by Josie Brown
Mary must be talking about the diary my mother gave me for my eleventh birthday. Mother had hoped I’d record all our wonderful mother-daughter adventures. Instead, I wrote about heartache, shame and death.
The poems seething of anger came later.
For at least a year, Bobby was on every page.
The squeeze of her hand reminds me that there are still more adventures to come: with her if not with Mother. And with Jack instead of Bobby. “You loved him, didn’t you—Bobby, I mean?”
It takes me awhile to admit it, with a nod. “Yes—that is, I thought so, at the time.” I shrug. “He was older, and he was kind to me. And your grandmother was dying, so thinking about him took me to another place that was certainly more enjoyable.”
Mary leans her head on my chest. "CeeCee was so mean to you—and so jealous!”
“She was afraid of losing him. He was her world. When people are scared, they need someone to blame. They create monsters.”
“Like Erin, with Babs,” she murmurs. “I can’t stand by and let them hurt her anymore.”
“I know she’d be there for you, if the shoe were on the other foot.”
She rises and heads for the door. “Mom, will you drive us to school tomorrow—all of us, Babs, too?”
“Of course.”
“And would you mind if Babs and Wendy come home with me tomorrow?”
“Not at all.”
“Great! That way, they’ll meet Evan before he leaves—”
“What? No, Evan will be with his mother and father at Disneyland.”
“Not after what I read him just now, in your diary!”
“Mary—you didn’t! ... Did you?”
“Mom, he’s already got his mother pegged, believe me. Sadly, it didn’t surprise him.”
Poor Evan.
Poor me.
Chapter 13
Photo-Op
Short for "photo opportunity," an event staged specifically for news cameras to help a politician appear on the evening news or in morning papers. Usually, they say the exact same phrases, with the same inflections in their voices, with a smile on their faces.
They do this because they figure if you hear their malarkey enough times, you’ll actually believe it. What they don’t realize is that when you have children, every tall tale in the book has already been told to you, with even more practiced innocence than any number of photo ops will allow. So the next time you read or hear about a political photo op, do what you do when your kids come to you with a whopper:
Tune out, turn off, and tell off.
Your family will be saying “cheese” with big smiles when they bite into this:
Cheesy Hash
(Recipe from Sheila L. Du Brutz, Harrah, Oklahoma)
Ingredients
1 package of frozen hash brown southern style square potatoes
1/2 cup of butter
1 pint of sour cream
2 cups of cheese
Directions
1: Melt butter in big pot, add sour cream, potatoes and cheese. Mix thoroughly.
2:Put in baking dish in oven at 375 degrees for 45 minutes.
3: Add more cheese to top it before serving, if you like.
Catherine has made it very clear to Ryan that I’m not supposed to broach the apple pie recipe again with her, under any circumstances.
And apparently she’s livid that I had the nerve to mention it to, quote, that daughter of mine—who, in turn, has now turned her son against her, unquote.
Apparently Evan has asked her to ’fess up and apologize to me. Of course, she refuses. She says it’s my word against hers “that any of that malarkey even happened.”
He says he’ll settle for her allowing Mary to be his guest at Disneyland.
She’s agreed to this option. I guess the only thing saving him from being banished from the campaign trail is that Catherine is more afraid of what her teenager will say or do when he’s off her radar.
Join the club.
So that she has at least one adoring child at her side while the cameras are clicking away, she’s invited Janie, Lee and Babette to join her. However, it annoys her that Janie is joined at the hip with Trisha. Then again, she must figure that having two children under the age of ten in the photo op burnishes her image as a youthful candidate who is concerned with children’s issues because she finally breaks down and says yes to Janie’s request.
It helps that Janie can hold her breath for a very long time, and that Catherine would rather not muss her lipstick giving the stubborn little girl mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
At least on some level she has met her match.
With a shrug, Ryan adds, “Donna, you’re on ghost surveillance. In fact, feel free to take the rest of your brood along—as cover, of course.”
That’s Ryan’s way of warning me to keep out of Congresswoman Martin’s sight.
“For additional reconnaissance, Emma and Arnie will be in the park, too,” Ryan continues. “They can pretend to be a young couple in love, or something.”
If only he knew how easy that role comes to them.
“And of course, Abu will be there, too,” Ryan adds.
Abu’s nod is nonchalant.
“I’ve got a friend at Disney Security who owes me a favor or two,” Ryan says. “He’ll let me into their webcam control room so I can direct his security team. After the attempt made on Governor Davis, make sure Congresswoman Martin wears a GPS tracker and surveillance contacts, so that we can see everything in her sight line. We can never let her go black.”
He can say that again. We’ve been told that they anticipate 80,000 attendees at the park tonight.
It looks like the family Stone will be among them.
At first, Jeff’s face falls when I tell him we’re going to Disneyland, but that he can bring just one friend. But then he starts building his case for why both Morton and Cheever should accompany us.
He rightly pointed out that if his administration is going to run smoothly, there needs to be a détente among him and Cheever. “I’ve extended the olive branch,” is how he puts it. “This Cold War has gone on long enough.”
