Hark Hark The Dogs Do Bark

It hadn’t taken Brenda long to realize that she narrowly missed being not Mrs. Edwards, but John himself, running down the back stairs of a hotel, for God’s sake, and finding the media at the bottom. Having to duck through basement doorways to ditch them. That could have been her.

What in the world had she been thinking?

She could no longer go to Jason with any complaint about infidelity, without disclosing her own, and even though it wasn’t up to Jason’s standards, to Brenda it was as good as full-fledged adultery. The man had been in her bed. Their bed. She barely knew him. She did not want to think about it. Just let it go away. And with it, had to go the whole damn diner episode.

Jason thinks he got away free. He was so relieved he swore to himself that from now on he’d be a devoted husband and father. He almost got caught! Thank God they didn’t see him. (It’s in times like this that God enters most lives, and in just this manner.)

At home, both parties have been courtly, solicitous, and anxious to please. Two guilty people.

The kids are enjoying it. They blab about their day and both parents listen. They watch all the TV they want. Dinner’s always good – Dad’s cooking again. The Shapiros seem to have settled down into a picture of the ideal nuclear family.

On Friday morning, Nat the internationalist, calls Brenda at 6:45, breathless with the news that Obama has won the Peace Prize. For a second she resents it, on Hillary’s behalf, but then she realizes that this is good for her own campaign. Some of the glory could rub off on her.

She goes into school for her thrice-weekly meeting in the teacher’s lounge, with her sub, the horse-faced Elenora. Ms. Stapleton gushes about her boss, Mr. Wagman, the finest principal on earth, and enviously tells Brenda that the man has requested her to come immediately to his office.

Immediately? Why immediately? Why does he want her to skip the reason she is ostensibly here? Something’s wrong. He’s found out. Someone saw them. Or Clyde told somebody, and word got out somehow.

She’s been called to the Principal’s office, and all that implies to a little child is working on her poor, befuddled brain. Guilt will do that. It makes a person paranoid. For good reason.

She walks down the hall like a delinquent seven-year-old, trying to think of what to say to the man behind the big desk. She knocks on the door and is ushered in by a grinning secretary. A secretary with a secret. Her secret. He told her!

Wagman’s inner door opens. Mitchell stands in the doorway, also with a grin. These people are relishing her upcoming inquisition. He beckons impatiently with both hands.

She goes to the door. He pulls her into the room, closes it, and takes her completely into his big, bear hug, like he did at the Orange Duck, so long ago.

She can’t breathe. He’s crushing her rib cage.

“He’s coming!” he whispers hoarsely into her hair. “He’s coming! He’s coming! He’s coming!”

Who? Jason? Clyde? What the hell is this? What are they doing to her?

She doesn’t want to give anything away. She’s quickly developing a criminal cunning.

“Who?” she manages to croak into his chest.

Wagman lets her go, holds her at arm’s length and looks fondly down into her eyes,

“HE,” he says. “HE’s coming, and it’s all because of you.”

What a sadistic bastard, Brenda thinks. A mean, sadistic bastard, taking such pleasure, such joy in confronting her. He’s supposed to be on her side, not trying to bring her down. How can he be so happy? It’s his campaign, too. He must have lost his mind.

Wagman has turned around and is walking back to his desk. “There are a million things to do. We’ve got to get this building cleaned up. I’ve started. Two companies are coming in over the weekend – one to do the windows, and another to do the floors. Have you seen what these floors look like? The grime must be from the original occupants on down.

“And you and Adele have to get together to write a speech. There might not be time to give it – I don’t know what he wants – but you’ve got to be prepared.”

What’s he going to do? Hold a party to denounce her? She’s supposed to write a speech to defend herself, and then maybe they won’t even let her do that? And what does Adele have to do with it?

“We have until Monday. The Secret Service will be here at the end of school today, to go over the building and the route from the airport. Some people from the White House staff are…”

White House staff? Surely it’s not such big news! After all, she isn’t Edwards! She isn’t running for President. Did he say Secret Service?

Slowly, her world turns. Secret Service. White House. HE.

“Who,” she asks, “is HE?” She must hear the name from his lips.

