Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  “That one in the back?” Birdie asked, sizing Jackson up. “He’s cute. So is Jackson a save-the-world type or a power junkie?”

  “Hmm? I’m sorry?” Cady didn’t understand the question.

  “Everyone here is one or the other,” Birdie explained. “He’s with Thompson?”

  “They worked together in New York. Mayor’s office.” She was distracted by the projected returns, so many percentages, so many precincts. Her heart swelled with pride for Jackson, to be there in the middle of this excitement, have a hand in this win.

  “Isn’t Thompson just everyone’s favorite these days? I’m not sure if it’s the cheekbones or the kumbaya bipartisan talk,” Birdie said.

  “Probably the cheekbones,” Cady joked, making Birdie smile. “But he’s got the right sort of superhero origin story, right?”

  “I suppose there’s some passion balancing out the playboy antics,” Birdie quipped.

  “A guy moves home to Iowa to care for dying parents who pass within weeks of each other, then, out of loneliness, spends sleepless nights at those endless city council meetings and starts heading up citizen action groups, helping at-risk teens, cleaning up litter-strewn parks, until he jumps into the race for his local seat on a whim? I’d say so,” Cady recalled. It was true, Carter had never expected to win. Jackson had been among the first he’d recruited when it came time to staff up.

  “It’s pretty saintly lore, perfect for politics, I’ll grant you that,” Birdie said. “That’s why he can get away with dating Victoria’s Secret models and socialites.”

  “I think the most recent was a foreign correspondent,” Cady said, offering a mild defense.

  “Speaking of traveling, your fiancé must be on the road quite a bit these days.”

  “Jackson was out there a couple weeks ago and he’s there now, but, you know, he’s back tomorrow, so, it’s not so bad.” Still focused on the TV, Cady realized she was rambling.

  “Awww, honey,” Birdie said, grabbing Cady’s shoulder, nestling her head against Cady’s. “You’re a campaign widow.”

  7

  THESE PARTIES ARE LIKE WATERBOARDING

  Reagan loved Birdie, loved her, but she really hoped Birdie wouldn’t fish for any Alex Arnold gossip tonight.

  “Jay, darling, so glad you could make it,” Birdie cooed, dispensing air-kisses, as they walked into Birdie’s living room where a rollicking party was already in full swing. “Your story was brilliant, not just saying that because it was about me.”

  “Total objective opinion,” Reagan, at Jay’s side, quipped as she and Birdie embraced.

  “And Reagan! Love! Didn’t you just have a baby?” She looked her up and down, nodding.

  “Two, actually. But fifteen months ago,” she clarified.

  “Well, you look like you could be the hot nanny, not the mama.”

  “Thanks, that’s what I was going for.” Reagan smiled, curtsying in appreciation. This was the best compliment she had received in ages, and precisely why she adored Birdie.

  Birdie waved over a waiter with more champagne cocktails. “I was just thinking of you,” she said and held Reagan’s hand. “Buck and I were at the Alfalfa Dinner the other night and you know, your speech for Vandercamp is still the best I’ve ever heard there. Hilarious. Miller so needed you. That man is missing a funny bone.”

  “And a spine too, from what I hear,” Reagan said. “That Economist story on his party-switching shenanigans was brutal.” She had read the piece hours before, thankfully.

  “Sure, sure, but now what about tonight? Iowa? Have you been in touch with Alexandra Arnold?” Birdie segued, as expected.

  “Yes.” Reagan smiled kindly, taking a glass, volunteering nothing. She was fiercely protective of Alex, Birdie knew that, the mentor who had hired Reagan fresh out of college and later helped shepherd Reagan to her Dream Job, even though it was elsewhere. But Reagan couldn’t blame Birdie for trying.

  “And how are they feeling over there? In the Arnold camp?” Birdie prodded. “Do they think Iowa will go their way?”

  “They’re confident, but they’re aware that it could be tight and you just never know,” Reagan said, calm and easy but hoping to wrap up the conversation. “We’ll see.”

  Birdie waited a beat, as though hoping for more, and then said, “We certainly will,” seemingly giving up and changing course. “And what are you up to these days?”

