The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

“Of course.” He looked confused. “Your father cares about people. He listens to the voters, their hopes for themselves and their children, their goals for their country. You’ve seen it.”

  I had. At every campaign stop along the way. Cal was right—whatever the senator’s beliefs, he cared about other people.

  “I’m not saying President Lawrence doesn’t have as much empathy,” Cal went on. “But here’s the difference, as I see it. Senator Cooper has faith in those people, in their futures. He doesn’t want to tether them to a support system, feed them to a behemoth of a government that consumes and grows greedier the bigger it gets. He wants to free them, so they can soar. That’s why I’m on this campaign.”

  I stared at him, my jaw slack. He cleared his throat with a lopsided smile.

  “And with that said . . . !” He stood, offering me a hand up with a chuckle. “I’m not sleeping with Nancy Oneida.”

  “Please tell Nancy I’m so sorry.”

  He rolled his eyes, not unkindly. “She won’t even remember. Nancy’s brain lives eight hours ahead of everybody else’s. She’s predicting the morning show commentary right about now.”

  When Cal left me in the stairwell, I didn’t go straight up. I sat there in the hollow silence trying to reconcile the wildly different images I had of my father. The great listener who never asked me questions. The champion of the American dream who was anti-immigration. The loving husband who cheated.

  My mother wasn’t the only one who didn’t make sense.

  The senator was a good listener, though. I remembered one visit to a small-town diner, seeing him stop to take an old woman’s hand as she talked about growing up poor in Mississippi. She was very worried that television was eroding American values. To me, she’d seemed kind, but heat-addled. But the senator listened attentively, ignoring all the staffers who were trying to keep him moving along, keep him on schedule. And that scenario repeated itself over and over everywhere we went, whether it was a kid talking about her school or a veteran describing his last tour. He listened because he wanted to know—and you could see it affect him. It was the fuel that kept him going, kept that smile bright and his wave cheery, kept his speeches fiery.

  Like the one he’d given tonight.

  Now, sitting in an empty stairwell, listening to the low hum of the building’s pipes, I wondered how many people had told the senator that they were afraid that illegal immigrants were taking their jobs. That cartels were moving in and taking over their cities, that they suspected even their neighbors of running drugs, that illegals were hiding everywhere, corroding the fabric of their lives. That they were the problem, these people who refused to play by the rules, who were criminals just by virtue of being here, who didn’t care about America and what it stood for, wouldn’t even bother to learn our language or customs.

  He’d probably heard a lot of that. I’d heard some myself on the road, but I’d blocked it out. I’d wanted to be a positive part of the campaign, and it wasn’t all sunshine and light, but I’d needed to be. It was that simple.

  When I called Penny that night, she didn’t bring up the speech, but I could tell by the way she carefully avoided talking about it that she’d listened.

  “We were really proud of you,” she said. “We all cheered when you came on TV.”

  I pictured the Diazes gathered around their television, probably crammed onto their floral-print sofa or sitting on the floor in the living room, their cheers slowly dwindling as the senator’s speech hit home.

  Changing the subject seemed like the best option right about now.

  “You still cool to stay over on Birthday Eve?” I asked, kicking my shoes off the edge of the bed. “Bring your bathing suit, Pen. After careful reflection, I’ve upped the pool rating from an eight to a nine-point-five.”

  “I don’t know.”

  My smile dropped away. “You don’t know? Haven’t we been talking about this for the past week?”

  “Listen, I . . .” Penny sighed. “Kate, I really don’t want to make an issue out of this. I just don’t think it would be a good idea.”

  I couldn’t talk for a second, feeling myself simmer with embarrassment—and anger too. I knew the senator’s speech was incendiary, but why was Penny taking it out on me, her best friend, who had lived across the continent from her for the past year and who would be leaving in a matter of days?

  And who was she to act so judgmental? She didn’t even know him.

  “He’s not a monster, Penny.”

  “Neither are we,” she shot back.

  “Of course not!” I clenched a pillow, my cell pinned between my shoulder and my ear. “It’s just, he only knows one side of it. If he could hear what people really go through—what your mom and dad went through . . .”

