SUPER TUESDAY SHIII-SHUFFLE
Dallas evenings could be surprisingly chilly, even in March, so no one would bat an eye at Madison’s trench coat. She remembered this from that year she spent as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader after college (graduated a year early from Alabama, Crimson Tide pride!) and before Miss Fifty States, back when they were at that stadium with the big hole in the middle of the roof, like a donut. She would’ve been a lifer there, on the team until they pried the pompoms from her old, arthritic hands, if not for the pageant. The Cowboys games had been a thrill though, those performances with the music blaring, the crowd roaring, her hot-rollered hair whipping as she clomped in white boots.
There was no way the football players worked half as hard as those girls: they never had time to sit on the sidelines, they didn’t rest during halftime. She and the girls were Ginger Rogers in heels and hot pants, doing everything better and backward, wasn’t that the line? She couldn’t quite remember. But no, they didn’t have time to slap each other’s asses, congratulating each other after every good play; they were in constant motion. Like most women she knew growing up and the one she was raised by, and the woman she believed she actually was deep in her heart: in constant motion, doing a million different things at once, children, jobs, husbands, while the guys did one or two things and then talked about how great they were.
She tossed her boxy decoy dress, which she had worn all evening, onto the bed. Buttoned her suit jacket, smoothed out the fine wool and tied the scarf around her neck. She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. Applied a bit of fashion tape to her suit jacket, smoothing it against her chest.
In the lounge of their presidential suite at the Dallas Four Seasons, Madison could hear the celebration kicking into high gear thanks to some favorable Super Tuesday returns from Fox News. Men who barely knew what they were doing, let’s be honest, and who had just gotten lucky at this whole thing, were slapping each other on the back, clapping, chanting, “Tex-as! Tex-as! Tex-as!” as though at a sporting event, clinking glasses, opening up more bottles from Hank’s personal collection, which he’d actually seen fit to bring along. Texas now sat firmly in the victory column with Oklahoma, Virginia, Alabama and Arkansas. And those were just the ones the networks had already projected. There could be…more. If this winning kept up, their wine cellar would run dry.
None of this sat right with her. And not just because she had a sluggish foundation to fund. It didn’t help that she was away with him all time instead of drumming up more humanitarians to donate. The Madison Goodfellow Foundation had been chugging along all these years as Hank made his billions, but she never asked him for a cent. He gave some money now and then, as he gave generously to many causes, a staggering number of them, really. In high school Hank used to say, “I want to make millions so then I can give tons of it away.” It was what she had loved most about him. Until all this election nonsense began. He wasn’t doing any good anymore. That’s what angered her.
Someone rattled the doorknob and knocked. “Maddy? Mike told me to tell you, we’re rolling out in five,” Kimberly, Mike’s assistant and one of the very few women in the Hank Machine, called. “Think you’ll be ready?”
“Absolutely!” she called out, perky as ever.
Madison slipped on her Burberry trench for the ride to AT&T Stadium, and kept it firmly fastened as Hank’s Traveling Roadshow, as she referred to it, waited to take its place on the stage—at the center of the stadium. Then, seconds before climbing the steps, she peeled it off, tossing the coat at Kimberly, whose eyes seemed to bug at her plunging neckline. “Um, Maddy!” she said, but Madison just kept walking, pretending not to hear. She smoothed her suit jacket, tightened her scarf and patted herself to be sure everything was in place; no need to be fined by the FCC, after all. Fashion tape wasn’t quite made for heavy suiting fabrics, but it seemed to be doing its job.
As Hank settled in at the podium, she stood beside him, waving wildly at the crowd—just enough motion to create the slightest concern that she might flash a national television audience.
She smiled warmly at Hank throughout his speech, ever the perfect wife.
* * *
HAZE CAPTURES THREE STATES IN SUPER TUESDAY SHOCKER
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
Rocky Haze took to the stage in Boston to declare victory in three states—Massachusetts, Vermont and Colorado—on Super Tuesday. Energized and secure, she made it clear to the crowd of hundreds assembled in Boston Common that she’s not backing down anytime soon.
“To all the voters out there who cast their ballots for me, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You are bold and courageous to stand with me and say, we can do better for this country and we can do it together. As long as you keep having faith in me, I’ll keep forging ahead,” she told them. “And to those who didn’t vote for me this time, I still love ya! I’ve got until November to show you what I can do for ya!”
Those inside the Haze camp, and the woman herself, say they always planned to use today as a barometer. “This means we can push on, there are enough people out there who feel we are speaking to them,” Haze told The Queue.
Those outside Team Haze have taken notice too. “Three states for this kind of outlier candidate is significant,” says a strategist for one of Haze’s opponents, speaking under anonymity. “She can’t be discounted as a total fluke.”
Following her moving remarks, she was joined on stage by R&B-star husband, Alchemy, and daughter, Harmony, to debut a new rally song: “Onward, Together.”
“We got ourselves a race, turned this game on its face
Shuttin’ down the haters, standing strong in this place
We got plans and demands, making fans, shaking hands across this land
Gonna allay fears with fresh ideas, lend us your ears, hold your jeers
Onward together, peace, love, joy, cheer…”
* * *
“I’m beginning to think you don’t need me anymore,” Jay said, instantly regretting his choice of language. “You know what I mean.” Maybe it was a Freudian slip; how obvious was it that he was just waiting to be left behind?
“Thanks, no, I know, I feel like maybe I’m getting my groove now,” Sky said. “Or at least, today. Tomorrow, who knows, right?”