  “Well, I’m writing a parenting column for this guy.” Reagan elbowed Jay. She hated explaining why she had willingly left the Dream Job at the city’s top boutique speechwriting shop to which everyone from members of Congress to CEOs to the president outsourced their humorous remarks.

  “Major traffic for this one, off-the-charts page views,” Jay said, covering for her as only a best friend could. “Fastest growing column on The Queue.”

  Reagan had told her this at least twice in her six months on the column, but Birdie tended to tune out any information that felt useless to her and/or involved children, so this was two strikes.

  “That’s right, of course,” Birdie said, uninterested.

  “Necessity is the mother of invention, and motherhood necessitates reinvention.” Reagan shrugged. She felt no regret about having left her job; she just didn’t like thinking about that time in her life: the twins had been born just a little early, about a month. They were fine now, of course, fine, and she was grateful every minute of the day. Still, when it came time to return to work, she’d thought of those early days and couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

  “Is that the name of your column?” asked a young woman Reagan hadn’t noticed before.

  “Nope, that was too brainy,” Jay answered.

  “It’s called Motherfucker,” Reagan said.

  “I’ve read that and I’m not even a mom!” the woman said. “‘Every mom has a Motherfucker! moment,’” she quoted the tagline.

  “A what?” Birdie stepped back in.

  “That moment when you feel like you’ve totally fucked up or you’re just totally unprepared for what life throws you as a parent,” the woman explained. “You’re fantastic! You should be on my show.”

  “You’re very nice,” Reagan said. Maybe she really should get out more often.

  “Hey, you’re my viral star!” Jay said.

  “The one from Rose’s? You mean the proposal?” Reagan hadn’t actually clicked on that video.

  “I do,” Jay said, grabbing the woman’s bare left hand as she smiled shyly.

  “Congratulations!” Reagan said.

  “We’ll find that sucker,” Jay said, squeezing her hand. “And when we do, I want a follow-up.”

  “Bling is overrated,” Reagan said.

  “On that we shall agree to disagree,” Birdie mumbled, swiping another drink from a passing tray as Abbie materialized, whispering in her ear. “In the koi pond? Already?” Birdie questioned. “Who? It’s far too early to be that drunk even at one of my parties,” she said to the girl, then addressed the group, “Must go. But so nice you all know each other. Makes my job easier. So this—” she held the woman’s shoulders “—is Cady. She’s our newest widow, loves. Be kind.”

  “My condolences,” Reagan kidded.

  “OMG, I’m one too!” Jay blurted out, reaching for her hand again.

  “Listen,” Birdie said, still squeezing Cady’s shoulders. “It’s totally what you make of it, widowhood.” She winked. “Have fun, all!” And with that she allowed herself to be lapped up by the many guests no doubt waiting for their moment with her.

  “Thanks, but I’m not really a—” Cady started.

  “I’m in semidenial about it too. It’s okay,” Jay cut her off. “Reagan’s the real pro.”

  “Guilty,” Reagan said, raising her palm.

  Somewhere within their little circle, a muffled version of tha
t Rocky Haze song started. Jay smacked at the pocket of his suit jacket, fished out his phone. “Sorry, gotta take this.” He answered, “Hey! Miss me already?” as he slipped away from the ladies.

  Reagan watched him, concerned. It was probably Sky. She hoped, for Jay’s sake, that Haze would get knocked out of the primaries instantly. She turned her attention back to Cady. “It’s not so bad,” she offered, without much feeling as she scanned the room.

  Grant Foxhall, the square-jawed CNN anchor, drink in hand, at the center of a group of familiar reporters near the white baby grand piano, caught her eye and nodded a hello.

  She simply nodded back.

  * * *

  “...And so we could use some real, relatable parenting personalities on the show, you know what I mean? Instead of the usual know-it-all types—” Cady finally turned to Reagan, but she was gone. How long had Cady been talking to herself? She had been too busy gabbing on autopilot while observing the room’s boldface names to notice.

