by Robin Ray
Chapter VIII
THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER.
September 25, 1998.
Thousands of people, including elated voters, spectators, political coordinators, security staff, and the press are gathered in an assembly hall of the Florida state nominating convention in Miami. As it’s a primary for the U.S. Senate seat, they are eagerly awaiting a speech from State Senator Charlie Crist, the Republican challenger to the incumbent Democratic U.S. Senator Bob Graham.
Several dignitaries, including the interim state senator, Amanda Smith of Florida, are scheduled to speak. Hundreds of placards bear Crist’s likeness, but Smith, gaining popularity because of her good looks and oratorical presence, has become a force all her own. Many of her supporters are also on hand carrying “Smith Is It!” posters and placards, some with her likeness, some with her famous catchphrase, “Never Surrender.”
It is a typically festive occasion. Red, white and blue are displayed everywhere on flags, posters, pamphlets, buttons, t-shirts, jackets, cups and plates. Practically anything else that can be decorated is similarly colored. Popular rock music is playing from several speakers scattered around the hall. Politicians of every walk and stripe are giving out autographs and pamphlets or speaking to the press.
Soon, a rumor goes out that the popular Sen. Smith will come to the stage. The crowd starts applauding. Methodical stomping of feet follows. The music gets turned off. Then, with the excitement at its peak, Sen. Smith comes to the podium with her husband and pre-teen daughter. The crowd cheers wildly. After a few moments, she motions for the crowd to settle down.
“My fellow Americans!” she begins.
The audience cheers.
“And fellow Floridians!”
Once again, they cheer.
“Tonight is the beginning of a new era with Charlie Crist. It is an era in which every one of you can hold his or her head up high and say, “This is my time; my time has come!”
The crowd roars.
“For tonight is the night your parents promised you and your parents' parents promised you. Tonight, you look to a leader who will stand up to the bureaucracy and say, "My people speak, and their voices will be heard!”
The crowd shouts jubilantly. Whistles and noisemakers add to the din of the buoyant hall.
“Now, I don't want to spoil tonight's festivities by hogging the spotlight, so I'll be brief. We have fought a good fight, and we've never turned back. And, if anyone asks you how you’ve been, and how you feel, just take them by the shoulders, look them square in the eyes, and tell them Senator Smith says, “Never Surrender!”
The masses roar and stomp their feet. They are so loud it seems like the rafters could burst at any moment. Sen. Smith, waving and bowing, turns and departs with her family.
Minutes later, Sen. Smith with her family, advisers, and a photographer, enter the Delano, a world class luxury hotel on Miami Beach just a stone’s throw from the Convention Center. She poses in the lobby for a few pictures with her husband, Thad, and daughter, Dianne, and then signs autographs for the small throng that has assembled.
Finally, they enter her luxurious suite. A table filled with flowers, food and drinks sits in the middle of the opulent room. A wooden turn-of-the-century desk and several chairs are scattered throughout the suite. Several paintings adorn the walls. The photographer starts to take pictures but Sen. Smith tells him not to on the grounds she must maintain some privacy.
The phone rings. An assistant picks it up and talks to the person on the other end. He hangs up, walks over to Sen. Smith who is chatting with the press, and whispers something in her ear. She picks up a glass and spoon and signals for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, “I hate to be rude, but can I be alone for a moment?”
Everyone files out, some with confusion on their faces. After the last person exits, Sen. Smith walks over to a wet bar, takes out a bottle of wine, pours herself a glass, and takes a sip. There is a knock on the door.
“Yes?” she calls out.
The door opens. A couple in their late 50's is standing there. It is Migdalia and her husband, Marcus. The years have been kind to Migdalia. Gone are her long golden tresses, now replaced by a short black and white cut. Though she sports more lines on her face, her beauty can still be seen behind them.
“Mother! Father!” Sen. Smith yells excitedly.
They hug then enter. Sen. Smith closes the door and sizes up her parents.
“It's good to see you two. Seems like ages.”
“My,” Migdalia states, “just look at you. You've done so good for yourself. You'd make any mother proud.”
“The neighbors already treat us like royalty,” Marcus brags.
Sen. Smith smiles. “Then you must be the happiest parents in all of Miami.”
Migdalia nods. “We are.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Please,” Migdalia requests.
“I can't stay,” Marcus informs them. “I have to meet with the Press Corps.”
Migdalia eyes him sharply. “Marcus, let them wait.”
“Ah, you know how pushy they are. I'll see you two in a little while anyway.”
Sen. Smith hugs her father. After he exits, she turns to Migdalia.
“Father never could resist the spotlight,” the senator realizes.
“We're both very proud of you, Mandy. Where are Thad and Dianne?”
“They couldn’t resist the game room.”
Using a shiny new cappuccino machine on a table, Sen. Smith pours two cups of coffee, one of which she gives her mother one.
“Thanks,” Migdalia nods, accepting it.
She takes a sip and sits her cup of coffee on the table. Sen. Smith picks it up and places it on a coaster.
“They invented these for a reason,” she asserts.
Migdalia is taken aback by her daughter's brusqueness but tries not to show it. One of Sen. Smith’s assistants opens the door and sticks his head in.
