Under Seige

At last, Brenda has her publicity. At last she is on national TV. The cameras are parked outside her door. She can’t leave the house without speaking to them. The phone keeps ringing. She’s turned off her cell.

It was all over the morning papers. They had a picture of Sheba and Phoenix that someone had taken at the Wagmans. Sheba’s arm is outstretched. She had been holding Zeke’s hand, but that was cropped out of the picture.

Sheba had been as scantily dressed at that party as she was in the picture now, but Brenda hadn’t seen it that way. Now she was horrified that she’d let her go like that. Phoenix looked like a madman, his red freak flag flying.

Mitchell had prepared statements for them all. Sheba was supposed to be contrite and apologize to the camp and her Aunt Manya (they had dug up everything.) Brenda was supposed to defend her daughter and say she’d just exercised bad judgment. Jason was supposed to show tolerance of the young man, who had fine parents, and whom he liked; the kids had merely made a silly mistake; and oh, yes, everyone was supposed to say there was nothing sexual between them.

Now Brenda knows what Sarah Palin felt like. A mother bear whose cub is being attacked. Sheba had just turned thirteen; Manya herself had made her a cake. She was just barely a teenager. How dare they imply she has had adult sex? Though she’s being kept away from it now, her daughter is going to hear all of this. She might get the idea that they’re talking about the real her, and subconsciously try to live up, or down, to their image.

Jason has not gone to work. Nobody’s left the house since last night when Brenda came home with Sheba. She kept Jason away from the camp and is trying to keep him away from his daughter for as long as possible. He’s blaming everybody. The camp, the Wagmans, but mostly Sheba.

Sheba does not want to apologize. She says they sent her to prison, and if she has to talk, that’s what she’ll say. She’ll tell about the snake pit. And a lot of other things. She doesn’t say what.

Brenda does not want to defend her daughter. She can not excuse bad judgment. Bad judgment is the deepest reflection of a self. The bad judgment Sheba exercised was in doing such a thing while her mother was running for congress.

Jason wants to kill Phoenix, not excuse him. He knows damn well there’s something sexual between them, and if it hasn’t been consummated yet, they’ve obviously tried twice.

Zeke is peeking out an upstairs window at the cameras planted on the lawn and their tenders below them. Life is exciting. He’s sorry he’s the only one having fun, but that doesn’t spoil it as long as he stays away from the rest of them.

They remain in the house all day while Wagman issues statement after statement from his own headquarters. Nothing changes, it’s always the same; both sets of parents are conferring with their children. They are all saddened by this turn of events, but determined to come to grips with it. They have strong family bonds; they will recover; these are good kids who misbehaved. Nina writes a lot of the stuff he sends out.

It’s getting on to evening news time. The journalists are nervous. Mary Steele, the local reporter, has been there since early morning. She’s cranky. So are the cameramen. They’re not getting their sound bites. This is going to be a wasted day.

Then somebody saves it.

An apparition appears. Sauntering down the street comes that darling of the press, Mercy Alexander. In a long green dress, with a cone of cardinal-red feathers, she stops on the sidewalk in front of the house.

“Leave the lady alone,” she says, her voice deep, her posture stately. “This has nothing to do with the running of our country. You all have children; you know how they behave. They behave like children. You should be ashamed of yourselves for getting in the sandbox with them and throwing dirt.” She bows her head slightly so the red cone points out at the cameras. They have their sound bite.

When Adele hears this, she is furious. The woman has taken control. She’s used Brenda’s misfortune to once more call attention to herself. Mercy is making Brenda look small and weak. They have to do something, but she doesn’t know what.

Nat knows what. Natty Nat says Brenda has to rise above it. Rise above it all. Refuse to talk about any children, not just her own. Refuse to talk about anything until we have straightened out our position with the rest of the world, because if we don’t, there’s not going to be a world left for anybody’s children. Nat is blunt. Nobody listens to him.

Chauncey is the only one who looks at it from the kids’ point of view. Kids are always being held back, treated like children, when they’re actually potent adults, especially when it comes to sex. In the halls, between classes, all these women – yes, women, physically, you take a look someday – walking around with their tits hanging out, or covered with that stretchy material. Strutting their stuff. Like little whores, trying to get the boys hot.

The boys, at the age when most of their hard-ons will happen, having them right there in the hall, in class, in the cafeteria, everyplace, because that’s what they were put on earth for. To get their rocks off and perpetuate the race.

He wishes they’d leave these two alone. It’s obvious they weren’t doing anything, only acting like adults and meeting at the mall. Exercising their freedom. Freedom they apparently don’t have. He feels sorry for them. He remembers when.

Speaking of the kids, Phoenix has been assigned to his room while Mom and Dad put out their message, which is, “There is no romance between Phoenix and Sheba. They've known each other since they were kids and are old friends.” Phoenix's lying is not an aberration in the family, just an exaggerated extension.

He is on the phone. With the professor. He’s telling her about his trip to jail. She’s telling him about the ride home with her parents. They can’t decide which was worse. Lots of laughs between these two.

Rowena and Rosalind have dropped out of the picture because it’s a better story for the press without them. Three girls and a guy is not a romance.

Brenda is in trouble, because kids are what her campaign is all about. She answers questions about health care, illegals, and anything else that comes up, but she’s the education candidate. Now she’s the education expert with a runaway child, which is what they’re calling Sheba.

She hates the media. Hounding her like this. They’re dogs. The minute a scrap of meat falls into the cage, they tear it apart.

But she was horrified to see Mercy Alexander walk across her stage. And humiliated when, after Mercy’s condescending little speech, which she watched on TV, the crews folded up their gear and disappeared.

Her face was burning. She wanted to rush out and call them back – give them a piece of her mind about picking on an innocent child, ruining an entire family’s life. But she made herself sit still and think. And think. And think.

And damned if she didn’t come up with an idea. What had Adele said? She needed something snappy. Education is important, but it is not snappy. What is? What is?

Sex. Sex is snappy. But how can she get from education to sex? Sex education! There’s a topic. Condoms. Homosexuality. No, she can’t have that – Mercy Alexander has that. She’d better not even mention it. It will only bring up a picture of her opponent. Abortion.

That’s it. Abortion. Clyde Waters had talked to her about the morning-after pill, at the party. And he’d come to that “Our Bodies” rally. She can team up with Waters on the abortion issue. Mercy Alexander won’t be able to touch her there. The Republicans won’t let her. Every time the word is mentioned, they lose another vote.

No real people are against abortion. Only religious nuts who think that women came from Adam’s rib. People living in pre-history should not be allowed to make the rules for others. And they want to. No doubt about that. They want to say that once the seed is planted, a woman has no choice. Send women back to the dark ages, where they crouched over toilets with knitting needles, or went to dirty doctors’ offices, where they got infected and died.

They want to say a woman’s place is in the home, and if babies keep her there, that’s her lot in life. And men? Men have nothing to do with it. No man should suffer because a woman doesn’t want his child. The child is his. What a load that is. What does he do but get a charge out of the beginning? The country seems to be filled with men who don’t want to take care of their children. But let one woman say she doesn’t want the responsibility, and they come crawling out of the woodwork to shake their fingers and put her back in her place.

Clyde had said something at the party about a woman who’d refused to sell the morning-after pill. What right does anyone have to withhold information from physicians about the latest advances in women’s reproductive health? Abortion is nothing more than a cure for an unwanted pregnancy. There ought to be a law.

That’s it! A law prohibiting people in the health professions from refusing to participate in the abortion option.

Something should be done about that woman and all her prudish kind.

Malled

It’s Wednesday, the day of the girls’ outing. Not the outing they’re supposed to go on, to the snake-infested pond; they aren’t going there. For three days, they’ve been planning their escape.

The professor has called up satellite views of the area, and during rest hours, under the window, the girls have devoted themselves to figuring out the real-world counterpart of what they show.

Rosalind finds she has a talent for reading the maps and overlaying them on her memory of the ground. She has a good idea of the scale, and has found some landmarks – a big empty field a few feet off the path, some sheds and a barn that are recognizable. They’ve plotted their way through the woods and back to the dirt road.

From there, it’s down the hill through the evolution of road-making, until they reach the main highway. The mall is thirty miles away. Too far to walk. They’ve pooled all their money, and they’re taking a taxi. They have enough money to bring them back, but not if they spend much on food.

It’s meeting them at 3:00 at the bottom of their hill. That will give them time to lag behind the others and slip through the woods to the clothing stashed under a rock near their escape point. Only the professor had voted to meet Phoenix in the boring shorts and shirts they’re expected to wear to the waterhole.

The girls have a good breakfast the day of their journey. Two counselors carry two heavy straw baskets around the long tables. One is filled with hard-boiled eggs, the other with soft. Just like in the old days, there is fresh bread and butter and milk, things only grown-ups appreciate now. But the girls eat up. It’s part of the plan. “You never know…” has become their motto.

