MARY BELLAMY IS ALONE IN her library, watching The Erica Sparks Effect. Erica is speaking to the camera: “The Take Back Our Homeland movement, and its offshoots and copycats, continue to gather steam, not just in North Dakota, but nationwide. In what political operatives are calling ‘brilliant political theater,’ the leader of the movement, Mary Bellamy, has organized what she is calling ‘twenty-first-century wagon trains filled with new American pioneers.’ Here we can see one of these wagon trains in Oregon and another in Arkansas.”
The screen fills with footage of a stream of cars, campers, SUVs, and RVs moving in a line down an Oregon thruway. Banners hang from the sides of many of the vehicles proclaiming We’re Heading Home and New American Pioneers. Then Arkansas pioneers are shown.
Cut back to Erica at her desk: “Bellamy claims that caravans are arriving from all fifty states and that the movement is three-quarters of the way toward meeting its goal of thirty thousand new North Dakota residents and voters. With the election just weeks away, the fervor is only growing, though the latest polls show Governor Snyder holding on to his narrow lead. The Bellamy camp blames the numbers on the millions of dollars in television and online attack ads with which her opponents are blanketing the state. The White House continues to refuse to comment on the developments. Administration insiders say that President Winters is convinced that even in the unlikely event that the movement does prevail in the election, Mary Bellamy is a reasonable woman who will moderate her positions and goals. These sources point out that the Bellamys are among the state’s wealthiest residents and that any radical action could jeopardize their extensive holdings. However, those who know Mary Bellamy best and have dealt with her over the years are cautioning that she is a woman of her word and that her commitment to her cause is unshakeable. Off the record, the White House is convinced Bellamy is going to lose. The answers to these provocative questions will become apparent in the coming weeks and months. But first she has to win the recall election. When we come back, the latest developments in the historic drought gripping the Northwest.”
Mary Bellamy clicks off the television. That was a troubling update, and slanted. How many times did she have to mention the polls? Mary’s speeches have been drawing large crowds. The pioneers are getting registered. That Erica Sparks is starting to annoy her. Sturges is down at headquarters. They missed their nightly dinner-and-TV ritual. It’s one of the things that holds their marriage together. It’s certainly not passion. Never has been, really, has it?
Mary has a sudden itch on her left leg, and why wasn’t the fireplace cleaned of its ashes? She goes to the bar and pours herself two fingers of Scotch. She takes a sip, well, a swallow, well, a gulp. Its burning warmth floods her chest. This is all unacceptable, these poll numbers, the mere thought that she might lose. She won’t lose, she can’t lose. Out. Of. The. Question.
Mary pulls the library’s pocket doors closed. Sarah, their cook, and Julie, the second maid, are still in the house. She sits down, takes out her special phone, and dials.
“My darling, I was just about to call you,” he says in that virile voice of his. The one that’s thrilled her since they met at that energy conference in Winnipeg almost a decade ago. Their rapport was instant. Two kindred spirits who share ambition and smarts and courage. And disdain for big government.
“Neal.”
He can hear her anxiety. “Your wagon train idea is creating so much momentum and excitement, and it’s dominating coverage. It’s pure genius.”
It’s a kind thing to say, but she hates sugarcoating. “You’ve seen the polls.”
There’s a pause, filled with gravity. “I have.”
“They’re troubling.”
There’s another pause and the mood changes between them. When they speak their voices are low and charged. “But we planned for this contingency, didn’t we?”
“We did,” Mary says.
“I think now is the time to put the plan into action.”
“Yes, yes . . . ,” she says, almost vaguely, as if they were discussing what to have for dinner tomorrow night. Their minds think alike. She finds that so reassuring. They really don’t need to delve or elaborate, enough has been said, wheels will start turning. “I adore you, Neal.”
“You do know we’re going to win, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I do. Of course.”
“We always win, darling. That’s the kind of people we are.”
“Well, I’d better get to work.”
He lowers his voice to a purring growl. “I can’t wait to hold you.”
Mary switches phones and calls Sturges at headquarters. “How are things going down there?”
“Everyone is very pumped up!” he says in a pumped-up voice. His plastic enthusiasm is annoying. “We’re going to win this thing!”
“Yes, we are,” Mary says in a soft voice. “Listen, darling, Julie Hassan, who’s running the phone banks in Fargo, thinks it would be terrific for morale if you could show up tomorrow and spend some time making calls. Nothing inspires the troops like seeing the generals in the fray.”
There’s a pause, and she can hear his wheels turning, making his own plans, the plans he so often makes when he’s on an out-of-town trip. “Well then, I suppose I should drive out tomorrow. I can stop in at Dakota Salvage and see how the new foreman is working out.”
“Excellent idea. Of course, evening is the best time to make calls.”
“Yes, yes, it is. So I may as well stay overnight.”
“You may as well.”
They hang up. What a silly man he is, really. Not that she’s bitter. Well, maybe she is bitter. Yes, she is. He married her under false pretenses. And she was madly in love with him, thought he would be her one and only. One and only. How ironic that is. Oh, it was more than once, of course, but not that much more, and for the last decade or so it’s been her none and only. Never mind, silly girl. Neal has made all that so insignificant.
Still and all, they have been married for thirty years. Mary goes back to the bar and pours herself another two fingers of Scotch. Poor dear Sturges. But he really does have it coming.