She left her seat, pulled Mike’s assistant, Kimberly, aside. “Can you get me a coffee, please?”
But as soon as Kimberly left the room, Madison followed, catching her privately. “You have access to Hank’s schedule, right?” she asked. “Book him for thirty minutes at nine o’clock tonight.”
“That’s dangerously close to bedtime,” Kimberly said, protective.
“I know, I know, just do it. The location will be our hotel suite.”
* * *
The call came at 9:29 p.m. from Whiplash. “What is it?” Hank barked into the phone. “I hate it when you all plan these meetings right before my shut-eye. Where?”
Madison, listening in from the living room of their suite, put her glasses on and knocked on the open bedroom door. “It’s with me, your appointment,” she said.
“Never mind, Whiplash. Night, son,” he said and hung up. “Since when do you get on my schedule?” he asked, hands on his waist.
“Since never, which is why I had to make a formal appointment,” she said firmly. “Sit down, Hank,” she instructed.
To her shock, he did as he was told and folded his arms across his chest.
She leaned against the bureau, hoping to imply a sense of control over the proceedings. “You remember when you told me to tell you if you were getting carried away?” she asked, slow and cautious. “You’re past carried away. This hobby has gone on long enough. Let’s get back to what you’re good at and enjoy life again. I don’t think you really want the prize that you’re competing for.”
He looked at her and made his pitch. “But I can win.”
“It’s not supposed to be about that. Do you honestly want to do this job? Because I think it’ll destroy you. Doesn’t give me joy to say that, but I don’t see you wanting this. This feels like the hockey team. You could win and you could figure out how to do this, but you will be miserable. Leave this to someone who wants it. Bow out on your terms. Get back to your philanthropy, your company, your baseball team, your basketball team, the things that bring you happiness. You’ve already proven you can do this.”
He sighed, stared down at his feet, shook his head.
I have him, she thought. She knew it was all the thrill of the chase for him, and she didn’t want them to give up the next four years, risk doing actual harm to the country, just because he wanted to prove he could attain something.
“Madison,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “This is how you feel?”
“It is. You know that I’m right about this,” she said gently. “We can find an easy way out, blame it on the family, how you realized this would be disruptive to us all, to the kids.” She could have told him about Henry taking some heat at school, but she wanted to protect the boy.
“Well, all right,” he said. He picked up the hotel room landline, presumably to call the Machine: “Yes, hi there, this is Hank Goodfellow. I’m gonna need another room...”
She perked up, shocked, standing now as the rug was pulled out from under her.
“...no this one is fine, I mean an extra room—additional room—a suite, something nice, anything that’s not here on the top floor,” he continued.
“What are you doing?” she asked, taking a step forward.
He shot her the briefest, most lethal look. “And you can bring that key up to me?...Thank ya so much.” He hung up. “You’re not welcome at this thing tomorrow.”
“The debate?”
“Yep, that’s right.”
“I’m not leaving this room.”
“You don’t have to, I am. It would take ya too damn long to pack your shit up and I don’t have the time. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got an election to win. But you can take your pretty self back to New York tomorrow. We don’t need ya on the trail if you’re not on board with the mission here. Shoot, Maddy.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what your problem is. You’re getting all kinda attention, and they all sure seem to like you. None-a this should surprise me. We never did see tit for tat on things—”
“Eye to eye, you mean—”
“What?”
“And it’s not even true,” she said. “We usually do, but this whole thing has changed you, and I don’t think you’re giving the world your best Hank right now. I think you know this job isn’t for you.”
“That’s about enough outta you.” He raised his voice.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of the kids.” She swept her Chanel makeup bag into her Louis Vuitton tote as a knock rattled the door. “Simmer down, Hank,” she said. “Think about what I said. I’ll come back in the morning for the rest of my things.”
He liked to act like he was going to divorce her whenever they fought, but she considered this conversation just the start of negotiations. He should know that, businessman that he was. She opened the door to find a smiling concierge with a new room key on a silver platter. She swiped it and walked out without saying goodbye.
34
I’M NOT JACKSON, IN CASE THERE WAS ANY CONFUSION
They had weeks, weeks, to turn things around at the show. If she lost her job on top of everything else...she didn’t even know how to finish the thought. She would go back to New York? She would find another line of work? Well, she would stay here at least for another ten months because she had boldly signed a yearlong lease at the end of the summer (worst-case scenario she could always sublet, though she hoped it wouldn’t come to that) and moved into a (very) cozy little studio in Columbia Heights, not far from Jay’s office.
She had missed a call from Madison that morning while meeting with Jeff to go over their dismal numbers. “I wanted to run something by you,” Madison had told her voice mail. “It’s kind of crazy, but, well, just give me a holler when you have a sec.”
Cady was just punching the phone number when her cell pinged. Hi. Just a friendly reminder that I’m Parker. Not Jackson. Just in case there was any confusion there. She hung up the landline, slouched in her chair, stared out the window across the river at the city.