They are too nervous to eat much at lunch, and nobody wants to get high for this adventure. Rosalind has planted their clothes, three hard-boiled eggs and a chunk of bread, cutting out of crafts or dance, each activity leader thinking she was at the other. Now the girls lie on their bunks, trying to get as much rest as they can.

Sheba is remembering her father’s hand on her Grecian bun. Rowena is once more figuring out the timing, even though it’s too late to change anything. Rosalind is rehearsing what she’ll say when her mother finds out.

When rest is over, they jump out of bed. They’re ready and rarin’ to go. Hearts thumping, feet pounding, they go down the stairs to meet the rest of the girls at the head of the path.

They hang behind, trying to be forgotten. There are a lot of campers, and the counselors never pay attention to them – they’re too old. The counselors are for the little kids.

There’s a lot of noise and chatter on the way to the water. Our three drop farther and farther behind until they see the rest of the group disappear around a bend in the path. Rosalind leads them to the rock in the woods where she’s hidden one plastic bag of clothes and another of food.

The changing is fun, until Sheba discovers that with all her planning, she’s neglected to bring another top, and has to wear the ratty shirt she wears for woods walks. A weaker sister would have cried.

Rosalind and Sheba have short, flirty skirts, one of the few discretionary articles of clothing allowed by the camp. The professor has compromised with clean white shorts and a black polo. Maps in hand, they navigate through a series of paths, past some buildings lost in the woods, and out to the dirt road.

Rosalind twists her ankle in a pot-hole going down the next, almost-dirt, road, but it’s okay, she’s light and it can take her weight. The professor stops and picks up a downed branch for her to use as a walking stick. They’ve now officially got one cripple, and they’ve barely left the premises.

They get to the highway. The professor checks her phone for the time. It’s 2:55. Perfect timing. The taxi will be there in five minutes. They stand under a tree, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

You know how it is, the first glimmerings that it, whatever it is, isn’t coming. That something has gone wrong. That things will not be as you thought. Rowena does not again offer up the time. Sheba has to ask. It’s 2:15. The taxi isn’t coming. They’re lucky nobody else has become interested in what three very young ladies are doing on the road.

Then just as the professor is about to call the taxi company, a car pulls up. The window rolls down. “You girls want a ride?” a woman asks. If it wasn’t a woman, they probably would have declined. .

They should have. Thelma Mack is known in her hometown as Mack the Knife. She’s got a short fuse, and has been hauled into custody a few times so she can cool off. Her husband is the only one who’s been stabbed, and he didn’t press charges. She carries a knife in her purse and another one under the seat.

The girls get in. And ride all the way to the Mall with this entertaining, sympathetic savior, who listens to their gripes and tells some rousing good stories. They get out of the car with good lucks and thanks bestowed.

You never know folks, which danger is for you, and which one isn’t. This one wasn’t for them.

The mall is huge. One of the largest in the country. They are underneath the thirty-foot scrawled neon “Interstate”. They enter, and look up through the open gallery at four layers of floors, with flashing lights, open shops, sidewalk vendors, restaurants, amusements… anything you can find in a city, you can find here. The ceiling is miles away. It doesn’t exist.

The place is full of mothers with strollers and young guys with no jobs who have the freedom and inclination to roam around looking at the scenery. The girls are part of the scenery, and they get their share of off-color comments, which thrill them.

It’s coming close to the time, and they drift toward the carousel. They don’t want to get there early and appear anxious; they don’t want to be late and miss him.

They get there at 3:05, because, after all, they are anxious. There’s been all this build-up. All this planning. At first they hang back, trying to lurk in the shadows and spot him first. But they don’t see him. A few women with children come and put the kids on the horses. But there is no Phoenix.

They come up front and mill around the ticket-taker, where they know they’ll be seen. They’re all getting that feeling in the pit of their stomachs again. Like when the taxi didn’t come.

Finally, Rowena says, “I’m going to check my mail. Maybe he left a message.” She reaches into her pocket. And screams.

The mall is a huge, vast cavern. The scream echoes. People come running. Through her big glasses, the professor’s eyes are huge with horror. “My phone! It’s gone!” A few of the young chaps melt away. They smell a robbery and don’t want to be blamed.

Though people have arrived on the scene, no one approaches the girl in the white shorts and black shirt, who just as quickly as she exploded, has reconstituted herself. The big eyes are looking up and to the right as she recalls in her mind’s eye, the odd little bump she half-felt just as she slid from the car. That was it. That was the phone leaving her back pocket. The moment when it became “not there”.

And speaking of “not there”, folks, did you think he would be there? People like Phoenix can’t commit themselves. Or rather, they can, but they don’t carry through on the commitment. They can’t be what someone else expects them to be, even if they like it. It goes against their grain.

But not as much as missing out goes against any adolescent’s grain. It’s the teenager’s job to accept all challenges and perpetuate the glory of his species by living through them or by dying trying.

Here comes Phoenix, tall and lanky, slouching to the carousel like an R. Krum drawing, with his blood-red hair and the white face of nerdism. He sees a bunch of people near the carousel, but there’s a big empty space around a girl with great big, black, hair, wearing white shorts.

As he gets closer, he sees her expression. He recognizes the “Aha!” of the technician. “I’ve figured it out!” he reads on her face. He walks toward her with complete confidence. “What?” he asks when he reaches her.

“I left my phone in the car.”

“That’s all right,” he says. “I’ll lend you mine if you need one.” He hands her his phone.

She looks at him piercingly. “Never mind,” she says. “It’s all right. I don’t need it now.”

They stand there smiling like idiots. These two were meant for each other. The professor’s too smart for boys her own age, and Phoenix likes younger women. They don’t expect anything of him.

He looks away from Rowena and scans the scant crowd. He is looking for a trio of girls. His eyes light on Sheba. His mouth opens. What is she doing here? She’s an episode he thought he’d put behind him. But no. She’s coming over.

“Hello, Phoenix,” she says. “This is Rowena Kaplan.”

Phoenix looks from one to the other with a frown on his face. Then the third appears, leaning on a stick. It all comes clear.

“And Rosalind Jaffe,” says Sheba.

His mind is whirling around this new material. These are not 3 chix out of nowhere who came upon his website. This is a deliberate incursion. These three girls not only know where he is, they brought him here. He feels violated. But he admires them for having pulled it off. They’re his equal.

For two hours, they play in the mall. Glorious fun, the best kind there is – half child, half adult. When the cops find them, they’re in the food circus, drinking Coca-Cola and eating guacamole with the girls’ hard-boiled eggs and bread chunk.

It seems that Thelma “the Knife” Mack not only took to the three girls she dropped at the mall, but she is a conscientious citizen besides. When she got out of her car, she saw the phone sitting on the back seat. She took the liberty of reading Rowena’s e-mail. There, plain as day, was the rendezvous – time and place. She didn’t like the sound of, “which one will wed”. The camp’s number was in the phone. She called it and turned them in to save them from Phoenix.

Phoenix - who looks up in shock to see the police coming toward him. For what? What did he do this time?

Nothing, they decided. It was the girls they wanted. And it was the girls they took, driving them thirty miles back to Manya’s, lecturing them all the way about the evils of the male animal.

They were back in camp by 6:00, just in time for dinner. In a broad covering of asses, every one involved decided to forget the incident. Manya, particularly, was relieved that the pool would not have to be dredged.

You think that’s what happened folks? Everybody got away clean? You know better. When the cops arrived at the little table of Mexican food, the not-so-young one, who had it in for punks, looked up the red-headed kid, and hit the jackpot.

A previous arrest! For blowing smoke in the face of a police officer – a high crime. At the time, he was only fifteen, a minor, not even borderline, and it did not go on the record. Not the official record. But the cops keep an unofficial one, just so they know who they’re talking to. It used to be in a ledger in the office, but now it’s on-line.

They took the young man into custody. Sheba cried. The professor fumed. Rosalind hid behind a menu, trembling like a rabbit, hanging onto her stick, her ankle beginning to throb.

The girls were returned to camp, sirens wailing. The entire contingent was out to welcome them back. The camp has been in an uproar since the three of them did not come back from swimming. The head counselor herself waded into the snakes, hoping not to brush up against any bodies.

It is time to call the parents, the only ones still uninformed. Except for Jason, who has already received a call from, of all people, Nina, who tells him that Phoenix has been picked up by the police at the Interstate Mall, that Sheba was with him at the time, and that the police are referring to her as the daughter of the Democratic candidate for congress.

Summer-izing

Brenda has a formidable foe. In her wispy fairy princess dresses, she’s facing an Amazon. Her arguments have to be beefed up. She has to take strong positions, or she’ll look like a wimp. There are late night conference calls – she had to buy another phone. Mitchell wants her to get a Smart Car. She needs something snappy, he says, something to attract attention. Something cool. She’s facing the coolest thing there is. A gay, black woman who wears African costumes, and for all they know, does voodoo.

Adele has been playing with the candidate’s hair, doing it this way and that. It reminds Brenda of Hillary during Bill’s first term, when he put any rebuke of her down to “they don’t like her hairdo.”

