Hurricane Days

by Renée J. Lukas

  “Governor Sanders,” Peter exclaimed as she entered. He muted the TV.

  She closed the door behind her, heels clicking across the marble floors.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  Staring into the ice-blue eyes so close to him, Peter stumbled.

  “Well?” she repeated.

  He aimed the remote at the TV, turning the volume back on. Ann DeMarco, a popular journalist, was posing a question: “Will this scandal destroy Governor Sanders’ political career? Does her road to the White House end here?”

  Robin faced the screen. “Scandal? What scandal?”

  Then she saw the photograph. It was larger than life, a picture of a young, college-age Robin with her arm around another girl.

  Peter changed the channel.

  “A lesbian affair in college?” Benny Rhodes, the most obnoxious of all the conservative pundits, was shouting. He was very afraid of women intruding in the old boys’ club of politics and frequently ranted for hours about female politicians’ weights and hairstyles—both subjects that seemed to keep him up at night. He would be the first to skewer her. “How can you run a campaign based on Leviticus and be caught with your hand up another woman’s skirt?” He chuckled to himself. “I think she’s ruined.”

  Robin grabbed the remote from Peter and flipped the station again. Lindsay Vaughan was the next pundit to dissect the situation. Her commentary was usually a bit more balanced, but this was a pundit’s Christmas come early. “The higher your moral high ground, the farther you have to fall when a skeleton like this comes crashing out of your closet.”

  “Governor,” Peter sighed.

  She raised her hand. “Please.”

  Again the photograph was splashed across the screen. It looked as though the two girls were outside in front of a fire. Robin stood frozen, staring at it. The girls’ smiles were saved for posterity, both of them looking so happy, as if their futures were limitless. Robin caught her breath. She’d never forgotten Adrienne. She could only vaguely remember the other girl—the girl she used to be.

  Chapter Two

  “The problems of two people don’t amount to a hill of beans…” Humphrey Bogart gazed into the eyes of Ingrid Bergman while the propeller of a nearby plane whirred in the background.

  On the day I left for college, I watched Casablanca in the beige, velvet easy chair that was usually reserved for my father.

  Mom rushed in. “Robin! Marc’s on the phone.”

  I bristled at the sound of his name. “Could you tell him I already left?”

  “All right, but he’s called once today already.”

  “Please?”

  Mom nodded reluctantly, then glanced at the TV. “I never understood this movie,” she said. “How could he let her go with that other man? That isn’t what he really wants.”

  The truth was, I would have rather been standing in a trench coat with rain pelting my face inside an old black and white movie than dealing with my high school boyfriend, even by phone.

  Marc Tolland was a handsome drama major who was under the impression that he and I had been going together for the past year. He was a kind, good-hearted guy, someone who held open doors for me at the movies and probably carried groceries for old people, though I hadn’t actually seen him do that. But he was a good Christian boy. Mom and Dad approved of his family, and he went to our church. So as far as they were concerned, I could marry him right after I got out of college.

  He never did more than hold my hand or give me a quick goodnight kiss at the end of our dates. One night when we were sharing a slushy at the local Cheese ’n Freeze, he got this look in his eye. It was a look I knew but didn’t want to know.

  “Uh, Robin?” His voice quivered.

  I watched the Adam’s apple in his throat bob up and down. “Yes?”

  “You wanna still see each other after high school?” He knew I was planning to go to an out-of-state school, while he desperately wanted to be a University of Georgia bulldog.

  “Sure,” I said. “I guess.” I hadn’t really given it that much thought.

  He squeezed my hand. I liked the softness of his skin. He wasn’t one of those super hairy boys who had developed early and had full beards as seniors. Or one of those who were held back so many years they now looked like their fathers sitting at small high school desks. No, Marc was smooth all over; I’d once seen him without his shirt in the summer, swimming at a lake. He had a cleft in his chin and light brown hair and the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. Everything about him was something I liked. I imagined this was what girls felt when they liked a boy. He was cute. He was kind. What else was there?

