by Josie Brown
“With that last line, she’s thrown in every platitude there is,” Jack murmurs.
Not quite. There’s more to come. Next, she hones in on the real point of her speech—that “you, the American people, can never forget what has made us strong in desperate times. Well ladies and gentlemen, times are once again desperate! This is why I call on you, once again, to be strong! To, like me, use your tragedy as the catalyst to right the world—your world.” She pauses. “Our world.”
A picture of Catherine and her family, arm in arm, appears on the JumboTron screen behind her. A moment later, a faint halo glows behind Robert’s head.
Catherine stares at the screen for a moment, then reaches up, as if to embrace it. “A man does not die for something which he himself does not believe in,” she declares. She then turns back to face the crowd. “All great movements are popular movements. They are the volcanic eruptions of human passions and emotions, stirred into activity by ruthless tragedy, or by the torch of the spoken word cast into the midst of the people. May my husband’s tragedy light the way for us all!”
“Seriously, did she just quote Mein Kampf?” Jeff taps away on his iPad, hoping to find a citation for the passage.
Jack shakes his head in awe. “I hope Hilldale Middle holds onto this Civics teacher.”
Mary groans. “When did you turn into such a little nerd?”
Jeff’s retort is lost as his sister shushes him and points toward the TV. “Listen! I think she just announced that Mr. Chiffray was going to be … her running mate?”
All eyes turn back to the TV set. Lee bounds onto the stage next to Catherine. They clasp their hands and raise them and bow to the crowd.
Jack lets loose with a long whistle. “I guess now we won’t be the only ones trying to figure out the mysterious Mr. Chiffray.”
“If they do, I hope they let his wife in on the secret. She’s dying to know.”
“I am so proud to have Lee by my side,” Catherine declares. “He is a tech industry leader and visionary who has been welcomed in the homes and hearts of world leaders everywhere. As a person with no experience in Big Government—but decades of experience in big ideas that have paid off in big dividends for his stockholders—Lee will play an integral role in my mission to streamline our government, and to attract the best and the brightest. No more ‘government as usual.’ It’s time to make your government accountable—to see it pay off—for you, our country’s stockholders!”
Catherine takes a step back so that Lee can take a solo bow in the spotlight.
On cue, all the crowd placards flip to their back sides. No longer do they read WIN WITH MARTIN, but now say GOVERNMENT: PAY OFF!
Jack snorts so hard, he almost falls off the couch.
Mary smacks his arm. “Dad, please be quiet! Evan just walked on the stage! Oh my God, he looks so sad!”
Babette and Janie walk on stage, nudging Evan to accompany them. Catherine takes his arm in hers, as if she’ll never let him go.
I guess that’s why the kid looks so scared.
I can’t take it anymore. I stumble into the kitchen, looking for anything to keep myself occupied, so that my mind doesn’t ponder the obvious outcome playing out, right before our eyes:
Catherine may be our next president.
Alas, my suspension has made me manic in all my housewifery tasks. The dishes are done. The floor is swept. The windows sparkle like diamonds. The cake I made earlier this afternoon has been iced, and dinner is warming in the oven.
My eyes roam hungrily around the room for a miniscule task:
The box left by Aunt Phyllis now crammed under the window seat.
Next stop, the garbage can.
I pick it up and take it out the back door.
Our dogs won’t take the message that I’m in no mood to play with them right now. I sidestep Rin Tin Tin, only to hear Lassie yelp when I step on her paw. I back up into the trash can when she jumps up onto me, and the box falls, scattering its contents all over the driveway.
This puts me on my hands and knees, gathering up the flotsam and jetsam of my so-called ’tween life. A Rubik’s Cube. An Alf lunch box. A boom box. A Mary Lou Retton poster, and one of The Clash. And an avalanche of cassette tapes. As I toss them back into the box, the juke box in my brain skips from one tune to the next. First Michael Jackson mourns Billy Jean. Next, The Police contemplate Every Breath She Takes. In homage of Bobby’s kiss, I almost cut my hair like Annie Lennox. Why not look like her? The words, Sweet Dreams are Made of This, expressed so perfectly my hope that he’d finally leave CeeCee for me.
What a fool I was back then.
Not much has changed.
The seam of a manila envelope has split open. Its contents litter the driveway. I bend down quickly, in order to pick them up before the breeze scatters them beyond my reach. They are mostly condolence cards, addressed to my father and me, and dated the week of my mother’s funeral. Back then I was too distraught to read them, and left most of them, unopened, on my mother’s kitchen counter.
Aunt Phyllis must have shoved them in the envelope for safekeeping, where they stayed, the year I met and fell in love with Carl; even after my father’s death.
My mother would have been shocked at the thought that I’d never acknowledged the condolences of those who reached out to my father and me. Out of shame, I do so now.
My eyes tear up as I read their written thoughts of the woman I thought I knew so well. They describe her as “funny and bright,” and “always there for others” and “a friend indeed.”
How I could use her now.
When I get to a card addressed solely to me, the handwriting stirs a long-lost memory. Inside is a letter as opposed to a card.
