Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  As he read Birdie’s words verbatim—or more precisely, Birdie’s crisis-managing-prose made shiny smooth by Reagan—Madison stood by his side, beaming, proud for the first time since that interview before primary season. She even allowed Gemma and Henry to be there.

  Linking arms, the foursome walked back toward the door of their home together. Hank patted Henry on the back and scooped Gemma into his arms playfully. The girl turned and waved over her father’s shoulder one last time.

  * * *

  The text came as Cady was on her way, with Jeff, to the meeting of her life with the station owners. She would find out the fate of a pitch she had made, for a new show, of all things. Hustling down the hall to make it in time, she glanced at her phone and couldn’t help slowing her pace to read.

  Parker: So I’m catering this party on the Mall. Election night. I know, I know, it sounds cold and miserable but apparently there are these things called tents and heat lamps. It’ll be near the carousel, can’t miss it. I’ve got a full catering staff so I’ll just be standing around looking pretty. Please come. I miss you, actually. Maybe a weird thing to say since it’s not like I’ve known you super long, but there it is. Putting it all out there. You’ve got my vote. If you want it.

  * * *

  “Yeah, I’m on fucking bed rest,” Reagan said on the phone to Cady.

  The doorbell rang, and she heard her mom answer it.

  “False alarm, just stress, who the hell knows. But my mom is here now until Ted’s back, and my dad’s coming this weekend too.”

  Her mom opened the bedroom door, handing over a package the size of a shoebox and a cup of decaf Earl Grey tea, the girls trailing her.

  “Thanks, Mom,” she said. “Hi, sweeties.”

  Reagan’s mom fluffed the pillow behind her head, gave her a kiss, then grabbed the girls’ hands and closed the door behind them.

  Reagan took a sip of tea and studied the package, confused, then tossed it on the bed. “It’s not the worst, I’ve gotta say. It’s like a spa day, you know, but without any of the fun treatments.”

  “Well, that sounds like a good time, kind of,” Cady said, then changed the subject. “So, not to take away from all that you’ve got going on, like almost having a baby,” she kidded. “BUT I got this text from Parker...”

  “Oh my God, what’s your deal?” Reagan sighed. She had become even more impatient and cut-to-the-chase since being stuck on bed rest.

  “It’s just—”

  “I know, you moved here for a dude who ended up being an asshole, and then you weren’t sure you belonged here, you don’t want to just run into something with another guy because I get it, you’re not really a rebounder. Shit has meaning with you, which I love about you, Cady. But, without even knowing what’s in that text, I would say—it’s been a while now. He’s still hung up on you. If you’re into him—and no offense but I know that you are and honestly he’s adorable and allegedly a great fucking kisser—”

  “True—”

  “So go for it. You belong here. You’ve got your own life going now, you’re allowed to try again.” Her voice softened just enough. “I’m sorry, my mom is making me lie in bed 24/7 and I am so fucking bored and just happy to have human contact right now. She’s taking care of the girls, which is awesome, but I haven’t bossed people around enough today.”

  Cady laughed. “You’re pretty good at it.”

  “It’s like the one part of my parenting that I have confidence in.” She laughed.

  When they hung up, Reagan opened the box. A note on Brandywine stationery read: “Been meaning to send this for a while, apologies—Buck Brandywine.”

  Beneath it, nestled in bubble wrap, she found her video baby monitor. She had Buck’s email address somewhere and too much time on her hands, so she searched her inbox, then wrote:

  Hi Buck,

  Thank you so much for the monitor. (My apologies too.)

  On an unrelated note, a funny question for you: we have a mutual acquaintance in Grant Foxhall. He mentioned that I should ask you to verify what a good friend he can be. It’s a long story, but I was curious. Best of luck on November 8...

