I’M NOT JACKSON, IN CASE THERE WAS ANY CONFUSION
They had weeks, weeks, to turn things around at the show. If she lost her job on top of everything else…she didn’t even know how to finish the thought. She would go back to New York? She would find another line of work? Well, she would stay here at least for another ten months because she had boldly signed a yearlong lease at the end of the summer (worst-case scenario she could always sublet, though she hoped it wouldn’t come to that) and moved into a (very) cozy little studio in Columbia Heights, not far from Jay’s office.
She had missed a call from Madison that morning while meeting with Jeff to go over their dismal numbers. “I wanted to run something by you,” Madison had told her voice mail. “It’s kind of crazy, but, well, just give me a holler when you have a sec.”
Cady was just punching the phone number when her cell pinged. Hi. Just a friendly reminder that I’m Parker. Not Jackson. Just in case there was any confusion there. She hung up the landline, slouched in her chair, stared out the window across the river at the city.
Ever since the food truck debacle of early August, Parker had taken to texting Cady weekly, like some sort of newsletter she hadn’t signed up for. The texts had become shorter, much like the days as summer stretched into midfall. It was now October, but still these missives arrived, and still they managed to make her smile. She occasionally wrote back a quick, Hi, Parker. She secretly dreaded the day they might stop.
She thought of those kisses daily, as though they had happened in an alternate reality or an especially good dream. She missed him, dropping by the bar, how he would greet her there, their easy dynamic—she had taken all that for granted. How had she not realized sooner, those sparks? She had tried to ignore them: she was engaged; that’s what you do. But now, it was getting harder and harder. And here he was, still texting her. It may not have been logical, but she needed to stay away, to focus on herself.
Parker was right, of course. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong. She just wasn’t ready to put herself in the position to be hurt again, so she had taken herself out of the game. She stared at her iPhone longer than she should have, debating whether to write back, what to say. The Declaration of Independence poster still hung there in her office above the TV. She’d nearly shredded it the day of the food truck incident, but she actually liked it and decided to grant the poster itself a pardon. Finally, she typed: Hi, Parker. I miss…my namesake cocktail… That was all she could bring herself to say, for now.
It was a Thursday, and at lunchtime the receptionist called her with a delivery: at the front desk she found a to-go cup and a straw with an envelope. Inside, on Preamble stationery, it said simply, “Cheers.—P.” She took a sip and smiled.
* * *
Madison almost didn’t watch the debate, she was that angry with him, but as with any potential train wreck, she felt she couldn’t look away. It was both her civic and her wifely duty, in this case. So she had the nanny put Gemma to bed, poured herself a glass of Cabernet—and grabbed the rest of the bottle, why not?—and went up to their bedroom.
It felt like a sporting event. The tension in her muscles and bones, pulling for a difficult outcome. She wanted him out of this race, but not in this way. She knew the minute they began, the moment the camera’s wide shot showed him tugging at his tie, making that grimace like he might be suffocating. She knew even before the index cards or the barking. She saw it in his eyes, all the spirit drained. And then she was sure of it at the end, when, before leaving the stage, he took his tie off, rolled it around his hand, forming a wheel, and shoved it in his inside pocket.
FINAL DEBATE BRINGS FIREWORKS AND
TENSION (BUT NO NUDITY)
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
Nothing could top the October 9 debate for sheer entertainment value. Or so we’d thought. That event, intended to have been a town hall forum, was infamously shut down within minutes of beginning when hundreds of noisy, nude protesters descended on the Athletics Complex of St. Louis’s Washington University, shouting, chanting and bearing signs, banners, plants and even animals to raise awareness for environmental issues. The group had been rallied by, of all things, messages posted to Madison Goodfellow’s social media accounts by hackers. A number of the rowdier demonstrators storming the stage were later escorted out of the hall by police and forced to spend a (very cold) night in jail.
If that event will be remembered for its lack of proper attire, tonight’s debate was marked by its lack of decorum as Vice President John Arnold and opponent Hank Goodfellow were left visibly rattled by independent Rocky Haze. The musician-turned-political newcomer also delivered the biggest bombshell of the night after moderator Grant Foxhall of CNN inquired of the three candidates: “Politicians are often accused of campaigning more than leading as they approach an election year. Fast-forward to 2019, you’re president, how will you balance doing the job while also working to secure a second term?” Haze answered last. “I’m just running for this term. I don’t want the worries of reelection to get in the way of me doing the best job right now. I’m going to dig my heels in for four years, do everything I came to Washington to do, and then let someone else have their chance.”
The hall fell silent, then burst into applause and cheers. Even Foxhall appeared flummoxed as he stumbled over a follow-up question: “Um, seriously? Why?”