  My answer had given Marc the idea that we would try to stay boyfriend and girlfriend forever. He lingered longer than usual at my front door that night, almost giddy, though I didn’t know why. As we stood on the porch, dodging the swarm of kamikaze moths that had gathered around the outside light, he laughed nervously. I still didn’t know why. Aside from ducking away from the flittering moths, I was never nervous around him. Just comfortable. I thought that was important in a relationship, that I be nothing but comfortable. I even told all of my friends how great it was that I could be myself with him.

  He leaned in like he always did for our quick goodnight kiss. I was ready to kiss him back. But as he held me tonight, he pressed me tighter to his pelvis and forced his tongue inside my mouth. I drew back, appalled, and wiped my wet lips. The exchange was so gross—even more gross than watching my brother slurp his food, and that was saying something.

  “What’re you doin’?” I cried.

  “C’mon, Robin. That’s how boyfriends and girlfriends kiss.”

  “Not me.”

  “But I love you!” he wailed.

  I stared wide-eyed at him. As a polite Southern girl, I felt it would be rude not to say it back. “I love you too.” I didn’t really consider if it was the truth. Whether or not I meant it didn’t matter.

  “Well? If you love me, you’d kiss me like that.” He was so certain. Where had he gotten this information?

  What if this was one of those things in that Your Body is Changing book that Mom was too shy to give me? She had stood in my bedroom doorway several years ago, holding this light blue book with a drawing of a woman’s uterus on the cover, at least I thought it was a uterus, and talked about how women and men make babies. But she was so nervous, with beads of sweat breaking out all over her face, and her skin turning deathly white—all of it happening so fast, like one of those diseases that kills you in forty-eight hours. I was worried for her. I had to make her calm down, so I told her I didn’t need the book. I knew about the birds and the bees from what Peggy Hoolihy said at school. And everyone knew that Peggy Hoolihy had spent most of her high school years underneath the bleachers. She must know everything there was to know, right? Now I wondered if I should have asked Mom to give me that book anyway, even if she was about to pass out.

  Summer was coming soon, and by fall we’d be in different states anyway. I knew this meant something big to him. So I leaned in and tried to kiss him his way. But all I felt was a wet, flopping eel running along my tongue and inside my cheeks. It was like getting a cheek swab for strep at the doctor, but more uncomfortable. I wanted it to stop. Now. After what seemed like a reasonable amount of time I managed to pull away, and I smiled as if it had been a pleasant experience. Judging from his dreamy face, I must have played my part well.

  That was my first lesson in duplicity. I discovered I was good at it. For most of the summer, to avoid that kind of kiss again, I made excuses every time he wanted to see me. And when I did see him, I made sure it was at a group, family or church event, so he wouldn’t try that kind of kiss there.

  A few weeks ago, as summer was drawing to a close, we talked on the phone.

  “I’m really gonna miss you,” Marc said. He sounded upset, as if something was on his mind.

  “Me too,” I replied.

  “I don’t feel like…well, it doesn’t se
em like you really wanna be with me anymore.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You never can go out with me.” His voice was sad and kind of pitiful.

  “It’s not my fault I had summer jobs.” Yes, make him feel guilty for saying such a thing. I was being so manipulative, I was surely damned to hell. Dad always said I was melodramatic, and now I was using my acting powers for evil purposes. I was sure to burn for eternity. Even so, it seemed worth the price to avoid having to kiss someone like that.

  “No, I get that. I understand. I really do.” Of course he did. How could he argue with helping schoolchildren learn how to read or coordinating all the food for the church picnics? After all, that potato salad wasn’t going to make itself.

  There was a long silence. “I have to go. My mom needs my help with dinner.” I always found a way to get off the phone quickly.