“‘Long enough?’” Yes, I am snickering. “The election was only a week ago!”
He shrugs. “First rule of politics—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
“Really? I thought the first rule was ‘you can’t win unless you’re on the ballot.’”
“It depends on whom you’re quoting,” he counters. “I prefer Shakespeare over Rumsfeld.”
He’s got a point. And besides, with all the honing he’s done on his debating skills, I’ll admit it: I’m no match for him. “Okay, yeah, both the little hellions can come—but only because I’m extending my own olive branch to Mrs. Bing. It’s what you call, ‘tit for tat.’”
“Did you hear that? Your mom said ‘titty!’” Morton elbows Jeff.
Jeff shoves back. “No, she said tit.”
Morton pushes him again. “Same thing. Titty, tit, titty, tit—”
Jack smacks his head gently. “Where are your manners? There are ladies present.”
The boys snicker. Still, in Jack’s presence they’re smart enough to keep their dirty little thoughts to themselves.
Lydia, Catherine’s press secretary, has told the press corps that “Catherine is taking a personal day, just her and her close friends, the Chiffrays. She loves their children as if they were her own—”
What the …
Jack puts his hand over my mouth before I can yell out, “Trisha is not a Chiffray! She is a Stone!”
I can take a hint. Keep my eye on the prize: saving Catherine’s ass, which means keeping my job.
Maybe it’s time to retire.
In Congresswoman Catherine Connelly Martin’s world, she is the sun, warming everything around her with her smile; creating an environment in which all others will certainly live long and prosper. Listening to the cheers, claps, shouts and murmurs of admiration that greet her as
she ambles down Disneyland’s Main Street with Lee, Babette, Janie and my daughter at her side, you’d think the public had bought into The World According to Catherine.
We—that is, the Acme security detail who orbit her—see things differently. The hot white glare of Catherine’s political shenanigans cast too many troubling shadows, where the many enraged by them can hide—with a semi-automatic and a box of bullets. Until they reveal themselves, we are all in the congresswoman’s gravitational pull, albeit not in orderly trajectories. Instead, we take turns orbiting her. Otherwise, we ebb and flow through the crowd, assessing everyone for their ability to do her harm.
“There are over a hundred thousand people here today, so stay on your toes,” Ryan warns us from webcam central in Disney’s security headquarters. “Our young lovers, Emma and Arnie, are lined up behind Snow White at the Alice in Wonderland ride. They should be out in another six minutes. Abu, you’re next up at bat when they come out of there.”
Abu murmurs, “Right, boss,” into our ear buds.
Ryan is right about one thing—the kids are the perfect cover for Jack and me.
Maybe too perfect, considering how well they do their roles of driving us to distraction. “Stay, as a group, and always within sight! No pairing off!” That’s my way of warning Mary that this family outing to Disneyland isn’t going to turn into a three-hour game of hide-and-seek, just because Evan insists on hiding in plain sight of the reporters by tagging along with us.
But of course, they’ll figure out how to ditch us. I just have to accept that.
And Evan will have to accept the fact that if I catch him rounding any bases, he’ll be zapped with my taser gun, his mother be damned. In my mind, she’s already a she-devil.
Jack warns, “Jeff, your mother’s rule goes double for you and the Two Stooges.”
Mary gives me a kiss. It is her way of reminding me that she’s ready to earn my trust.
Jeff and his friends feel differently. They wink, nudge, and run off before Jack can say another word.
Jack rolls his eyes. “The last thing we need is to lose Cheever.”
I smile. “Don’t worry. I put a GPS tracker on Jeff.”
“You don’t say. Unfortunately, if he and Morton ditch the little toady, we’d never hear the end of it from Penelope.”
“Tell me about it. And I know just how she’d ask me to make it up to her, too.” I reach up to give him a peck on the lips and wave buh-bye.
He frowns. “Are you insinuating I’d be her consolation prize?”
“She’d insist on it! You know she drools every time you come into view. I’m tempted to throw a bucket of water over her, just to cool her down.”
He laughs. “Better not. She’d probably melt.”
If only this truly was a fun-filled outing for the Family Stone. Instead, it’s a work day for our Acme team. The way Catherine—code name, Snow White—is pumping the flesh ensures us of this.
“She rode a caterpillar with Janie and Trisha,” Emma reports back. “There was no interaction with anyone else.”
“She’s leaving Space Mountain now,” Abu responds. “Again, a lot of glad-handing, but no suspicious interference.”
“The hitter is being cautious—making sure that she isn’t being followed,” Jack murmurs. “Ah, here she is now, a few feet from Donna and me. Everyone, take your places.”
We hear a chorus of Roger in our ear buds.
I scan the crowd. Finally I spot Catherine’s red-white-and-blue sunhat. She ushers the girls toward the Hyperion Theater, for the Aladdin show.
Jack stays a few steps behind the congresswoman. Always smiling for the cameras, she holds out one hand to Janie, and the other to Trisha. Seeing Jack, Trisha frowns and shakes her head, but Babette shoves her in Catherine’s direction anyway.