Goodfellow had a shaky start, flinging a stack of index cards onto the floor and going off script when he became frustrated with questions surrounding his economic policy. “How many times have I gotta tell ya, we’re gonna work this all out? Get the deficit down without raising taxes? We’ve got plans in the works, and they’re really good ones. But, Jesus, would you demand to know the end of a movie before buying your ticket? The world just don’t work that way.” Meanwhile, later on as discussion turned to international politics, Arnold sniped, “I’m just going to lay out the facts of my foreign policy platform, I didn’t realize we were at a poetry slam,” when following Haze’s off-the-cuff rhymes.
Indeed, Haze received cheers and chants and showed a serious side, speaking (rather than rapping) her mind much of the time. “On my website, we have our detailed plan for balancing the budget. It’s not the lightest reading, but it’s there, here are the basics…”
The crowd, which included a small, but vocal contingent of university students, seemed overall most engaged by Haze. They clapped along as she began her platform, which she called “Four-year Outlook: Watch for Haze”:
“You might be surprised, maybe falsely surmised,
what the world looks like seen through my eyes
I’ve got a plan too and here’s a preview, what’s in my purview…”
Then Haze stopped, looked into the audience for a few long seconds and said simply, “You know, I’m going to listen to Vice President Arnold and not hide behind my music. Let me tell you what I have planned if you grant me the chance to lead.” After laying out her key policy initiatives, she made an impassioned plea, again in spoken word, rhythmic as those words were:
“Voters young and old, fresh and bold, tried and true or new at the polls,
I urge you, speak up, use your voice, consider the future and make a choice.”
Just days from the election, the latest polls have the three candidates in a statistical dead heat…
* * *
Jay couldn’t sleep. He was too occupied poring over Sky’s last text before turning in for the night: We’ll get everything back on track after this.
“Back on track,” he repeated out loud. He had barely edited a word in Sky’s story—Sky was that good these days—but Jay wished he could edit the hell out of that text.
* * *
The call came just a day after the debate. “Maddy, do you got a minute?” Hank said in a shaky voice as soon as she answered. He never asked that, ever. He always assumed it was a fantastic time for everyone to talk whenever he phoned.
“Um, sure, what’s going on, Hank?” She sighed, temporarily halting her plans and taking a seat on the stone ledge before the seven-foot-high metal fence. She leaned her signpost against her legs. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
It was nearly 10:30 p.m. and pitch-black and empty where she was. She wore all black—her old athleisure line—and a matching black baseball cap, her ginger hair pulled through in a ponytail.
“Yeah, I dunno, I think I’m having a heart attack, Maddy.”
“Why do you think that, Hank?” she asked, unconcerned.
“I’m sweatin’ and havin’ trouble breathin’ and my heart just won’t stop beating, it’s so dang fast.” He sounded upset—and very Southern, which happened when he was upset—but not in actual danger. This had happened before, when he’d bought that damn hockey team.
“Well, if your heart is beating, then you’re probably not having a heart attack, but I’m not a doctor,” she said calmly. “Maybe you should call a doctor.”
“No, I wanna talk to you. Keep talkin’, I’m starting to feel better.”
She sighed again. “Ohhkay, well, what were you doing when this all happened, Hank?”
“I was lookin’ at this Halloween mask of my face,” he said. “It is one ugly son of a bitch, this thing.”
“Oh, Hank, throw that thing away right now.”
“And I was thinkin’, why would someone do somethin’ like that? Put my face on one of them creepy rubber masks like something from a horror movie?”
“I think maybe you’re having a panic attack. Why don’t you sit down and breathe into a paper bag or something?”
“Who would do something like that? Make a mask of someone’s face, like you’re some kinda joke?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to answer, but she was at a loss.
He went on. “And then I thought, well, people wouldn’t make this sucker unless they thought there were enough people out there who’d want to buy this. What is wrong with people, Maddy? I don’t think I like this.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to.”
“This isn’t what I signed up for.”
“I think you did, Hank. I mean, I think that just comes with the job. Just one of those things,” she said. “There are some sick puppies out there, Hank.” She knew this wasn’t entirely about the mask. The media, which had enjoyed him up until now, called him things like “folksy,” had been scathing about his performance at the most recent debate. This Is Your New Leader? one headline had read, and then the sentiment had been slapped with a hashtag that was now trending.
“There are,” he said, exhaling. And then, apropos of nothing, “Awww, Maddy, and, you know, I don’t know a goddamm thing about the Middle East.” He whispered it, a great secret.
“I know.” She smiled. She couldn’t help but love him.
“Or the economy.”
“I know.”
“Lord knows I know how to make money, that’s for damn sure, the stock market, running a corporation, all that. But the actual economy? Policy?”
“I know.”
“I could learn. All of this stuff. People would love me, hell, they already do. And I could do this, like anything else, if I worked at it.”
“I know.”