Mitchell is a wreck. How could this have happened? His shining little teacher, the bright light he was holding out to everyone, has been eclipsed by a dark star. Mercy Alexander has continued to appear on national TV. Just a snippet here and there, not enough to warrant equal time to her lackluster opponent. Who is it – some teacher, right?

The cabal have been shepherding Brenda around to AARP meetings, school auditoriums, shopping malls, restaurants, any place where there are people; any place that will serve as a platform from which to deliver her platform. She’s never alone. Every minute, she must be talking, even if it’s to one middle-aged lady in a grocery store.

She comes home late at night and falls into bed in her underwear. In the morning there’s make-up all over the pillow. To play the good guy, she’s been eating bad food, and now she needs that make-up, because her face is breaking out.

Jason keeps his distance. So does Zeke. They’re two bachelors living with a slightly ill house-mother who takes all of her meals, including breakfast, out with other people. Jason does the laundry and sends the dresses to the dry-cleaner.

There are more dresses now. Adele has perked up the wardrobe with brighter colors and more substantial materials. Mercy Alexander is so showy; it makes her look in control.

Zeke is having a great summer vacation. He’s researching Smart Cars for his mother. He wants her to get the smart fortwo passion cabriolet because it has a soft top and side roof bars, that come off to make it a convertible. He wishes his family had something to trade in the “cash for clunkers” program.

The Shapiro household has closed around the space once occupied by Sheba, now only a voice on the phone. Sheba is getting along just fine with her two roommates. Camp is doing its job, which is to make the camper appreciate home. The inmates bathe in a dammed-up stream, down a path through the woods, where stones define a pool that they share with water snakes. There, the campers soap themselves. Sheba has experienced one such bath and vows she will never take another.

The campers play softball, perform plays, do arts and crafts, have camp fires… Sheba and her cronies keep aloof from all this. They scan the boys for possible intrigues. But there is no one there half as intriguing as the boy who isn’t: Phoenix Wagman.

Rowena, the professor, has googled him on her phone. There wasn’t much, but they found his website, which opens with a marijuana leaf. The girls are planning something. They whisper about it while they’re making beaded necklaces, standing in the outfield, toasting ’smores...

We don’t have to guess what they’re saying, because fortunately for us, I am what’s known as “the omniscient narrator”, and I am inviting you up to their room during rest period after lunch.

The door is locked. The girls have achieved this privilege by complaining to the head of the camp, old Aunt Manya, about counselors breaking into their rest periods, waking them up, asking them inane questions.

One of the questions was, “What’s that I smell?” after which the room-mates smoked on the floor beneath an open window. It’s the professor’s pot. Rowena has everything. Rosalind is learning so much from her. Her parents would be proud.

Rosalind is the chief beneficiary of the professor’s enlightenings. Sheba knows a lot of this already.

Rowena’s big head of kinky hair (kinky’s a compliment now, you know) is bent over her cell phone. She’s reading from the site, which the three girls have come to worship at their fire.

It’s a worthy site. Full of poems, drawings, little essays, even videos. Phoenix is an artist – everybody has their good points – and his art is totally devoted to the killer weed. His father has never been to his website, but his mother has, and thinks he has quite a talent. If only he could channel it in some legal direction. She was the one who took him home from jail that time.

Rowena is reading out loud. Sheba is leaning back against the wall under the window. Her eyes are closed. She’s lost a little weight since she came here and looks even more grown up. Rosalind’s long hair is in a pony-tail. It’s hot. She’s stretched out on the floor.

“It was worth it to see their faces.
They couldn’t believe it was me,
Dangling a joint on my lip-tip
Not caring the cops could see.”

That is, in fact, a poem the poet wrote in jail, when young. Not so young to excuse it, but it rhymes, it meters, and that lip-tip shows promise.

Sheba doesn’t think it’s so great. Sheba doesn’t think Phoenix is anywhere near as fascinating as the others do, but he’s hers, and she owes her high standing to his existence.

The ritual recitation over, Rowena’s thumbs jump around the keyboard. She looks up.

“I’m sending our message,” she says.

“3 chix want 2 meet u halfway - interstate mall carousel - wed 4pm”

Rosalind gasps yet again. Rosalind is a good girl. Any girl whose big crime is talking back to her mother must be a very good girl indeed.

Sheba giggles. This would beat all.

Only a minute goes by before Rowena shouts, “He’s there! He answered.”

“Shush!” warns Rosalind, who has learned to keep her mouth shut.

“What did he say?” demands Sheba.

“3 x half way = half + one all the way which one will wed at 4pm?”

Now they all giggle; they’re girls. None of them wants to be the “one”. But none of them wants not to be, either.

Have Mercy

It’s the second biggest day of the campaign. The Republican Party is announcing their candidate, and Fox News is covering it. So our people have to watch Fox. They don’t like it, but they’re doing it.

Once again, the party is at Mitch’s. They’re in the big room – the sight of water is so soothing. A giant flat panel has been wheeled in. Nina has a thing for big screens. This one is BIG. It’s placed in front of the windows, so they can still look out.

So far, in this fight, the Republican weapon has been mystery. Nobody knows who the candidate will be. There have been plenty of guesses, by plenty of people. There have been claims by some, sure not to be believed. There have been denials by others that sound just as phony.

The debate has raged over whether it will be a moderate, to please the other side, or a hard-core conservative to please their own. Brenda doesn’t understand why they keep trying to appeal to Democrats. It would be impossible for a Democrat to vote for a Republican. They stand for everything Democrats hate – greed, competition, beating out the other guy, leaving people behind so you can get ahead. They’re bad people. And obviously stupid if they think they can win over any decent voter.

Nina is buzzing about the room with little glasses of iced Irish coffee. She thinks they need a hearty drink. Jason isn’t there. Jason refused to come. He’ll stay home and baby-sit Zeke. They have a TV; they can watch it together; he isn’t going back into that house. Not ever.

So she’s come alone. It’s a small party. Just the regulars. Adele, sweet and charming, helping pass the drinks, Nat without a jacket, but with garters on his long-sleeved white shirt – the man is from another era – Chauncey, his big pink face expectant, happy where he finds himself, with all these smart people, and him nothing but a worn-out jock.

There is one more person present. A man of the house. The younger man of the house: Phoenix. He’s sprawled in a corner of the couch, his leg up over the back to differentiate himself from the adults. As if he needed to. His dark red hair falls jaggedly toward his shoulders. He’s wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt with the words, “Guns Not Roses.” When asked, he says it doesn’t mean anything – he got it at the thrift store. That’s what they always say when they want to shout a blasphemy and not be called on it. Kids are cautious when it comes to free speech. They know how much trouble they can get into.

Wagman is sitting next to Brenda. He’s annoyed at Jason for not taking Nina up on her tantalizing tantric offer. He doesn’t like his wife being turned down, and he doesn’t like the idea of Jason home brooding by himself. He’ll make it bad for Brenda. Mitchell wants a happy candidate, not someone coping with family problems or guilt.

He puts his arm around her to jolly her up. She leans out of the embrace, picks up a piece of celery, dips it, and doesn’t come back. She wiggles forward and away, closer to Phoenix, who pulls back into his corner of the couch.

It’s time. 8 o’clock. Nina plunks herself down on the other side of her husband, picks up the remote and turns on the TV.

The announcement is to come at the end of a huge outdoor supper given by the Republican State Committee. Long tables of people eating southern-fried chicken and breaded shrimp, the Republican notion of real folks eating real food. They look like they’re enjoying it. Brenda’s stomach growls. She didn’t have time for dinner. She fell asleep instead, after a “town hall” appearance on health care. She’s been so tired. But her reception has been good. She’s met nothing but friendly approval. A few tough questions, but she’s learned to give tough answers.

She’s not facing anything like the anger and almost-violence occurring all over the country at other meetings full of people afraid of the death pill, happy with their health care, and beginning to fear their lives will be completely taken over by the government.

Brenda is ambivalent. She wants all sick people to be taken care of, but she doesn’t want that to mean that her family’s health care will suffer.

Someone is stepping up to the podium at one end of the long tables. There are a lot of people there. Far more than there were at Brenda’s coming-out party. This is being covered live on national TV. Nobody knows Brenda. Everyone will know this candidate.

Jack Marsh, the number one Republican in the district is accepting his applause. The camera goes to his hard, handsome face. Marsh works full-time for the Republican Party, for what he calls freedom, which is what Brenda calls oppression of the poor. But whenever she sees him, which thankfully isn’t often, she thinks that if he ran, he could get elected to anything, just on the basis of his carven features.

She’d been looking at him and not paying attention to his words. She doesn’t like to hear Republicans talk. It makes her angry. Fills her with hate. They are so, so wrong, about so, so much. Just about everything. They don’t seem to be able to come up with a correct way of looking at anything.

But now he’s getting down to it, and she’s getting scared. The next person who walks onto that stage is the person with whom she will be locked in combat for the next two and a half months.

“I give you now our candidate.” He does not give a name.

