The Week from Hell

Everybody has one. This was Brenda’s. Her candidacy was to be a big surprise. She was allowed to tell no one, not even her children. It made her feel like a criminal.

She was constantly updated on the phone by Adele, Chauncey, Nat and Mitchell, which meant her phone was always ringing. She had to change that ring-tone. It attracted too much attention. Finally she switched it to vibrating and kept it in a pocket.

She had to make plans for the children. Jason’s aunt ran an overnight camp not far from them. They were considering this, but they hadn’t yet told the kids. It would make life so much easier if they weren’t around.

Oh, how could she think that? It hurt her to think it, but it was true. Her schedule was filling up in advance with dinners, meetings, and visits to senior citizen centers and town library forums. If she could only be free, and not have to worry about getting dinner for the family, getting home at a reasonable hour, having people in the house, and the phone ringing day and night. That was already happening, and she hadn’t yet been announced.

Jason was moping around like an ignored puppy. She tried to make up for it at night, but he would have none of it – kept turning his back on her. He didn’t want her to get any good points, only bad ones, and she could see him chalking them up.

The dresses arrived with too much fanfare. They were delivered in a bright white truck on Saturday. The name of the boutique was scrawled in violet on its sides and back. Everyone saw it. They received three last minute invitations to Sunday barbeques, from curious neighbors, all of which they declined, rather than have to a lie. The use of the lie was presenting itself like a bad joke. Every little thing seemed to demand one – or its cousin, the evasion, in which you don’t answer the question, but instead put forth some tangentially related information that stops all but the bad-mannered from asking again.

They had to tell the kids something when the dresses came. They’d been out in the back yard and run around the front when the chimes played. They thought it was an ice cream truck, and were disappointed, so they already saw the dresses as an enemy.

Jason didn’t help. He told them, before she had a chance to say anything, that Mommy was trying out for a part in a play, and these were her costumes. Sheba was thrilled, and Jason was excited, and she had to be the bad guy and tell them it wasn’t true, offering them nothing in exchange.

Then Jason said it was true, but it was a secret, and Mommy was practicing keeping the secret with them. Zeke loved this, and rolled around on the floor with great glee, holding his sides. Sheba was disturbed at the notion of her mother lying to her. “How do I know you’re telling the truth about anything?” she asked. “I thought you said lying was a sign of weakness, that you should never let anybody make you tell a lie.”

“I’m not lying,” she stated. “I’m keeping somebody’s secret. That’s not lying.”

“Whose secret?”

Jason took pity on her. He raised a wise finger in the air and said, “Ahh, that is the biggest part of any secret.” This was profound; it shut everybody up.

Jason was acting very strangely. His bad humor was interspersed with short bursts of great levity, during which he’d laugh at nothing, throw Zeke up into the air, tell Sheba a scary story to make her squeak… but never did he include her in the fun. She only got the mopey face.

In the last couple of days, he’d been spending more time at the computer. He’d never done much web-surfing. He said he looked at a screen all day; why should he do it at home? Now he’d meander over to his desk instead of hanging around with her and the kids. He’d sit down and apply himself to something. She didn’t know what, and she was not about to find out. His computer was his livelihood. She didn’t touch it. Or the laptop he carried back and forth. And he didn’t touch hers. In Cyberspace, they lived in different worlds.

Mitchell Wagman had been calling her all week, letting her in on his every thought. He kept coming up with positions for her to take on non-national issues, like Walmart. Wagman was thoroughly opposed to them on the grounds that he didn’t like the way they treated their workers.

She knew some of these workers through their kids. (Their school didn’t draw only from the privileged sections of town.) They needed those jobs, and were glad to have them. For some of the mothers, it was manna from heaven, being able to work however few and whatever hours they could.

They shopped in a Wal-Mart, too. Everybody did. You could buy what you needed and have money left over for what you wanted.

No, no, no, no, Wagman had said over the phone. “I don’t care what you want personally; politically you do not support Walmart.”

She hadn’t liked the tone he took with her, and the phone call had come when she and Jason had been talking about what their life was going to be like now. He was listening. She had to stand up for what she believed. “If you want a schizophrenic, Mr. Wagman, go look someplace else.”

It must have been the “Mr. Wagman” that showed him he was making a mistake. He said, “I’m sorry, Brenda. Sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you what you believe. Of course, you’re right. But you have to remember the greater good. You have to get elected to do any good at all. We’ll have to figure out a way for you to say both things at once. Like Obama does.”

She didn’t think it was funny, but she laughed. That’s when he told her to bone up on what Obama thought about everything, because that’s what she thought too.

He’d worn her out, with Jason taking it all in. She didn’t want him to know Mitchell had made further demands. “I think we understand each other,” she said, satisfying both men at once.

Chauncey Donahue, the big, blonde, polite, former football hero, wanted to talk about “edjicating the young.” He practically groveled before her because she understood math. His cause was pre-school, which he hadn’t attended. He blamed his lack of academic fortitude solely on this one biographical fact. “You gotta get ’em when they’re defenseless,” he said. “Before they can put up their dukes and fight you off.” It was quite an image Chauncey Donahue had of edjication. “Cradle to career,” he signed off, adopting Obama’s promise as his slogan.

Nat Grogan, that parody of a political hack, gave her five minute lectures, no matter where she was – in the supermarket, in the bathtub – on foreign affairs. That was the worst. There was no give and take. He picked a topic and filled her in. A lot of it she knew, a lot of it she didn’t. It scared her. She actually felt sorry for Sarah Palin.

The only bright spot was Adele Delicia, her shopping mate, who called at least once a day and assured her that she didn’t have to say what anybody told her to say. When the time came, and she was up on the stage, or in front of the cameras, whatever came out of her mouth was it. Cameras! She hadn’t realized she’d be on TV. What could she have been thinking? That this thing was going to take place all in her mind, or at most in posh restaurants and stores, with a small coterie of friends?

She had to get used to it. Her Coming Out party was this weekend. It was going to be a big bash, and she was the center of attention. While she watched Jason mope, she let her mind wander among the dresses, deciding what she would wear. In the end, she wasn’t the decider. Adele selected the dress. It was the first of many decisions Brenda would agonize over and ultimately not make.

A Pair of Balls

Don’t get excited. She’s here, but these things take time. You know that. Jason uncoils from his emotional fetal position and watches her walk toward him. Beige suit the color of her long, curly hair, neckline same as last time, down to there, short skirt three feet from the ground, and best of all, those balls on her chest bouncing on either side of the strip of skin.

She sees him. She can’t help it. He’s sitting at the receptionist’s desk. But this time, she doesn’t breeze by. This time she stops. Why not? They’re old friends.

“Daddy,” she pronounces, in a breathy voice, walks up to him and offers her hand.

Then she takes it back. He’s bereft of the fleeting sensation that he has flown – that he was way up above where he is, because his heart has soared. A beautiful woman can do that. And does. Sometimes deliberately, sometimes not. The result is the same. Smitten.

She backs away, continuing to look at him, then spins around and goes into Clyde’s office. What a treat for lucky Clyde.

Last time, he couldn’t help but hear. This time, his ears are perked.

She gets right to it.

“Mr. Waters, I’m going to need to shorten my hours. I will be able to work afternoons, but not mornings.”

“May I ask why?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Yes. What personal reasons?”

“I’m not telling. That’s what makes it personal.”

“We don’t hire part-time help,” Clyde says.

“I am not part-time help, Mr. Waters. I’m your top salesperson. I intend to remain that.”

“But you want to work part-time,” Clyde whines, “and we don’t hire part-time workers.”

