Free Recipes for Disaster by Josie Brown

It shows a woman. She holds an infant in her arms, but she is frowning and tearful.
    The man declares, “This is Carmen Diego de la Gregorio, a woman you raped thirty years ago, while you and the others under your command burned down my village in Panama during the United States’ inglorious invasion of my country—the so-called ‘Operation Just Cause.’” He pauses for a moment: “Senator Percy, I am the baby she holds in her arms. I am your son.”
    The room is shocked into silence, as is the senator.
    But yes, the resemblance is there—in the broad shoulders, and the square-cut jaw.
    In those startling blue eyes.
    “I am the result of my mother’s shame—and yours,” the man continues. “Her shame over her rape caused her to kill herself, not soon after this picture was taken. I was put in an orphanage, where I … I too was subjected to atrocities. On the other hand, you came home a war hero.” The man’s bright blue eyes glimmer with tears yet to be shed. “Instead, you are a war criminal. You do not deserve to be the president of the United States.”
    Chuck nudges Arnie again. “Man, there’s your money shot! Why isn’t your camera rolling?”
    Even if ours isn’t, every other news camera is capturing Percy’s shock and shame—not to mention all the cell phones in the room.
    Percy doesn’t deny the accusation. Nor does he signal the always-present but innocuous Acme security detail that has travelled with him here to Los Angeles. 
    Instead, he turns to his wife.
    Tears are rolling down her cheeks, toward that enigmatic grimace. “We have a child after all,” she murmurs. “If he's willing to forgive you.” 
    Percy holds out his hand to her. She hesitates, but takes it. 
    Together, they walk toward his son.

    “Will he be tried under the War Crimes Act?” I ask Jack as we head home.
    The implosion of Senator Franklin Percy’s campaign has already spread like kudzu, strangling the twenty-four hour news cycle with innuendo, supposition and pundit pontification. 
    “It depends on several things. First, a DNA test must prove conclusively that the man is indeed Percy’s son. And considering that the supposed rape took place over thirty years ago, does it fall under the War Crimes Act, which didn’t exist until 1996? Such crimes are defined by the International Criminal Court, but our country doesn’t accept its jurisdiction over our Armed Services.”
    “But Percy is retired military,” I point out.
    “Which throws another wrench in how it will be prosecuted, if at all,” he reasons. “Another question to be answered is whether the Geneva Conventions put a statute of limitations on rape. And because the man’s mother died at her own hand, Percy can’t be tried for her murder, but certainly any emotional turmoil she had over the rape and pregnancy can be laid at his feet.”
    I check my iPhone for any news updates. “CNN just confirmed that Percy has agreed to a DNA test.”
    “I thought he might. Interestingly enough, he’s not as upset as one might suspect over this.”
    “I thought it odd, too, until I heard Addie call the man ‘our child.’ She wanted him to come home with them.” 
    “That won’t mitigate Percy’s actions.” Jack pulls into our driveway and turns off the car. “Of all Percy’s accomplishments, the one that eluded him was fatherhood. I know firsthand why both he and Addie are willing to accept the truth, no matter the consequences.”  He takes his right hand off the wheel in order to place it over mine. “The role I play in your children’s lives filled a big hole in my life. I’ll always appreciate your decision to share them with me.”
    “You will always be their father, Jack.”
    “Thanks, Donna. I know you mean that from the bottom of your heart. But won’t a time come when we have to tell them the truth?”
    “No.” I turn away from him. “Carl is gone. We’ve made sure of that.”
    He turns my face toward him. “There are other