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.