He was quiet for so long she thought the call had dropped.
“This could be a goddamn disaster for me,” he said softly. “Hell, I don’t know if the fallout would be worse to win and screw up or to… It could be a goddamn disaster. Even if it’s the right thing.”
She knew what he meant by “the right thing”—dropping out. This was delicate, so she proceeded with great caution. “Listen, Hank,” she said slowly. “There are so many easy ways out of this. And I know people who can plan the whole thing, make it go off without a hitch. It doesn’t have to—”
The phone went dead. She was talking to herself now. But this call had been progress. She gazed back over her shoulder at the north portico of the White House, illuminated and glowing. Might as well carry on, she thought. Thank goodness they hadn’t raised the height of this fence yet—it was due to double in size apparently—she was fairly certain she could climb it at its current height. She had been a remarkable tree climber growing up, shimmying up that grand oak in their yard in bare feet and gingham dresses.
Of course, if this went bad, it would go very bad.
She turned on the digital camera again—it had just seemed like the video might come in handy sometime—and positioned the tripod right outside the fence. Henry had shown her how to work the thing two Christmases ago before their annual family trip to the Alps; she had gotten some great footage of him snowboarding.
She slid her signpost through the bars of the fence. Not a soul around to see her. Then, standing on the rocky ledge, she grabbed the bars, jumped and slithered up like a cat. She pushed herself over the top of the fence and then dropped down on the other side, landing on the grass on one foot and one knee. Ouch. Something had crunched in her leg, but she shook it away and kept going, the adrenaline coursing through her. She grabbed her sign and ran toward the White House. Midway across the lawn she staked the signpost into the ground.
“HEY!” came a man’s angry voice. “Stop or we’ll shoot!”
She took off running, flinging herself back over the fence again just as the Secret Service came into view. She grabbed the tripod, camera still attached on top, and ran through darkened Lafayette Park. She didn’t stop until she made it to the Ritz.
* * *
Birdie saw it on every news show and blog the following morning: someone had placed a sign featuring a giant photo of Hank Goodfellow’s face in a circle with a line through it—as in No Hank Goodfellows here—on the North Lawn of the White House. She texted Madison: You have got to be kidding me. You’ve outdone yourself.
Birdie got this reply: I must be losing it because this is all starting to seem like fun.
A sure sign that you truly belong here, Birdie typed back. As I always suspected!
* * *
Reagan could be wrong about the letter. The email address, of course, was random and anonymous, but the email itself was too telling:
I’ve recently become, for lack of a better phrase, a stay-at-home dad while my wife pursues a dream. It has been an exhausting process for both me and our child. Financially, we are fine, for which I’m grateful, but the rhythm of our family unit has been disturbed with so much travel and so little time at home. And I am even more concerned that, if this actually worked out for my wife, life as we know it would change so drastically, we would have to carve out a new normal. Do you have any advice on how to face these potential changes and keep us all steady?—Out of Tune
She typed up her response. Every day feels this way when you’re a family. There’s a constant fear of shaking things up. Just as you establish a routine, something always comes along to disturb it whether on a grand scale or small one. I applaud you three for not being afraid and for creating the type of environment where one of you can pursue dreams headfirst and heart first. Every day as a parent is a wild card. Just keep communicating, checking to see how everyone is absorbing these changes. It sounds like important opportunities are on the horizon for you all. What’s good for one of you is good for all of you. Be strong and supportive and loving and as fearless as you can. You’ll get each other through.
She sent her column along to Jay “OMG, have Sky check. I swear this letter is from Alchemy…”
* * *
Jay welcomed any excuse to reach out to Sky these days, and any exchange that didn’t involve editing and didn’t require them to talk about their relationship was a rarity, so he was only too happy to forward Reagan’s column along. Just curious, does this sound like anyone we know? If you’re not at liberty to say just blink twice.
Sure enough, Sky sent back the emoji happy face with its eyes closed, twice, then wrote: Wow, Reagan is good. You didn’t hear it from me, but Alchemy and I have become pals. Other day we were watching Rocky at a town hall and he had been quiet all day and finally just shook his head and said, “She could actually win this and I’m not even sure what that means—it’s a whole new life for us, Harmony, our family. I just don’t even know.” Never seen him like that, you know? Worried, dejected almost. Not like him. I didn’t know what to say so I just said why don’t you talk to someone and he said he didn’t trust anyone. I said, what about anonymously? So we sent it in. It was the only thing I could think of. OK, now delete this! PS: Miss you J.
Jay savored that postscript, reading it over again and again.
And Jay wasn’t the only one feeling better. When Reagan’s column posted on the site that week, Sky texted: Reagan’s answer was perfect. Alchemy said that was all he needed, just to have someone tell him it wasn’t crazy to feel like he was feeling. Tell Reagan thanks…and to never tell!!!