Godless by James Dobson Page B

specified married parents?” Julia asked.
    â€œI know, it was a long shot,” Troy said. “But we provided solid data showing the long-term impact of marriage on the economy and the kids.”
    Kevin chimed in. “I pitched it as a way to make the Youth Initiative slightly less offensive to my constituency. You know, give seniors an incentive for helping future bright spots. The older the donor, I suggested, the higher the allowable credit.”
    â€œLet me guess,” Julia said. “Franklin rejected the idea because it might reduce the incentive to volunteer.”
    â€œWorse,” Troy answered. “He loved the part about raising the allowable credit based upon the age of the donor. With one major adjustment.”
    â€œRather than offer a new tax credit to seniors, he proposed a new tax on seniors. He called it the Robin Hood tax.”
    â€œAs in stealing from the rich to give to the poor?” Julia asked.
    â€œMore like taxing the old to fund the young,” Kevin explained. “He wants to add a five percent ‘age-graduation tax’ to every taxpayer over sixty-five to help offset the growing portion of the federal budget allocated to senior-care expenses.”
    â€œAnd it would increase an additional five percent every five years,” Troy added angrily.
    Julia ran a quick mental tabulation based upon the latest life-expectancy projections. “So by the time they turn ninety they would pay an additional thirty percent?”
    â€œOnly those who manage to resist every other strategy designed to pressure volunteers,” Troy spat, as if a foul taste had suddenly invaded his mouth. He turned back toward Kevin. “How bad?”
    Kevin picked up a small stone and tossed it toward the river. He waited for the splashing splunk before responding. “Anderson called me last week to say it would be best if I kept quiet about my opposition to the Robin Hood tax until after the election.”
    â€œFranklin is gonna include the projected revenue in his budget plan, isn’t he?” Troy asked crossly.
    Kevin said nothing, offering a single nod while attacking the river with another stone.
    Troy grunted in disgust.
    Julia felt her own anger rise with Troy’s. Two years earlier she might have celebrated such a tax. She probably would have written a column hailing it as another innovative response to the growing financial crisis. Twelve months earlier she might have wondered what to think, torn between the expectations of her readers and a Christian faith she had only begun to nurture. But today she had no doubt or internal conflict. Such bullying of the elderly was just plain wrong.
    â€œI wish I could help,” Julia said.
    Troy put an appreciative hand on his wife’s sagging shoulder. They both knew it had been months since Julia received an assignment worthy of her reputation. The series of bright spot and dark zone stories written for RAP Syndicate had helped Kevin by creating a stir among readers. But it had also prompted questions from the editorial board that eventually led to the hushed departure of Paul Daugherty, the editor who had contracted Julia to pen the series. So her once-steady stream of work ran dry. All she had left was an occasional opinion column carried by syndicates too small to realize how far Julia’s star had fallen.
    â€œSo do I, Julia,” said Kevin. “So do I.”
    She sensed Kevin willing himself back into good spirits, a man determined to enjoy his brief but overdue break. Julia blushed at having burdened Angie with such minor worries as Amanda’s tantrum.
    â€œListen, Troy,” Kevin began, “I’ve got a few ideas brewing…” He hesitated, glancing toward Angie, who nodded permission to continue the thought.
    But rather than continue, Kevin’s eyes peered toward the food pouch lying open on the ground. “But we can talk about that after…”
    A spark of recognition