While stopped at a light, Mark opened his cell-phone calendar and scrolled through the rest of the month of April. It was full of appointments:
Meeting with Governor Hennessey — 11:00 a.m.
Lunch with Keith Stevens — 12:15 p.m., Capitol lunchroom.
Banquet — 7:00 p.m., Library of Congress.
And that was just for tomorrow, April 12! The remainder of the month was every bit as packed.
Mark made a call to his campaign manager, Carl Wilson, who was back in Wisconsin.
“Clear my schedule, Carl,” he said. The light turned green, but Mark continued, “Take everything off the books.”
“All of it, sir?” Carl said. “But some of these events are …”
“Clear it all. At least through May. And start the process of shutting down operations.”
“Everything, sir?”
A car horn brought Mark’s attention back to his driving. “I’m coming home,” he said. He waved an apology to the driver in the car behind him and proceeded down the beltway, recalling the Hang Up and Drive legislation he’d voted for in Congress.
Mark concluded his instructions to Carl and told him he would be in touch. Disconnecting the call, he sighed as he thought about his decision to drop out of the presidential race. Mark had received comments from some of his supporters saying they felt he had let them down, had abandoned the country when the country needed him most.
“What choice are you leaving us voters?” they had asked. “Harley Phillips? Mitch Caldron? Randolph Sutter? Anne Kurtzfield? Governor Karen Ledbetter? Seriously?”
By most accounts, neither party had much to offer voters this go-round. It was a lackluster lineup, to say the least.
Mark prided himself on being a man of his convictions. He might brush his convictions to the side on occasion, but he would never fully surrender them. He stood firm and refused to let lobbyists influence his vote. He was a vocal champion of term limits, balanced budgets, and green causes. Not a cookie-cutter politician, Mark marched to the beat of his own opinions rather than the political correctness of the day. He had courage, or so he thought. One thing was certain — he was the shot in the arm that the presidential campaign needed, the missing link of excitement. But party officials wouldn’t support him, and he had grown tired of the fight.
Mark Stedman was tired, period.
He turned on the radio to listen to some soothing music, but a special news bulletin caught his attention instead.
“According to a recent poll, 80 percent of the American public believe Washington is broken,” the reporter said.
“Don’t blame me,” Mark admonished the reporter. “I tried.”
There were plenty of good people in Congress who had tried too. People who loved this country and had sacrificed a lot to serve it. The change in their spirit hadn’t happened overnight; it had happened gradually. A frustration here. A disappointment there. Filibusters, gridlock, media reports slanted one way or the other. It was no wonder that the dreams they’d brought with them when they first came to Washington had turned into doubts, passion had become passiveness, and possibilities had settled into limitations.
And now their apathy reflected the nation’s apathy. When they tried new ideas and solutions, the ideas and solutions backfired on them. Or were ignored. Who could blame them for not sticking out their necks again and continuing to try?
“What was it all for, anyway? Twenty years … It’s time to move on.”
Mark Stedman had seen the change happening to him, too, but he fought against it. That’s why he had entered the presidential race — to take on the apathy that was turning into an epidemic. But the antidote to apathy is a fire in one’s belly, and Mark had allowed his fire to slowly go out.
Other politicians would be joining his exit from Washington politics; it was just a matter of time. Only theirs might not be by choice. No seat in Congress was safe these days — House or Senate. The president’s reelection wouldn’t have been guaranteed in this kind of political atmosphere. No wonder he decided not to run. Elected officials were one misstep and one long election night away from being sent home. “Lie low” was the mantra of politicians this election year.
But not a lot got done when one was lying low.
Wall Street wasn’t helping matters any either. Its breath-snatching market swings were the lead story most nights on the evening news. Not since the Great Depression had there been such volatility in the market. A four-hundred-point drop, a three-hundred-point gain, a five-hundred-point nosedive — often in the same day! The big board was having seizures. It was the kind of financial environment that sends stock in antacid companies soaring.
The only thing predictable about the stock market lately was its unpredictability. No politician with any thoughts of survival wanted to be the one calling for the lifeboats the same hour the stock market was shooting up six hundred points. Nor did any politician want to be the one telling the American public that the country was on the road to recovery just as Wall Street hit a sinkhole, and 20 percent of America’s wealth was swallowed into oblivion.
Lie low.
This was the time to sit on the sidelines and let things settle down before voicing an opinion on anything. One could hardly blame the politicians, who were diving for cover instead of governing, concerned over their own fortunes and comfy retirement plans. In this kind of atmosphere, it was every politician for himself. Or herself.
“What was I thinking when I decided to run for president in this kind of mess?” Mark Stedman thought out loud. It was a suicide mission. Who needed it?
In his gut, Mark knew that if voters had only listened to him, if he had only been given the chance to explain his solutions, he could have made a difference. But he hadn’t been given that chance. And now he was headed home.
Mark was surprised at how small the Washington skyline appeared in his rearview mirror. In all his years of service, it had never looked more insignificant and inconsequential than it did at this moment. There was so much more to him than the politics of D.C. He could see that now. Still, his departure from the capital city seemed surreal. It felt odd to leave this other life behind. There was a sadness to his leaving, but Mark didn’t dwell on it or turn around to go back. Instead he drove onto the expressway and headed west.
