“That’s the problem, sir, we don’t know,” someone said, probably Mike.
“So you mean to tell me there is a mole in sheep’s clothing?” Hank said. He always had trouble with metaphors.
“Um, yes,” Mike said.
“All these years I’ve never dealt with more lyin’ cheatin’ lowlifes,” he said, and she could just picture him shaking his head. “I’ve gotta know who I can trust. I am all about trust. You know that. I know that. I need the American people to know that.”
Deep in her heart, Madison knew she was doing the right thing, but it did not feel good. Kind of like the time she had tried the Master Cleanse, but much, much worse. Hank was a good man. But she knew him better than he knew himself these days. And he refused to listen to her when she told him this might not be the right business venture for him. All she had to do was think of their son, Henry, that call he’d made to her back in the beginning of the year. “What’s going on with Dad, Mom? Why does he sound so hyped up all the time? He talks about invading countries and stuff, but I kind of feel like he doesn’t understand what’s happening in the world sometimes,” Henry had said in a whisper, as though speaking this way was treason. “We’ve been studying a lot of this in class, US foreign policy through the years, and it’s heavy, complicated stuff. Does he know what he’s talking about?”
She couldn’t lie to Henry and had told him simply, “I don’t know, sweetheart.” But she did know that this could be bad for business in the long run. This could threaten to destroy all he had built for himself. The company, the sports teams, these were what mattered to him. The rest had just been a power trip. In the oil world and the sports arena, Hank had been in his domain and branded himself a charming-Southern-playboy-with-an-occasional-wild-streak turned family man. He had never paid much mind to politics. Sure, his associates would make the offhand suggestion a few times a year when strong quarterly reports would come in for the company: “What haven’t you conquered yet, Hank? Are you gonna run for president one day?” It had clearly gotten to his head, as can happen when you’re a person who is generally successful at everything you try, as Hank was. So she had taken a deep breath and said to their beloved boy, who was so much wiser than either of them, “The next few months may look a little...odd...for our family, but I’ll sort this out for us all. Have the kids at school been giving you any trouble about this?”
Henry had hesitated just enough, then, “It’s okay. A couple of them are assholes—”
“Language, sweetheart.”
“But, whatever. Those guys are like that with everyone about something, so it’s no big thing,” he continued. “And everyone else is pretty cool, the guys on the team and all, they know it’s not me up there.”
She was instantly grateful that Henry was not only a smart, levelheaded young man with solid friends to count on, but also a gifted lacrosse player, who was already being recruited by the Ivies. Talent could protect and insulate you against the world in some ways, she had always thought. She had long wished to have some skill that truly commanded respect. Beauty was the polar opposite, but you work with what you’ve got.
“Keep studying and playing hard, sweetie, okay? This will get settled, sooner or later,” she’d said, wishing she could be more comforting. When he was about to hang up, she stopped him. “Henry. You know, sometimes people need to be saved from themselves and sometimes the only way to do that, and to reach them, is by hitting them over the head with things, sort of.”
“Okay, Mom” was all he had said.
Madison took the elevator upstairs to avoid running into the Machine. The plan with her donors had been to let him get the nomination, then talk him out of it, leaving the field wide-open for Arnold to win the election. By then it would be too late for Hank’s party to put up a replacement candidate with any hope of winning, and Madison knew no one much cared for the likely choice, Hank’s VP pick. Even that, Hank had gotten wrong. A political lightweight state senator who had once been a baseball player. He should’ve picked the girl.
Figuring out when to strike would not be easy. Madison had barely had any alone time with Hank in weeks. She peeled off her gym clothes—from her own line developed for that chain a few years ago, now discontinued. They didn’t wick away the sweat as much as she had hoped but had been a good price point and she still took pride in wearing them nonetheless—and stepped into the shower, hoping to wash away this feeling of dread.
* * *
Dear Motherfucker,
As a mom, it seems hard to get positive reinforcement or confirmation that you’re not completely fucking up. Do you ever feel like the day is somehow often a series of fails no matter what you do?
Asking for a Friend
Dear Friend,
Please, the last time I got any kind of positive job performance review was during labor when my doc told me I was a good pusher and asked how much yoga I’d done during my pregnancy. I’m expecting again, ask me how much yoga I’m doing now—None. (Though I am wearing yoga pants every day.) I receive this question in some form every week, and yes, as a mom, the days are manic depressive with highs and lows—your kid ate a vegetable: score!; your kid took off all their clothes and ran out into the front yard: fail!—but as long as you’re giving them love, then everyone’s winning. When I’m feeling down, I steal extra hugs, I squeeze their plump, pinchable thighs, kiss their chubby cheeks and I feel better. And a glass of wine after bedtime doesn’t hurt. By the way, let me tell you what no one else will: you’re doing great, keep up the good work, Mama.
