Domestic Affairs

by Bridget Siegel

  “Okay, honey?” Stephen asked Olivia, a seemingly funny follow-up to his more boisterous outbursts.

  She smiled, knowing there was something nice about him. Actually, a lot. Even when he called you a fuckin’ idiot, which he was bound to do at least a few times a meeting, he did it with a weirdly endearing sincerity. It was like he was in on the jokes about himself and by playing along, he allowed you to be in on them too. There was something “inside/outside the family” about it that actually made you feel more included with every “fuck.”

  By the end of the meeting, an event had been planned and the governor had given a ten-minute policy pitch on film incentives, but Olivia felt as if she had not taken a single real breath. She had not even officially started her new job and here she was sipping—well, clumsily inhaling was probably a better description, but nonetheless drinking her mocha in Stephen Bronler’s back conference room and scrutinizing Taylor’s every move. After saying their good-byes, Olivia silently escorted the governor out of the building, watching him type away on his BlackBerry. As the SUV drove away, taking Taylor back to Georgia, she wondered what world she had just entered and whether or not she should be dropping bread crumbs.

  Over the next few days, Olivia woke up feeling like she had given a cute guy her number and was waiting for him to call. She was back to working campaign hours, better known as “all of them,” wrapping up things with Adams (which, she reminded herself, included getting the boxes that filled her small office into a storage space for keeping until the next campaign) and starting unofficially with Taylor.

  She wished switching campaigns could be more like sports-team trades. The minute a professional basketball player got the call that he would be playing for the Knicks rather than the Bulls, his hat switched from red to blue; the former hat simply disappeared under a table at the press conference. With campaigns, there was always a window of a few weeks when two organizations considered her an employee—one excited to have her start and the other anxious about her impending departure, so both grabbed all the attention they could get. At nine-thirty p.m., when her BlackBerry buzzed with a private number, she reached down for the phone, assuming it was Adams, who had been calling regularly that evening.

  “Hey, Hoya.” The Southern accent on the other end of the line startled her and she fumbled with her BlackBerry.

  “Hi. Hello. How are you?”

  “Not as good as when I’m in New York.”

  “We feel the same way here.” What? “We feel the same way here”? What does that even mean? Who does? She was so busy ridiculing herself that she completely missed whatever he was saying.

  “Hello?” he asked as if the line had dropped.

  “Hi. Sorry. You cut out there for a minute.” It wasn’t a lie. He had cut out from her train of thought.

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s good, thank you.” She could feel herself flustered and wondered if through the phone he could tell her cheeks were getting red. “How are you?”

  “You know,” he said with a campaign-like energy, “things are good. Really good. You see the Washington Post today?”

  Washington Post? She could barely find the time to get through all the New York papers these days.

  “I haven’t. Not yet. Which article?” She held the phone to her ear with her shoulder and ferociously typed his name and “Washington Post” into Google News.

  “Oh, you gotta read it. It’s a great one. All about how our campaign is bringing back the younger generation. I have to tell you,” he said with a pensive pause, “for me that’s everything. For the first time in the history of this country, we may be at risk of leaving our children in a worse place than our parents left us. To me, that’s incredible. And just plain unacceptable. I won’t stand for it. We have to be able to ask ourselves if we’re willing to pay the price tomorrow for the poverty and indifference we allow today. If I can get this generation to ask those questions, to believe in the power of politics to do good, to renew just a bit of their hope in government . . . well, that would really be success.”

  “I think you’re doing that already.” Olivia felt her own sincerity.

  Forty-nine minutes and thirty-three seconds later, as so recorded by her BlackBerry, Olivia hung up the phone, once again unsure of what had just happened. She had listened intently to him speak about poverty in a fashion fit for one of her books on historical speeches, feeling as though she should be taking notes. She looked down at the pad in front of her where she had scribbled “We have to first believe that within all of us is the power to change the world and then we have to have the courage to use that power.”