Ever since the food truck debacle of early August, Parker had taken to texting Cady weekly, like some sort of newsletter she hadn’t signed up for. The texts had become shorter, much like the days as summer stretched into midfall. It was now October, but still these missives arrived, and still they managed to make her smile. She occasionally wrote back a quick, Hi, Parker. She secretly dreaded the day they might stop.
She thought of those kisses daily, as though they had happened in an alternate reality or an especially good dream. She missed him, dropping by the bar, how he would greet her there, their easy dynamic—she had taken all that for granted. How had she not realized sooner, those sparks? She had tried to ignore them: she was engaged; that’s what you do. But now, it was getting harder and harder. And here he was, still texting her. It may not have been logical, but she needed to stay away, to focus on herself.
Parker was right, of course. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong. She just wasn’t ready to put herself in the position to be hurt again, so she had taken herself out of the game. She stared at her iPhone longer than she should have, debating whether to write back, what to say. The Declaration of Independence poster still hung there in her office above the TV. She’d nearly shredded it the day of the food truck incident, but she actually liked it and decided to grant the poster itself a pardon. Finally, she typed: Hi, Parker. I miss...my namesake cocktail... That was all she could bring herself to say, for now.
It was a Thursday, and at lunchtime the receptionist called her with a delivery: at the front desk she found a to-go cup and a straw with an envelope. Inside, on Preamble stationery, it said simply, “Cheers.—P.” She took a sip and smiled.
* * *
Madison almost didn’t watch the debate, she was that angry with him, but as with any potential train wreck, she felt she couldn’t look away.
It was both her civic and her wifely duty, in this case. So she had the nanny put Gemma to bed, poured herself a glass of Cabernet—and grabbed the rest of the bottle, why not?—and went up to their bedroom.
It felt like a sporting event. The tension in her muscles and bones, pulling for a difficult outcome. She wanted him out of this race, but not in this way. She knew the minute they began, the moment the camera’s wide shot showed him tugging at his tie, making that grimace like he might be suffocating. She knew even before the index cards or the barking. She saw it in his eyes, all the spirit drained. And then she was sure of it at the end, when, before leaving the stage, he took his tie off, rolled it around his hand, forming a wheel, and shoved it in his inside pocket.
FINAL DEBATE BRINGS FIREWORKS AND
TENSION (BUT NO NUDITY)
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
Nothing could top the October 9 debate for sheer entertainment value. Or so we’d thought. That event, intended to have been a town hall forum, was infamously shut down within minutes of beginning when hundreds of noisy, nude protesters descended on the Athletics Complex of St. Louis’s Washington University, shouting, chanting and bearing signs, banners, plants and even animals to raise awareness for environmental issues. The group had been rallied by, of all things, messages posted to Madison Goodfellow’s social media accounts by hackers. A number of the rowdier demonstrators storming the stage were later escorted out of the hall by police and forced to spend a (very cold) night in jail.
If that event will be remembered for its lack of proper attire, tonight’s debate was marked by its lack of decorum as Vice President John Arnold and opponent Hank Goodfellow were left visibly rattled by independent Rocky Haze. The musician-turned-political newcomer also delivered the biggest bombshell of the night after moderator Grant Foxhall of CNN inquired of the three candidates: “Politicians are often accused of campaigning more than leading as they approach an election year. Fast-forward to 2019, you’re president, how will you balance doing the job while also working to secure a second term?” Haze answered last. “I’m just running for this term. I don’t want the worries of reelection to get in the way of me doing the best job right now. I’m going to dig my heels in for four years, do everything I came to Washington to do, and then let someone else have their chance.”
The hall fell silent, then burst into applause and cheers. Even Foxhall appeared flummoxed as he stumbled over a follow-up question: “Um, seriously? Why?”
Goodfellow had a shaky start, flinging a stack of index cards onto the floor and going off script when he became frustrated with questions surrounding his economic policy. “How many times have I gotta tell ya, we’re gonna work this all out? Get the deficit down without raising taxes? We’ve got plans in the works, and they’re really good ones. But, Jesus, would you demand to know the end of a movie before buying your ticket? The world just don’t work that way.” Meanwhile, later on as discussion turned to international politics, Arnold sniped, “I’m just going to lay out the facts of my foreign policy platform, I didn’t realize we were at a poetry slam,” when following Haze’s off-the-cuff rhymes.
Indeed, Haze received cheers and chants and showed a serious side, speaking (rather than rapping) her mind much of the time. “On my website, we have our detailed plan for balancing the budget. It’s not the lightest reading, but it’s there, here are the basics...”
The crowd, which included a small, but vocal contingent of university students, seemed overall most engaged by Haze. They clapped along as she began her platform, which she called “Four-year Outlook: Watch for Haze”:
“You might be surprised, maybe falsely surmised,
what the world looks like seen through my eyes
I’ve got a plan too and here’s a preview, what’s in my purview...”
Then Haze stopped, looked into the audience for a few long seconds and said simply, “You know, I’m going to listen to Vice President Arnold and not hide behind my music. Let me tell you what I have planned if you grant me the chance to lead.” After laying out her key policy initiatives, she made an impassioned plea, again in spoken word, rhythmic as those words were:
“Voters young and old, fresh and bold, tried and true or new at the polls,
I urge you, speak up, use your voice, consider the future and make a choice.”
