Illusions of the Past

Chapter One

Chicago, Illinois

Sunday, March 7th, 2032

John Franklin grew impatient as he observed the guard leading his grandson to the apparatus attached to a mechanical arm suspended from the ceiling. On arrival, they were immediately ushered into a ten by ten room just inside what appeared to be the only entrance to the building. John held his wife of nearly forty years, who was shaking from being touched by the strange men. After looking into the machine for several seconds, the guard motioned for his grandson to step back, then making eye contact, pointed him toward his grandparents. Brad returned to his grandmother's side. John released Mary's hand, placing it in his grandson's, nodding reassuringly before walking across the room to look into the same device.

The guard studied his computer screen, scrolling a few times before speaking. You're not in the system, Mr. Franklin. He watched John step back from the iris scan. Neither is your wife or grandson.

An aggravated John replied, That's why I asked you what the hell this was all about in the first place!

Immediate identification is standard protocol, Mr. Franklin. The guard did not look at John, striking several more keys on his computer. Where are you from and what is your business here?

We live in Georgia, John replied. My daughter is a resident here. My wife is not well, and my daughter will be looking after her for a while.

Mary squeezed Brad's hand. Brad leaned over, kissing his grandmother on the cheek. He gently rubbed the back of her hand. She started humming softly. His eyes welled up with tears, again. He knew today would be one of the most difficult of his young life.

She looks fine to me. The guard stood, stepping up to Mary and looking directly into her eyes, before circling her and glancing back at John. What's wrong with her?

Her mind. It's not good. She forgets things. Some days she doesn't know who I am.

Looking again at Mary, the guard nodded and replied, I see, before returning to his seat and resuming his pecking on the computer in front of him. So your daughter is expecting you?

Yes, John said as he nodded.

What is her full name?

John had to think for a moment. Samantha was the younger of two daughters. He had no sons. Thank God I only had the two children, he thought. John pondered the countless men Samantha had been with in her life. Most he never met. He was certain there were others he never knew about. As far as he knew, she married none of them. Brad was the only positive result produced by either of his offspring. He was born to his oldest daughter. John glanced at Brad, hoping he had a clue what surname his aunt was using. Noticing his grandfather's silent, subtle plea, Brad shrugged.

Franklin. Her name is Samantha Franklin, John finally answered. He watched with little confidence as the guard searched the records.

Okay, Mr. Franklin, I've located the name. But as I indicated earlier, we don't seem to have any of your information.

John's brief surprise from guessing the correct surname quickly subsided into a defensive posture. Why would you need any of my information? I don't live here.

No need to be overly concerned, Mr. Franklin. It's primarily for the safety of our residents, the guard responded, looking at John with growing suspicion, Do you have any identification? John reached into the back pocket of his jeans, retrieving his billfold. He flipped to the section of wallet containing his driver's license and held it up for the guard to examine. The guard didn't look at the license. Instead, he set his attention on John. Though in his mid-sixties, John's muscle tone and posture were still imposing. Remove the license from your wallet, Mr. Franklin, the guard instructed with increased assertiveness.

Two other uniformed security guards shifted their attention to the exchange between John and their fellow officer. As he handed him the license, the guard began typing John's information, glancing at him periodically. The IRS office is just inside the front door. It's not open on Sundays.You and your grandson will need to stay overnight and report in the morning.

John could feel his temperature rise, his face becoming flushed. He understood why the government decided to implement the reforms, resulting from the Housing Empowerment Amendment to the Constitution, in the northern states first. The obvious path of least resistance, John speculated. He made an effort to calm himself, drawing in a deep breath before answering. Why would I need to go to the IRS office? And my grandson? He's just a boy.

Soon we will no longer accept any physical identification in Illinois. All other states will eventually follow, including Georgia. If you don't complete the identification process now, there could be delays preventing you from visiting or picking up your wife at a later date. The IRS processes all acceptable forms of identification, the guard explained.

We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, John firmly asserted. We only plan to be here a few hours. As soon as we get my wife settled in, we're leaving. John was aware of the identification process in the converted states and had no intention of allowing the IRS to obtain anything from him or his twelve-year-old grandson.

The guard continued to study John. While the government encouraged attempts by its personnel to obtain the new forms of identification, it was not yet mandatory for Southern citizens to be processed. Very well, your daughter lives in apartment twelve-twenty. That is on the twelfth floor. As you enter the building, turn to your left and follow the green walkway. It will lead you to the residential elevators.

John took his driver's license from the guard, giving him one final glare, before walking to the back of the room where two solid steel doors separated them from what lay beyond. As the guard pressed a button to open the entrance doors, a very loud, annoying buzzer sounded. They passed through the doors and entered a hallway. John heard a distinctive clicking sound behind him. They were locked in. Standing inside the door, John noticed the green walkway leading to the left. They were presently in the midst of what appeared to be an office complex. A directory on the wall identifying Court Room, Police, EMS/Nursing station, Fire, and IRS, pointed to the right.