  As she stared down, she wondered how they had moved so seamlessly from a book-worthy speech to stories of the biscuits his grandma used to make, to her need to play peacemaker in her family, a characteristic she rarely admitted, much less shared with others. He had told her he saw “a great spirit” in her. She had even convinced him that Yanni’s party in the Hamptons the next weekend, though totally apolitical, would be worthwhile. There was an ease in talking to him—one that seemed more befitting of a friend, not her longtime political hero. It left her smiling as she closed the Adams list and opened a new Excel file of prospects for Taylor.

  SIX

  Jacob@LTaylor.com: Hey. You’re coming with us. We’ll pick you up at 2.

  Olivia’s heart fluttered as she read the message that popped up on her BlackBerry. The campaign had become like a new crush—every time it was mentioned, she felt giddy. She had been awaiting Jacob’s text, knowing from her conversation with the governor that they would go to Yanni’s party after the scheduled fundraiser in New Haven, but she wasn’t sure Jacob knew that she and the governor had spoken. The campaign was doing a lunch at the Swannee. (Olivia Googled and figured out the Swannee was the Swann Club in New Haven, Connecticut. Campaign Lesson #7—no campaign staffer worth his or her salt ever says, “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”) She wasn’t required to go, as she didn’t officially start until the next week. But she had been hoping they would invite her. She tried to play it cool.

  LivGreenley@gmail.com: Huh?

  Jacob@LTaylor.com: Gov wants you to come to lunch fundy w/ Stanton, then to Filipaki’s in EH. Will RON and get back sometime tomorrow.

  She effortlessly decoded the campaign-speak: Manny Stanton—a big Connecticut-based trial lawyer who had the kind of goofy commercials where the badly made-up litigator looks into the camera and says, “If you’ve ever been injured in an accident and need help now call 1-800-GET-RICH”—was hosting a fundraising lunch in New Haven. Then they would head to Yanni’s in East Hampton and spend the night (RON = “remain overnight”). It was going to be fun.

  Before she could reply, another message from Jacob blinked on her BlackBerry.

  Jacob@LTaylor.com: And try 2 look good tonight. If I have to see that Banana Republic suit one more time, I’ll blow my f*cking brains out.

  “Jerk,” she said aloud, smiling ear to ear at the Banana Republic suit she had laid out to wear.

  LivGreenley@gmail.com: Jerk. I’m not one of ur lackeys that says how high when you say jump. Will try to move mtgs around and let u know if I can make it.

  She pressed SEND knowing damn well she was going. She figured she’d give it a few minutes. Besides, she needed to focus on picking out a new outfit. She grabbed the skirt from one of her Express suits and paired it with a white sequined tank top she had gotten at Forever 21 for $8.99, much to the chagrin of her friends. Olivia held tight to her addiction to the store despite the mocking it brought on. Aside from the store’s being a big, chaotic, loud mess that she could get lost in, the clothes spiced up her boring suits, especially when she was reminded how boring they were. And yes, she understood that instead of buying ten of the $9 shirts she could buy one $90 shirt that would last longer than all of them combined, but the truth was she never really had $90 to spend on a shirt at once and the $9 at a time she did have could change her wardrobe rotation for t
hree weeks. She remembered a line Jacob had once told her: Campaigns and long-term thinking don’t really go together. Her shirts and her savings, or lack thereof, were good examples of that.

  Focus, Olivia.

  The sequined tank looked good, but she wanted to be sure she was professionally covered. She grabbed a black blazer and threw in her jean jacket for the Hamptons. It was dark denim, so it didn’t seem too casual. The perfect work-at-nonwork-events look, something she had decided she had mastered.

  Five minutes later she emailed Jacob. Okay, mtg moved. Can come. Try not to look like u r going to ur bar mitzvah. I don’t want you to embarrass me.

  As Jacob closed out Olivia’s text in the backseat of the SUV, he looked down at his normal campaign garb. Semiwrinkled khakis, light blue shirt, blue blazer, and Cole Haan shoes. It was actually exactly what he had worn to his friend’s kid’s bar mitzvah last month. He tugged on the sleeve of the blazer, which was still a bit stained from when he’d put his arm into some mustard, reminding himself that it needed to be dry-cleaned stat. He wondered if Sophie had already seen this outfit more than twice. She didn’t seem bothered by it, he thought, smugly reminiscing about her lingering kiss as he had run out the door.