“Ah,” she says. “That’s quite right, Mr. Waters. You don’t hire, but you do employ, part-time workers. All the other salesmen are part-time. They take time off to get their nails done, to shop for clothes, I’d hate to tell you what some of them take time off for. When I work, I work. That’s why I’m worth three of them.”

“There’s no way I can do it. It’s against regulations.”

“Then don’t tell anybody. I’ll still be working more hours than the others. I’ll take a long, early lunch hour. Nobody has to know.”

But Jason knows, and he knows that they both know he can hear them. What does it mean? Nothing. It means that he’s nothing. It means he’s so low down on the totem pole that he can know big secrets because he is powerless, and of such insignificance.

He’s shocked when Clyde agrees to the deal. But then maybe she shook Clyde’s hand, too. He’s overcome with jealousy. It comes on quick and hot.

When she steps out of the office, he’s got control of himself. He tuned out their good-byes by tackling an actual hard problem, a pleasure he usually saved for the end, and savored. He was involved in it when she approached his desk.

“Daddy, listen,” she says in the melodious voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I like the way you look, and what you said last time. Even if you were joking. You’re a good, solid man.”

His heart is beating in his throat now. He can’t talk. But he doesn’t have to. She leans down over him. The boobs (such a gross word) are on either side of his face. His nose, for one sublime second, is in the flat between. He’s afraid to breathe.

She retrieves a pen from the desk holder, takes one of his pieces of paper without asking, and writes, www.dadsareus.org on it. “Go there,” she says.

The second he has seen the last of her twitchy little butt, he does. As perhaps you did too, but you found nothing there, as Jason’s world is only partially yours. When he clicks on the site, it opens up with a picture of what is obviously a father and son. Dad’s got his arms wrapped around Sonny, in the baseball hug every fortunate boy knows. The bat’s in the boy’s hands, but Dad is making sure it all turns out right.

Another dad is putting a band-aid on his little girl’s scraped knee. Yet another is giving his daughter away at her wedding. And the final pièce de résistance, a dad with his son, celebrating his grandson’s birthday. The boys are miniature versions of Dad. The girls are angels.

Just above the bottom of the screen is a word that pulses between “Dads” and “Tads”, and at the very bottom in small letters the slogan: “Dads don’t want their Tads aborted.”

If you click in the wrong place, you get horror flicks. When a dead fetus showed up, he leapt back to the previous screen. So. She was serious. But why had she given this to him? He linked to “Stories”.

You don’t want to hear them. You don’t have to hear them. Men whose children have been murdered by their mothers. Or so they assert. What right does she have –the child is half his. His DNA, his posterity, his reason for being on Earth. (There are men as well as women who feel this way, he is surprised to find out.)

What’s he supposed to do? Be sympathetic. This is purely a propaganda project, meant to change people’s perceptions of abortion.

Why is it, one man asks, that a father is expected to take part in the delivery – to feel the pain, if he possibly can. He’s expected to do his share of the staying up nights feeding the baby. He takes it to day-care. He diapers it. Because it’s his. Then why is it he gets no say in whether it lives or dies?

Jason has never really thought about this before. It’s always the woman’s right, has nothing to do with a man. But the logic of the argument appeals to him. Besides, he’s down on women right now. They’re hypocrites. All that blather about the children, then they go off and desert their own, the minute something more exciting than child-rearing shows up.

The bitches! There, he said it. He’s getting really angry now.

What right do they have to run the show? Because they weren’t allowed to run it before, now they’re the decision-makers? They’re the ones with the life and death of others in their hands, and men don’t have a word to say because some of their predecessors were pigs and denied the rights of women. He never had. Never before, that is, but now he’s feeling a little different. He’s feeling like an underdog, a member of a group that is going down, stepped on by women on their way up. He’s also a white male, so he has an additional handicap. He’s the lowest of the low.

It wasn’t just his wife, either. The manipulative bitches were everywhere. Wagman’s wife, for instance. If he drank all the wine, she couldn’t have had much, so she knew he was being dosed. She was in on it.

Even this woman – the bombshell – what the hell was her name? He strained his memory. DuBois, he had heard Clyde say. She was trying to convert him. Hey, at least she had something to offer. Just the sight of her made him stand up and salute.

There were others. That woman, Adele, who had taken Brenda shopping and completely turned her around. Had her dressing like a whore, with that slop all over her face. Three hundred dollar shoes. She used to rail against what she called whimsical waste.

As a man, he was feeling pretty goddam squeezed by these women, and not in a nice place.

He’d been scrolling through the “facts” about powerless fathers. There at the bottom of the section was the only thing he had to do – the only thing he could do, to show his solidarity. Give his name and e-mail address so he could be counted. They didn’t want anything – his address, his mother’s maiden name – but he hesitated.

What was he so fucking afraid of? He was turning into a milquetoast. Women were doing it to him. He’d stand up with the men and be counted. He tapped in the information.

For the first time in a few days, he felt like a man.

Sauce for the Gander

This is going to be the tricky part, Mitch thought. Getting her to go along. It would not be easy. Adele had done her job – thoroughly and competently. She’d gained the candidate’s trust. He had to laugh at the Men are Morons comment. Adele was one of the boys. Nobody wanted to dress the lithe and lovely Mrs. Shapiro in the chunky styles of Michelle Obama, a woman twice her size. Adele was a genius. The best they had.

While the shopping spree was taking place, the three male boys reconvened at Grogan’s. Nat had a neat little apartment a few towns away. Two rooms. A big one that as kitchen and living room, and a small bedroom. A private room and a public room. What more did anyone need?

Mitch felt good at Nat’s. Self-sufficient and simple. The kitchen tools hung out, and there weren’t many of them. A thick pine table with four heavy chairs dominated the space, and here’s where they sat, on fat cushions, with big mugs of coffee in front of them, working out what Brenda Shapiro did and did not believe, what she stood for, what her opinion was on any issue that might come up.

That is, any issue on which Obama had not yet spoken. If he had, she was with him one hundred percent. That left less and less every day. She had to be careful not to come out with what would become the wrong side of an issue.

Nat and Chauncey were in love with her, that was obvious. She was their ticket to mattering. The party that’s out is nowhere. Locally, theirs was out. Always out. A perpetual losing team.

But now everything was turned upside-down. Obama had long coat tails, even if officially they didn’t offer rides. Not even Republicans were allowed to speak against him, even though the bastards did anyway. Everybody else knew it was time to shut up and let the man do his job. Even if you didn’t like some things that were happening, or it looked like they weren’t working, you had to believe. If at times you couldn’t quite do that, at least keep quiet about it.

Electing a Democrat would show support for the historic president. It was the decent thing to do. Like that farce in Minnesota where they re-ran the rules to give the election to Franken. Nobody believes there was any proof that Franken had won; everybody knew it was an undecidable 50-50 split and what went on were after-the-fact judgment calls. But nobody cared. With him in the Senate, there will be no party-line filibusters to obstruct Obama’s programs.

How he would love to have been part of those all-night strategy meetings, with the tremendous urgency of having to win, to devise the ways and means to do so, and then, finally, doing so – winning. Yes, he’d like a taste of winning. He badly wanted his little filly to come in.

But what about the owner of the horse? He’s got to co-operate. He has to want the same thing you do, or you’re not going to get it. There has probably never been a successful candidate whose spouse was not on board. Certainly not one whose other half was kicking and screaming all the way to the oval office. Hillary could have buried Bill with that Gennifer Flowers business. Instead, she went on television to tell the world she knew her husband couldn’t keep it in his tweeds, but gosh darn, if she can forgive him, you can too. What a woman.