Just days from the election, the latest polls have the three candidates in a statistical dead heat...
* * *
Jay couldn’t sleep. He was too occupied poring over Sky’s last text before turning in for the night: We’ll get everything back on track after this.
“Back on track,” he repeated out loud. He had barely edited a word in Sky’s story—Sky was that good these days—but Jay wished he could edit the hell out of that text.
* * *
The call came just a day after the debate. “Maddy, do you got a minute?” Hank said in a shaky voice as soon as she answered. He never asked that, ever. He always assumed it was a fantastic time for everyone to talk whenever he phoned.
“Um, sure, what’s going on, Hank?” She sighed, temporarily halting her plans and taking a seat on the stone ledge before the seven-foot-high metal fence. She leaned her signpost against her legs. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
It was nearly 10:30 p.m. and pitch-black and empty where she was. She wore all black—her old athleisure line—and a matching black baseball cap, her ginger hair pulled through in a ponytail.
“Yeah, I dunno, I think I’m having a heart attack, Maddy.”
“Why do you think that, Hank?” she asked, unconcerned.
“I’m sweatin’ and havin’ trouble breathin’ and my heart just won’t stop beating, it’s so dang fast.” He sounded upset—and very Southern, which happened when he was upset—but not in actual danger. This had happened before, when he’d bought that damn hockey team.
“Well, if your heart is beating, then you’re probably not having a heart attack, but I’m not a doctor,” she said calmly. “Maybe you should call a doctor.”
“No, I wanna talk to you. Keep talkin’, I’m starting to feel better.”
She sighed again. “Ohhkay, well, what were you doing when this all happened, Hank?”
“I was lookin’ at this Halloween mask of my face,” he said. “It is one ugly son of a bitch, this thing.”
“Oh, Hank, throw that thing away right now.”
“And I was thinkin’, why would someone do somethin’ like that? Put my face on one of them creepy rubber masks like something from a horror movie?”
“I think maybe you’re having a panic attack. Why don’t you sit down and breathe into a paper bag or something?”
“Who would do something like that? Make a mask of someone’s face, like you’re some kinda joke?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to answer, but she was at a loss.
He went on. “And then I thought, well, people wouldn’t make this sucker unless they thought there were enough people out there who’d want to buy this. What is wrong with people, Maddy? I don’t think I like this.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to.”
“This isn’t what I signed up for.”
“I think you did, Hank. I mean, I think that just comes with the job. Just one of those things,” she said. “There are some sick puppies out there, Hank.” She knew this wasn’t entirely about the mask. The media, which had enjoyed him up until now, called him things like “folksy,” had been scathing about his performance at the most recent debate. This Is Your New Leader? one headline had read, and then the sentiment had been slapped with a hashtag that was now trending.
“There are,” he said, exhaling. And then, apropos of nothing, “Awww, Maddy, and, you know, I don’t know a goddamm thing about the Middle East.” He whispered it, a great secret.
“I know.” She smiled. She couldn’t help but love
him.
“Or the economy.”
“I know.”
“Lord knows I know how to make money, that’s for damn sure, the stock market, running a corporation, all that. But the actual economy? Policy?”
“I know.”
“I could learn. All of this stuff. People would love me, hell, they already do. And I could do this, like anything else, if I worked at it.”
“I know.”
He was quiet for so long she thought the call had dropped.
“This could be a goddamn disaster for me,” he said softly. “Hell, I don’t know if the fallout would be worse to win and screw up or to... It could be a goddamn disaster. Even if it’s the right thing.”
She knew what he meant by “the right thing”—dropping out. This was delicate, so she proceeded with great caution. “Listen, Hank,” she said slowly. “There are so many easy ways out of this. And I know people who can plan the whole thing, make it go off without a hitch. It doesn’t have to—”
The phone went dead. She was talking to herself now. But this call had been progress. She gazed back over her shoulder at the north portico of the White House, illuminated and glowing. Might as well carry on, she thought. Thank goodness they hadn’t raised the height of this fence yet—it was due to double in size apparently—she was fairly certain she could climb it at its current height. She had been a remarkable tree climber growing up, shimmying up that grand oak in their yard in bare feet and gingham dresses.
Of course, if this went bad, it would go very bad.
She turned on the digital camera again—it had just seemed like the video might come in handy sometime—and positioned the tripod right outside the fence. Henry had shown her how to work the thing two Christmases ago before their annual family trip to the Alps; she had gotten some great footage of him snowboarding.
She slid her signpost through the bars of the fence. Not a soul around to see her. Then, standing on the rocky ledge, she grabbed the bars, jumped and slithered up like a cat. She pushed herself over the top of the fence and then dropped down on the other side, landing on the grass on one foot and one knee. Ouch. Something had crunched in her leg, but she shook it away and kept going, the adrenaline coursing through her. She grabbed her sign and ran toward the White House. Midway across the lawn she staked the signpost into the ground.
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