It is signed by Bobby, and dated the day before my mother died. I flip over the envelope. Yes, the postmark is the same date.
The letter reads:
Dear Donna,
I want to apologize for any pain I may have caused you. I know I must have hurt you pretty badly because you no longer look in my direction and you walk off whenever I’m around. What CeeCee did was mean. And I was stupid to let her talk me into leading you on. She said you were like some of those girls who will do anything for a guy, even if he’s someone else’s boyfriend. I didn’t realize until it was too late that you aren’t like that at all.
You probably hate me, and I don’t blame you. But I still want you to know that I’m only with CeeCee because she’s got no one else in her life (her parents suck) and she’s not half as strong as you are.
She’s not half as pretty, either.
If you ignore me from now on, I’ll understand. Just do me a favor and don’t let anyone take advantage of you like I almost did. You’re too sweet. No guy deserves you.
Okay, maybe I do. At least I hope you’ll think so one day and forgive me.
I’ll look you up when you’re a senior, when I’m home from college.
XXX and I mean it,
Bobby
This must be the snub Robert referred to, regarding that day so long ago after my high school’s basketball game, a few years after our last kiss.
By then, the chasm in my heart had opened even deeper. Mother was gone, and Father was drinking himself to death.
I no longer need Bobby to warn me against boys like him. I’d found my solace on the firing range, with my Lady Smith & Wesson.
Still, it would have been nice to have him around, to share jokes and dreams and secrets.
To kiss again.
No doubt Catherine misses his kisses, too. No amount of votes will change that.
If she doesn’t realize that already, she’ll find out soon enough.
Chapter 17
Witch Hunt
In politics, this is a vindictive, often irrational, investigation that preys on the public’s fears of political candidates behaving badly.
It would be nice if they weren’t so often proven right.
The reference originally refers to witch hunts that to
ok place in 17th-century Salem, Massachusetts, where many innocent women accused of witchcraft were burned at the stake or drowned.
Another fairy tale has a witch handing Snow White an apple. Here’s an updated, even more delicious recipe for this always tempting fruit:
Apple Dumplings
(From Donna Rich, Cape Hatteras, North Carolina)
Ingredients
2 Granny Smith Apples – peeled, cored, and cut into eight wedges each.
1 can Grands-type buttermilk biscuits, separated
1 stick Butter
3/4 cup of Sugar
1 cup of Water
1 ½ tsp Cinnamon and ¼ tsp Sugar
Directions
1: Roll each biscuit flat.
2: Top with an apple wedge, and seal around the edges
3: Place in 9 x 13-inch baking dish.
4: Bring the stick of butter, water and sugar to a boil, to create a sauce.
5: Pour the sauce over biscuit wedges.
6: Sprinkle with cinnamon sugar mixture. (A dash of nutmeg may also be added.)
7: Bake at 350 degrees, for 30 minutes, or until browned and bubbly.
8: Let cool, then enjoy with ice cream or whipped cream!
A personal summons from Ryan to come to Acme’s offices as soon as possible has me floating on air.
Unfortunately, I get it during my volunteer time in the Hilldale Middle School’s lunch room. I’m supposed to be doling out Brussels sprouts, but the kids only want them as Milk Pong pucks, so when Hayley isn’t watching, I whisper to the kids that I’m fronting a tournament with a ten-dollar prize for the winner.
In no time at all, I’m out of sprouts, and outta there.
When I walk into Acme, I do look marvelous. Five-inch heels and a body-hugging sweater over a pencil-thin skirt with a slit in the back that reveals the black seams crawling up my stockings will do that for a girl.
I’m dressed to remind Ryan why he’s always considered me one of Acme’s most valuable assets: because I’m a sexy femme fatale who, with a single finger—placed tantalizingly on his lips, or curled around a gun trigger—can get any man to divulge his deepest, darkest secret.
During my suspension period, I’ve been doing a little soul searching. My quest has turned me upside downward dog (yoga) and into the conjugation of verbs (French) and to the end of a six-mile run.
During my worst days, my search takes me to the bottom of a bottle of a highly rated Pinot Noir.
If today goes well, my journey is over. Like Dorothy and her little dog, Toto, I’ve clicked my heels and come home to my Kansas: this nondescript campus of glass office buildings, somewhere over the 405.
I spot Jack standing by Arnie’s cubicle. When he sees me, his eyes open wide. I would have expected a welcoming smile. Instead, a frown tugs at his lips. His eyes shift toward Ryan’s door, as if he’s afraid my mere presence there will cause the world to implode. Little does he know, it has finally righted itself.
They love me! They really, really love me!
I’m dying to hear what mission Ryan has lined up for me—
Who’s that in Ryan’s office with him?
Oh … Hell. Army Major Blake Reynolds.
Well, at least he’s alone. Whenever he comes looking for me, it’s usually with a SEAL team unit because Carl left Reynolds with the impression that I’d helped him escape from Gitmo.
Okay, maybe the fact that Reynolds found me sunning (make that burning) myself on Musha Cay with 10 six-inch bricks of Euros strewn on the bed of my sumptuous villa led him to jump to the wrong conclusion. Go figure.