Wagman takes a step back and peers down into her face, replaying their “conversation.” Then he giggles maniacally, grabs her in the bone-crushing hug again and spins around. When he puts her down, she’s dizzy, and he’s shouting, “Obama! Barack Obama! The President of the United States! Is coming here!”

“Ohmigod!” she says.

He puts his fingers to his lips. Shhhh. Shhhh. Only the three of us know. He points to the door indicating his secretary. “She took the phone call. Then I talked to someone – a David – I don’t know which one.”

At last, he collapsed in the chair behind his desk. She sat down in front. He leaned over looking into her eyes. “It’s because you’re the Education candidate. My guess is he wants to get back on track, start talking about what really matters. Make them forget the Olympics fiasco.” He leans back in his seat, his face full of dreams. “Now he’s got the Peace Prize. Things will swing back in our direction. We’ve got a chance again! Educate for Peace!” he adds exuberantly.

Brenda is having a tough time morphing from the juvenile delinquent to the heroine. She’s not John Edwards. She’s Joan of Arc. The Education Warrior.

By Saturday morning the school will be secured. Until then they’ve been asked not to inform the public. That includes members of their own family. People will wonder when they see the black suits crawling all over the place, but nobody will be sure. The lines won’t start forming until Saturday morning, when they can expect some people to set up camp in front of the building, waiting for Obama to arrive.

The campers used to come the night before. But on a nice weekend like this, encouraged by the media, they’ll be here. They’ll bring their kids. Kids will come on their own.

We won’t speak of the unspeakable delight with which Mitchell and Brenda went home to their families after their day of immense secret-keeping. Every word was measured. Every word was kind. They felt godly, beneficent, raised up, sitting at his right hand, immortalized. Full of compassion for those not they.

And in the morning… Saturday morning… this morning… it’s Christmas. Even at the Shapiros’. Brenda gathers her clan before her at the proverbial kitchen table. She’s told them she has an announcement to make.

Now it’s Jason’s turn to squirm. Did she see him after all? Has this all been a charade? Is she about to announce she’s divorcing him?

“I have a big surprise for you,” she says.

Still possible it’s the divorce.

“Someone is coming to visit.”

Oh, no. Not her parents. Not now. Not with the campaign going, and Danielle up in the air…

“Barack Obama is coming to my school,” she squeals, unable to contain her glee.

All over town the same announcement is being made. Mitchell wakes Nina the minute his eyes open and it’s tomorrow and okay to tell. At first she doesn’t believe him. She’s used to outrageous lies. But he starts to fill in the details, and now it’s real. Then come the phone calls from satellite radio, from newspapers, from CBS, for God’s sake!

Brenda’s phone, too, is ringing. It’s Mary Steele, who begs to be the first with a statement from the Education candidate.

Brenda has to think fast. “We are thrilled that the President is coming to our school. But we mustn’t let him do all the talking. We know what we want, and if he asks us we’ll tell him. We want every child to have what his kids have. And we don’t want them to have to go outside the public schools to get it. We want schools all over America to do their jobs. Now. And we want him to give them the money to do it. If he can find it for the corporations, he can find it for the schools.”

Rather a rough welcome for Barack. And don’t think the White House staff members who are coming down today won’t buy that paper to see what the locals are saying.

The large lawn in front of the sprawling three-story brick school fills up with blankets and teen-agers, then families with little kids. How are these people going to stay for two days? They’ve got runners bringing them food and drink, going home for sweaters if they need them, taking away sick children. Flu season has started in the schools.

The Board of Education meets at 10 o’clock in the morning, an emergency meeting at which they decide this is the time to take out those old bushes and put in new ones, all along the front of the school. They’re proud of their building. There’s a big clock on top of the three stories, and the rumor, passed down year after year is that given the choice, a former Board decided that the clock would be a better project to spend money on than a swimming pool.

Those camping closest to the building are dislodged by the huge backhoes and the trucks that come bearing the new shrubs. But it gives the picnic a focus, and the “gardeners” are cheered on, questioned, fed, and photographed by the crowd.

One of those dislodged persons is Phoenix Wagman, searching for a new identity. He’s come to see Barack, and to see what he can make of the situation for his own, personal use.