’t know, but the EMS team had been there for about thirty minutes. Clark thanked him and told him to tell his mother that he was on his way.

A stroke. EMS. Thirty minutes? Why hadn’t his mother called? Instinctively, he grabbed the phone and started to dial his parents’ number, but then disconnected before finishing. He ran up the stairs to wake Lynn and throw on some clothes.

The drive to his parents’ house, which normally took only about ten minutes, seemed interminable. Every idiot driver and stoplight conspired to delay his arrival.

Move your goddamn, mother-fuckin’ ass, he screamed when a driver didn’t instantly move as the light changed.

Clark, please; that’s not going to get us there any quicker, Lynn pleaded.

As they pulled into the neighborhood surrounding the Congressional Country Club, Clark’s temperament loosened. God, this was a beautiful neighborhood, so quiet and serene, and so unlike the enmity that permeated the capital. The homes were stately. The yards impeccably maintained. Under different circumstances, all would have seemed good with the world.

Turning onto Beachwood Drive, Clark tried to calm his racing mind. Ted hadn’t said that his father was dead. Memorial Hospital was only a few miles away. Any numbers of his parents’ neighbors were doctors. Desperately, he tried to make himself believe that the mortal outcome would be different.

3

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When I was without power, I saw no good in those who had it. Once power resided in me, I saw no good in those without it.

S taring out the window, the president smiled, that even at this late date, staffers still walked gingerly down the covered portico. To be sure, cynicism had seeped into the conversations of many, but he tried to convince himself that the majority still believed what they were doing was meaningful and impor tant.

The first four years had been so heady and fun. The gods had smiled, and even in this jaded town, optimism whispered to the faithful. The second campaign was a breeze. Of course, it helped that the Republicans,