The Hawk in the Park

Rita Callum had left New York for Chicago when she was twenty-eight. The city had felt less and less like home, as the increasingly liberal attitudes had swayed from their Blitz spirit. She’d been fourteen at the fall of Bush, and had grown up with centrist parents who were content with Kennedy, and slowly spiralling apart. The slow progress towards a more European-like political position had scared her. The USA could stand alone. It didn’t need alliances of equality. It didn’t need to compromise. The land of the free was losing its freedom as she entered her adolescence. She had gone to college in the city she had loved, studying economics at NYU, but the opposition to the free market, the truly free embrace of entrepreneurship and endeavour, there was almost intolerable. She put her head down and got through the studies. As soon as she left, she was wanting to get out of the city, but her money was tight. The banks were packing up and leaving Wall Street for London, where economic oversight was minimal, the completion of the road of Glass-Steagall, the end of Gramm-Leach-Bliley, these moves had left her unable to leave New York. She had lived in a small apartment in a rough neighbourhood funded by her parents until finally managing to score a job in Chicago.


She didn’t like to go back. She had no time for either of her parents. The New York scene, of those quite happy to led Connors give up on the triumph of Israel and the strong defence of her nation, distressed her. She couldn’t get her around the views of people she wanted to respect but couldn’t. And she knew those who would otherwise have been her friends didn’t get her either. They couldn’t see the world the way she did, and the reverse was true.


So the one time she did return, on business, in the one gap in her schedule, she didn’t go and catch up with anyone, friend or family. She just went to Central Park, to the bit where the path crests over the hill, and you could look down to the trees towards the city, save for the pylon that stood in the way. Most people hated it, the wires and the metal getting in the way. But given she barely cared for the city at all, this patch where the grass retreated and advanced like the tides beside a peninsula, looking down towards the water of the river. Maybe the ebb and flow would suit her again. The far more hawkish President Smythe was changing things. New York would have to dance to her tune. It wouldn’t be so long before more people saw things her way, and she might find a home here again. Show someone else the view the way she saw it, pylons, wires, river and city.

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