  And that’s when the idea hit me—a prospect so risky that my heart started to pound just considering it. I had almost managed to shove it down, filing it away under Impossible, when Penny said: “Listen. Maybe you could stop by during the day instead. Papi said he’d cook for you, but I told him you were probably meeting with like the Ambassador to China or—”

  “I’d love to,” I said, then added quickly, before she could rescind the invitation, “We’d love to.”

  25

  Saturday, August 2

  Happy Birthday to Me

  94 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  It took some coordinating.

  First there were the Diazes—explaining my plan to them over the phone with Penny as cheerleader, assuring them over and over that Meg and the senator would keep their confidence, that the Coopers were open-minded people who’d simply never heard a perspective like theirs before.

  “And once you’ve met them, if it doesn’t feel right,” I offered, “don’t say anything. We’ll just have a nice lunch.”

  That was the strategy Mr. and Mrs. Diaz finally agreed to.

  I knew that Meg had made a big point of clearing the day of my birthday since we’d be flying back on a red-eye late that night. The senator had had a brunch with a high-level donor scheduled, but he canceled, telling everyone who would listen that his daughter was turning seventeen, so he’d be doing whatever she wanted. He sounded so eager, like he was relishing the opportunity to sacrifice a few campaign stops to dote on me. It was flattering at first. But after the fourth time he said it—always with plenty of approving ears around to hear—I stopped reading much into it.

  Except for one thing. He was up for whatever I wanted to do. He’d said it. And I had witnesses.

  After breakfast cupcakes, the Coopers presented me with a pile of gifts—a leather-bound journal from Gabe with a sketch in the front cover as an inscription, a sweet silver necklace with a star pendant from Gracie, and the somewhat mysterious combo of a backpack, Harvard T-shirt, and e-reader from Meg and the senator. Grandma Evelyn had sent her own contribution directly to the hotel—a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies, with a note instructing me not to let the campaign take them away.

  “This came too,” Meg said, handing me a flat, brightly wrapped parcel with frayed edges, as if somebody had already unwrapped and rewrapped it. “In the interest of full disclosure, James took a look to make sure it was safe.”

  I turned it over, suddenly wary. The terrifyingly scrawled note said: “To Quinn, Who Is Now 17. From Your Secret Admirer (in South Carolina).”

  “Wow,” I blurted and looked up, giggling, to see everyone staring at me. “It’s . . . yeah. It’s cool, I know who this is. He’s just . . .” I held up the note. “This was a joke.”

  The whole time I was opening what turned out to be the new Kudzu Giants album in vinyl, Meg had her eyebrows raised, awaiting further explanation. But the senator swatted at her with a complicit grin.

  “Let the girl have some secrets.” He rustled my hair and peered down at the album. “Kudzu Giants, huh? You might have to share that with me.”

  “Yeah, right, Dad.” Gracie snorted. “You only listen to old-person music.”

 
He shrugged, defeated, and Gracie cracked up, sending Gabe into his own giggle fit. They were still laughing when, after another round of thank-you’s, I led everybody down to the parking level, where James was waiting with the car.

  It wasn’t until we’d pulled out of the hotel barricades that the senator asked where we were off to.

  “It’s a really good lunch spot. One of my favorites.”

  “Mexican food, right?” The senator grinned. “Is it authentic?”

  “Extremely.” I trained my eyes at the horizon. Conveys honesty. Confidence.

  In the rearview mirror, I could see James shaking his head at me ever so slightly, but his eyes were bright.

  James was the only other person in this car who knew where we were going. I’d had to tell him—he’d asked me for a location so he could secure it in advance along with the other agents assigned to the campaign. When I told him it was a private residence and gave him the suspiciously familiar address, his eyebrows had risen higher and higher, his arms crossing in amused suspicion.

  “And . . .” I’d added sheepishly. “You can’t tell the senator. It’s, um . . . it’s a surprise.”