“DID YOU READ THIS?” HARLEY PHILLIPS ASKED STACY CREIGHTON, his campaign manager, as he waved a weekly news magazine in front of him. Stacy nodded his head, but Harley was sure Stacy had no idea what article he was talking about.
“Eighty percent of Americans say Washington’s broken! Eighty percent! You agree with that?” Harley said.
“Yes, sir, I do.” Stacy hurried the words out of his mouth as he always did before Harley could take his hesitation as a form of weakness.
“So do I. It is broken!” Harley said. “And I’m just the guy to fix us!”
Harley came from a long line of politicians who had red tape coursing through their veins. Harley’s father had been governor of Mississippi for two terms, and his grandfather had been Speaker of the House for close to a decade, dying of natural causes before he could serve out his full term.
Harley Phillips thought he knew exactly what was wrong with America and, like Mark and all the other candidates running for president, he was convinced that he, and he alone, was the answer. Washington was broken because it hadn’t done everything Harley had been proposing it do throughout his years in Congress. He had more know-how and experience than any other politician in Washington, and he knew what was best for the country. But Congress hadn’t listened to him, and now just look at the shape they were in.
As president, Harley would have more power to get his plans enacted. It was his time, his season, and at long last, his rightful turn. Harley Phillips would be sworn in as president of the United States come the following January, if he had anything to say about it. And he planned on saying plenty.
THE DRIVE FROM D.C. TO WISCONSIN WOULD TAKE ABOUT FOURTEEN and a half hours
, according to Mark’s semi-trustworthy GPS, which he’d mounted on the dashboard of the car. He’d never learned to operate the ones that came with the various government vehicles. He preferred to use his own, despite the fact that he had never gotten along with the lady navigator inside his device. He wasn’t sure why, but she seemed to have it out for him. He figured she must have different political views than he did. That had to be what put her in a perpetually testy mood. Whatever it was, she was far more vocal than Cindy had ever been when it came to backseat driving. Mark especially resented the lady’s interference in areas where he clearly knew more than she knew, like on this journey between Washington and Wisconsin. It was a run he had taken hundreds of times. He could drive it in his sleep — and had on more occasions than he’d ever tell his insurance company. As long as he stayed on the highways, he was fine. So who could blame him for ignoring the pesky meddler-in-a-box on this particular trip?
No techno-genius, Mark preferred tracking his trip the old-fashioned way — from Cracker Barrel to Cracker Barrel. When he got hungry, he’d park the government vehicle in the rear of the restaurant (no sense bringing added attention to himself) and throw on a ball cap. No one would even realize that a former presidential candidate was in their midst. He’d be just one more customer sitting by the fireplace asking for another basket of cornbread. Besides, while there, he could pick up a present for Cindy in the Cracker Barrel gift shop.
Mark continued to ignore the bothersome Lady of the Dashboard. He mainly just kept her around for emergencies anyway. So when she strongly suggested that he take an alternative route some scarce one hundred miles outside of D.C., he couldn’t follow her logic.
“This isn’t the time to go sightseeing,” Mark said to the Lady. “I’m on a mission to get home to my family.”
Maybe I can finally catch some of Marcus’s Little League games or we could go on some long overdue family outings that might even entice Carrie and Seth to join. It’s never too late for a family man to get to know his family.
Mark wanted the shortest route available and that didn’t involve country roads, so he ignored the voice and drove west on the interstate. West was the direction he needed to go. Anyone with a basic knowledge of geography knew Wisconsin was northwest of the District of Columbia.
“Take the next exit and head northeast to avoid road construction ahead.”
“I don’t see any road construction,” Mark said.
It didn’t take long for Mark to realize how much the Lady of the Dashboard did know. He was quickly stuck in a bumper-to-bumper trail of red lights that stretched for miles ahead of him. All four lanes of the expressway were being funneled down to one — never a good sign — and motorists had begun communicating in the language of their car horns.
Great, Mark thought. Who approved this?
Mark wasn’t in the mood for “Men at Work” or — more likely he figured—“Men Not at Work.”
After what seemed like hours, Mark grew desperate and reached over to punch new information into his GPS. He didn’t care if the Lady of the Dashboard threw in an “I told you so.” He was ready to listen to her now, ready to take whatever detour she recommended.
“Take the next exit and …”
Mark followed her instruction and moved over to the far right lane, but he still had to wait ten additional minutes before being able to exit the highway. It would have taken even longer, but as soon as he was close enough, Mark pulled onto the shoulder and drove on it until he reached the off-ramp. A few people honked as he passed them on the right, but no matter.
“I’m on official government business,” Mark said under his breath. “Party officials wanted me to get out of town, so I’m obliging them.” The chuckle Mark got over that self-deprecating comment almost made the traffic jam worth it.
Once off the highway and out of the congestion, Mark settled back to enjoy the lush green landscape that now surrounded him. Wherever this detour was taking him, at least it was pastoral and peaceful. It was also leading him away from an angry thunderstorm that appeared to be brewing to the south. The greenish tint to the clouds made them look especially menacing, not unusual for spring in the northeast.