There’s a pause while they and everyone else hold their breath. Then a very tall, black woman, wrapped in a long length of sequined tapestry, with her hair in a fantastical bejeweled cone, comes gliding onto the stage, one hand held out to grasp Jack’s. He swings her around to face the front.

The audience is stunned into silence. They all had their short lists of contenders, all old white men.

The Wagman living room is in shock.

“Ohmigod,” Brenda gasps. “It’s Mercy Alexander!”

From the corner of the couch, comes a wild cackle. It’s Phoenix, his face lit with laughter. This is not nice of him. It’s bad news for his father, and for Brenda, sitting next to him. Mercy Alexander is a philosopher. She’s got her nose in every pie – an opinion about everything. She has a doctoral degree in, well, religion, but she’s entitled to the “Dr.” nonetheless. She doesn’t use it. Or, anyway, she hasn’t yet.

She needs no introduction. Everybody here knows her, in one way or another. But she’s on national TV now, and the rest of the world is watching.

She begins to speak.

“My name is Mercy Alexander. I am a gay, black woman. I’m a Republican, because I value my freedom.”

Phoenix sits up. He values his freedom, and he knows it. Most people value their freedom, but they don’t find out till they’ve lost it.

“I want my government to leave me alone as long as I’m not hurting anyone. And I don’t count making money as hurting someone who doesn’t.”

When she’s through with a very short speech, there’s another surprise. Out steps a blonde woman in an apricot suit. The audience erupts in applause. The long tables stand. They cheer.

“Ohmigod,” Brenda says. “Greta van Susteren. She’s not going to interview her, is she?” Yes, she is, right here, and that’s proof enough to Brenda that the Republicans own Fox News.

The audience has erupted in applause for the star they have garnered. A national star. An international star.

The two women meet stage center and clasp hands – both hands. Mercy is about a foot taller than Greta, plus another eight inches of hair. Greta is smiling that big crooked grin, ear to ear. She loves this ovation. Usually she’s alone in a studio.

They stand side by side, like a vaudeville act, and trade lines.

“Mercy,” Greta says, “as a Black, gay woman, why aren’t you a Democrat? Aren’t Liberals the ones who will protect your rights?”

“Greta, nobody can take away my right to be Black or my inalienable right to be gay. To paraphrase the Lord, ‘I am what I am.’ Liberals support minorities. They’re well-meaning people. But their quest for equality pits them against the very liberty embodied in their name.

“We can either be free or equal, not both. Equality can only be achieved when it is forced upon people, and even then, those who are doing the forcing are always a bit more equal than the others. Like our congress – privileged leaders who legislate our sacrifice.

“Greta, we all want people to be treated equally before the law, but to try to assure that nobody gets ahead of anyone else is futile. Our Declaration of Independence, a most noble document, says that ‘all men are created equal’, but there it must end. Life is striving, and that striving has been the glory of mankind.”

Greta flips her hair back over her ear and says, “Mercy, Americans are better off than most of the rest of the world. Is that fair?”

“The way we’re going, it won’t be true much longer. We are the envy of others because we are the land of the free. Free to discover, free to innovate, free to succeed and, this is important, free to fail. To destroy the system which has given us so much, is senseless. Making us as wretched as the average third world citizen won’t improve the world.”

“A debate is raging over health care,” Greta says, her grin so wide you’d think she just invited everyone for drinks and a turkey dinner. “For weeks now our representatives and senators have been pummeled by their constituents. Do you have anything to say about that?”

“Is there any American who doesn’t? And what each of us has to say is particularly individual, based on exactly who we are, and what are our problems. That’s what medicine is, and that’s what medicine should remain. Government controlled medical care is an oxymoron. Medical care is individual, while government control must ignore our uniqueness.”

“Are you accusing President Obama of trying to force socialized medicine on us?”

“Socialized abandonment of medicine, Greta. And the answer is ‘yes’. We’ve spent a lot of money developing treatments and cures. We’re winning the war against disease. This is no time to cut and run.”

“Mercy, one last question. Do you personally favor gay marriage?”

Mercy laughs. “Personally, if there’s anything I don’t need, it’s to enter into a contract that has a more than a fifty percent chance of being broken.”

Over-exuberant laughter from the audience.

“I know this is the administration of ‘change’, but there are limits. Legislatures can give whatever rights they wish to the people, but they can’t change the meaning of words. ‘Gay marriage’ is an abuse of the language. We should decide what we want and find the words to express it. But just to be clear, I’m all for equal rights.”

“Thank you, Mercy.” Greta turns to the audience and says, “I’m sure we all wish Mercy the very best in her campaign.” There is a standing ovation for the two ladies.

The candidate doesn’t look right, not at all, but she said all the right things. They loved her. They had a champion. A tall black knight in sparkling armor.

And back at the ranch? It’s glumsville. Even Adele has nothing cheery to say. Only Phoenix seems elated. To nobody in particular he breaks the silence with “I like her hair.”

Quiet Afternoon

Jason is at work. At the drug company. Not expecting anything. Doesn’t think he’ll ever expect anything again. Not anything good. He has become a martyr.

When the Wagmans left him with their praise and their hopes, the dutiful husband and good citizen marched upstairs and convinced his wife she was too important to the world to go back to obscurity. She had to give them a chance to use her for – he almost choked on it – the greater good.

At first she put up a fight, with her eyes and her newly arrived, hoarse whisper. She was getting better; she could make sounds. She was tired, she said. Every moment had been awful.

No it hadn’t, he assured her. She’d shone like a star. She gave everybody what they wanted and some what they deserved.

“I think I lied a lot,” she said. “Well, not exactly lied.”

“That’s it,” he told her. “Not exactly lying is not lying. You did perfectly. You have the knack. That’s why you have to stay in. You have a talent for it.”

“I do?”

“Sadly, yes.”

The pact is formed. She knows he doesn’t want her to do it, he knows she wants to anyway, and so she will. He’s getting nothing for it. If something comes along that he wants, he’s entitled.

He’s seen Danielle once since he checked out the Dads for Tads site. When she asked if he’d been there, not only could he say yes, but he’d done enough research on the matter to impress her.

Today, she does not even look at him. She’s forgotten her mincing hip-roll. She’s into the Midwest Stride. On the rolling plains. Going to the cow barn for a pitch fork. The barn’s a half mile away – just a jaunt.

He can feel the breeze. She’s at the door. She barges in.

The door slams open, banging against the inside wall. Clyde jumps in his seat. She’s got a newspaper under her arm. Her blonde curls fall all over it. She whips the paper out and flaps it down on the desk. She stabs her finger at a picture on page one.

“What’s this?” she demands.

He looks. So do we. Damned if it isn’t a picture of Brenda. And Clyde. At a Planned Parenthood “Our Bodies” rally. Beer and chips in the park. Microphones. Brenda and Clyde sitting side by side on a bench. The CEO of Drugs Incorporated (not its real name) and the Democratic candidate for congress, the liberal teacher. Wait a minute. Is she a liberal, or just a plain old Democrat? We weren’t sure before, but now we, and everybody else, knows. She’s a lefty.

She’s out there in full view with the baby-killers. Cheering them on. Promising to pay mothers for stem-cell tissue, encouraging women to choose murder. The article states that Waters has thrown his support behind the candidate. It describes Clyde as the CEO of the company that makes and sells the morning-after pill. It makes Clyde’s being there look sleazy. He hadn’t intended to focus on that issue, just benefit quietly. He was there for women’s rights. That’s what that politico Wagman had told him. It was a women’s rights meeting. It had turned out to be more than he’d bargained for.

“Killer!” Danielle yelled. “Murderer! I work for a hit-man!”

She pounds her fist on the paper. It’s a loud sound. Then she rushes from the room, right into Jason’s arms. Instinctively, he’s anticipated this, and is ready to rescue his hysterical damsel in distress.

She flings her arms around his neck. The melodious voice has become a gasping, throaty sob. The great big breasts are pressed into his chest. He has to stretch his arms to put them around her. But he manages. They’re standing there like that when Clyde walks out the door.

Jason and Clyde stare at each other. Victims. They both know it. Jason separates from Danielle only enough to turn her around. Arms around each other’s waists, she leaning on and slightly over him – she’s a little bit taller – they leave the room. At the moment, Jason believes this to be a reasonable posture to assume when comforting a woman. That’s what’s meant by “thinking with the little head.”

Jason believes he’s walking her to the ladies’ room. Instead, they get into the elevator – it’s empty – and without looking at each other or talking, leave the building, go to the parking lot, and get into Danielle’s car.

She has stopped crying. She has stopped everything. She seems to be only partly there. Jason does not want to argue with what’s happening. Does not want to break the spell.

She takes the highway to her garden apartment and they go up the stairs in the same formation. She unlocks the door. When they’re standing inside, she turns, pushes him up against the door with that bodacious bosom, and grinds his lips so hard he thinks he might faint.

Something in him goes limp. No, not that. It’s his psyche. His spirit. He gives in. The prairie-girl has hog-tied a calf and is dragging it to the altar. The figurative altar. The bed.