  He looked out the window to see the governor walking toward the car, stopping as always to say hi to every person he passed.

  “Afternoon, Gov.” Jacob started his usual rundown as the governor shook hands with Sal, the security detail deployed to drive them, and settled into the front seat. “Manny is hosting this at the Swann Club,” he said.

  Governor Taylor looked around the car. “Isn’t Olivia coming with us?”

  “We’re picking her up—her apartment is right on the way to the FDR.”

  Sal nodded his head, confirming that this was the most efficient way to go, and then gave a little side glance and smile to Jacob. Though there was no guarantee you would get the same detail every time you went to a given state, Sal had driven them around New York during the presidential race and had become a confidante. A trustworthy driver, who was inevitably privy to all kinds of conversations and phone calls, was a rare and treasured thing. So Jacob had made a point of requesting him whenever they were in town. Sal appreciated the special request and had a good time with them, so he was quick to help out when Jacob needed backup on a plan change. In this case, Jacob knew Sal believed what he was agreeing to, which made it that much more convincing. The actual plan had been to pick Olivia up before they arrived at the governor’s hotel, but Jacob wound up staying at Sophie’s on the West Side, making it impossible to get to both of them and still be on time for the governor. The kiss was totally worth it.

  “We’d be making a huge circle to get her first,” Sal had originally argued. “Her apartment is literally on the street we have to go on. If she’s waiting outside and we get a red light, we may not even lose a single minute.”

  Jacob rolled his eyes, hoping that explanation would hold his boss over and wondering why, after all this time, Sal still didn’t understand that in the battle of logic versus what makes a politician’s trip faster, the latter always won out.

  Now, as long as the always-late Olivia is for once on time . . . Waiting never went over well with Taylor, or any politician for that matter.

  “Okay,” Taylor said, more accommodating than usual.

  Jacob continued on with the briefing. “All the info is here.” He handed him the page of notes. “And here are your remarks and some updates on the latest tort-reform bill in the Senate. Manny’s wife Carol will be there, along with his kids: Manny, Jr. and Robbie. Cheryl and Blair are cochairs. They’re the ones who actually raised most of the money, as usual. Also, wanted to make sure you saw that Ron and Doris Keller will be there; you helped get their daughter into Emory.”

  “Right, right, what’s her name again?”

  “Sally. She’s a freshman, studying political science. She’s an obligatory internship waiting to happen.”

  “Okay, who else?”

  “Governor Marino and his wife, Donna, may stop by.”

  Sal interrupted. “Here, Jacob, right?”

  Jacob looked up and let out a sigh of relief. Olivia waited on the corner, huge bag in hand. “Yup, that’s her housing project.”

  He never understood why girls felt the need to pack for a week when they were going overnight. He had brought an extra shirt and an extra pair of underwear, and they fit in his computer bag. Why did girls require drag-along luggage at all times?

  Olivia saw the SUV pulling up and applauded herself for having made it down before they got there. It had taken all of her talent and time to get every plausibly necessary outfit into the smallest black bag she could find.

  “Hello, hello, Miss Olivia,” said the governor through the window.

  She smiled. See now, why can’t anyone I know ever be walking by me at a time like this? Picked up by an SUV with Landon Taylor welcoming me out the window. I mean, it shouldn’t be that much to ask. There’s always an ex-boyfriend or high school friend available when I’m disheveled in Juicy sweatpants taking in food on a Friday night! I mean, I’m just saying.

  “Sparkly,” Jacob said chidingly through the open door with a smile, “meet Sal.”

  Sal had stepped out to the back to help load in Olivia’s bag.

  “Hello. Thanks so much.” Olivia handed over her bag and jumped in the car. “Good afternoon, Governor.” A rush of nervousness swooped over her but she quickly lost it to the buzzing of her BlackBerry.