  So the last call before I’d leave for college was one I couldn’t endure—an awkward maze with no easy way out. As the credits rolled for Casablanca, I sat back in the comfortable velvety chair and sighed. I loved film noir. Nothing in these films was as it seemed, particularly the women. They were mysterious creatures with power and beauty and that certain something that made the men fall at their feet.

  Of course I couldn’t imagine myself as a film siren or femme fatale. I wasn’t as cool or confident. I worried constantly, always feeling a little strange compared to my friends. I spent my time deep in thought, usually thinking about things I couldn’t control—the nuclear threat, violence in the Middle East or when Saturday Night Live was going to get funnier. I was inquisitive about the world and social issues, but all my friends wanted to talk about were boys. Not to sound rude, but my friends were boring. It was as if none of them cared about whether or not we invaded another country or why the price of gas was going up. They were content to live in their little suburban bubbles with freshly cut grass and think only about getting a ring. I’d have to accept being different.

  I didn’t even dress right, according to the unspoken laws of high school. Too often I wore blouses given to me by Granny Inez, who sewed them from ugly, old-lady patterns. I couldn’t hurt her feelings or Dad’s by refusing them. As a result I ended up going to school looking about forty years older than I was. For college, however, I packed only two of the blouses—to appease Dad. Then I said I didn’t have any more room in my suitcase. When I could, I wore simple, button-down shirts tucked into jeans. I liked simplicity, not fashion trends.

  I had my mom’s hair, black like a crow’s and shiny. I wore it long and straight. I didn’t like the big eighties’ hairstyle. When I heard someone say you had to spray it at the roots to get that wild look, I decided it was too complicated and worried that it could possibly make your hair fall out. Besides, I didn’t have enough time in the morning to do that much hair preparation.

  Boys told me I had pretty blue eyes, but I didn’t think of myself as glamorous or poised or any of those things I associated with my mother. June Sanders was the most elegant woman I knew. She breezed in and out of rooms, balancing casserole dishes with ease. She always knew the right thing to say, except for talking about sex, and she stayed amazingly calm, even when Dad flew off the handle. I tried for a long time to be like her, then gave up, realizing it wasn’t possible.

  Whenever I felt insecure, which was nearly every day of my high school life, I looked to the poster of Bette Davis hanging in my bedroom. She served as sort of a guardian angel who reminded me I didn’t have to fit in. Bette didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of her. She didn’t live to please other people; at least it didn’t seem so. Being a pleaser myself, I looked up to someone like her.

  At home, it was a constant struggle between who I was and who my parents needed me to be. They had expected me to go to college at Dad’s alma mater, Florida State, and major in political science like he did. Mom hadn’t finished college, so she agreed with Dad. The trouble was, here in this house of white walls and perfect décor, everyone knew their place. My dad knew politics and farming, Mom knew cooking and decorating, and my brother Kenneth knew football and tinkering with cars or anything with an engine. To them, I was an enigma, someone who daydreamed too much and watched too many movies.

  When we first talked about what I would major in, Dad stared me down across the dining room table. “You can’t major in film! There are no jobs!” He always looked like a general determined to win a battle.

  “But…” I managed to say.

  “She likes movies,” Mom said softly, adding a few points to my side.

  “Life is not a movie!” Dad thundered. And that was that. His opinion was reinforced by the crucifix hanging on the stark, white wall behind him.

  When I registered at FSU, I was able to slip two film courses into my schedule. Mom promised to tell Dad in her own way. It would be our little secret for now.

  * * *

  We lingered in front of the big house in Atlanta that I’d called home for the past eighteen years. It was really an estate, but Dad called it a farmhouse. We owned more acres and horses than I could count.

  I took it all in, in one sweeping glance, my happiest memories of childhood flashing before my eyes, then looked back to the expectant, slightly anxious faces of my parents.

  Mom squeezed all the breath out of me. “Call us when you get there.”

  “I will.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Dad yelled. “Let the girl breathe.”

  I noted only two cars in the driveway. “Isn’t Ken coming by?”

  “He had to work today,” Mom said apologetically.