  All best,

  Reagan

  The response: Hi Reagan, Yes, Grant is a friend of mine. Without boring you with the background, I will say that I asked him to help me out the night of Birdie’s Iowa party. I had to be out of town and heard that one of the party guests had an eye on my wife. I’m not especially proud, but I asked Grant to find the man and, if possible, push him into the pond in our backyard. Not the most gentlemanly thing to do, but it’s how we settle things where I’m from. If I’d been there I woulda slugged him but I couldn’t and I wasn’t about to ask Grant to do that much dirty work for me. Luckily the pond wasn’t frozen over. Hope this helps. Best to you and the family, Buck.

  She couldn’t help but smile. She started a new message, not even bothering with a subject line or greeting, just typing this to Grant: Talked to Buck. Glimmer of humanity in you after all.

  The response could not have been quicker: I appreciate that, Reagan. More than you know.

  36

  YOU’VE GOT MY VOTE

  It was a crisp, sunny November morning and Birdie voted—at the church where JFK and Jackie used to go—right after SoulCycle. Every campaign season tended to feel like great foreplay before four years of lousy sex: the new administration usually never quite as exciting as it had seemed before taking power. But casting this ballot, she actually felt things might be different.

  On the way home, she headed to Café Milano, greeting the owner with a hug and a kiss (“Franco, how are you, darling?”), to prepare for the party. She could have been in New Hampshire on duty for Rocky Haze’s event, but she’d sent Abbie instead. Birdie had committed to The Queue’s party long before, and it was the larger of the two events, so her presence would be more vital there. At least, this was how she defended the choice to herself, her mind running over the past many months as she did a walk-through of the Georgetown restaurant. Was she trying to avoid Buck before their D-day? Maybe, she could admit. But Abbie could handle the Rocky event just fine and besides, Rocky had kept her plans exceedingly modest. If she ended up winning, it would look more like a high-school student-government celebration than a presidential one, but what Rocky Haze wanted, Rocky Haze got.

  Buck would, of course, be there. Birdie didn’t know, literally, what tomorrow would bring with him. How this would go. Would they talk about things? Had Buck made up his mind in some way that wouldn’t be swayed? She tried to push it out of her head for just one more day, as she’d been pushing it with varying degrees of success (and occasional complete failure) since February. She knew what she wanted, but she didn’t know if it was possible. And now, she had one last party to pull off this election season, and so she would.

  * * *

  The twins refused to nap, as they had the past several days, suddenly deciding the morning nap was passé, so Reagan loaded them into the car, with her mom’s help, for the rare doctor-sanctioned excursion: to the girls’ future elementary school to vote. She wanted them with her. “I remember you always taking me,” she said as they drove through the narrow streets of Bethesda.

  “You always liked to pull the lever,” her mom joked. “You liked to be in charge.”

  Plied with the usual snacks and electronics, the girls stayed in the stroller the entire time, but when Reagan got into the voting booth with them at last, expecting this to be the quickest, easiest part of their adventure, she paused. Obviously Arnold was their guy. But now, she stood there and really thought about it, as if she hadn’t been so predisposed, as if she had just been watching this election play out like the rest of the country, without being tangentially involved. Without her two degrees of separation from this candidate. She studied the ballot on her touch screen. A woman’s name there: a woman who had started
out seeming like a lark and turned out to be a heavyweight and something new. She looked at her girls, behaving so well today but with their strong, troublemaking spirits that would serve them so well in this world. Even if it might make it more exhausting to parent them.

  She made her selection and kissed their foreheads.

  On the way out, she freed them from their stroller and let them cover themselves in I Voted stickers, head to toe.

  * * *

  Jay had voted early over the weekend. Rocky Haze had been campaigning in nearby Virginia, even though everyone in the Haze orbit advised her she would never win John Arnold’s home state, so he and Sky had been able to vote together.

  After, they’d gone for a very early brunch at Busboys and Poets, like old times. Sky, always the more gregarious of the two, the one who had brought Jay out of his shell when they began dating, had seemed distracted; there was a general dreaminess about him that Jay hadn’t been sure how to read. Was it sleep deprivation or his love recharging?