There she proceeds to undress him. Fast. It’s a good thing he’s not trying, because he couldn’t keep up with her. She flips him around and over till he’s lying naked on the bed. This, folks, in a suit and heels.

She looks at him lying there and smiles. Then very slowly, like a shy French maid, she slithers out of her jacket and … and nothing. There is nothing else. He is face to chest with the breasts. He opens his hands wide, as wide as he can, reaches out and tries to take one in each hand. They’re a little too big. She wiggles out of her skirt – nothing under there either. Farm girls are a wicked lot. Animals don’t wear underwear, why should they?

She is, as we have hinted, stupendous. A wasp waist, curvy hips, high definition in arms and legs. Sculpted shoulders. Think “Heavy Metal heroine.”

He takes his captor in a loving embrace, and commences to enjoy his prize to the fullest.

He’s exhausted when it’s over. A spent tube of toothpaste flattened on a sink.

You haven’t heard any of their conversation. That’s because there wasn’t any. They haven’t spoken a single syllable to each other all afternoon.

Crisis Control

The district Brenda is hoping to represent is a Republican pimple on an otherwise unblemished Democratic nose. She is the magic cream that Wagman has found to eradicate the pimple.

But a threat has now arisen. The husband. Marriage is a rotten institution. It takes too much of people’s time. What if he’d been free to do whatever he damned pleased? He’d have been in congress long ago – at least Congress. He might have made it to the Senate. He had no dreams beyond that. The responsibility was too damn much. He wanted to enjoy his life. And he did. He had a rich wife.

Don’t forget that. He’s married to an heiress. It is more than just the house. He actually can do whatever he damn pleases, and he does. She doesn’t want him in politics, and here he is.

He has to do something about the husband. The scene he’d made after the party. Unbelievable. And for what? What was it all about? Phoenix told him he was pissed because he’d found his daughter drinking the pink punch with some newspaper guy in the guest room with the white couches. “Go look. There’s a pink stain on one of them. I couldn’t get it out. Mom’s going to be furious.”

No, no, folks, it’s okay. You have not misread anything, now or before. You know about this guy. His mother told you. He’s not just a liar. He’s a total fabricator. His utterances bear no resemblance to truth.

So Mitchell went to see, and sure enough, there was the stain, with signs that someone had tried hard to get rid of it.

Phoenix has tidied up his life. He got rid of the incriminating connection with Sheba, and got rid of the blame for having spilled his drink while wandering around earlier in the evening. He’s home free.

Mitchell wonders why it’s his fault that Jason has a wayward daughter. He’s also not too happy to hear she’d been plied with drink by a reporter. He’ll probably have to do damage control. Damage control comes to every campaign, but this was so early.

And not good, either, for the candidate, a teacher, to have an uncontrollable child. If Sheba’s shenanigans made it to the press, and they were damned lucky if they hadn’t already, her mother would lose respect. A reporter! He’d thought everyone had left.

It was time to take the high and mighty husband and father down a peg. He’d practically dragged Brenda out of the room! After cave-manning his daughter by the hair. The man was a brute. Maybe he shouldn’t inflict him on Nina.

But she’d made all kinds of excuses for him after he removed the daughter, and before he removed the wife, while the three of them waited for Jason to return. “Don’t worry, he’ll be all right, he’s just a little drunk… maybe he’s got a good reason... these things can be very hard on spouses; they often lose their minds during campaigns – nobody’s paying attention to them, the public is stealing what they thought was theirs...” On and on she talked, probably out of nervousness, till he came back and took his wife.

Said wife has now had her cell phone off and has been taking messages, for an entire day. Fortunately, he had anticipated that the party might be too much, and he hadn’t made any engagements for two days after, to give her time to recuperate. He hoped that’s what she was doing.

He’d been on the phone with Adele, Nat and Chauncey, hoping one of them had another way to make contact, but she wasn’t answering e-mail, there was a message from Zeke on the home phone saying nobody could take the call, and none of the three, yet, had decided to go to her house.

It was up to him. The two days would be over this evening, and tomorrow Brenda had four appearances in four towns.

He phones Nina, who is upstairs doing yoga in that white guest room where yesterday, she found and dissolved the misattributed stain.

“Nina, we’re going for a ride,” he says. “To see your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend?”

“Come on, I know you like him. We’ve got to get him out of his funk. Get dressed. Look good.”

“Mitch, you old pimp. You love to sell the ladies. You missed your calling.”

“No, I didn’t,” he says. “Wear that green dress.”

“In the daytime?”

“Yes. We’ll say we’re on our way to a dinner party, just passing by, thought we’d drop in, we know how rough it is, etc. etc. And you, my dear, you give him something to hope for. I don’t care what it is.”

She unpretzeled from the lotus position, and went to the closet to fluff out the moss green dress that had no back, and practically no front. It was summer. She could get away with it.

The town the Shapiros live in is twenty minutes and a world away. An old town with old houses, tall hedges, and big trees. Mitchell has a well-programmed GPS. It took them there.

“This is very rude, not calling ahead,” Nina said as they approached. “At least give them warning.”

“I can’t. They’re not answering the phones.”

“They’ll be thrilled to see us,” she said. “I’m sure they’re looking for company.”

“Doesn’t matter. He could at this moment be talking her out of the whole deal. It’s happened before. Candidates withdraw. You never hear why. This is why.”

The man has an uncanny sense of people. At this very moment, Jason is bringing herbal tea to his wife, who is upstairs in bed with laryngitis and a malaise that barely lets her lift her hand.

He had come home early from work to tend to her, and her silence loosened his tongue. He poured out his love and remorse, begged her forgiveness, and promised that from now on he will fully support her. (Zeke, supposedly playing an approved video game, was disappointed to hear all this mushy stuff and went back to the game.) Brenda, sapped of all strength, whispered, in turn, that she wanted to quit the campaign. Jason scooped her up from the pillow and hugged her, told her he would make sure she would never regret it, and went down to get the tea.

He is on his way back up the stairs when the bell rings. Should he answer? His instinct is “no”. But they may have seen his shadow on the stairs. It feels almost criminal to hide. He takes two steps up. He can’t do it.

He goes back down, puts the tray on a table, and heads for the door. Through the opaque glass, he sees a big and a little shape. He opens it. It’s a bad dream. Mitchell Wagman and his crazy wife are not standing on his doorstep, all dressed up with grins on their faces. He is not welcoming them in.

But he is; he’s a worm. He crawls in the dirt. He sucks up. He’s intimidated by their well-being, by Nina’s naked skin, by Bill’s… no, it isn’t Bill. It just looks like him.

Bill’s been in the headlines again, for getting Gore’s journalists back from Korea. That does not mean Mitchell Wagman’s stock should go up. Yet it has. Partly because he’s wearing a suit very much like the one Clinton wore in the picture with Kim Jong-il. And because the real Bill looked like a corpse in the picture, so Jason is glad to see the corrective grin. He’s sure that photo is the price Clinton paid for the prisoners’ release. The two world leaders, dead serious, side by side, Clinton’s retinue giving equal prestige and protection to both. He wonders what kind of story went with the picture in the North Korean press.

But now is not the time. He has flung open the door and allowed them entry. “Oh, we’re not staying,” Mitchell says as he crosses the threshold. “We’re on our way to dinner. Haven’t been able to get you on the phone, so Nina thought we should stop in and see how you are.”

“You poor dears,” Nina says, giving him a chance to stare at her un-dress. “I’m sure you’ve been through hell. Please let me apologize for the crude misconduct that took place in my house. Corrupting the morals of a sweet child like Sheba!” She shook her head and put her hand on his arm. And kept it there, while Wagman talked.

“We’re going to win,” he says. “I want to assure you of that. We’re going to win because you and your wife have made the sacrifice. Everyone has a teacher in the family, and in an education campaign, they’ll all listen to that education expert, who will tell them to vote for Brenda. And then she’s going to save American education, my man, and that will save the world.”

He grips his hand, hard. Nina lets go of his arm. “Well,” he says, “Tell Brenda we’re sorry we missed her, but we only had a few minutes.”

Mitchell goes out the door first. Nina lingers long enough to say to him, “Remember that tantric yoga we were talking about? I’m a certified practitioner. If you want a lesson, give me a call.”

And you, folks, if you don’t know what tantric yoga is, I’d advise you to Google it, so you’ll know why a piece of Jason’s anatomy suddenly stood on end.

Postparty Depression

Brenda is driving. The chauffeur has had too much to drink and is in the back seat with his son, the only member of the family who will speak to him.

Zeke thought it was funny when Daddy lunged across the room, grabbed his sister by her hair and led her off the bed and through the doorway. Daddy was so mad he hadn’t even seen his son.

Sheba is mortified. Embarrassed beyond comprehension by her pig father who lives in the last century and thinks he can boss her around. She knows a thing or two. When she was ten, she found his stash. Wasn’t sure what it was, but did know how to use the Internet. Now and then she checked up on it. He never used it. Neither did she. But it was there.