  “Everybody’s got a screw loose at that garage.” Dad shook his head. He didn’t really like his son working with guys who he thought were just one step up from being white trash. In truth, he was still nursing a grudge, mad that Ken didn’t want to stay closer to home and work the farm.

  I tried to hide my disappointment. I’d miss my brother a lot. In his own quirky way, he was, most times at least, the sanest and most honest one of the family. He called things as he saw them.

  I took a deep breath and picked up my last suitcase. Then, with a full tank of gas and my neatly rolled-up poster of Bette Davis in the backseat, I took off down the road. As I watched Georgia pine trees disappear, soon to be replaced by palm trees, I could almost hear the words: “Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy life.”

  Chapter Three

  Lara’s call came soon after the news broke. “I told ya, you can’t run for office nowadays,” she said in her raspy tone. “There’s nobody without some stain. You gotta be Jesus to make it past the research. Goddamn Internet.”

  Lara Denning was Robin’s press secretary, a woman so full of herself that she believed she could manage anything, including the earth’s rotation.

  “I don’t have any stains!” Robin fired back. She tried to sound calm, as if it were all a nonissue. She paced her bedroom and spoke softly. “This is untrue. Once it’s confirmed as a lie, a desperate last-ditch effort by my opponents, it will be over.”

  “Oh, honey, this is me. In politics, perception is reality. You know that. As far as Georgia is concerned, you’re already a flaming lesbo. Wait a minute. Can lesbians be flaming? Or is that just gay men?”

  “I don’t know. Really, I don’t know. Because I’m not part of that lifestyle. And what do you mean by…?”

  “They’ve done flash polls in Georgia, South Carolina and Tennessee. You lost, sweetie, thanks to Twitter.”

  “It’s a nonissue.”

  “You think it was Graham?”

  “Probably,” Robin replied. “I don’t know.”

  “Whether it was or not, that’s got to be our strategy,” Lara said. “Pin the smear campaign on him. Make him look like a garden-variety, dirty politician. And you’re an innocent, ethical leader.” Then after a pause, she added, “Nobody really likes Graham anyway. They’ll buy it.”

  Graham Goodwin, named after evangelist Billy Graham, was in second p
lace behind Robin. Rumors swirled that he’d had a facelift and hair plugs. He also had two artificial knees from playing college football. In fact, it was possible that nothing about him was real. Literally. It would have made sense for Graham’s team to dig up some dirt and conveniently leak it right before the final debate.

  Robin hung up the phone, pondering Lara’s advice. She undid her silk scarf, her trademark accessory, and placed it in the closet with the rest of her vast collection. In fact, she owned more scarves than shoes. Tonight’s color was a flaming cranberry. As much as she hated to admit it, she wouldn’t even get a haircut without Lara’s approval. It had been Lara’s idea for her to keep a streak of gray in her hair near the top. She’d told Robin that too much gray would make her look like a witch, but just enough would make her appear wise. Sure enough, all the magazines had commented on how her gray strand was being copied by other women, who were all trying to look wise.

  “Lara Denning,” Tom chuckled, buttoning his pajama top. He never could take Lara seriously.

  “Yes, she’s giving me the game plan.”

  “A woman who emailed pictures of her bare ass all over the web. She’s the one you trust to manage your image.”

  “That was years ago,” Robin insisted. “When she was young and drunk.” She brushed her hair vigorously as she always did when she was worried. “I don’t know, Tom. You think they’re right?”

  “That you’re a lesbian?”

  “Be serious.”

  For the first time Tom saw a glimmer of uncertainty in her face. In a way, he was relieved to see it. It meant that she was, in fact, human.

  “Do you think this scandal could bring me down?” she asked.

  He exhaled. Softly, he asked, “Is it true?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she exclaimed.

  Tom’s mouth twisted into a growl. “Not so ridiculous, Robin. If it weren’t for Kendrick, this wouldn’t be a real marriage at all.”