  Though Sky had stayed at Jay’s apartment, Jay had still felt something hanging over them, holding them back. A sense that they couldn’t speak too freely because there was too much to say and there wasn’t enough time to properly delve into it all. No time to unpack it, much like Sky’s suitcase in the corner of Jay’s apartment. Still, Jay had gone on working hard to keep the conversation light, easy. He knew there would be a state-of-their-union discussion coming, but for once he’d tried not to mourn in advance. Get the election behind them, let them start being them again, see where Sky’s head was and then deal with the realities of whatever was going on, he’d coached himself.

  Now election day was finally here, and he knew tomorrow things would be different. He just didn’t know which way the wind would blow.

  * * *

  Absentee ballot mailed in weeks before, Madison pulled on her bold cerise Tory Burch jumpsuit—ideal for a party hostess, impossible not to be seen in something like this—and dusted shimmering powder along her décolletage. She stepped into her sky-high strappy heels and gave her bouncy locks one more fluff and shake, reglossed her lips. Done and done. Her team had flown in from New York to prep her: she wasn’t just hosting Best Day DC’s election party, she was unveiling clips of her new show and needed to look the part.

  She kissed Hank’s forehead. He’d agreed to appear at the soiree later on to support her. Until then, he was holed up in the office of their West End apartment, prepping his announcement of a multimillion-dollar donation to help fight kid’s poverty in the DC area. Earlier in the day, he had been caught skinny-dipping in the lap pool of the Equinox gym at the Ritz. All was right with the world.

  She skipped out, then hopped in the arriving sedan headed for the Rock & Roll Hotel—which apparently was not a hotel at all but, in fact, a nightclub—in a part of the city called Northeast. There were four quadrants in Washington, she’d learned, and she had only ever been in Northwest. She looked forward to exploring them all now that she would be spending more time here.

  * * *

  The dress was a blue-and-red color-block sheath by The Row with tasteful diamond-shaped cutouts at the waist. “You’ll look amazing,” Reagan had told Cady on the phone after she’d ordered it for her. “And you’re going because I’m starting to think you’re just afraid of this, and you’re just punishing yourself at this point. Time to have fun again, you earned it. It’s okay to fall for this guy.”

  Cady understood why Reagan had done so well as an advice columnist. She didn’t quite feel amazing though. She felt a little sick, like she had been running for days and couldn’t stop, her nerves pulsing and trembling, muscles quivering. She told herself it was all just over the debut of the first episode of Madison’s new show, which would be occupying the former time slot of the third hour of Best Day DC.

  She had left work early to vote and now, thinking again about punching that choice, about another woman pursuing the life she wanted, going after the unattainable, she felt emboldened. Maybe she should just take everything she wanted, try to have the elusive all, and not be held back by anything or anyone. With one more look in the mirror, she grabbed a cab outside her building and was off to the Rock & Roll Hotel.

  * * *

  It didn’t feel much like a party when you knew you’d have work to do, but at least it gave Jay an excuse to be engrossed in his cell phone and not have to make too much small talk. Café Milano burst with every bold-faced Washingtonian not on a campaign, foreign dignitaries and a healthy smattering of the LA and New York set. Earlier he had helped a very polite Sarah Jessica Parker secure a drink and was introduced to Kerry Washington by a publicist friend, only to be shocked when the actress complimented Sky’s reporting. He’d immediately texted Sky, who wrote back: #mindblown thank you for that, love her!!! but you’re still my favorite cheerleader. Copy coming in 10 min. It had made Jay smile.

  Jay stood in a corner, sipping his Pinot Noir and watching the party swirl, rereading his text under the guise of waiting for Sky’s story: it would be an update of the few states already projected and color from the scene of Haze’s gathering, held at that bed-and-breakfast in Manchester, New Hampshire. So far, precincts had been reporting such tight margins, networks had projected winners in only two states. New Hampshire would be coming in soon, the one safe bet for Haze.