“Okay, I confess,” Mark said to the Dashboard Lady, though it pained him to do so. “You were right.”
Mark Stedman may have had his faults, but he wasn’t above giving credit where credit was due.
Before he got too far down the unplanned path, Mark called Cindy using his headset so he could keep his hands on the wheel and eyes on the road. It was Mark and Cindy’s agreement to always inform each other of their whereabouts while traveling. One couldn’t be too careful these days.
Most people liked Congressman Stedman, but it was a rare politician who didn’t receive at least one death threat from some misguided zealot or anonymous lunatic. There were already some politically active bloggers who had taken an especially tough stance on the congressman and some of his voting history, and a few who seemed to simply ramble on and on about all things Stedman. That came with the territory, Mark figured. Neither he nor Cindy wanted to dwell on the dangers of a life in the political limelight, but it was worth taking a few precautions.
“Hi.” Cindy’s voice sounded in his ear.
“Hey, hon,” he said. Unfortunately, it was Cindy’s voice mail. This wonder of modern technology had tricked him before. The recording was so clear, it sounded exactly like Cindy. But Mark was surprised that he’d fallen for it again.
“This is Cindy. Please leave your message at the sound of the beep,” the recording continued.
Mark hung up, preferring to wait and talk to Cindy live. He figured Cindy would see his name in her Missed Calls list and call him back as soon as she could.
Wanting to be certain that the storm was indeed moving away from him, Mark fiddled with the stereo, searching for a station that would give him a weather update. The last thing he needed was to get stuck in the middle of nowhere in a flash flood. Or a tornado. One tornado had already dropped unexpectedly into his life this week with that obvious debate snub, and its devastating aftermath had destroyed his political aspirations and hopes. He didn’t need another one.
Mark continued scanning the stereo for a weather station, but the result was mostly static. Eventually Mark found one local station that was talking about everything except the weather. He listened for a few minutes, never hearing which way the storm was heading. He did, however, learn whose tractors were on sale that weekend.
He scanned the stations again, ultimately landing on a news radio station. He hoped they would cover the weather at some point. After a few minutes of inconsequential news, he heard his name and turned up the volume.
“While Mark Stedman is being tight-lipped about who he’ll be endorsing, the question on everyone’s mind is what’s next for the former congressman who resigned from his post to run for president,” the announcer said.
“Getting as far away from Washington as I can!” Mark replied. His habit of talking to himself was the result of driving too many places alone. He hadn’t done this in front of anyone, but it was something he felt quite comfortable doing within the confines of his car. Sometimes he’d even debate against himself, presenting both sides of an argument rather eloquently. That was how he knew he could have delivered a masterful performance in the presidential debate. But it was not to be.
Not in the mood for any more political commentaries from the news station, Mark reached over and turned off the stereo. It hadn’t been much help anyway. As far as the weather was concerned, he’d have to revert to doing it the way his father had taught him — by simply reading the clouds. And so far, he had dodged the bullet.
With each passing mile, the countryside grew more and more tranquil, fertile, and breathtakingly beautiful — and more and more remote. As much as he hated to do it, he was now forced to blindly follow the directions of his GPS. The Lady of the Dashboard knew more than he did about this area, and without a single gas station in sight or an
impossible-to-refold map in the car, he had no other choice.
Her voice guided him north and then west through the heart of Pennsylvania, continuing in the direction of Wisconsin by way of a long and out-of-the-way trek through Lancaster County. In all the years he had traveled between D.C. and Wisconsin, Mark had never taken a side trip through Lancaster County. He was both pleased and annoyed to be doing it today.
CHAPTER 4
THE LADY OF THE DASHBOARD WAS REALLY BEGINNING TO GET on Mark’s nerves. He was starting to relax, taking in the beauty of his surroundings, when her irritating voice suddenly broke through the silence yet again, telling him in no uncertain terms to make an immediate right. Not to turn two hundred feet down the road, not to turn at the next stop light, but now. Mark ignored her, but the lady was insistent. The only problem was, if he executed the right turn here — where she demanded he execute it — he would end up in the middle of a pond. Unless the woman was on Harley Phillips’s payroll, Mark figured her wires were probably in a wad, or at the very least, crossed.
Mark typed his destination into the device once more, but the woman merely told him to drive into the pond again. She sounded like a broken record and was clearly wrong, but Mark knew she’d never admit it. He had no choice but to give the misbehaving device a good whack to the side of the screen, hoping to knock some sense into it.
It worked … sort of.
“Recalculating,” the lady said, and then changed her directions. “Continue straight ahead for a quarter mile and turn left.”
True, these new directions didn’t take Mark into a pond now. This time they would land him in the middle of a cornfield.
Mark Stedman thought fondly of the old rabbit-ear-TV-antenna days when a twist here, a tweak there, and a slap to the side of a television set would bring the picture back. A creature of habit, he was always trying his old-school methods on today’s new technology to make it behave, but it didn’t always work.
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