Reagan finished her column during the twins’ nap time (rereading it she was reminded yet again of how much she had changed since they’d come into her life, how they had softened her edges, how she hadn’t understood how delicious babies were until she’d had them), and then she did the unthinkable: she sat down for a few minutes, put her swollen feet up and turned on the TV. She flipped between the news networks and stopped at MSNBC: footage from the requisite trip to DC’s own Ben’s Chili Bowl. John Arnold stood smiling as he ordered at the counter of the famous eatery, then, sleeves rolled up, he dug into what the general viewing audience might call a messy chili dog—but what she knew to be the Original Chili Half-Smoke—and gave a thumbs-up for the camera. Over his left shoulder in the background, Ted stood in profile, tapping away on his phone. The nostalgia washed over her, and she had an idea. It didn’t look like it was a live shot, but she wanted to try anyway.
Unearthing her phone from between sofa cushions, amid a treasure trove of spilled Cheerios, she texted Ted: Having a craving, are you still on U Street???
The craving wasn’t so much for chili as it was for their first date, those early, fizzy days and months and years of their relationship when they used to swing by the famous spot tipsy, always their last stop during a night out.
Two minutes later she received a photo of what appeared to be the inside of the fridge at the Arnold campaign headquarters with a Ben’s Chili Bowl take-out bag front and center: already on it... he wrote.
Did I mention I love you?
me too—and I don’t mention it enough. Did I also mention the secret ingredient: nutmeg.
it’s a curry. She had always been confident.
cinnamon. He never really purported to have any idea.
curry!
kumquats.
She laughed out loud. He was in a good mood today. She wrote back: yuzu?
you who?
ras el hanout?
rhubarb?
This had been their ongoing debate on their very first date: trying to guess the secret ingredients in Ben’s Chili. As that night had worn on, and the drinks had flowed, and they had fallen for each other (she still remembered being transfixed by that stunning contrast of his jet-black hair and brows against his ice-blue eyes), the suggestions had become more outlandish. It became a long-running inside joke in the years since then.
It made her smile now to think back.
She was already asleep when he got home, but she enjoyed her own Original Chili Half-Smoke for breakfast.
29
I’M DEFRIENDING YOU—RIGHT NOW
Mercifully, five o’clock was way too early for Jackson to have been home from work, so Cady let herself into the apartment and found it empty. Just three days since their fight and already the place had ceased to feel like home. She quickly located the jacket just where she thought it was—it wasn’t in such bad shape, though she wished she had actually hung it up instead of just tossing it on the floor of the closet. But she obviously hadn’t been her best self that night, what could you do?
She Metroed to Preamble, not bothering to tell Parker she was coming. She kind of hoped it would be busy enough there that she could just leave it with one of the bartenders and then disappear. She just wasn’t feeling particularly social.
The place was in full swing, so many Hill staffers and even a congressman or two swigging beers and watching the TVs oscillate between news and sports. Still, somehow, amid the happy hour ruckus, he seemed to spot her the minute she walked in.
“One Sour Suffragette coming up—unless this is the end of another pub crawl for you,” he called out.
She tried to smile, embarrassed. “Nope, not drinking tonight,” she said, but it came out a little too sour indeed, so she added, “There’s a first time for everything, right?”
“Just don’t make a habit of that, last thing a bartender wants to hear.” He smiled as she approached the crowded bar.
“Thank you for this,” she said, handing over the jacket. “I think it probably looks better on you, so I’m returning it.”
“Nah, I’d have to disagree. You’re welcome to borrow it anytime.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She wanted to laugh, but feeling that her spirit was dulled, looked away a moment, noticing the spray-painted mantra on the far wall as she did. “Oh, almost forgot. Thank you, also. For the poster. You’ll be happy to know it’s hanging proudly in my office.” She said it all just a little too flat.
“Anytime,” he said, squinting at her like a cop who wasn’t buying a suspect’s alibi. “Although, it looks like you’re still not living up to Thomas Jefferson’s dream.”
“Huh?”
“Thomas Jefferson? Pursuit of happiness?” he said, a little impatient.
“Exactly, got it, that’s—” she started to defend herself.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he cut her off, waving his hand. “Your whole...energy...or something...is off.”
“Oh, yeah, no, I’m about to pursue my happiness, any minute now. I just had other stuff to do today. You know, emails to return, groceries to buy, exes to evade—it was not easy going back to get that.” She gestured to his formalwear.
“I appreciate your sacrifice.” He smiled kindly. “So, no drinking, got it. You know, don’t tell the others but we actually do serve nonalcoholic beverages too.”
“Thanks, I think I’m good today. Next time.” She waved, turning to walk away.
Jay had been kind enough to give her a key, so at least she could get in to his place if he was still at work. She thought she might even walk for a little while. But in a few steps Parker was by her side again.
“You know what?” He stopped her.
“Whoa,” she said, startled. “Hi. Again.”
“I don’t think you’re good today.”
“Well, that’s not very nice to say.”
“As a bartender, who was also a psych major, I think you have what we in the business call...the blues.”
“That’s a scientific, medical term?” she asked, still walking to the door.
“And I don’t know where you’re going right now,” he said, following her. “But it’s probably not as fun as this place.”
“For a walk. And then Metro.”
“Yeah, that sounds terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you at least go do something, anything, better than that if you’re determined to not be here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can think of a thousand places you could go to get a jump on pursuing your happiness.”