  The flat screen set up near the endless windows at the front of the restaurant now showed a scene from Haze headquarters. Jay looked up, searching for Sky, and didn’t have trouble finding him beside Grant Foxhall, reporting live.

  “We should be projecting any minute now New Hampshire,” Grant said, holding his earpiece. “Yes, New Hampshire goes to Rocky Haze!” Cheers erupted behind him on screen. “The night is young but a solid victory in the home state of this independent candidate. We have here Sky Vasquez of The Queue, really the first reporter to break the story when Haze entered the race. How has Haze evolved through this process?”

  Jay wasn’t even paying attention, he just stared at the screen, so proud. Sky had grown throughout these months, becoming an authority, a true political reporter. Watching him now, Jay felt inspired by how Sky had tackled this new world, and Jay felt grateful to have gotten to be there to watch him conquer it.

  Someone shook Jay’s arm, and he snapped out of his daze to the discovery that much of the room was looking at him, grinning and cheering.

  “What do you say?” Sophie asked, pointing madly at the screen.

  “What?” he said, listening now. Sky was in the middle of some sort of soliloquy. “...so, Jay, I don’t know if you’re watching this, you’re probably waiting for my story, but if you’re watching, I’m hoping when I get back, that you’ll marry me.”

  “What?” Jay blurted out. “What’s he doing?”

  “I love you, and I’ve been away so long. I just, I need to know you’re mine, okay?”

  “Ohmygod, yes!” Jay shouted at the screen.

  Birdie, suddenly by his side, opened his jacket, pulled the phone from his inside pocket and handed it to him. “Call the man for God’s sake,” she said, in her way.

  On the screen, Sky pulled his phone from his pocket, hand to his ear to listen as he wiped a tear from his eye.

  “That looks like a yes,” Grant Foxhall said.

  The crowd inside Café Milano hooted for Jay, even Helena. And Sophie, who paused her celebration only to note, too loudly, “OMG, Buck Brandywine is here! Shouldn’t he be in New Hampshire?”

  * * *

  Both floors and the roof deck of the Rock & Roll Hotel were packed, so many bodies you couldn’t pass through without spilling your drink on someone. Jeff was wearing a suit for the first time since Cady had known him. “I’m thinking we need to throw more events,” he said just before the screening of the trailer for Madison’s new show. “If everyone here watched Best Day DC, we would be in first place.”

  As Jeff took
his place over by Madison, the footage projected against a wall: Madison Goodfellow strolling down the National Mall. “I’m Madison Goodfellow and I love a good challenge as much as I love pitching in wherever I can do some good. In my new show, we get to make a difference together. You come up with the challenge for me—should I scale a building? Should I jump off a bridge? Should I convince someone I love not to run for president?—and then you let me know the people and places across the country that could use some help. I’ll do the challenge if you pledge enough money to help the cause of the day. And then I’ll show you that money being put to work. Donate, tune in, and we’ll make dreams come true together. Let’s do this, let’s change lives.”

  Cady and Jeff had pitched it like Kickstarter TV. You get to see your money put to work with the added bonus of watching Madison, a personality people seemed to love, doing zany things. The syndication deal was already in the works.

  Madison had had the first kernel of the idea when she’d noticed that her foundation saw a spike in donations every time she did anything seemingly un-first-lady-like. And then there was all that Super PAC money to sort out. She’d also promised Best Day DC an exclusive about how she had helped Hank decide to drop out of the race. Hank, according to Madison, was fine with it all and had moved on; that was how he was. Cady decided those two might have the best relationship she had ever witnessed.

  Afterward, Jeff returned to her side, tossing back a drink. “To Madison Goodfellow,” he raised his glass.

  “To ‘Madison Goodfellow’s Mad Money,’” she corrected. “A title we’re keeping as long as we can, Jim Cramer be damned.”