A woman. That’s what was needed. Brenda’s husband was getting screwed. Or maybe he wasn’t. Either way, she had a new man in her life, and he didn’t have the equivalent. In fact, she had a few new men in her life. Adele included. They were going to escort her, and if he wanted to, he could tag along as Mr. Brenda. But even Bill hadn’t done too well in that role. Couldn’t keep his hands off. Couldn’t stay in the background.

Mitchell didn’t think that’s what lost her the election. The fickle finger did that. Something bigger and better came along. Black trumps Woman. The right Black appeared. A white Black. It might never happen again. Grab it.

They had, and now Obama’s running with the ball, as fast as he can, before they catch him. He knows they’re going to catch him; it’s only a matter of time. He’s run away with all the money. People won’t get mad till they look in their wallets and find out it was theirs.

Yeah, a shrewd guy, Obama. Much smarter than he, himself. Obama used the good fortune of his looks to get him up there, while Mitch had frittered away his own good fortune on small-town politics, until it was too late, and his look-alike had queered his deal.

Lost chances. He didn’t want to lose this little consolation prize. He’d almost had an idea before he started thinking about the former First Couple. What was it?

A woman. That was it. Jason needed a woman to take his mind off his wife, and what she was doing. He needed a taste of guilt, so he could feel magnanimous – let her have her own good time, because he was having his. Yes, that was it.

He ran some women through his mind, then it hit him. Why not make it a foursome? He and Nina seemed to hit it off at dinner; come to think of it, he’d had a clear field, she had kept him entertained.

Would he be jealous? He had to check it out. All he saw was a tantalizing picture of Brenda, with that cleavage she’d kept hidden all these years. He could submerge his masculine territorialism, like an Eskimo, and share his wife. Now all he had to do was throw them together. That would be easy.

Meanwhile, Jason has returned to the drug company. He’s forgotten all about Ms. Longlegs. He’s forgotten her name, if he ever knew it. Too much has been going on in his life that he doesn’t like, and it’s pushed out all the things he does. He’s sitting at a stranger’s desk, brooding, as he corrects, undoes, reinstalls, whatever it takes, he’ll do it.

He’s nobody. He’s the husband of a woman running for Congress. Someone else in the family is wearing the pants. He’ll soon be wearing an apron. What’s worse, his wife is doing things for another man that she wouldn’t do for him. That fucking make-up. She didn’t throw it back in Wagman’s face, like she’d thrown it back at him. For Wagman, she put it on. That was enough for him; he knew how to read the signs.

He was mad, he was sad, he was frustrated, his ego was badly battered. When along came …

Bumpitabumpitabump

The Heel

Zeke had made up her mind. She would not take off the make-up before telling Jason about the day. She would have dinner wearing the blue/gray eye shadow that went with her eyes and which, she was surprised, had created almost a feeling of joy when she saw herself.

Adele had laughed. “Soon you won’t want to look in the mirror without it,” she said.

Was that good? Not to be able to look at yourself until you looked like somebody else? A more worldly, vivacious, younger, more colorful, somebody else?

Funny, she didn’t feel different – not until she looked in a mirror. Then she lightened up and watched herself smile flirtatiously with her new long lashes, a lovely shade of dark honey. That’s what it was called. They were wispy, like her own, but all fringed out, and there were so many more wisps.

Adele did not let her listen to any of the consultants for make-up and clothes. She had her own ideas, from start to finish and – this was a bit of a shock – had a photo of her subject that she’d been studying in anticipation of this day.

Did they have a good time? You bet.

“They want me to get you up like Michelle,” Adele told her.

Oh, no. That was ludicrous. She was a fawn to Michelle’s panther. The most she could be was pretty, whereas Michelle was striking, stunning, big and bold. And that’s what her clothes were. Those belts and scarves and patterns.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to. Men are morons,” she said.

If Brenda had any inclination to resist Adele’s advice, it was now gone. They drove to a boutique on the Boulevard in the next congressional district.

Upscale. There was a tailor, a hostess, and a little tea table at a plush chair where Adele sat to pass judgment on the outfits. Cup of Jasmine in hand, she searched for, and found, a look.

Something that would define Brenda the way the pants suit defined Hillary, and her fashion statements defined Michelle.

She must appear, Adele told her, to be perfectly well-dressed, without having given it a thought. As a teacher, as an advocate for children, she could not seem as though she cared one whit about how she looked, except for the comfort of the audience. It was for them that she would wear the soft pastels of fairyland – lavender, pale green, light blue, to indicate her harmlessness, since most people were afraid of teachers.

They picked one basic dress and had the rest made up in different materials, with different colors, different necklines, hems, and sleeves. They all had one thing in common, and that was the way they faithfully followed the lines of her body, which looked quite elegant, swathed in the clingy chiffons and flowing silks.

There were 10 dresses altogether. Whether she got any more would depend upon how well she did.

At number four, she began to suspect, and then at number six was sure, that every dress had one element of… she could not deny it, sexiness. Adele plunged a neckline, diagonalled a hem, created a cut-out, or slit a sleeve. Each alteration revealed, in the innocent dress, an aspect of Brenda’s toned body.

In the trunk of the car was the proto-dress from which they’d all sprung. She hadn’t wanted to explain the box to Zeke. When he got out of the car and bounded up the stairs, she went to the trunk, took out the box, and squirreled it upstairs to the bedroom via the back stairway.

Yes, friends, there is a back stairway in their house. The very words conjure up farcical situations. None will happen here, if I can help it.

As soon as she closed the bedroom door, she opened the box, took out the dress, and fluffing it in front of her, peered at herself in the free-standing mirror. She looked positively marvelous, and she never used that word.

The dress was pale blue, and with the eye shadow, it took on dimension. It was made of some slinky material, not as fine as what they later picked out, but as she put it on, it slithered down her body and gave her a shivery thrill.

It was deceptively tight; the sides were slit to enable walking, and by chance happened to show a pretty leg. She preened before her new self and congratulated her on a job well done.

The neckline was a low scoop. Brenda peeled the dress back over her head and put on the bra, the only other item in the box. It worked! Her breasts puffed up out of the scoop neckline. And she’d thought she’d achieved cleavage with her old push-up bra. Adele was right. Technology had come a long way.

She turned herself this way and that before the mirror, so absorbed in her self-admiration that she didn’t hear the car pull up. Or notice when the bedroom door opened. Suddenly, Jason appeared in back of her in the mirror.

He did not look happy. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked. It wasn’t a real question. “It’s seven o’clock! We’re all starving down there… what the hell happened to your face?”

A pause while he digests what he sees. “Where did you get that dress? You look like a floozie in a grade B movie.”

He moved closer. Quietly, like a cat sneaking up on its prey, as if he didn’t want her to run away before he had a chance to see exactly what she was.

“All tarted up for the People, eh?” he sneered. “Or is it for Wagman?” His eyes bored into her, meanly. She didn’t deserve this. She worked hard all year. Nobody but a teacher knew what it was like to deal with hundreds of children every day. A completely unnatural situation, one woman with all those kids.

This was her vacation. If she wanted to look good, what of it? If she spent the day shopping with a friend, so what? She made the money, she was entitled to spend it. It was a sore spot that she made more money than Jason. She touched the sore spot. Just lightly. “I wanted to spend some of my salary.”

As soon as she said it, she realized her mistake, but it was too late.

He pounced. “And did you?” he asked. “You didn’t spend a penny of your money. The Boys paid for that dress. Out of Party funds. Mitchell Wagman paid for that crap on your face. With somebody else’s money. My wife is all dolled up for another man. He paid for her clothes, made her look like a tramp. You know what he sounds like? Your pimp. That’s what he sounds like, and that’s what he is. He dressed you up so you can go out and bring back the bacon.”

One more box lay open on the bed. She bent down. Her cleavage popped into her face. She tried not to notice it as she picked up one of the shoes cuddled in tissue paper and threw it, hard, at her husband. The tall, sharp heel hit him in the chest.