  As swiftly as Cady had been engulfed, she had been abandoned, left alone with the ideas they’d put in her head. What was the big deal? Wasn’t a campaign just like any other business trip? She knocked back her cocktail, found a spot out of the way beside the bookcases and pulled out her phone, snapping a pic of the room and tapping out a text to Jackson, from whom she had heard nothing since he’d landed in Des Moines that morning. Just another, she started typing, but something bumped into her shoulder, pushing her into the bookcase, and she hit “send” too early. “Hey!” she said, looking up.

  A white-jacketed cater waiter turned around after backing into her. “Shit, didn’t see you there, hi, sorry, want one-a these?” he asked, not looking at her but circling so that he could see the room over her shoulder.

  “No, thanks,” she said, anxious to amend her text. She typed another day but, then—

  “Please?” He shook the tray, which held a dozen sliders on fluffy mini-brioche buns with a fancy sauce oozing.

  “What? No, I’m good,” she said again, slightly annoyed. She typed at the office—

  “It’s a veggie burger slider. More specifically, a barbecued cauliflower slider. Just an experiment,” he added as though apologizing.

  At this plea, she finally looked up. He had a few days’ scruff, deep brown eyes and messy dark hair, and appeared to have misbuttoned his white chef’s coat uniform.

  “It’s okay,” he added in a whisper. “I’m trying to look busy too.”

  “Excuse me?” She laughed.

  “No, I just mean, if you’re just trying to look busy anyway, then you could have one and tell me what you think.” He had that kind of wide, wild smile that couldn’t be contained.

  “Maybe I actually am super busy and I’m not just trying to look busy.” She normally would have been mildly offended, but for some reason, she wasn’t, and found herself smiling. Maybe it was the cocktail, which had been sweet and fruity, like so many of the most lethal ones.

  “Well, are you?” he asked.

  He seemed so disarming and friendly, unlike the chilly partygoers orbiting them, that she tossed her phone into her bag and sighed. “Actually, no.”

  “Yeah, I’m like that too. These people sorta freak me out, but you looked less scary than the rest of ’em.”

  “Thanks, I get that all the time.”

  “No, I meant that as a compliment.” He laughed. “These kind of parties are like my version of waterboarding, when I’m not working...like this. At least when I’ve got props—” he gestured with the tray and a slider tumbled to the floor but he didn’t seem to notice “—and a clear purpose it’s less painful. So, have one already—”

  “A clear purpose?”

  “One of these. Jeez, you’re a handful.” He held out the tray in one hand, his stack of Brandywine-monogrammed cocktail napkins in the other.

  Cady grabbed a slider, studied it and took a bite as he stepped around her so she had a view of the party again.

  “Not bad,” she said with her mouth full.

  “Told you.”

  “And traditionally I don’t love cauliflower.”

  “I’m honored, then. It’s underappreciated as vegetables go.”

  “Veggie burgers in general tend to make promises of heartiness they can’t deliver on,” she went on, chewing. “But what could be more election-appropriate than overblown promises, right?”

  “Hoping to change the world one slider at a time.” He sighed. “Okay, is the coast clear yet?”

  “What?” She finished her slider and helped herself to another.

  “Those guys.” He cocked his head in the direction of the bar.

  “Which?” She had to stand on her toes, crane her neck to see over his shoulder.

  “Don’t look—”

  “Well, then, how—”

  “The one with the pocket-square thing. Them.”

  She glanced over his shoulder again, scanning. “Ohhh. Yeah. They’re walking over here.”

  “Fuck. Are you kidding?”

  “Why would I bother to—”

  “Parker! My man!” The pocket-squared guy sidled up, slapping Parker on the shoulder, his two slim-suited cronies close behind. He looked like he played lacrosse at a prep school, summered in Nantucket and dated every society girl between here and there. Probably simultaneously.

  Backed into the corner, Cady couldn’t escape and simply sipped her drink and fixed her eyes on the flat screen where Hank Goodfellow stood at a podium in a park in Iowa, wife Madison by his side. Was she frowning?

  “Brock,” Parker said, grinning and faking it well enough. “Hey, man, how ya been?”