“Mrs. Smith, the Governor is here, and he…”
The senator suddenly flings a glass at the door. Narrowly missing the astonished assistant's face, it shatters against the door jamb.
“Where'd you learn your manners?!” the senator yells. “Didn't they teach you how to knock in obedience school?”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith,” he apologizes. “I thought…”
“Out!”
The assistant backs out quickly and closes the door behind him.
“Dummy!” Sen. Smith scolds him out loud. “There's so many here, like roaches in a cupboard!”
Migdalia eyes her daughter. “Oh, Mandy, you've changed so much.”
“How did I change?”
“Maybe it's just stress. You’re up all night dealing with everybody all the time…I’m sure politics could kill the lesser man.”
Sen. Smith looks at the paintings on the walls, all of which are architecture of some kind.
“Why do you think I paint so much,” she admits. “It relaxes me.”
“You're a gifted child.”
The senator shrugs. “Maybe I was Michelangelo in my past life.”
Migdalia stares at her daughter; a measure of concern is marked in her mid-life brow.
“I took the DNA tests,” Sen. Smith reveals.
“Amanda, you promised not to.”
“Don't worry, Mother. I love Marcus like he’s my own father. Would you like me to tell him, or would you?”
“Can’t we just let it rest?”
“Why? A child has the right to know! I have a right to know! My patience is wearing thin!”
“What’s done is done, Mandy. It doesn’t change anything. How we all feel about each other is what’s important. We’re still a family.”
“I wasn’t looking to dig up skeletons, mother.”
“We have to look towards the future, right?”
“You know what, mother? You’re right. I feel good, you know. Strong as an ox. One day, I’m going to
be someone that’s really important, and I'm gonna make some sweeping changes in this country.”
To emphasize her point, she pumps her fist then takes a long drink from the bottle of champagne jutting out of a silver bucket of ice. “Mother,” she continues, “I'm sure one day you'll tell me who my real father is, even if it’s on your deathbed, but right now, that doesn't matter. Right now, all that matters is you believe in me. I’m going to make you so proud you’ll be way past honored to call me your little girl. So, come. Don’t be shy. Give your future president a great big hug.”
Migdalia treads slowly to her daughter, hugs her and stares at the paintings over her shoulder. Tears well in the Costa Rican’s large dark eyes.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Well, here we are again at the end of yet another novel, or in this case, novella, by author Robin Ray. Now, you may be asking, what the heebies does Robin Ray, a native of Trinidad & Tobago, know about Adolf Hitler, Eva Braun, the Caribbean islands, the 60’s, cruise ships and hurricanes? Well, truth be told, Robin wasn’t in the paramilitary during World War II. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t even born yet. War, and especially, WWII, has always held a special place in Robin’s heart. Why? Beats us. Probably because he’s a tree-hugging, all-we-are-saying-is-give-peace-a-chance kind of relic, we don’t know. He does seem to have an incredibly deep fascination with the elements of war as well as other unmentionables, such as instruments of torture and that 16th century tome of all things violent, Martyrs Mirror which, he hopes, Hollywood will make into a movie someday. To his credit, he is familiar with the Caribbean islands because he was born and raised there. That’s got to count for something in the context of this mid-Atlantic adventure, right?
Robin would like you all to know that Stranded in Paradise started life as a screenplay. Yep. One day, the script writing bug bit him so, with $300 in his pocket, hopped into his crusty little hoopdie and drove all the way to Hollywood from Providence, RI, a trip that took him all of five days. By the time he’d arrived on Sunset Boulevard, there must’ve been about $150 left in his pocket, truly a horrible way to start off a new life in the City of Lights. Somehow, he managed to survive 2 1/2 years in Hollywood. It wasn't easy, though, given his various surreptitious addictions. Still, he did manage to write five screenplays while in Hollywood, one of them being Stranded in Paradise.
LA wasn’t a total bust. Robin did spend many an afternoon hunkered down in the stacks at the AMPAS Library on La Cienega Blvd. You know what inspired him to continue on his difficult trek? Just holding the actual work of Steven Spielberg in his hands stunned him. The work? The shooting script for Jurassic Park, complete with hand drawn illustrations by Brother Steven himself. How inspiring is that? So, with that inspiration beneath his belt, he came up with the idea for a movie about Hitler, specifically, that he’d really survived the bombing of Berlin in 1945 and was laying low in some undiscovered island, waiting for his people to implement the plants that would result in the creation of the Fourth Reich.
Robin has come up with some interesting ideas in the past, but this business about Hitler surviving WWII was intriguing. What if Hitler did outlast the war? Can you imagine the continued terror he would have unleashed on the world? Perish the thought, but in these days and times, one can’t be too careful with who is in power. Their hidden agendas are known to only a few, that’s why transparency is absolutely necessary in this day and age, and it behooves us, all of us, as residents of the world, to be aware of what is going on…not some of the time…all of the time.
OTHER BOOKS by ROBIN RAY
Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven
Wetland: A Love Story
You Can’t Sleep Here: A Clown’s Guide to Surviving Homelessness
Tears of a Clown
Commoner the Vagabond