“That’s real classy,” he said. “Proves my point. Clothes make the woman. Or in this case, the whore.”

He picked the shoe off the floor, and with a tremendous display of force, broke off the offending heel.

“Jason! Those shoes cost three hundred dollars!”

His face registered surprise as he looked at the heel in his left hand.

“Guess a street walker’s gotta have good shoes,” he said. “Your boyfriend can buy you another pair.”

He shook the shoe at her. “There’s lots more of the People’s money where this came from.”

The Diner

The Diner with a capital D. How strange to be there in the middle of the morning. It was past the busy breakfast hour, but still surprisingly full: a large contingent of senior citizens eating in couples, tables full of gabby old women – talk about make-up! They looked like that clown. And what she hadn’t expected, groups of dapper middle-aged men, conferencing at large tables over coffee and plates of pastries.

Old ladies with nothing to do but gab, and white middle-class males who run the world. Nat Grogan was one of them. A slight, debonair character out of some movie, he wore a hat that he didn’t take off, even though he was indoors and there were ladies present, and a pin-striped suit. He sported a shapely, thin mustache that gave him a roguish look.

There were two other people at the round table. She recognized Chauncey Donahue who’d once been the captain of an undefeated high school football team in the district. He had broad shoulders and a monster belly that kept him from buttoning his tan jacket. Next to him was an African American woman with a straight shoulder-length flip, a pert pretty face and dancing eyes. She was smiling with what looked like real delight. Brenda liked her immediately, and gravitated toward the empty seat next to her.

But she didn’t make it that far. Before she got there, Wagman pulled out the chair one place away, directly across from Grogan, held it for her so she had no choice, and sat down next to the pretty lady himself. He was between them.

He introduced everybody as if they were all meeting for the first time. The woman, who looked more like an unthreatening girl, was Adele Delicia.

Chauncey held up his menu, totally eclipsing his face. Everyone followed his lead. Each dutifully read at least some of the ten long, fat pages covered with plastic and print. When the waiter came around, Chauncey was the first to relinquish his volume. He ordered a lox and bagel platter.

It was going to be a feast! She was suddenly starving, in spite of the bowl of oatmeal she’d already had. She loved diner breakfasts and ordered an egg-white omelet with home fries – a sin – and whole wheat toast.

The other three ordered coffee. She was mortified.

The plates were huge ovals, each big enough to feed three people. She and Chauncey were the only ones eating. The others sat demurely over their cosmopolitan cups.

“Eat up, little lady,” he said, toasting her with his orange juice glass.

Once the talk got started, she was glad to have the food. It gave her time to think before answering; it gave her something to look at besides these ardent, urgent people who said they were pinning all their hopes on her.

Nat looked her piercingly in the eye from across the table, as she wrapped her mouth around a forkful of fluffy eggs. “Let me summarize,” he said. “Even though our beloved Congressman Richard Towne is Republican, he’s been tapped by Obama for Number Two at Homeland Security. That’s a post-partisan crumb for our opponents, but a glimmer of hope for us. A Republican will probably win the special election in November, but there’s a chance – a slim one – that we’ll prevail because of the current political climate. And with you, we have an issue.”

“An issue?”

Grogan gave her the grin. They all had one. “The children. That’s our issue. Even Republicans have children. You, my dear, are the champion of children. Children cross party lines.”

Chauncey had been breaking small pieces off his bagel, slathering them with cream cheese, then delicately adding a small square of lox, squeezing on lemon juice, and topping the construction with a sliver of onion and a quarter of a slice of tomato. Now he looked up, white-tipped knife in one hand, a bagel bite in the other, and said, “With your reputation, they won’t dare say no to you.”

“My reputation?”

He pushed back a bit from the table, easing the dent in his belly, wiped the corner of his mouth with the tiniest corner of his napkin, and watching her face to gauge her reaction, said, “They’re afraid of you, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Afraid of her? Ridiculous.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

Nat joined in. “Oh, no, no, no. Not ridiculous at all. The people who know you, know you do what’s right come hell or high water, that you don’t let anyone get away with anything, that you’ve got them sitting down with their kids doing homework, that they can’t get out of it any more than their children can. You’re the boss, Brenda. You’re The Man.”

She liked that. She was the man. Not the wo-man. She was the real thing.

Wagman said, “The appeal you have to the people who know you can be extended to other parents, in other schools, all across the district.”

“And what will they think when I abandon my post and my charges?”

“The greater good, m’lady, the greater good.” She was back to being a lady again. So much for The Man.

Adele sat sipping her coffee, letting the others talk. And talk they did, painting pictures of a nutritious school breakfast for every child in America. And health insurance. We’ve got to bypass the employer, a lot parents are out of work. Children get covered the moment they enter public school. (To hell with private schools. Home schoolers too. They aren’t real Americans. They think they can do without the government, let them do without it.)

The three men bid themselves up like people in a poker game, each one trying to top the other. She would have clinics in the schools, not just a school nurse who couldn’t do anything. A clinic whose job it would be to ferret out children who needed medical attention, and goddamit, give it to them. Send them to hospitals, if need be. What do most parents know about things like that? Center the professionals in the schools, the officially designated sites for childcare.

Brenda imagined them sending Sheba to the hospital without her permission, giving Zeke a needle he didn’t need. “What about the rights of parents?” she asked.

Grogan shook his still-hatted head. “They’ll give ’em up out of guilt,” he said. “They can’t deny their children the best. Can’t take a chance, once it’s offered, of not having their problems handled by the pros. What if a parent makes an unnecessary mistake?”

“What if the school does?” she asked.

Grogan shook his head again, looking sly. “Professionals don’t make mistakes. They simply encounter unexpected consequences. Fate’s fault, not theirs.”

The meeting was wrapped up, and they stood outside on the concrete, saying their goodbyes. Chauncey shook her hand. “Please to meetcha, little lady,” he said, and swept her a one-armed bow over his belly. Grogan winked at her. But Wagman, whom she thought of as her sponsor, was busy whispering to Adele.

Several hours later, she picked Zeke up at the long play-date she’d arranged for him.

“Mommy! What happened to your face?” he greeted her as he launched himself into the back seat.

“It’s make-up,” she said.

“You look weird.”

“Do you think Daddy will like it?”

He scrutinized her in the rear view mirror, appraising her face with frowning concentration.

“Yes,” he said. “I know what Daddy likes.”

“How do you know what Daddy likes?”

“From television. Sometimes I watch him watch.”

“You do?” That was a strange thing for a child, wasn’t it? Children shouldn’t be so aware of adults. They’re supposed to take their parents for granted and not notice the details.

“I watch everybody,” he said.

Oh. That was not good to hear.

“Do you watch me?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“What do I like?”

He thought for a moment, smiling to himself, organizing his memories into an answer.

“Animals,” he said.

“Animals! What about people? Don’t I like people?”

“People make you cry. Animals make you happy.”

“Ohmigod,” she said. “People make me cry because I care about them.”

“But you don’t like them. You like animals.” He disappeared from the rear-view. Conversation over, the oracle closed up shop and took a video game out of his backpack which he still took everywhere, even though school was over.

She was left alone with his pronouncement and didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

The Candidate

Hank here, reading your mind. You think Henrietta has no business letting Wagman define another character’s character like this. The Brenda he’s getting off on is only in his head.

Where is Wagman, but in your head? Or your version of Brenda? They’re composed of hearsay from Henrietta, whose head they all came from. And you know whose head she came from. Wagman has at least seen Brenda in the flesh. Has, in fact, touched that flesh, even if ever so slightly. When Wagman closed his eyes and began to imagine, he donned the mantle of author. Fantasy author, to be sure, but what fantasy isn’t based on some nugget of reality?