  “What’re you—fuck, man, Melanie lets you outta the house like that?” He smacked Parker’s chef’s coat. “You working this party? This is what you left the Hill to do?”

  “Long story. Bore you with it another time.”

  “Shit, man, even answering constituent mail is better than this, am I right?” Brock laughed, slapping his buddies on the arm.

  Without thinking, Cady jumped in. “He’s my star reporter actually,” she said. “Cady Davenport, Best Day DC. We’re doing an investigative piece on how people treat catering staff. You weren’t the nicest getting that gin and tonic over there. That’s a camera.” She pointed to a gargoyle-type statue perched on the highest bookshelf, then dug her hand into her purse. “Can you just sign this release so we can include you in our segment?” As she pulled out a folded piece of paper, the three men backed away, hands up like she was about to spray them with mace.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brock said. “Hey, man, great to see you. Let you get back to it.”

  Parker waved and when they’d disappeared, leaned in. “So, I could be all, ‘Hey, I don’t need your help, I got this,’ but, thanks, seriously.”

  “Nice friends.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Yeah, they’re assholes,” he said. “Hey, so you’re with that show?”

  She nodded. “But, no hidden cameras.” She unfolded the paper, which was really just a map: “This is actually just, like, directions to get here.”

  “Nice.” He laughed. “So my girlfriend and I are opening a restaurant—” Parker patted at his pockets, pulling out a crumpled business card, and looked around the room before handing it over. “That’s me. Not open for a couple weeks, but we’d appreciate any press. And by ‘appreciate’ I mean, we’re prepared to bribe you with free booze for life.”

  “Sounds like a good deal,” she joked. The card read “Preamble” in a font reminiscent of the Constitution and “Parker Appleton, Owner.”

  “Cute name,” she said.

  “Oh, uh, thanks.” He shrugged. “I was named after a suffragist, a dude actually, Parker Pillsbury?”

  “No, I mean, ‘Preamble.’” She laughed.

  “Oh! Right. Thanks.”

&n
bsp; “But me too, actually—Liz Cady Stanton?”

  “Seriously? Sure, she was a boss.”

  “Pride of Johnstown, New York.” She pulled out her own card, handed it over. “That’s me.” She felt a hand on her arm. A droopy-eyed Reagan, arms folded, body slightly hunched.

  “Reagan, this is—”

  “Have you seen Jay?” Reagan whispered with effort.

  “No, actually—hey, you okay?” Cady asked.

  “I just don’t feel so good,” Reagan said.

  “Shit, my boss. Okay, back to the huddled, hungry masses,” Parker said, saluting them.

  “Wait,” Cady said. “Do you need something to eat?”

  Parker turned around.

  “Ohmagod, I can’t look at those.” Reagan buried her head in Cady’s shoulder as though she’d just witnessed a violent crime. “No offense!”

  As Parker slipped away into the crowd, Reagan bolted, running out the nearest door.

  Cady followed and found her vomiting into a planter of French tulips on the back porch. “Those champagne cocktails will get you,” she comforted, hand on Reagan’s slim back. She noticed the zipper to Reagan’s dress had buckled, a small “o” from strain interrupting the track.

  “I didn’t drink a thing,” Reagan choked out.

  8

  SHE’S THE LIFE OF THE PARTY, JUST SHOW THAT

  “Are you just determined to get me out of my first Birdie Brandywine party?” Jay joked. He had left Birdie’s Iowa caucus party as soon as he got the call. Sky had been invited to Rocky Haze’s rehearsal unexpectedly, and he knew this was it, a gift in the form of an exclusive and a chance to own the story until the official all-media press conference the next evening.

  “I don’t know where to start with this, to write this. I don’t know what to do,” Sky said, panicked, as though he had never written before. “There’s an NBC van out in front of the hotel, aaaahhhh. And I just passed by a dude from 60 Minutes—”

  “When do you watch—?” he started to ask.

  “Nana. Jay?” Sky cut him off, aggravated.

  “Right, sorry.” Of course, Sky had been known to watch the news program with his grandmother in Miami whenever he was home. It was her favorite.