Imagine the self-control of a girl who does not blurt out this useful secret right now, right here. It would divert attention from her, and pay her father back. But our Sheba is a girl of principle.

“It’s none of your business,” she had said to his nasty questions, and now refuses to speak. About anything. She sits in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Zeke is bouncing up and down against his seat belt, watching the scenery and the cars, enthralled by the romance of dusk.

The candidate, now herself the chauffeur, is furious. Her brow is furrowed and her face frowned. It is not because of the way Jason propelled Sheba down the stairs and out of the house; he might have had good reason. It’s because of what he did when he came back.

Still in a rage, he stomped up to Brenda and yanked her off the couch, with a clipped, “Thank you very much,” to the Wagmans. She was struck dumb. That laryngitis she was worried about on the way down finally came on. She let him lead her to the door, or he would have dragged her.

This doesn’t sound like mild-mannered Jason, does it? Just shows what fatherhood can do to a man. Father-of-daughter-hood, that is. It’s not marijuana that turned Dad into a monster; it’s sex.

Dad knows what would have come next if he were Phoenix. But he is not Phoenix, and Phoenix is not the lover-boy that Jason was. Phoenix is too private for that. He does not give of himself. His father said to be nice to her, and he was being nice. He even invited her brother to come with them, when they came upon him talking to the dog.

Jason, drunk and disorderly in the back seat, is carrying on about the summer, and how his daughter will not go slumming one more time. She is going, he announces, not quite at the top of his lungs, to Aunt Manya’s Camp, a sleep-away that’s close enough to home for visits, but not so close that she ever has to see that boy again. Or any other boy. No, that’s not true. There will be boys at the camp. There are boys everywhere! But the camp is a Jewish camp, full of Jewish boys with Jewish mothers. Jason didn’t have a Jewish mother and therefore had a love-life as a teen-ager. The boys at the camp would be no problem. She wouldn’t even like them.

Okay, you say, time for Sheba to haul out her secret weapon. Well, folks, she doesn’t want to. She is about to get away from home. Out of her house. Away from her parents.

“And Zeke, too.” Jason says.

Oh, no, thinks Sheba. Not Zeke. The little spy.

“I’m not going,” Zeke says.

“Why not?” asks Jason. Was this kid suddenly a teen-ager, too?

“I’m staying with Mommy.”

“Mommy is going to be very busy. Who’s going to take care of you?”

“You,” he says. “You’re my dad.”

Damn.

The car becomes quiet. Brenda can’t talk, Jason has nothing to say, Zeke and Sheba are holding their breaths, each getting what they want; don’t spoil it.

The next morning – the very next morning, Jason makes the call. He speaks to the proprietor herself, a very, very old lady, old Great-Aunt Manya, who used to be a terror, and now is a family symbol of fortitude.

Manya still runs her camp. She sits at the entrance to the main building, just an old house, but called The Commons. In a long white dress, like a Russian countess on summer vacation, she presides over the people passing in and out. She is the only thing fancy left on the premises.

Sheba is very efficient selecting her jeans and tops, and finding substitutes for the e-mailed list of required clothing. It’s the middle of summer. People spend months on this chore that she is accomplishing in one morning, all by herself (her mother is in bed, her cell phone turned off.)

In the afternoon, Sheba’s father will drive her to the camp, where he will leave her with a bunch of strangers. She can’t wait, but she does not want to let on. She’s playing the victim, saying not a word, somberly and obediently preparing for her punishment.

Father and daughter do not speak on the ride to camp. They can’t. Their secrets might come out – hers that she is happy, his that he is sorry. He should have been a gentleman about it – what would it have cost him – and let her leave under her own steam. Now he would be eternally in the wrong. The man. The brute. The tyrant. The pig. He went through the list as though reading her mind.

He was right. She was thinking all of those words. But she was thinking something else, too. She was thinking about Phoenix, who had, in a way, instigated her liberation. He was a lot older, in another world. It was obvious from his room that he didn’t take orders from anybody. She admired him for that. And that long red hair helped. So had her father, by tearing her away from him.

They pulled off the highway, onto a two-lane road, and from there, onto a one-lane, almost-dirt, road, which soon became a definitely dirt road. They bounced along until it ducked through some trees and emerged as a long, twisty incline that led to a big, white, ramshackle house.

On the porch sat Great Aunt Manya at a bridge table. She stood as they came up the steps, and came out from behind the table to embrace Jason and pinch Sheba’s cheek.

Sheba was immediately taken up to her room. She’s living in the Commons, as per her daddy’s request. He doesn’t want her out there where any wild animal, human or otherwise, can get at her. Keep her upstairs, under the supervision of her still sharp-eyed relation. The deal had been sealed on the phone. What he didn’t realize was that her roommates would be two other delinquent girls, whose parents had requested the sharp eye.

The Shapiros had arrived at rest time, the hour after lunch. Sheba was escorted up the rickety stairs by a counselor, who knocked on the door, and receiving no answer, ordered, “Open up.”

It took a few minutes. Then the door was opened by a girl with sleek long hair, wearing little else. “Excuse us,” she says. “We were resting. It’s rest hour.” Sheba could see, behind her, another girl with big glasses, gathering some things from the table between the two bunk-beds.

The counselor pushed past the first girl and beckoned Sheba into the room. She took a piece of paper from her pocket. “Bathsheba Shapiro,” she said, “meet your room-mates. The half-naked lady is Rosalind Jaffe. The professor here is Rowena Kaplan.”

Sheba nods at the girls. They nod back. They’ve been expecting her, but only since eight this morning, and they weren’t at all sure they wanted another roommate. The camp business has been slow because of the economy, and they’ve become used to luxuriating in their four-person room.

When the counselor leaves with the promise that Sheba’s bags will be up soon, Rowena, peering through her glasses with huge eyes, asks, “What were you sent up for?”

“Getting high with a guy in his room,” Sheba replies without a thought.

And with that, she has instantly won the respect of the two girls who’ve been sent up for far lesser crimes, one for talking back to her mother, repeatedly, and the other for refusing to be Bat Mitzvah’d, a privilege Sheba had also declined, though it was doubtful that she was even entitled.

As Jason is walking back to his car, Sheba has settled into the lower bunk on the left, and is describing, in delicious detail, Phoenix – himself, his room and his bong.

Punch Drunk

Yes, you wild things, we are still at the party. Hope you can hold your liquor better than some people. Jason, with the aid of several more glasses of the pink punch – he was thirsty – and not feeling like talking to anybody at all, has been poking around in back rooms of the Wagmans’ modern mansion where he ought not to be. He found a pool table and hit a few balls, a library and read a few pages. He’s acting like a spoiled adolescent taken to a party and refusing to participate.

By the time he wanders back into the main hall, he’s greeted with the remarkable sight of his wife standing at a wrought-iron podium in the middle of the grand room, surrounded by a semi-circle of people perched on the couches and chairs they’d been circulating around, and an army of rented seats called into action.

Brenda looks shockingly comfortable up there in her form-fitting lavender dress draped with veils. Demure. Not at all whorish at this distance. He’s missed most of the speech, but he’s been hearing it for a week and knows it by heart. You heard part of it in the car coming up. Here’s where he came in.

“Yes, I did say ‘form’. Children are made, not born. Babies are born. They are made into children by the people around them. That means you, even if you have no children. It means you even if you never deal with a child, because someone you deal with does, and how you influence her or him will influence that child.

“These children will become the people we make them. They’ll run our schools and our businesses. They’ll be our artists and musicians, our scientists, and doctors. They will create a society, but it will be the society we have set them up to create. Whatever they do is our doing, their failures our fault.

“I believe the best word to describe what we need is, more. M - O - R - E – more. More parenting, more thought, more learning, for more children. More nutritious food, more loving care, more time, and if the parents can’t provide it, we will.”

Exactly who “we” was, she left unclear, which may be why she garnered such applause. Then it was time for questions.

First one, a zinger. From a national newspaper (this is a special election, in an off-year. No one else is running for congress.) A pert young woman asks, “What do you think of trillion-dollar national health care?”

Health care? She was worried. All this talk about cost-effectiveness – people having to be worth saving. Her mother didn’t produce anything but waste products, but as her mother, she was infinitely valuable. End-of-life counseling and suicide pills was ugly; she didn’t like it. Wagman knew. He caught her eye.

“Our nation has not provided equal health care for all, and we must begin to do so immediately,” she said. He smiled. Her reward for being a good student.

“Mrs. Shapiro, how do you feel about President Obama’s attitude toward Israel?” Smartass. Just because her name is Shapiro. “Does President Obama have an attitude toward Israel? I thought he had an attitude about diplomacy versus violence, and I am completely with him. I don’t like violence.”

Then Wagman is marching toward her, holding his arm out like he’s stopping traffic. “Let’s quit while we’re ahead,” he whispers when he gets to her. He turns to face the audience, puts an arm around her and says, “That will be all until next time. Thank you, Brenda, and thank you all for coming. We hope you enjoyed yourselves. You’ll be hearing from us soon.”