What the hell would they need a courtroom for? John muttered.

A separate directory sat on an easel, just to the left. It identified First Floor - Community Dining Halls, Recreation Area, Gym, Game Room, Bowling Center, Theater, Social Hall, Pools. Third Floor through Twelfth Floor – Residences. Thirteenth Floor – Comfort Care Facility, Detention Center.

No second floor? John thought. Hold on to Mema's hand, son. Brad took his grandmother's hand once more as they headed down the green walkway. Approaching the end, they could see a vast opening with bright lights overshadowing the softer ambiance of the hall. Upon entering the opening John abruptly stopped, causing Mary and Brad to do the same.

Brad's eyes lit up at the huge area lying before them. To his right were multiple basketball courts. Next to those and against the rear wall were enclosed glass rooms where people paddled balls. The balls bounced everywhere as the players tracked them down to hit them again. John noticed Brad's interest in the game. Those are racket ball courts, son.

Brad looked at his grandfather and nodded. What kind of game is that, Papa? Brad pointed to an area where a dozen tables with nets across the center were set up. About half were occupied with players.

Table tennis, John smiled as he tugged slightly on Mary's arm, prompting her and Brad to continue down the green walkway. The walkway ended as they entered the recreational area, but green stripes on the floor continued to another hall that began again at the far corner of the recreational facility.

John could see a window at the end of the corridor. The distance made it seem small, but it covered the majority of the wall. They passed several more features in the open area. The most prominent were two Olympic-size swimming pools. One was shallow, no doubt for younger kids and those unable to swim, John concluded.

When they reached the large window, the hall turned ninety degrees to the right. Another long hallway leading to another large window, John observed, noting the walls were solid and plain. The elevators were half-way down. As they moved inside Brad pressed the button for the twelfth floor. The sudden movement caused Mary to lose her balance. John and Brad quickly steadied her as all three stood in silence while the elevator powered upward.

A bell signaled their arrival followed by the elevator doors opening into what more resembled a tunnel, than another hall. It was narrower, and the ceilings were lower, with similar soft lighting, as in the initial entrance hall on the first floor. The length and dimness prevented them from seeing the other end. John noticed odd numbers on the apartment doors to the left, with even on the right. He led the way down the hall and began identifying the apartments, reading aloud, Twelve-sixteen, twelve-eighteen, twelve-twenty. No door bell. He lifted his hand, knocking loudly. John could hear footsteps, shuffling, then silence for a short while. He was about to knock a second time when the door opened.

John stared at his daughter. It had been years since either of them had seen the other. He knew Samantha had several children with multiple men, moving to Chicago with one of those men years ago. Both of my daughters could easily be poster children for the welfare state, John thought, though he had no way of knowing if Brad's mother had other children. He had not heard from her since she abandoned him as an infant.

Hey, Daddy, Samantha finally said. Y'all come on in. She slid to the side, holding the door for them.

Samantha looked the part of someone who didn't care much about anything, particularly herself. I see the diet isn't going so well, John said as he moved past his daughter observing her five-foot, four-inch, three-hundred-poundframe. She wore a flannel nightgown that looked like it hadn't been changed in days. The apartment smelled. John, Brad, and Mary took seats on an outdated sofa, with ripped cloth cushions, that sat very flat.

Ignoring her father's initial comment, So daddy, how have you been? Samantha asked as she sat in a ragged, old, winged-back chair positioned caddy-cornered to the sofa.

I've been better. This is the last thing I wanted to do, John replied bluntly while surveying the disarray of the apartment.

I hate it too, Daddy. I know this is hard for you, Samantha replied.

Turning her focus to her mother, Samantha shouted, Hey Mama! Mary turned her head, gazing in Samantha's general direction, a reaction to sound rather than recognition of her daughter.

She's gotten a lot worse. Six months ago, it was hard, but she would follow some simple instructions if you helped her. Maria begged me to let her take care of your momma, but we depend on Maria so much for all the things around the farm, especially since your mother got sick.

Maria Gomez and her husband Elisio were like family. They crossed the Mexican border illegally over fortyyears ago, working as migrants on the Franklin farm. Elisio became John's foreman after John's father died. Maria and Mary grew as close as sisters. Mary's disease devastated them all.

Daddy, you know I'll look after her, Samantha tried to say in a comforting, sincere way. Did you bring the power of attorney?

The tension in John's reaction was obvious. If Mary was going to live with Samantha, he had little choice. He would have to trust his daughter to make good decisions on Mary's behalf. Yes, I've got it right here. John reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving and handing the legal document to his daughter. She immediately opened it and began reading. After a moment she folded the paper, continuing to hold it.