“I told you, I’m going to put that off just, like, one more day.”
He held the door open for her. “Okay, how about if I put you in a cab and send you somewhere, and then you can get to your pressing matters of walking and taking public transportation?” His arm flew up to hail a cab and somehow, instantly, one arrived.
“It never works like that for me,” she said to herself.
He opened the door and closed it behind her. “Hey there,” he said to the driver. “She’s going to...” He paused to think. “Natural History Museum.”
“I don’t like dinosaurs,” she called from the back seat, like a grumpy child.
“The dinosaurs are under construction, you’re safe. No, go to the second floor, butterflies.” He paused for a moment, just as the driver nodded and hit the gas. “Wait!” he yelled. The cab stopped, and Parker yanked the door open. “Move over.”
“You’re very bossy today.”
“I don’t trust you. I’m coming with you.”
* * *
The ticket area for the butterfly pavilion was empty, the cashier pointing to a sign to explain why: they had just missed the last viewing of the day. Cady didn’t mind so much, she felt like she wasn’t the best company right now anyway. She still couldn’t believe Parker had come along.
“Look, Chris,” he said, reading the cashier’s name tag. “I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but she just got dumped.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“And, metaphorically, she needs to remember how to fly again, you get me?”
Cady gave Parker a look, not appreciating his commentary.
“I was a poetry minor. Very minor, I wasn’t very good,” he explained.
Still, the cashier agreed to speak to the butterfly wrangler and in no time they were standing in the vestibule, just waiting to be let in for their own private session.
“Trust me, it’s impossible to be pissed off in here,” Parker said.
The wrangler arrived, and they stepped into the humid room lined with so many plants and trees. A puff of water-misted air pumped in, and the butterflies that had been lounging on the leaves and flowers, hidden among the vegetation, spread their wings and took flight, swirling around the two of them. Suddenly the winged creatures were everywhere. Cady watched them fly and laughed as they touched down on her bare arms and then flitted away again.
“Don’t move,” Parker said, taking out his phone and snapping a picture: a monarch had landed in her hair, perched there like a beautiful barrette.
* * *
“You know what’s almost worse than the emotional shit after the breakup?” he asked, taking a bite of his ice-cream cone. Parker had insisted they patronize the ice-cream truck outside the museum. “The practical shit. Like, ‘Oh, thanks, now I have to find a new place to live.’ ‘Great, what do I do with all my stuff now?’ Who has time for all that? We’re busy people with busy lives!”
He didn’t say any of it bitter or angry, but in a funny way that made her smile.
“Ugh,” she groaned dramatically, licking her ice cream. “I forgot that I even have stuff. Like real baggage not just the emotional kind.”
The sun had set and the sky was just beginning to dim. The Mall still hummed with the activity of early August: joggers, tourists trickling out of museums, staffers on recess taking the scenic route home.
“I know, it sucks,” he said. “But I’ve got a great storage unit in Alexandria. Supercheap. And there’s plenty of room if you want.” He shrugged.
“Eek, I feel like that’s maybe where I went wrong,” she said with a laugh. “Maybe my stuf
f shouldn’t cohabitate with anybody’s stuff anytime soon. What if your stuff got sick of my stuff and just kicked it out one day with no warning?”
“My stuff is very friendly. I don’t think that would happen. But I respect your decision, very levelheaded.”
They cut across one of the paths, walking the width of the Mall to the opposite side, and stopped before the carousel. Patriotic music filled the air. A few kids were still riding before it closed for the night.
“We’re going on that,” Parker said, tossing the rest of his ice cream in the trash and taking hers to do the same.
“Hey!” she said, but he was already buying tickets.
“We have to get the sea dragon,” he explained, bolting as soon as the gate opened and yanking her hand. They ran halfway around the carousel until he finally stopped at a turquoise serpent.
“I saw you glare at that child.” She laughed.
“Gotta do what you gotta do,” he said, gesturing for her to take a seat on the sea dragon as he climbed onto a nearby horse.
“It is pretty cool,” she admitted, petting the dragon, then leaping up to ride sidesaddle. An attempt to be ladylike since she hadn’t expected to end up here when she put on her dress and heels that morning. Maybe she should have been more embarrassed, but being there, it was just so ridiculous. She kind of loved it. Besides, they weren’t the only adults unaccompanied by minors.
The music cranked up, and they set off with a boom. She laughed, almost kicked off her serpent. “I’ve got a feisty one,” she said.
They began spinning, wind whooshing through her hair as the sea dragon glided. She watched the Mall pass by, surprised to find her mind was finally at peace.
* * *
She had expected to head back to Jay’s after the carousel, but Parker said there was one more place to see and hailed another cab. “It’s near your apartment anyway,” he said.
Curious, she decided not to tell him she was staying in an entirely different neighborhood.
The cab dropped them off where 22nd Street dead-ended. In the dim streetlight, nestled in among trees, mysterious steps led to a fountain flanked by two curved staircases. It felt like a secret hideaway, tucked in this nook so close to the bustling center of Dupont Circle.
Campaign Widows Page 22