A number of guests got up, nodded their good-byes and left: those for whom it was a job and those who had plans for dinner.

After a few more of Wagman’s invitations to dismiss, the rest knew that they’d been told to leave.

Not everyone is gone, however. Clyde Waters wants to talk to the candidate. About business. His business. Drugs. When Wagman lets down his guard and leaves his congressman to escort Nicole Evans, the congresswoman, to the door, Clyde sidles up to Brenda like a seller of “feelthy peectures”, to sound her out about abortion.

“I’ve had some trouble with my top salesman, who refuses to sell our ‘morning after’ pill.”

“I’m not surprised,” she replies. “A lot of men just can’t empathize with women.

“No,” he says. “This is a woman. Quite a woman, in fact,” he can’t help but add.

For those of you who are students of geometry, the triangle has closed. The construct is shaped. Unbeknownst to all, Mr. Waters has performed the introduction.

“I hope her position is not too widespread. I hope it isn’t yours.”

“Ohmigod, of course not! Abortion is one of women’s basic rights. It’s the right to pursue happiness.” This does not come out the way she wanted it to.

Jason has finally spotted Clyde, his only friend on the premises, and headed toward him. He hears this last remark and enters the conversation with, “What about the rights of men? Don’t they have any say?”

“Men?” Brenda answers. “Any man whose woman doesn’t want his baby is probably getting what he deserves.” She turns to Clyde. “And any woman who stands in the way of her sisters’ pursuit of happiness is no woman at all.” The two men exchange a guilty, knowing glance. Waters assured, and Jason in hot water, for sure, make way for Wagman, who has rushed back to his charge, having discharged the other lady at the door.

It’s the end of the party, when everything gets weird. Jason has had more than the nothing he’d planned to drink. Brenda and Adele are collapsed on a couch; Mitchell and Nina are in the kitchen. He wanders back out to the fireplace and spots the curved stairway.

He’s pretty far gone. He puts his hand on the banister, slides it up a bit, and lets his feet follow. He’s going upstairs. Faster and faster because he doesn’t want to be stopped. As soon as he gets to the top, he quickly goes around the bend and is in a corridor with thick carpeting. There are a lot of doors, all of them closed. He opens one. Peeks in. Big bamboo bed, mosquito netting curtains, wicker chairs and dressers, like another world. Maybe the master bedroom. He closes it.

In the next room, on a white rug, two white couches are conjugating under their sprinkling of colored cushions. Bordello-red curtains complete the scene.

This is fun. He opens the next door. Big mistake. Dirty clothes all over the floor, bookcases full of stuff, posters plastering the walls. This must be the son’s room. What was his name? Something strange. Griffin. No. Phoenix. That was it. Phoenix. How to produce a wacky kid – name him Phoenix.

He could hardly make sense of what was in the room; there was so much. His eyes strayed through the tangle. Got to the messy bed. There was someone sitting beneath the rock stars on the wall and on top of the confusing-graphic bedspread. Two people. One was a boy with hair the color of blood. The other was a girl in a Grecian tunic, with her hair up. Between them was… what was that? Goddam if it wasn’t a bong. A big, blue, plastic Dr. Seussish contraption. The crazy son had his daughter on his bed and was feeding her marijuana.

Fly on the Wall

Jason rolls around the house to the grassy parking lot. It’s full of cars. Full. Bursting. He’s got to weave in and out before he finds a place. Great idea, being the last one in. Great.

In the back seat, Sheba is wearing a very short Greek tunic. Her legs are bare, and she has strappy sandals on her feet. She and her father had what you might almost call a spat, back at the house. The dress was too short. She did not look like a child; she looked like a woman. She was not a woman; she was only twelve years old. She was popping out on top (not from any bra, either - from exuberant youth). And her hair was up. What did that mean? It’s Grecian, she told him.

“In one week, I’m going to be thirteen. Thirteen. Teen, Dad. I’ll be a teen-ager. Teen-agers wear what they want to, not what their parents tell them to.”

Was it true? Next week was her birthday. Yes. Thirteen came after twelve. In a week he would have a teenage daughter.

“You’re not a teen-ager yet. You’re still a child. Go upstairs and put on something decent.”

“Mom said I could wear it.”

Oh. Salome of the seven veils said she could wear it. He’d lost the battle before it began.

All through the ride, he’d caught Sheba catching glimpses of herself in the mirror, while Zeke provided a running commentary on the cars on the road, entranced by the new little Smartcars that look like toys.

Jason pulled in past the last car. They got out and walked back to the house. There was no one outside, it having turned hot. There was no one to greet them. Who was he, anyway? The chauffeur. Madam hadn’t said a word to him the whole ride.

They walked up the broad steps, through the big doors and a small foyer, into a room with a stone fireplace that went all the way up to a far-away cathedral ceiling. In front of it, behind a large table, stood the lady of the house.

Nina had come as a canary, in a puffy yellow dress. She moved like one too, hopping deftly from guest to guest with glasses of what was probably going to be their downfall today, whoever they were. If anyone knew, he did. Mitchell Wagman was a master of the dark art of dosing, and his wife his accomplished accomplice.

His children had disappeared. Gone to find Mommy, most likely. Sheba was obviously looking for the limelight, and that would be where it was. He spotted Zeke talking to a little dog. There was nothing for him to do but move further in.

Nina saw him before he could slip quietly by her. He didn’t intend to drink. Not a drop. He pretended not to see her waving hand, and walked past the table, only to have her reach out and grab his arm as he was almost clear.

“Hello, stranger,” she said. “Feeling left out?”

He couldn’t manage to deny it in time. “Here,” she said. “This will make it better.” She gave him a glass of the pink punch. What the hell. She was probably right. It would make him feel better, and it was only punch. Old ladies drank punch. How could it hurt him? He badly wanted something.

He took it, took a sip and let himself look around. On the other side of a curved staircase, a humongous room opened up. It was full of people. He couldn’t even spot Brenda. Sheba was nowhere to be seen, but Zeke was still with the little dog, talking away, telling him who-knows-what.

We’re going to spend some time at this party, folks. I like parties. Never want to go, but once I’m there, I have a good time. So do the room with me, please. Let’s see what the members of the cabal are up to.

Over there, is Adele the Adorable, in the purple dress, meant to set off and yet support, the candidate, her light and airy Lady Lavender. She’s over at the wall of windows, but she’s not looking out. She’s twinkling up at Michael Isaacson, one of the congressmen. The Jewish congressman, in case you’re post-racial, and can’t tell. Very active member of Congress, an independent cuss (a lot of those Jews are), he’s got himself a reputation for being bi-partisan. Pro-woman, pro-military (those Jews are a belligerent bunch), the man’s a Blue Dog Democrat. Stood with Bush at Ground Zero. Isaacson wants to attack the Middle East problems through the schools. That’s why he’s here.

“You can’t do anything,” he’s telling Adele, “if a nation is bringing up its children to hate you. We’ve got to get into the schools and change them around.”

“That’s exactly what Brenda thinks,” Adele says, never having spoken to Brenda on the matter. “The schools are where citizens are made. Not only here, but there.” She assures him, with her easy, affable smile, that Brenda will be solid on all his issues. She reinforces this benefit by moving in close, looking up into his eyes and sweetly radiating her sincerity.

The place is packed, and we can hear fragments of other conversations, so we’ll move around and eavesdrop on some.

Nat Grogan, policy wonk, in a black and white striped suit is haranguing Nicole Evans, a black, but not African, American “congresswoman”. (She, taking the opposite stance from Brenda’s, insists upon “congresswoman” for the same reason Brenda insists upon “congressman”.)

Nat’s subject is Nigeria. Nicole, a cute, chunky 44 year old, is descended from a long-ago generation of successful Caribbean immigrants. She barely knows Jamaica, let alone Nigeria. Her passions are women and children. She gets smaller classes and more computers for kids, upgrades ghettoes, and like Brenda, would like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. While she’s lending an ear to Nat, her eyes are searching for Brenda, who holds, for her, the hope that she has found a sister.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Wagman, who had been shepherding Brenda from group to group, introducing her, then snatching her away, has left her, for the first time, on her own, with a director of the NEA, the long arm of the teachers, the National Education Association, America’s largest teachers union.

He’s Ed Bradley. Good looking, and slippery as an eel. His eyes look like Spock’s, but he has no Vulcan or Oriental blood; they turn up like James Carville’s, and the Devil’s, out of pure conceit. He’s a smoothie. “So you’re the young woman who’s going to carry our banner into the war,” he says, looking her up, but not down. After the inspection, his eyes linger on hers, teasingly.

She doesn’t fall for it. “You watch your step, young man,” she says. “I’m a strict old schoolmarm who deplores war.” The lightly lewd smile is wiped off his face. “I see,” he says. But he likes it. “You may rap my knuckles with a ruler,” he says. “Anytime.”

They get no more than those few seconds to establish their relationship. Mary Steele, of a local newspaper sticks her hand past Bradley and introduces herself. “May I ask you a question?” No sooner has she said it, than three other newshounds appear behind her, tiny notebooks in hand, two men and a woman.