  Jacob@LTaylor.com: Sequins, really?

  “How?” she mouthed while typing back to Jacob, wondering how he even had the time to type so quickly.

  LivGreenley@gmail.com: Thought we were going to forgo the bar mitzvah garb.

  Jacob@LTaylor.com: If only I had known we were going sweet sixteen instead.

  Olivia let a laugh out, conceding, as always, to Jacob’s humor.

  “You ready for a big day back there?”

  “Ready, sir!” Olivia smiled. “I hear Manny has put together a great event.”

  “Who told you that—Manny?” The governor laughed. Even his laugh seemed to have a nice Southern twang.

  “He’s not so bad!” She pleaded his case. “He means well.”

  “Oh, please, Olivia, he’s a DFTL.” Jacob hit her on the shoulder. “Even you can’t find the good in that.”

  “A what?” She loved Jacob’s way of always coming up with nicknames and acronyms, but this one was new for her.

  “You know, a DFTL, ‘dirty fuckin’ trial lawyer.’ I mean, seriously, the only classes he could have ever actually passed in law school were Being a Spokesman on a Commercial 101 and Picking up Women in Hotel Bars 102. Glorified telemarketer. Haven’t you seen his ads? ‘He is ready and waiting to defend your honor!’ Of course, the only thing he is actually ready and waiting for is your money, and possibly your wife. DFTLs.”

  Olivia laughed out loud, and the governor smiled.

  Manny Stanton was indeed a dirty fuckin’ trial lawyer. He was waiting at attention with his eldest son, looking as if they were expecting the Pope, as the SUV pulled up to the Swann Club. His combed-over hair was greased down across his round head and Olivia could see the Gucci logo all over his tie from twenty feet away. He’ll never come through with all the money he says he’ll raise, Olivia thought, happy that it wasn’t her problem just yet. She lightly pinched her arm to make sure it wasn’t all just a really good dream.

  Jacob had most of the responsibility on his shoulders. It was hard enough maintaining finance events when you were there to set them up, but on the road, it was nearly impossible. It will be so much easier when Olivia starts officially, he thought as he watched her nervously pick at her arm. He hated doing things half-assed. To prepare a good event required being on site for four weeks, or at least two, beforehand. But with all of his other responsibilities and constant travel, he had to leave a good portion of the work in the hands of donors and volunteers. And most of the time the only question
in such cases was who would be less reliable. He had hired a new finance assistant, Addie, who had started the day before. But with only one previous campaign under her belt, she couldn’t handle everything.

  He and Olivia plotted their game plan for the event as they rode up I-95. She would “staff” the governor. Jacob would rush into the space, check Addie’s progress, and do on-site advance. “On-site advance” was an oxymoron—it was called advance because you were supposed to do it in advance of the candidate’s arrival. He and the governor joked that lately what he did would be better termed “on-site during.”

  He walked into the club, an old mansion decorated much like the people in it—expensive but without any real style. Both the club and the members seemed to be stuck between wanting to be part of an old, traditional country club and showing off their very new money. A huge maroon speckled rug covered a dark wood floor in the large lobby, and strangely modern wood chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Jacob said hello to the volunteers, who were seated at long folding tables that had been set up leading into the room and covered with white tablecloths. They seemed, as volunteers always do, more interested in where the candidate was than in their task of collecting the checks.

  Jacob tried to get them to focus by promising that Taylor would take a photo with all of them at the end of the event. This would keep them in their seats working until the end. He double-checked the microphone level and made sure there was a bottle of water on the shelf under the podium and that it was moved in the perfect position, to the right where it would be easiest for the governor to grab it. He scanned the room and breathed a sigh of relief. Addie ran to his side looking for approval of her setup, proud to be handling her first event for the campaign.

  “Looks good,” Jacob said. “I want to make sure you meet the governor. I’ve told him so much about you. He’s really looking forward to meeting you in person.”

  With the ease of a candidate himself, Jacob led Addie straight to Taylor. He needed to get him toward the podium and start the speaking program anyway.