“You’re killing it, be proud,” Jay said. He wanted so badly to say how much he missed Sky. How empty his apartment now felt. How dull the office had become. How he had been filling his endless nighttime hours making a Shutterfly photo album of the two of them like a teen with a secret crush. (It would be arriving in three days. He’d opted for rush delivery.) But Jay wanted Sky’s mind clear of personal stresses, free to do the best work he could, to shine, so he kept it to himself.
“Nah, I’ve got a great editor,” Sky said, as he always did when anyone complimented his writing.
“You wrote so fast tonight, you’ve got all this time on your hands now.” Jay was fishing, of course.
“Yeah, it’s perfect. Paz found a great honky-tonk bar out here, so we’re going line dancing with a few others once they file their stories,” he said, perky.
“Honky-tonk in Boston?” Jay felt out of step.
“I know, right? It’s literally the only one here. It’s kind of an inside joke, we didn’t get to go when we were in Nashville,” he went on. “So, you know, Paz found this place, she loves a challenge.”
“Of course she does.”
Several other news outlets had now stationed reporters on the trail with Haze, and Sky would talk about getting a drink with Kat or Johnny or Paz or Steve after the day’s events. Jay vowed to become versed in these new names and vital stats, asking about them, laughing at the recaps of their hijinks, reading their stories too (which were never as good and never boasted such open access as Sky’s, nor did these reporters get the TV hits Sky did). Some were music journalists, some were serious newshounds getting their first big break; all were young. Younger than Jay, who had never felt even remotely old until he had begun dating Sky.
Still, Sky would loyally call Jay each night after returning from whatever event or rally Rocky might have held, after cocktails, after getting off the tour bus, one of Rocky’s own, outfitted with video games, stocked with snacks and treats and a traveling gym. Sometimes it would be quite late and Jay would already be asleep, but he would awaken and stay on the phone as Sky dozed off.
“Hope you packed your cowboy boots,” Jay said, trying but failing to match Sky’s tone.
“Always!” Sky laughed.
* * *
Birdie had surrounded herself on the sofa with files, her laptop and two cups of coffee, working as she watched the Super Tuesday coverage on CNN. This election was just getting weirder and weirder. Haze had an absurdly strong showing with three states and still a shot at a fourth. And Goodfellow had practically swept for his party. His competitors were a decidedly lackluster bunch, a couple of them managing to win their home states, but no one putting together enough victories to represent a serious threat. His wife, though, had truly stolen the show wearing a megawatt smile and a chic, slim gray suit nearly identical to her husband’s, a scarf fashioned into a bow at her neck and with the same pattern and cornflower blue hue as his tie, and no blouse whatsoever. This Madison had some fire to her. Even if it was just about as un-FLOTUS a look as one could imagine, she had the figure to pull it off. Birdie wished she had thought of it first; the outfit would’ve been perfect for the Arnold fund-raiser, but now of course, she couldn’t wear it.
Even so, the show that mattered more to Birdie was the one taking place outside her window. She had kept a quiet lookout all evening, peeking next door, and now at last Buck was arriving home, accompanied by three other men in their forties and fifties, laughing and talking spiritedly as though he was joining some kind of old-guy fraternity, and one woman, late thirties, pretty in that sexy librarian way (which some are into, sure, but not Buck, to her knowledge). Ugh, already a groupie, Birdie thought to herself. She imagined these were probably fellow university pals. They’d likely had a grand old time watching the returns at one of the bars on M Street and all insisted on walking Buck home even if it was out of their way, because they knew they were lucky to get that kind of time with him, hoped maybe they could make him their queen bee.
He looked up now as though sensing her thoughts, and she flung the curtain shut again. She didn’t have time for any more distractions. Back to work.
* * *
Back in their Dallas hotel suite as Hank celebrated—with his circle of advisers, a glass of his favorite twenty-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon and a cigar—Kimberly materialized. Mike, still meeting with reporters in another room, hardly ever entrusted Kimberly with any assignments besides rounding up Starbucks orders, so Madison took great pleasure in knowing her ensemble must have at least succeeded in making Mike, personally, uncomfortable tonight. Her own quick scan of the major news outlets had found mentions in passing of her “questionable attire,” “suit better suited for an awards show red carpet,” and “costume of a kinder, gentler Hank Goodfellow,” while another accused her of “nearly upstaging the main event.”
“I was just looking for you! Great news. Mike says there’s room in the budget for a stylist,” Kimberly said with forced enthusiasm, probably recognizing this was a suicide mission. “We’ve got it narrowed down to two. Can I photograph your closet to send to our top recruits and see what—”
“Oh, how thoughtful!” Madison said, smiling, as she took out her chandelier earrings. “But I wouldn’t dream of taking money from the campaign just to put clothes on my back. But tell him thank you!” She managed to sound perfectly cheery and hospitable as she closed the door on Kimberly.
Two hours later, Madison would be shocked to discover that Vogue—in a post entitled, “Reconsidered: How Madison Goodfellow Turned Our Heads”—had “endorsed” her for first lady based entirely on her ensemble (but with the caveat that they did not support her husband).
* * *
“Say hi to Daddy!” Reagan instructed the girls, fumbling as she put the phone on speaker. They had awakened way too early the morning after Super Tuesday, and though it was just 6:00 a.m., they were already dressed and breakfasting. It had to be bad if Ted was actually calling her.
“How are you doing?” she asked gently but with hope, as you might someone after a root canal.
“It’s a mess here, Rea. A total shitshow. A Super Tuesday Shi—”
“Wait, you’re still on speaker—”
“Shitshow!” Natasha blurted out.
“No, no, no sweetie! Super Tuesday Shhh…uffle! Super Tuesday Sassafras!”
“Shitshow!” Daisy smiled sweetly.