I thought I heard voices. A man emerged from the master bedroom, with bare feet, worn pajama bottoms, and no shirt. Tattoos covered the majority of his torso. He had piercings in his ears, nose, and lip.

John stood abruptly, turning to face the man. Who the hell are you?

Samantha jumped up, taking a step toward her father. She put her hand on his shoulder. Daddy this is little Johnny's father, Jeff.

Little Johnny? You had another one? John exclaimed crossing his arms as he glared at Samantha, How many does that make?

Johnny's just the fifth. I had to have another one. If you don't have kids, the law says you have to share an apartment with another couple. Complete strangers, too. They just pick 'em without givin' you any say about it. Can you believe that?

John absorbed his daughter's response, shaking his head in disbelief, not at the rules and regulations she attempted to explain, although he found those ridiculous enough, but at his daughter using it as justification to have another bastard child. Where are the other four?

Now Daddy you know two of 'em are grown. Of course Troy is still in jail for that misunderstanding. The two littlest ones live with their daddies. It's not all bad, though. They're lettin' Troy serve his time in the jail on the top floor. Today's visitin' day. You ought to stay and see him.

A livid John brushed his daughter's hand off of his shoulder and exclaimed, See him? I don't even know him. John paused a moment to gather himself. He hated for Brad to be witnessing all of this. Maybe it would be a good thing. His grandson may benefit from seeing firsthand what has happened to this country, John hoped. I'll be back for her as soon as I can make arrangements. Maria is trying to find someone to come live with us. In the meantime, you had better take good care of your momma.

John kissed his wife and walked around the end of the couch. He glared down at Jeff, who was at least eight inches shorter than him. Come on son, he said as he motioned for Brad to follow.

Brad got down on his knees, eye level with his grandmother. He looked her in the eyes, still not certain if she knew he was there. He kissed her cheek and whispered he loved her, and then joined his grandfather. As John turned to leave, he could hear the low sound of Jeff and Samantha's anxious whispers. John opened the front door and Samantha, almost in a desperate plea, blurted out, Oh Daddy! Daddy!

John stopped, turned, and faced her. What is it?

Uhmm, Momma's checkbook. You said you would bring it. In case she needs anything. Samantha made every effort to smile in a concerned, innocent way. John could see right through it.

It was obvious she couldn't provide for her mother, not that John expected his daughter to bear any financial responsibility for Mary. He just needed her to be responsible, period. John reached in the same coat pocket that he had retrieved the power of attorney from earlier, pulling out Mary's check book. He noticed the intense stare from Jeff as he stepped back into the apartment and handed it to his daughter. I don't expect you to use any of your own money to provide for your mother. However, I do expect you to be able to account for every dime you spend on her behalf. Get a notebook and write it down, in detail. Samantha took the checkbook, briefly glancing at Jeff.

Keenly aware of the non-verbal communication, Where do you work at? John sternly asked as he walked toward the shirtless scum currently bedding his daughter.

I'm... I'm not working, Jeff stuttered, My back hurts, and I can't work. I'm trying to get my disability.

Disability! How the hell old are you?

Nervously, Jeff replied, Thirty-nine.

Shaking his head, How many more kids do you have?

Jeff hesitates.

How many? John repeated angrily.

Little Johnny makes eight.

Eight? John exclaimed. It don't sound like there's a damn thing wrong with your back. If you can screw that much, you sure as hell ought to be able to work. John glared at Jeff before continuing. If one penny of my wife's money finds its way to you, we're gonna have a big problem!

Jeff nodded quickly, but didn't speak. His wideeyes and mannerisms told him he had gotten his point across, for all the good it will probably do, John thought.

John turned in his daughter's direction, gave her a brief glare, and walked out the door. With moist eyes, Brad waved goodbye to his grandmother, but she did not respond. He closed the door and ran to catch up with his grandfather.

Chapter Two

Savannah River – Franklin Farm

Sunday, March 30th, 2042

The assorted sounds of nature and the pounding of the Savannah River rushing against the curved embankment filled the air. Brad leaned back in the swivel seat of the small jon boat as he held his rod and reel, enjoying the peace and quiet of the cool, late-morning breeze. He had loved to fish since an early age and was as much at home on the river as he would be in his own bed. The river served two purposes for him. Today, Brad cared little about fishing. He simply wanted some time alone.

Brad turned his head, looking over his shoulder as another boat made its way up the river. He didn't recognize the two fishermen, but his Southern hospitality nature kicked in as he reciprocated a wave to the complete strangers. Funny, Brad thought, how different the general demeanor of people living in the North was from the South. He thought of his one and only trip above the Mason-Dixon Line to Chicago as a boy. He remembered feeling invisible as he walked the streets. He remembered his grandfather's natural effort to make eye contact and greet some of the passersby as they made their way to his aunt's apartment building. The reactions ranged from disdain and suspicion to outright rudeness. Everybody was in their own little world. Nobody cared about anyone else. Maybe if Northerners acted more like us, we wouldn't be where we are today, he thought.