For a moment, Brenda’s heart plunges again, but she remembers her discovery on the way in. These people are all drunk. She is sober. They can’t have their way with her, they’re nothing worse than a rambunctious class, and she’s been handling those for fifteen years.

“Ask away,” she says to Mary, ignoring the press of the others, who are hanging on her words.

It’s a surprise question. Nothing to do with education.

“How do you feel about Sonya Sotomayor?” Mary asks, a “gotcha” look on her sharp face.

Sotomayor? Oh, yes, that tremendously ugly woman. Where had they found anyone so ugly? Not since Janet Reno… Worse. A pity more pretty women didn’t go into politics. And isn’t she a bit of a racist? Why should Spanish women have any better judgment than any other women? The women part she would grant. Men were too emotional. They had that territorial thing that prevented them from really co-operating.

“I think she’ll be a fine Supreme Court justice,” she says. Taking Ed Bradley’s unoffered arm, she walks away as though he’s leading her. She doesn’t want to be unavailable, but there’s a short press conference scheduled for after the speech, and she doesn’t want to waste the good questions.

That portly man they’re passing, the one impeccably dressed in the latest fashion, is Sid Sachs who owns the largest mall in the district. He’s trying not to talk to a reporter about Wal-Mart, but the reporter, notebook in hand and pen poised, is point-blank asking him for a quote.

“Get out of my face,” says Sachs. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“May I quote you Mr. Sachs?” says the reporter. Sachs doesn’t answer. “There’s a rumor that you’re going to buy up the land Wal-Mart is looking to lease. Is that because you politically oppose Wal-Mart, or because you’re afraid of the competition?”

“That’s like asking me if I’ve stopped beating my wife,” Sid says, trying to escape with a humorous reference. But the reporter lights up, and asks, “And have you?” He thinks he’s onto something. He’s too young to have heard the phrase, and too dumb to figure out its meaning.

Small groups are beginning to form, voices getting louder with the punch and the liquor. Everybody is holding a glass of something.

A couple of bankers in the district are comparing sad notes, shaking their heads, looking generally forlorn amidst the hub-bub. Even the ones who still have control of their banks don’t know how long they’ll have it. We hear Edwin Meyers say to Barry Fitzgerald, “Municipal is going under. Frank’s announcing it tomorrow.” Let’s move on. These guys are depressing.

Gathered around the back of the long couch that faces the window is an animated group consisting of Muriel Wang, the superintendent of schools, and therefore Wagman’s boss, Samuels, head of the local teacher’s union, and Chauncey Donahue, distant devotee of education, basking in their erudition.

Gary Sutton, who according to Wagman on the night of the Orange Duck, had once been arrested for mooning a busload of people when the driver refused to open his doors at a red light, is telling them a story about his cousin Mitchell and an airline stewardess. Ms. Wang is frowning. She’d been infatuated with Wagman at the time of this happening. Not knowing, or perhaps knowing well, Samuelson is egging Sutton on.

The rest of the friends and relatives are hanging together in clumps of two or more, with orders not to engage any of the other guests, not to give away secrets, and without being rude, not to fraternize with the other guests.

The pitch of the voices has reached its peak. It sounds like everybody’s talking at once. You might call it a din, wouldn’t you say? When clang, clang, clang, someone bangs on a glass, relentlessly, until the noise begins to subside.

It’s Wagman, standing in front of the windows. Slowly, the revelry comes to an end. The room is down to a quiet buzz. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, what you’ve come for. A few words from the star of the show, Brenda Shapiro, your next congressman.”

Party Time

The big day is here. Mitch will present Brenda to the public, or rather the public’s representatives on such occasions – the people who run the show. And those who provide the money.

The party is at his house. A big spread with a glass wall overlooking the water. Not his house, exactly – Nina’s. An excessively-built enticement model for an expensive custom development, off by itself with a lot-size lawn around the side. A large two-story Modern, with built-in furniture, a two-story-tall stone fireplace, and a curved stairway. It sprawls like a ranch, but is twice as high, with bedrooms and guest rooms upstairs.

Mitchell Wagman feels the way the mother of the bride feels at the wedding. It’s not him, but it’s as close as he can get.

He hasn’t seen his protégé in over a week. She insisted on some time alone to tie up her private life. He doesn’t envy that family. They’re going to be torn apart.

He’s planning to do some of the tearing himself. It can’t be helped. The candidate has to be a devoted family member, and then completely desert that family. There is no time for the ins and outs of domesticity. It’s every man, woman, and child for his or herself.

The invitees will have been in his care for an hour-and-a-half before the candidate arrives. The drinks are livening up some and softening up others while he has been having a personal word with everyone there. How many were there? Forty? He’d been doing them for over an hour. Couldn’t be too obvious; he had to reappear in the same circles a few times, glide in and out. He did that well. So did the man he resembled. Maybe the talent went with the look.

He had not had a drink. He was smarter than his doppelganger there. He knew he had to keep his wits about him and let the others sink into fun. He became too effusive, got red in the face when he drank too much. It was part of the package.

In front of the twenty-foot tall hearth, Nina, wearing a yellow dress, yellow being the color of correctness, has been doling out punch to the congressmen, the ladies and gentlemen of the press, the bigwigs, the fat cats, the educators, and some insinuated relatives and friends. All of them are anxious to personally encounter the woman they hope will be their next congressman.

We don’t have to wait. Let’s join her in her small, foreign car, it being more economical and green than anything her own country produces.

The children are in the back seat, Sheba primping in the rear-view mirror, Zeke counting the fast-food restaurants he’s not allowed to go to. Her husband is driving. She prefers to think of him in this situation as her chauffeur, so as to avoid responsibility for his feelings.

But Brenda has found that she cannot think. Not of anything. All the facts Grogan has poured into her, all Wagman’s warnings, all Adele’s helpful hints, have gone out the window. She’s a woman dressed like a nineteen-thirties chippy… or was it a gun moll… what had Jason said that morning… on her way to an inquisition.

They will rip her to shreds. She won’t be able to answer one question. She might not be able to talk at all. The base of her tongue feels swollen with fear. Who does she think she is, running for congress? She doesn’t know a goddam thing, not really, not any more, not since she stepped into the car.

What are the names of those countries and capitals – all those ’stans and ’bads? What is the difference between a bank and a fund and an insurer? What is Obama’s stand on health care for illegal immigrants? Why doesn’t she know? What does he think about the DC Voucher program? What does she think? The public schools there are terrible. Why shouldn’t kids be able to opt out? Stop! That’s heresy.

Her heart is beating very fast. She can feel it fluttering under the semi-transparent swath of lavender chiffon that almost covers her cleavage. Is she fibrillating? Is that what this is? Ohmigod, I’m going to die.

She doesn’t want to do this. She wants to be back in the classroom. She’ll take Special Ed. Anything! She’ll be a cafeteria lady. Anything. Anything but this. Anywhere but in a car rolling relentlessly toward her downfall, her unmasking, her utter and awful humiliation at the hands of the vicious press.

Her face feels hard, stiff with make-up. Jason was right. She looks like a whore. Wagman is selling her as a sex object. The very worst, the most insulting, the most degrading thing that can happen to a woman.

Rehearse the speech. I’m Brenda Shapiro, and I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. No, no, that’s my ringtone, not my speech. I’m Brenda Shapiro, and I believe there is nothing more important in the world than children. (Pause here, either for applause, silence, or a gasp.) Children are our replacements. The children we form today, will run the world tomorrow.

Let’s not be stingy with the next generation. Let’s prepare them to take our place, to guard and cherish the things we love. That’s how you extend your reach. How you reach out from the grave. No, no, no, that’s going too far. Get back on track.

I am a teacher. I want to extend my reach and give to all children what I personally can give to only a few. These few speak for me. They are my products. I was almost Educator of the Year, but that sexy French teacher got the principal’s ear, or some other part of him… Stop it! You’ve got ten minutes more, then you will be getting out of this car on your way to your execution. That’s not right. It’s the wrong word. It’s not the end, it’s only the preliminary torture.

There will be questions about Kazakhstan. No, that’s the Borat movie, isn’t it? But it’s a real country. She’s supposed to know about it. What if she gets on the foreign affairs committee?

Well, then she’ll bone up on whatever countries she has to. It’s impossible to know everything. She isn’t even going to try. She has to come up with a good line, though. “Teachers are not expert in everything. Nobody is. Teachers are facilitators: people who know where to find the answers. I’ll be back to you tomorrow on that.” She’ll ask Adele to write down the questions. All of them. Then she can go over them, improve her answers, and wait for an opportunity to correct her mistakes.

They turn into the semi-circular drive. Ohmigod, there’s her principal, standing by himself on the long porch under the colonnade, waiting to lead her to the lions.

The car stops. Her door opens. A big hand takes hers and lifts her out of her seat. She’s standing on the tarmac in front of the steps.

“You look lovely,” Mitchell says, appraising her. Then up the stairs she goes, and into the house, a lovely lamb.