  “I thought you were the one who was supposed to be surprised,” he commented dryly. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

  Still, he’d kept his word. The house was deemed secure, he’d posted extra guards on each street corner to ensure that the press didn’t follow us, and he drove in silence, the only sign of collusion the wink he shot me over his shoulder when we got on the freeway, heading to East LA.

  The senator stayed on the phone with Louis the whole ride, going over staffing issues, and Meg was finally reading that Time issue with me and the twins on the cover, a faint smile playing on her lips. Gabe watched the sky out the window.

  But Gracie knew something was up.

  “Where are we going?” She scrunched her nose as we got off the freeway. “Everything’s in Spanish.”

  The senator peeked out, his brow furrowing, and I shot him a smile. “Like I said—authentic!”

  When we reached the house, the Diazes were already arrayed nervously on the front yard, a smaller scale replay of last week’s gathering—minus, thankfully, any banners saying Welcome Back, Happy Birthday, or anything else. I couldn’t help noticing that the neighbor’s house had a new “Reelect Lawrence” sign beside their mailbox.

  The senator got out of the car and stood staring at the Diazes’ house in confusion. I watched his eyes sharpen in one blink as he realized where he’d seen this view before—in news coverage.

  I linked my arm through his and held tight so my hand wouldn’t tremble.

  “This is my best friend Penny’s house,” I explained. “The Diazes invited us for lunch, and I didn’t want you guys to leave LA without getting to try some of Mr. Diaz’s amazing cooking. Seriously, it’s better than any restaurant.”

  Penny called out a greeting from across the yard. Mr. Diaz stood in the driveway, holding little Eva’s hand and waving for both of them. Eva’s hair was neatly braided and tied, but I could see her fighting not to rip it out, squirming in her church dress. Enrico stood in a military stance, his hands behind his back and his posture very straight. Gus, the Diazes’ fat chocolate Lab, was doing a hopping dance from behind a plastic dog-gate in the front doorway. And in front of him, Penny’s mom lingered on the house’s low porch, smoothing her dress with a maniacal grin.

  She was terrified. We all were—even the Coopers, by the looks of them.

  As Meg stepped out of the car, she turned to shoot me a Significant Look, conveying in one slow blink that she was not born yesterday. I wondered how much she’d sussed out already.

  But by the time the twins were scrambling from their seats, the senator had already recovered. He strode confidently forward to greet Mr. Diaz, hand extended and eyes bright as if this were just another campaign stop.

  Mr. Diaz shook the senator’s offered one with both of his own. “It is such an honor to meet you, sir.” He looked like he was having a stroke.

  “The pleasure’s mine . . .” The senator paused to listen for Mr. Diaz’s name, just as he always did out on the trail.

  “Carlos, sir.”

  “Please, call me Mark.”

  Mr. Diaz turned to his family, who took the cue and hesitantly crossed the lawn. “This is Penny, of course. Penelope Maria when she’s in trouble.”

  Meg chuckled and moved to greet the group, giving my arm a sharp pinch as she passed. I hardly felt it. This was happening. And so far, this was working.

  “My wife Inez, My son, Enrico, who is home only briefly—he returns to Camp Pendleton on Tuesday.”

  The senator turned to shake Enrico’s hand, a question in his eyes.

  “Third Battalion First Marines, sir,” Enrico answered, and I could tell by his fidgety hands that he was fighting not to salute.

  The senator laid a hand on his shoulder, moved. “Thank you for your service, son.”

  Mr. Diaz beamed. “And our little one here is Eva.”

  “I’m not little!” Penny’s sister tugged angrily on her braid. “I’m eight.”

  At that, Gracie and Gabe perked up and before I knew it, everyone was moving into the house, leaving Penny and me alone in the yard.

  “He does seem nice,” Penny whispered. Then her smile dropped, her eyes clouding. “Are you sure about this, Kate?”

  I took her hand and squeezed. “You can trust him.”

  Lunch was amazing—and not just the chiles rellenos and chicken mole that Mr. Diaz had labored over for my birthday, knowing how I loved that chocolaty sauce. The conversation flowed so naturally that it felt as if the Coopers and the Diazes were old friends. The senator asked a million questions too, eager to get to know them better.