The subconscious is a powerful tool. It can see beneath the camouflage of another subconscious. It can wrest the essence from it, pull it right up through the skin and not only read it, but free it. Allow it to act on its own.

Poor Brenda. She has been discovered. Uncovered. By Wagman. By Jason. She is suspicious of herself. She has only her inner discipline and Henrietta to save her from this self. That’s all from me, folks. Back to Brenda.

On the morning in question, she lies in bed, a little smile of satisfaction on her face, ignoring the occasional groan from her bedmate. Why had he drunk so much wine? Nobody else had.

She doesn’t want to be here now, next to this sweating, moaning man. She wants to be back in last night, back in her hour of glory. Listening to Mitchell Wagman extol her every attribute. How sympathetic he was. How attuned to everything she stands for. How well he knew her. She’d been shocked. And flattered.

“I know you secretly want to help the whole world. Not just your family, or your school, not even your town, or for that matter, your country. You want to improve the lot of all mankind.”

She’d been spell-bound. He had access to her inner-most thoughts. He knew her heart!

“I’m offering you a platform from which you can disperse your largess.” The man could talk, too. She’d underestimated his abilities. “A perch from which you can reach out and touch the billions of people who live on our planet.”

She froze it in her mind. His face was aglow with the same urgent purpose she felt pounding through her, all through her. And now came the moment. Her hand slipped down into her pajamas, and rested where the pounding was the hardest.

“That place,” he said, looking deep into her eyes for the first time, “is the United States Congress.”

For a second everything stopped. Then she exploded. Waves of fulfillment flowed over her.

She savored the sensation as it ebbed away. Had she been a smoker, she would have reached for her cigarettes, and lain back against the pillow, puffing, watching the wreaths of smoke, content with herself and the universe.

Today she was meeting Nat Grogan. She knew him by sight – everybody did – but had never spoken to him. It would be her introduction to the field of politics. Field in the sense, not of intellectual growth but of a ball game. Hadn’t Mitch used that phrase? (A warm feeling suffused her when his name came up.) Play ball with me, he’d said.

Well, she was going to play ball. Because he was right. A congressman is a powerful person. And she would be a congressman, not a congesswoman. She’d make that clear from the start. She was no weak sister to be dealt with lightly and ordered around, told what to say, and to whom to say it. If they wanted her, they’d have to take all of her, all her notions, and more important, all her principles. They were not going to drag her down into the mud.

Jason was right about the nature of their small political cabal. It consisted of the high rollers in the district. The flashy people with loud laughs and glitter. Nat Grogan, for instance, was famous for his five carat diamond ring. Bigger than his brain, was the joke.

She would not become a joke. She would put her foot down the moment the ordering around started – if she didn’t like what they wanted her to do. Or say. Or wear. Well, maybe she’d listen to them on that one. The Hillary suits might be stale. Or, they might resonate with the voters; she was Secretary of State. It wasn’t President, but it was something.

She fought down the habitual disappointment that came with the thought that they had lost. She loved Barack, didn’t she? What more could he ask? That she be a happy loser? There was no such thing.

Historic event. Those words came to mind whenever he did. It would have been an historic event had a woman been elected, too. Maybe more of one. They would have had to deal with a First Gentleman. One who wasn’t exactly a gentleman. She laughed to herself.

Flushing and mild murmuring from the kids’ side of the hall told her it was time to get up and go down to make breakfast. They could get it themselves, but that would make her feel guilty, so every morning, in her rose-colored robe and matching slippers, she put together yogurt and granola – her kids were the only ones she knew who ate this stuff – and for warmth and an old-fashioned feeling left over from her own childhood, eggs and toast to go with it. Her children would not fade away from low blood-sugar in the middle of the morning.

While they ate, she showered and dressed. In the signature yellow pants suit. When she came out, the children were living their own life, squabbling, talking TV, running up and down the stairs laughing, screeching, yelling. Jason slept through it all. It was normal background noise. She called Jason’s office, said he was sick, and left him a note saying she’d done so.

She left. They would all take care of themselves. Her stomach was beginning to anticipate her meeting, and now that she was on her way, she didn’t feel as confident as she had in bed. How did she look? How should she act? What would be expected of her?

She was still trying to figure it all out as she walked up the grand, granite steps of her school. The administration worked all through July. One good reason to remain a teacher and not move (what was thought of as) up.

But then there was no more time. As she walked in the front door, a hand came down on her shoulder. A big hand. The shoulder almost gave way under it. She looked up into Wagman’s face.

“You don’t have to sign in. The school year is over for you.” The hand propelled her down the hall to his office. Past Madge to the inner sanctum. It didn’t exactly force her down into a seat, but it would have been hard to resist its pressure.

Wagman was all business. Not even a smile. “We can’t meet Grogan here,” he said. “Wouldn’t look right. Conflict of interest… all that crap. We’re meeting for breakfast at the Diner. Then you’re going shopping for some clothes with Adele – you’ll like her – have to get you out of those suits, no offense intended. And tell Adele to find you some make-up. You’re playing with the grown-ups now.”

Man to Man

Jason groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. The light hurt. His innards were on a roller-coaster ride, and when he lifted his head, the ceiling spun. He let it back down gently and tried not to move.

It seemed to him, as he replayed his mounting enjoyment, that he had drunk most of those three bottles of wine. Wagman kept pouring. Whenever his glass got down, there was that bottle, tipped over its top. At the time, he’d felt nothing but elation. Now, he was goddam mad.

Was this any more legal than doping a girl on a date and raping the semi-sleeping victim? Wagman got him drunk and made off with his wife.

His wife. Sickeningly, he turned his throbbing head to look at her. Sleeping not just peacefully, but ecstatically, a beatific smile on her face. That should make him happy, but in this case, what was good for the goose was not good for the gander.

Wagman wanted to send her to Washington. She’d gone on about it all the way home. How exciting it was. How much good she could do. That was the big focus – how much good she could do for everyone else in the world but him.

What about the children? he’d asked her, cruel as she claimed his question to be. And he knew it, because here was the contradiction. She was going out to fight for other people’s children and to do it she was ready to sacrifice her own.

“They’ll be fine,” she said. “They have two parents.” Pause. Silence. “Don’t they, Jase? Don’t they have two parents?”

Jase? When was the last time she’d called him that? It was before the last time they ate at The Orange Duck. She must really want this bad. That made it worse. He was inadequate. That was it; he hadn’t satisfied her, hadn’t given her enough of a life. She wanted more, and another man was going to provide it.

How was this any better than having an affair? She was going to neglect her family, go off to dinners with other people, have her good time with them, tire herself out so she couldn’t have one with him, and yeah – what about the children? He knew damn well. They needed a nanny, and he was it.

He didn’t want to look at her anymore, smiling there in her sleep.
Who was she smiling at, he wondered. Herself or Wagman? With whom was she more pleased? It didn’t matter; it wasn’t him. She was angry at him. Said he wanted to stand in the way of her using herself for the public good.

The public be damned. What about him?

Was he being unfair? He didn’t think so. His job was nowhere near as rewarding as hers. It wasn’t fun. Hers was. She was with people all day. He was with spreadsheets.

And what about the way it was done? Wagman had sicked his wife on him. And it had worked. Nutty Nina had sucked him in with her pseudo-philosophy and her, now, the morning after, he could see, long elaborate anecdotes meant to keep his attention riveted on her so he wouldn’t notice Big Bill raping his wife over there on the other half of the table.

Why had she told him all those personal stories? That awful one about her son. How embarrassing. Why had he listened? He had a flashback of the bottle of wine. The second? The third? Hell, they could have rung in a fourth – he wouldn’t know.