I’d love to shove Babette into an alligator-infested moat. Too bad we aren’t in front of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle.
I queue up behind them. There are eleven or so people between us.
It takes fifteen minutes for the line to move into the auditorium. So that the cameras find her easily, Catherine makes sure to take a seat on the end of an aisle, just five rows from the stage.
Jack is lucky enough to end up in the same row, beside Trisha.
I rush to grab the seats in the row immediately behind Catherine.
Like all the other children in the theater, Trisha and Janie squeal excitedly as the lights dim and the show starts. But Jack and I are watching Catherine, not the show. The program claims it will run about seventy-five minutes. In the first ten minutes, we’ve already heard two fast-paced songs, and we’ve been awed by three colorful sets and the mood-setting lights, along with the smoke, scrims and mirrors that conjure up the story’s mystical setting.
Suddenly I notice something is different about Catherine.
She’s taller.
How could that be?
Because whoever is sitting there isn’t Catherine.
Same hat, same outfit. But I’m not looking at Catherine’s profile.
I crane my neck to look up the aisle. I see her—but she’s no longer wearing a hat, and she is following the show’s main character—the blue Genie—toward a side exit.
I say into my mic, “Jack—she’s walking up the aisle, with the Genie!”
He looks around and sees what I see. “Follow them,” he says. “I’ll stay with the girls.”
“And I’ll send ops to pick up the imposter, and to back you up,” Ryan murmurs into my ear.
By the time I reach the theater’s reception area, they are nowhere to be found. Frantically I open a side door—
Just in time to see them disappear down a hallway, and around a corner. I run after them, but when I turn the corner, too, I find myself in yet another long corridor, with several doors on both sides. Each is marked with the name of a character in the show.
I open the first door labeled JASMINE. The room is empty.
Same for the second, third, and fourth.
When I open the fifth door, I see them—the Genie is holding a knife to her throat. She pulls away, frightened. He leers, pleased he has scared her into submission, and then steers her through another door with him.
Ryan’s voice comes in through my ear bud. “Donna, chase him down! I’m sending Abu and Arnie as back-up!”
I bolt through the door, only to find myself in a very dark void. But I can see a light at the end of this very long tunnel, and I run toward it—
Oh my God, we’re in back of the stage.
The audience is laughing and applauding wildly. Princess Jasmine and Aladdin have just finished a duet.
It’s time for the Genie to go on.
Only there are two of them.
But only one is holding Catherine’s hand.
Gotcha.
Just as the curtain parts, I let loose with a front kick, which takes him by surprise. He stumbles back, dazed, but recovers quickly, yanking the curved sword out of the hand of the real genie, who looks on in shock as his doppelganger swings it at my neck.
Granted I could use a haircut, but nothing so short that I’ll lose my head over it, so I duck just in time. The sword whistles over my head.
My response takes him off balance.
This gives me the few precious seconds I need in order to jab him in the kidney. But he rights himself and comes at me again, swinging that damn sword. Quickly I duck and roll. While doing so, I grab the magic carpet off the floor and toss it over his head.
Blinded, he flails around the stage. I give him one big shove—
Which sends him into the orchestra pit.
The sword falls too, landing upright in his midsection. He cries out in pain.
I look up. The audience is dead silent.
Dead being the operative word here—
Until I hear my Trisha scream out, “Mommy! You killed Aladdin’s Genie!”
I guess I have a lot of explaining to do.
I look over at Catherine for suppor
t. But no, she’s frowning at me, her arms crossed at her waist. “You silly fool,” she hisses. “You ruined a national photo op! I was to have some lines with the Genie! It was all part of the show!”
“But I thought … I saw him threaten you!”
Suddenly I’m surrounded by Disney security guards. They jerk my hands behind my back and hustle me off the stage.
I’m now branded the meanest Disney villain of all time.
The other actor also playing the Genie saves the day. He jumps out of a puff of smoke and belts out a happy pappy ditty, willing the eyes of all the little terrorized tots back onto the stage.
As the guards and I pass my family’s seats, I hear Jack say, “See that, Trisha? Mommy didn’t hurt the good Genie. She just saved Jasmine, Aladdin, and Congresswoman Martin from the bad one.”
Is my daughter buying this bit of malarkey? From what I can hear, her sobs have lessened, but I may still be in for a scolding.
Or we’ll both be in for years of therapy.
Chapter 14
Political Suicide
A vote or action that is likely to be so unpopular with voters, as to cause a politician's probable loss in the next election—
Sort of like what you face when you promise your children you’ll make brownies if they straighten up their rooms, but then you change your mind because you’re on a diet, and you don’t need a pan of bliss staring you in the face whenever you pass it. Next time, don’t expect them to rush to do your bidding—or for that matter, leave you any crumbs.
Of course, to win back their hearts and minds, you can tempt them with a new sweet confection, like this one:
Death By Blizzard
(From Carleen Nicholson, Dover, New Hampshire)
1: In a large Truffle bowl, layer the following:
2: Vanilla ice cream, about 2 inches thick.
3: Vanilla or tapioca pudding, about 2 inches thick
4: White chocolate morsels, a single layer