  Penny held her breath next to me. I did the same every time the chitchat went down another level, from what spices Mr. Diaz used (cumin, cilantro), to how he learned to cook (his abuela), to Penny’s own ineptitude in the kitchen, as discovered when we were “lab” partners in sixth-grade home ec and she accidentally set a roll of paper towels on fire.

  From chatting about school, we got onto the subject of jobs, and although Penny and I tensed in anticipation, the topic ended up being innocent enough. Mrs. Diaz cleaned houses and made some extra money tutoring high schoolers in Spanish. Mr. Diaz was a housepainter by trade and landscape painter by vocation. He’d sold a few pieces in a gallery up in Ojai and he was a regular in the local art fair circuit.

  As he described his art, I remembered something from the last time I’d been inside this house, the day after Mom’s funeral. Mr. Diaz had propped a half-finished oil painting on an easel by the window, where the golden afternoon light streamed through. The painting depicted a long, empty road. I remembered now the sensation of being pulled into it, of longing to run down that road, hoping for something I couldn’t name at the end of it.

  “Do you paint local scenes?” Meg was asking.

  “I do,” Mr. Diaz answered. “And also places that I remember, like the village in Mexico where I grew up.”

  We were swiftly approaching the point of no return. For one painful moment, I wished I could rewind time, take back the phone conversation I’d had with Mr. and Mrs. Diaz, urging them to share their story. This lunch was going so well. Everyone seemed to genuinely like one another. My mom had been friendly with the Diazes, but not close. What if a real rapport blossomed here?

  But I knew I was being silly. They very literally came from two different places. And in any case, time raced on. I held on to the wooden seat of my chair.

  The senator rested his elbows on the table, his hands clasped as he listened. “How long have you been in the US?”

  He looked intrigued, not appalled. That had to be a good thing.

  Penny linked her ankle with mine under the table. Outside, I could hear Eva and Gracie shouting, Gus barking, and Gabe laughing in response.

  “Twenty-five years,” Mrs. Diaz answered proudly. “In Decembe
r it will be twenty-six.”

  “And what brought you here?” The senator asked it lightly, suspecting nothing.

  Mr. Diaz couldn’t hold his smile anymore. He stared down at his fork, as if examining a speck of food on it. He wanted to tell. I could see it. But it was no small thing to confess.

  Enrico turned to me and I gave the world’s smallest nod.

  “Go on, Papi,” he said.

  I reached my hand flat across the table toward Mrs. Diaz. “You can trust them.”

  My eyes found Meg’s, and finally the senator’s, watching as the realization slowly unfurled. There was confusion. And then came clear, heavy shock. You could see it, flooding their expressions. But to my immense relief, neither of them wavered in politeness. Not for one instant.

  “Please,” the senator said. “This is your home. Whatever you share with us stays here.”

  The Diazes exhaled as one.

  “My village was very poor,” Mr. Diaz started, and Penny sat back, her eyes half closed as if this were a familiar bedtime story. “There was no work unless you worked for men . . .” He shook his head. “Dangerous men. Men I grew up fearing. And without work, there was no food. Sometimes we did not eat for a day. Or longer. It is something that’s hard to explain here, where everything is right at your fingertips.”

  Mrs. Diaz put her hand over her husband’s and picked up the story, her eyes dreamy with recollection.

  “I grew up three houses away from his. And when we were sixteen, we went to a village an hour away and found a priest who would marry us. My parents didn’t like this—they had wanted me to marry one of the richer men in town, even if they were drug men, terrible people.” She raised her eyebrows. “Now that I’m a mother, I don’t blame them as much. They only wanted me to have more than they did. I want the same for my children, but their lives are their lives. I would never try to control them like that. My parents made it difficult for me to stay, wouldn’t allow me to see my husband.”

  “My cousin had crossed over,” Mr. Diaz said plainly. “He knew a way and he felt for us. He paid for our crossing. It was very difficult, and terrifying, especially having Inez with me. I could have gone alone, found work, and sent her help. It would have been smarter, but she wouldn’t leave me.”