And what was that thing she’d done to him? Something with her hand on the back of his neck… he couldn‘t remember. Just that it put him in another dimension. Oh, right. Just another dimension, that’s all. What the hell else had that woman done? Why was he thinking of her?

If he hadn’t been out of mind, they never would have been able to pull it off.

His stomach surged. He sat up. That was worse. He lay back down again, scrunched the pillow under one ear and curled up around his misery. He would never drink again.

-     -     -

On the other side of town, in a small Victorian, up on a knoll, Mitchell Wagman wakes up to find himself alone in bed. Nina has gone out to astral-project with another lady kook. She’d requested that he go light on her wine last night, so as not to interfere with her facility. He hopes they don’t decide to beam down on him, because he has taken Little Willy as he now calls it, in his big meaty hand, and is making room for his shoulders and buttocks deep in the feather bed, so he can fully enjoy his up-coming mental tryst with the new woman in his life.

And she would be; he knew. The way she looked at him, with those shining eyes and that exulting expression on her face. That could not possibly have been brought about by the line he was feeding her, though the line, he had to admit, was very good – perfectly suited to her.

When he asked her to think about the huge difference she’d make if she could get to the place where they passed the laws, how much easier it would be to give children what they needed if she were the one, figuratively, who signed the checks.

Where she was, there was no doubt, she did excellent work, but it was for a few, a very few of the advantaged who had plenty without her. What about all those thousands, millions, no one was helping? She could be the one.

She was so good at getting into people’s minds, at teaching them, he’d said – that there was, as she seemed to have sensed, a movement abroad to draft her for Special Ed. He’d been trying to quash it, since he knew regular children were important too, not to mention the gifted, but… he’d lifted his hands wide to indicate helplessness. That was to take care of any qualms she might have about leaving the school, should she get elected.

What else would she do not to have to teach Special Ed? That would be a good place to start his fantasy. He closed his eyes. And you may close the door so the children don’t barge in.

She would, after he’d persuaded her that he was open to negotiation, slowly begin to unbutton the jacket of that terrible suit she’d worn to their meeting at school. Slowly, very slowly. Looking at him with trepidation, her fingers shaking.

“Take it easy,” he said, “nothing I haven’t seen before.” Hell, he sounded like a doctor. He’d have to remember that one, try it sometime. But some other time. He liked this.

She smiled. That was better. He knew she wasn’t a cold fish, she was too much fun. Let’s have a little fun. She’s on the last button. That look of humiliation is gone. Put it back – it thrilled him. He was going to rescue her – not from Special Ed, but from her prim and properness.

She removes the jacket like a librarian and hangs it on her chair.

“The blouse,” he says, his voice husky with phlegm. He’s beginning to affect himself. She’s better than he thought.

Slowly again, she unbuttons the blouse. (Don’t skip ahead; it won’t be long now; you can wait.) He anticipates the bra, but there is no bra. She lets the blouse slide off her shoulders, and there in front of him are two of the cutest little cupcake-style breasts he has ever seen. She puts her hands under them, and offers them up. He moves closer to the desk, leans over, and takes one in his mouth. She helps it in, still holding the other one up for its turn. He licks one, then the other. He takes the niblets in his mouth one at a time and tickles them with his tongue. She moans.

Little Willy stands up straight and tall. And very big around. He’s poking through the hand. Down boy, down. We’re not ready yet.

But it’s too late. He’s spurting his appreciation all over the place. Nina’s going to kill him. He’s supposed to use something – a tissue if nothing else. Like that would hold it. Not with a temptress like this one. She’s a tease. She wants it, he realizes. This is the real Brenda Shapiro. If she hadn’t been willing, he never would have been able to make her act like this. He has scruples, you know.

Lying About

I hate those novels – don’t you? – where only one character gets to express his point of view – there’s no other side to the story. Four people have just gone to a restaurant together. Even if they don’t call someone to tell all about it, they’re still full of the smell and the feel of the event – thoughts are filling up their heads – they’d like to unload.

I’m going to let them unload on you.

We know what sort of time Jason thought he had, though that was quickly reforming as he realized through his stupor, what a time his wife had had. But what about his date? And I don’t mean Brenda.

Nina was used to being used. She knew Mitch considered her useless, so she went along with the parts he gave her to play. She’d been told to keep Jason happy, and she had. What she hadn’t counted on was how happy he would make her.

She woke into a luxurious stretch, and didn’t get up for yoga until she’d lain in bed for an hour replaying and replaying the astonishing good time she’d had. She liked Jason Shapiro. He was fun. He made her feel like fun. She hadn’t laughed so much at her own stories for years. And his were pretty good, too.

But most important, he seemed young and innocent, like she felt. She was sure he had no idea what her husband had in store for him – the lonely days and nights while Brenda campaigned, the strangers clinging to what he thought was his, ignoring him – who was he but the husband – the double burden of housework and childcare that would devolve to him. She’d seen other people run for office, though Mitch never had. He was strictly a party man. In a way, that was worse. He didn’t have to put on an act; all he dealt with was the scoundrels, not the public.

She had barely spoken to the candidate herself, but she knew her as one of Mitch’s treasures – a woman who could not only teach, but who could manage a classroom. Often the teachers who knew their subjects didn’t have a clue about kids. Maybe Brenda Shapiro knew people too, and would be able to keep a hold on her life while they flung her around from place to place, put words in her mouth, and washed it out with soap when she said the wrong thing.

But why should she care? Let them keep her busy. She would comfort Jason, who had such enormous possibilities. Oh, wait. Don’t get the wrong idea. She wasn’t interested in sex. Not with him or anyone else. She’d gone far beyond that, to a land of the mind, where pleasure was pure and relatively constant. Maybe she could take him there.

She turned over in bed and was confronted with the big body of her husband, sound asleep after his good work. He’d snagged the brass ring and was mentally clutching it in his fist.

From downstairs came the sounds of her son getting his own breakfast. What a bad mother she was. But she had made him independent, hadn’t she? He didn’t need a mommy-slave to do everything for him. He got his own breakfast – he could even make eggs. He was the only child she knew who cleaned his own room. Kept it neat as a pin, in fact. Lately he’d been doing his own laundry, to preserve the color in his shirts and to make sure his jeans faded. He was a perfectionist. Everything had to be just right.

Of course, he lied like hell about everything. Absolutely everything. If she asked him what he had for breakfast, something she could check on, he’d say eggs if he had oatmeal, and oatmeal if he had eggs. She could smell the eggs, so he would probably tell her oatmeal.

She’d confronted him; she was a good mother – wouldn’t let things ride until they became dangerous – and he’d given her an answer: never did he want anyone to know his exact whereabouts, his plans for the future, or his actions of the past. That, he said, would pin him down in a reality not of his own making, but created by all the people who knew all about him. He wanted to live life according to the Heisenberg uncertainty principle that stated you could never know the exact location of an electron. One of his could suddenly jump to the moon. He wanted his whole body to be like that. He wanted to be any place at any time, to have been any place at any previous time, and ditto for the future.

Hard on his parents, his friends, his teachers, once even the police, but after a while, she noticed, she stopped asking, and so did the others. He was allowed to lead his own life and answer (truthfully) to no one. As long as he kept out of trouble, which he had, except for that one time.

It was all her fault, really. Maybe if she hadn’t named him Phoenix. But her generation had gone crazy in the name department. All of them had real names. Names that were names of people. Take last night. Mitchell, Brenda, Justin, Jason…and what were their kids named? Phoenix, and what had he said … Bathsheba and … could it be? Ezekial? How can these people grow up into normal human beings? When Phoenix was in kindergarten, six out of the eight girls in his class were named Brittany.