Brad was dealing with a lot of concerns. Too many for someone his age, Brad concluded. He loved farming and would be perfectly content continuing the family farm that he grew up on, finding an old-fashioned Southern girl to marry and raising a God-fearing family. His mind drifted back to a year earlier when he met Kay... could she have been that girl? Brad wondered.

Brad admired his grandfather. John Franklin was a rock, firm in his beliefs and steadfast in his resolve. And while his love and admiration for him had never wavered, Brad was beginning to develop his own beliefs and his own desires. The conflict that brewed within was not a rebellious one. He largely agreed with his grandfather's political, religious and social views. But, his grandfather was much more of an activist than Brad wanted to be, at least at this point in his life. A hands-on activist, too, Brad thought. Papa didn't mind getting dirty if the effort was worthwhile. Brad had no problem with taking care of himself, but acts of aggression were not natural for him, no matter how justified.

Bradley, cocksucker, Franklin! Where the hell are ya'?

Brad smiled as he heard Roberto call for him over his handheld radio. I am where I am. Where the hell are you?

I am not where you am. Now where exactly is where?

The river, Brad replied, still smiling.

What? Without me? You are a cocksucker!

Well, if you didn't sleep until the crack of noon on Sundays, you might get included more often. I haven't caught anything, anyway, so you haven't missed much.

Uh-huh. Well, Gammy is finishin' up one helluva Sundy' dinner. Fried chicken, mashed taters and gravy, collard greens, squash casserole, homemade conebread' and a red velvet cake for dessert. But don't worry 'bout it. They ain't gonna be much left by the time ya' git' here.

I hear ya'. Tell Gammy I'm coming.

Ten-four... cocksucker.

Brad shook his head... Roberto. He was as close to a brother as he’d ever had. Although he was only six years old, he still remembered the first day they had met. It was a few days after his parent's funeral. Roberto was born in Texas where he lived near El Paso. Brad's grandfather had accompanied Elisio and Maria to make arrangements and attend the funerals after the horrific automobile crash that claimed Elisio's son and daughter-in-law's lives. They returned with Roberto. He and Roberto had been inseparable ever since.

Brad reeled his line in, securing the rod in the holder fastened to the sidewall of the boat. After raising the anchor, he pulled the manual start hand pulley of the small outboard motor and headed up river to the boat house. His thoughts shifted to his grandmother, Mary. She had been his mother as far as he was concerned. He had never known so much love, Brad reminisced. As he thought about the dinner Roberto described, he thought of how his and Roberto's grandmother took great pride and interest in developing each other's culinary skill. Mema had become as good of a Mexican cook as Gammy who had become a Southern one. Something to be very thankful for, Brad said to himself.

Brad was about a half-mile down river from the family's boat house. As it often did, thoughts of Kay wandered back into his mind. Brad had a few puppylove relationships during his teens. He definitely sowed his wild oats, almost daily, during the brief year and a half at Georgia Southern University. Although Brad periodically dated, meeting Kay had put a significant dent in his desire to bed every girl he met, though most were willing... except for Kay. Auugghh, this is stupid! Brad thought. People don't actually fall in love at first sight. Hell, I just saw her that one time. It's been a year... let it go.

As Brad approached the boathouse, he was not surprised to see Roberto standing on the dock with his arms crossed, shaking his head. Brad slung the bow rope to Roberto and cut the motor. Roberto tied off the boat while Brad climbed the ladder, heaving himself up on the dock.

Roberto turned and walked back toward the ATV he parked next to Brad's.

Cocksucker! Roberto exclaimed as he mounted the four-wheeler, started it, and immediately tore off toward dinner.

Brad sat on his vehicle for a few moments, drinking a bottle of water before following. He couldn't imagine that his and Roberto's relationship could be any closer, even if they had been full-blooded brothers.

Chapter Three

Franklin Family Beach House - Tybee Island, Georgia

Sunday, April 6th, 2042

A cool ocean breeze blew the vertical blinds as the air passed through the half-opened, sliding glass doors, into the master suite of the Tybee Island beach house. It was only eight o'clock on a Sunday morning, but bright sunshine already lit the room. Brad emerged from his bathroom, while still brushing his teeth. Dressed only in a pair of boxers, he looked over at the California king-sized bed where two young ladies from the previous evening were still sleeping. He remembered the blonde. He did not remember the brunette. As he towered over the bed, Brad tried to think of the blonde girl's name. It was Jen, Joan? No, those weren't it... Jessica. No,