“Donna! So glad you could join us!” Ryan acts as if we’re at a garden party, not another of Reynolds’ Gestapo-worthy interrogations. “You remember Major Reynolds, don’t you?”
“Forget the man who perp-walked me out my front door? Never,” I mutter. “By the way, Major Reynolds, I’m sending you the bill for my ruined flower beds. Your SWAT team isn’t very light in their loafers.”
“They wear jack boots. It goes with the territory.” He shrugs. “You have an uncanny ability of showing up in the most unusual places, Mrs. Stone. The latest example is a doozy. How is it that you ended up in the room where Presidential Candidate Martin’s husband’s assassin was hiding?”
“I’ve already explained that—several times, in fact. I was the first one to get there before the assassin could take down his target.”
"And your presence there was unsanctioned, too,” he prods.
I feel myself blushing. “Yes, okay, I’ve already admitted to that. It’s why I’m currently on suspension, remember?”
“If that’s the case, you failed miserably.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter. The sad look on Ryan’s face makes me want to cry, but I hold back my tears. “You don’t need to remind me. Robert Martin was an old and dear friend.”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard,” Reynolds says solemnly. “And it certainly fits with the information given to us by the presidential candidate.”
I look from him to Ryan and back again. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“Candidate Martin mentioned your relationship with the deceased—and with her, as well.” He shakes his head, as if grieved. “She blames herself for allowing you on her security squad. She never dreamed that you’d still hold a grudge, more than twenty years later, because she stole your high school sweetheart.”
“My high school sweetheart? Is that what CeeCee said? Bobby was her boyfriend, not mine!”
Reynolds can’t hide his smirk. “Did that upset you?”
“Yes! … I mean, no! It was a silly little crush on an older boy. No more.”
“So when you pulled the trigger, were you aiming at the woman who stole the one you thought you loved, or at the guy who spurned you?”
“Are you crazy? You’ve been reading too many young adult novels, Blake. Better go back to your law journals, or porn mags, or whatever it is that titillates you. I’ve had enough of this malarkey.” I head for the door.
“The investigative reports that land on my desk are intriguing enough for me. For example, your fingerprints are on the murder weapon, Mrs. Stone. Not only that, the security cam footage blows your claim to smithereens that an assassin was with you in the tech room, or that he may have slipped out of the Hollywood & Highland Center through a back exit door. In fact, the only person on camera going into the tech room is you.”
I shake my head. “All that means is that he deleted any footage in which he appears.” I think for a moment. “What about the security stream in the tech room itself?”
He shakes his head. “There wasn’t any.”
“Since every nook and cranny in the place is covered, don’t you find that just a little bit odd?”
“Yeah, okay, I grant you that.” He shrugs. “But when I weigh that little anomaly against the word of someone who has ongoing dealings with known terrorists—”
“You’re bringing up Carl—again?” I shake my head in disbelief. “I took Carl out myself, Blake—unless there’s something you know that I don’t.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.” He smirks. “Just like you insist that your feelings for Bobby Martin died long ago.”
Realizing I can’t hide the pain I feel whenever I hear Bobby’s name, I turn my head down. I am now looking down at my feet.
The seams of my stockings are crooked.
Story of my life.
“Right now, you’re our lead suspect in an ongoing investigation,” Reynolds informs me. “Despite Mr. Clancy’s insistence on vouching for your motive for being there, I must warn you that any attempt to leave the country will be seen as an admission of guilt. You will be tracked down as a terrorist, and as a threat to national security. In the meantime, should you come within even a mile of Presidential Candidate Martin, her security detail has orders to shoot to kill.”
I dismiss his concern with a wave. “No need to worry. I have no desire to see CeeCee Martin again, in my life.
As for leaving the country, I’ll be around as long as Robert’s killer is still at large.”
Someone has to track him down.
I look forward to proving Reynolds wrong, yet again.
Chapter 18
Dark Horse
A little-known candidate who is considered a long-shot in winning an election is called a “dark horse.” The term, which dates back as far as 1842, originated in the horseracing profession.
There may have been a few times in your life when you were the dark horse. For example, you may have thought you lost the adoring affections of some man to another, only to have him circle around again. Or you may have arrived late to your airline gate. But instead of giving your seat away, they upgraded you to first class.
In either case, you’re the winner.
The lesson here: the race isn’t over until it’s over.
Another lesson: there are different recipes for horseradish. This one adds a tang, and a little color:
Dark Horseradish Recipe
(From Alexa Tierney, Louisville, Kentucky)
Ingredients
1 cup peeled and cubed horseradish root
2 teaspoons white sugar
3/4 cup dark infused vinegar
Salt to taste
Directions
1: In an electric food processor or blender, process horseradish root, vinegar, sugar and salt.
2: Carefully remove the cover of the processor or blender, keeping your face away from the container. Cover and store the horseradish in the refrigerator.
“How was your day, honey?” The tone of Jack’s voice is even more effervescent than the splash of tonic in my now thrice nightly vodka tumbler.
He asks out of courtesy. We both know I am bored almost to tears.