A little aside here. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking there’s too much about names in the patter. Well, here’s something you might not have realized. A novel is somebody’s representation, no matter how many do-dads by way of characters or ideas are strung upon it. Don’t let any author tell you otherwise. Pro or con, like or dislike, original or borrowed, it comes to you from one body. Don’t be surprised when you bump into connective tissue.

Nina is right; his name has something to do with it. And so does the color of his hair, a dark blood red. Which he wore long, even though nobody did anymore. Or because nobody did. His hair scared people. They’d never seen anything like it, and neither have you, even though you’re picturing someone you know. It’s almost like that, but darker red.

Even if she has to say so herself, Phoenix has a near-perfect build. Very slightly taller than medium height, slim hips, long torso, and a swivelly way of walking. But he’s a long way from perfect; there’s that lying.

She didn’t call downstairs with any well-meaning questions or advice. There was no point. He had won. He had made it ridiculous to try to control him. Good thing he was a good kid. Except for that one time.

She rolled back over, facing away for privacy, called up the snapshot of her last night’s dinner partner that she’d created, and employed it in a therapeutic method of release to relax and send her back to sleep.

Ducking the Issue

The kids were jumping around in the living room in front of the TV arguing about what to put on. The Shapiro children did not watch live television. Everything was TIVOed for them, the resolution of a family discussion involving morals and who was the boss.

Brenda was the boss. At home and at school. She knew how to be the boss. Jason didn’t. He was too inclined to give in.

Brenda was in the kitchen whipping up an organic dinner for the kids. She was happy in the kitchen. She claimed it was the best place to relax after school. Jason was happy, too. They were planning on an evening at home, with what Brenda called a French supper, after the kids were asleep. A French supper was bread, cheese and wine, upstairs in bed, where they did not have a TV, only each other.

The doorbell rang. Jason put down the paper, stretched himself up off the couch and went to answer, calling back over his shoulder, “Honey, you expecting anybody?”

“No-o,” came the sing-song.

Jason opened the door. Standing on the threshold was… just exactly what the hell was it? A clown. Big red and white face with tufted yellow hair, big red nose he immediately wanted to pinch, and not in a friendly way. Jason liked most things, but he did not like clowns. Ask his mother. He’d been terrified by one at a local circus, and very unlike him, had cried for a week whenever he saw anything faintly resembling one. Like his Aunt Ida, all dressed up in a polka-dot dress, wearing very red lipstick.

He was a grown-up now, able to control himself.

“Brenda!” he screamed.

A pan crashed in the kitchen and she was standing beside him. He was no longer in danger of crying. Mommy was here.

With the scream, the clown had taken a step back. But she was used to this. Nobody really liked it when a clown appeared at their door, but everybody knew they had to pretend to be overjoyed. These people would soon shape up.

Brenda elbowed Jason out of the way.

She said, simply, “Ye-es?” in that teachery way that lets you know you’re doing something wrong, but almighty God here is going to forgive you if you just get on with it and state your business.

The clown produced, from behind its back, a huge bouquet of white roses and handed them to Brenda.

“Oh,” she gasped, taking them and clutching them to her chest.

Sucker, thought Jason. And sure enough, Brenda was now smiling at the clown. Or at the flowers, but what difference did it make? She was smiling.

The clown produced another gift. A big purple envelope. Flowers, purple, this guy knew all the tricks. Brenda, her arms full of roses, freed one hand in order to grasp - not the envelope, he knew, but the purple. Her other hand, ringing around the roses, helped her open it.

She read, out loud:

Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Wagman invite Mr. and Mrs. Jason Shapiro to a private dinner at The Orange Duck at 8:00 tonight. A limousine will arrive at 7:45. Miss Dotty, a certified Early Childhood and licensed English teacher, will care for and entertain the children.

Brenda looked up at him. Her face was aglow, her mouth open in joy.

“Surely you’re not going,” he more asked then said, but his stomach was sinking fast.

“Ohmigod, what will I wear?”

She hadn’t even heard him.

They’re getting dressed. The kids are downstairs with Dotty the Clown, who must be pretty good. Zeke is squealing, and he’s not an easy sell. Sheba is a little too old for this. But then he hears a shriek, and knows the clown has hit home with her, too.

“Why are you wearing black lace underwear?” he asks.

“Oh, I already had this on for the French supper,” she says heartlessly.

Driving along in the limousine, he recites, as if making normal conversation, “Man sends you flowers, sends a car to pick you up. That makes you kind of a high-class call girl, doesn’t it?” He raises one eyebrow in her direction.

She laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. His wife is going to be there.” She puts her hand on his, as if he needs comforting.

“You’re not going to do it, are you? You’re not going to throw yourself in with that tawdry crowd are you?”

No, of course she wasn’t. But she didn’t want to insult her boss. When people go to so much trouble, you don’t just say “No thank you.” You let them have their fun. Besides, when was the last time they had been to The Orange Duck? It was before Sheba was born.

That was low. She was the one who had cut out fancy restaurants to pay for having children. He had been more inclined toward fewer haircuts for both of them and cheaper clothing. Maybe a little less charitable giving. He didn’t exactly consider NOW a legitimate charity.

He looked her over while she lay back in a state of exultant expectation, in a tight black dress with a square-cut neckline - where did that come from? He’d never seen it. And yes, the cleavage. Where the hell did that come from? She didn’t have it in bed; it must be built into the bra.

The Orange Duck was a pseudo-French restaurant with more atmosphere than France. It was dark and cave-like. Candle flames danced in niches on the wall. A majordomo at the door took their names and led them, weaving between tables, all the way to the back of the cave.

There, ensconced like a king on a throne, was their host, and next to him their hostess, the famously nutty Nina Wagman, who talked to spirits and wrote articles for the local paper on what she called “the other world,” inhabited by a set of people exactly like us, only different; they were good and we were bad. Jason had seen her many times at school events, and had managed, in all these years, never to have a conversation with her.

Wagman stood to welcome them. He reached out a big, beefy hand to Jason, gave him two manly shakes and then wrapped his arms around Brenda. She disappeared into his chest, the top of her head just visible.

Nina stayed seated and offered a tiny, fragile hand as he approached. He took it, taking care not to crush anything, but instead of shaking it, he squeezed it gently. She squeezed back. Fellow victims. Everybody knew that Wagman’s wife hated politics, and had tried to keep him out of it, but failed.

Meanwhile, Wagman had flourished Brenda into the seat next to him, and had produced a gigantic wine menu. The two began ooh-ing and ahh-in in French. Words bubbled out of them. He was sure neither understood what the other was saying. They were pointing at the selections, and apparently Brenda approved his choice. They both nodded knowingly. Wagman put down the menu and sent the confidential Clintonesque grin across to Jason. “Well, that’s settled,” he congratulated himself. “Now we can enjoy ourselves.”

He was a good raconteur, like his look-alike, and by the time they’d finished the first bottle of wine – smooth and white, he never did catch the name – they had heard and laughed at the faux pas of a dozen of his friends and relatives.

Brenda offered up her cousin Iona who, at the age of forty, had been taken by a con-man and his six-year-old accomplice, robbed of her life savings, and left standing at the altar wearing a six-foot train.

Jason sacrificed his college room mate, for the umpteenth time, and made him once more discover he’d unknowingly been dating his professor’s daughter, who was living in the dorms under her mother’s maiden name so as to attract neither reward nor punishment on account of her illustrious father. Problem was, she’d been writing his papers. Mega problem: she was cribbing them from Daddy’s notes.

Nina told a story about a man on Planet X who, when faced with the same dilemma as the identical man on earth, solved it in an ethical fashion by giving everything he owned to the victim of his son’s misadventure (he’d injured someone while driving drunk) rather than to his son’s attorney.

Jason wasn’t so sure about the ethicality of deserting your own flesh and blood in time of need, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he had another slice of the delicious crusty bread dipped in a spread steeped in garlic.

A second bottle of wine arrived. Everybody fell to their appetizers. The two Frenchies had snails. He had salmon with capers and onions, and Nina had artichokes in butter. Except for gushes of appreciation, they didn’t speak.

Jason was feeling very cozy in this cave. Mitch Wagman knew how to throw a party, and so did The Orange Duck.

The entrees arrived: duck a l’orange for Brenda (who’d had it for dinner seven nights in a row on their trip to France), a bloody steak with a mushroom-butter sauce for the big guy, the vegetarian platter for Madame, and coq au vin for Jason, his answer to his wife’s duck. The third bottle of wine appeared.

The conversation became quieter, more intimate, as Mitch – not such a bad guy, after all – and Brenda talked about school, and he and Nina got together on the subject of kids. She brought it up. “I have a crazy son. He lies all the time.”

They swapped stories, drank wine, lost themselves in their delicious dishes, came back to the stories. Jason was quite surprised and a little saddened to find the evening coming to a close over coffee, crème brûlée for the men, and chocolate mousse for the ladies.

He vaguely remembered some threat from earlier in the evening, but it was gone now. A haze of camaraderie enveloped him.

Bill – no, it wasn’t really Bill – he had to remember that – was saying something to him. For the first time since the handshake, his big face was in his, demanding attention.

Wagman smiled. “It’s all settled then,” he said, pumping his hand again. “The little woman is running for Congress.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” His wife is suddenly there at his side. They haven’t spoken all evening.

Did he hear right? She’s running for Congress? No, of course not. His head was fuzzy. He remembered now - her boss wanted her to run for dog catcher or something. Some piddling little job that would take all her time and take her away from him.

Congress! Wasn’t that in Washington?

What the hell… But there was no time to talk, the talking was over. They were hustling out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. Wagman had hold of Nina’s arm and was pulling her toward their car. Brenda was walking, alone, to their waiting limo. He was the only who thought there was something to talk about.

The Wag

William Jefferson Wagman. That wasn’t his name, but it might as well be. Ever since his namesake appeared on the world stage, the world had been his oyster. He could have whatever he wanted. More important, whomever he wanted. Women took one look at him, and it was all over. The introductions had been made in front of millions of others, on TV. They all knew him.

Speaking of introductions, how come the Wag wasn’t listed in the original cast of characters? Well, folks, you know how it is with his type. They’re never expected. They sneak into your life and take your wife. It’s as simple as that. You have no defense. You’ll try to mount one of course, but that’s all you’ll mount. The other guy’s got all the fillies, and yours is one of them. So you hadn’t counted on his showing up. Nobody ever does.

He was thinking about his wife. A petite, bird-like affair. What he ever saw in her he didn’t know. And now he had a habit of thinking of himself as a coulda-been Clinton. Clinton was smart. One day he was sitting in the library, and he saw a not-at-all-bad-looking girl grinding away. At her books. She had her hair piled up high on top of her head, but enough wisps were hanging down to look sexy.

Yeah. He could do it. Not what he was used to, but he could manage. While he was contemplating just exactly how he was going to do about it, up she stood, and strode like a soldier down to where he sat. “If we’re going to stare at each other all night, we might as well know each other’s names.” And goddam if she didn’t spit out what would become the maiden name of the First Lady of the United States of America, somewhere down the line.

He loved that story. He used it as medicine when things were getting him down. Sat down, or better, lay down, and played it over in his head. Only sometimes he didn’t stop with the handshake. Sometimes they did it right there on a library table.

(Kids out of the room? Not looking over your shoulder? I’m warning you!)

He liked it the best when it started slow, and she undressed him first, while he stood there. He knew this was very unlike what he’d heard of the real Bill Clinton, neither did he have his distinguishing characteristic. He had not even been able to find out or figure out what it was.

There was nothing better than when Hillary popped those boobs out of her sweater, and nobody in the room noticed but him. They were always different. Sometimes peaches, sometimes pears. Once in a while, he gave her melons. She was appreciative of that, and rewarded him accordingly.

Hillary had a great imagination. His Hillary. Once, with his back flat on the table, she rode him, twirling her underwear round and round over her head, while he bucked beneath. That was good. And once he rode her. To the take-out desk, where they semi-stood, leaning against the counter, to finish it off.

Yeah, yeah, he had lots of fun all by himself. Why get into trouble like Big Bill? Especially, why should he be thinking about this ridiculous woman he’d had a laughing fit with?

Wait. He remembered something. Some language. Japanese, maybe. The phrase for two people having an affair isn’t “they’re sleeping together,” it’s “they’re laughing together.”

Could it be that the very act of sharing a laugh could bring you together on a sexual level without your consent? He wasn’t interested in this woman. She wasn’t his type. No more than Hillary was Bill’s. Now if he were looking for a wife, someone to give him a leg up (he smiled at the images that came flooding in with that thought), a career partner… that would be different. He couldn’t do better.

The local big-wigs in the party had come to that same conclusion. They were going to use all the good will and reputation this scrappy little dynamo had built up.

What if she said no? Nah, not after the fun they’d had today. She wouldn’t say no; she’s coming back for more.

His thoughts went back to his wife. Nina didn’t live in the real world. She spent half the day twisted like a pretzel in yoga positions, and the other half reading romance novels. You might think her romantic nature would make her loving, and her yoga practice would make her flexible, and this was true. She could sit on it and make a complete circle - over and over again. Quite a novelty at first, but after a while he began to feel like a piece of gym equipment, and all the fun went out of it.

Never mind. There was something he had to do. Call Nat Grogan. Nat was the one who had tapped him when Clinton first appeared on television, and everyone in town did a double-take. They already had one of these. Mitch Wagman.

He had been sitting in a science lab in the high school playing with some slides when Nat walked in like something out of Guys and Dolls, with his hat tilted back on his head – where’d he even get that hat… Sinatra? – a tight-fitting jacket, almost like a woman’s, and that big, breezy smile. His dark eyes fastened on Mitch, and he pulled up a stool without taking his eyes off him, and commenced on the oiliest and most persuasive sell he had ever witnessed. Not to mention that Mitch was both seller and buyer. Grogan was out to sell him to himself. And here he was now, principal of the school, big shot in town, on all the boards, but it hadn’t gone where his patron had intended. No, Billy Boy ruined all that.

There was no way this town was going to buy a child-raper. Yes, that’s what they called him, with Monica Lewinsky in the role of the child. Some babe, huh? In some times and places kids like that have 5 or 6 babes of their own.

And this is a town that’s big on kids. They considered Monica a child. No more evidence needed. Bill was convicted. But the town is also three-quarters Democrat. Loyal Democrats, though not Liberals, or they wouldn’t have minded Lewinsky. She’s a woman and entitled to her jollies just like a man, which was pretty much the way Mitch saw it.

Grogan didn’t answer. Good. He could leave a short, pithy message, and save himself some time. “Reelin’er in,” was all he said.

How was he going to do it? This was a woman who stood on principle. If he went up against that, he wouldn’t stand a chance. No. What he had to do was not fight her principles, but elevate them, and then infiltrate them with his own plans.

He pressed a couple of buttons on his phone and said, “Mitch… dinner for four… eight o’clock.” Then he called another number. “Hey, Dotty… it’s me, Mitch. Can you do your act tonight? … Good. Arrive at seven. It’ll be a late evening. You can pick up the note and the address any time this afternoon. … Thanks.”