Are Snakes Necessary?

by Brian De Palma

  “Hi, Hart. Miss me?”

  “Yeah, Fans. It’s real boring around here without you.”

  “I could say the same about here.”

  “What’s the problem? No magic on the campaign trail?”

  “If I have to spend one more night in a steel-town hotel room I think I might die! But I’m getting good stuff, don’t you think?”

  Deadly silence from Hart’s end of the computer. Finally, he says, “I guess so.” The effort required to get the words out is evident.

  “You guess so? Don’t you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. I know someone who’s lost her objectivity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That bit about his shoes? Every time he looks towards the camera he’s batting his eyelashes.”

  “Batting his eyelashes? WTF, Hart? No. He’s not batting his eyelashes.”

  “Like I said, you’ve completely lost your objectivity. One question: Are you sleeping with him?”

  Fanny feigns outrage. “Of course not!”

  “Really. Well, tell him to stop flirting with you. Do you think he’d get that stupid grin off his face if I were shooting him?”

  “I’m not so sure. You’re pretty cute.” Fanny tries hard to steer the conversation in jauntier directions.

  “You’re right about that. But I don’t think good-looking young boys are his particular bent.”

  “Come on, Hart, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, I’m not kidding. You’ve broken the golden rule of documentary filmmaking. You’ve gone native. You’re captive. Totally taken in—conned—by your subject.”

  “I am not.”

  “You’re hardly an objective judge of your own work.”

  Hart seems to be bridling up his high horse for a good trot. He’s off and running, sprinkling his general denunciation with nuggets from Docs class.

  “Watching your stuff is like watching Primary,” he says, citing a classic spin job from before spin jobs were even invented. “Those Kennedys were masters of image creation. Who do you think dreamed up the whole Camelot thing?”

  Hart is getting to her. Fanny wonders: has she lost her objectivity? Has the truth about her connection with Rogers clouded her vision of Senator Rogers, candidate?

  Fanny’s head is spinning.

  She takes a defensive tack: “I think I’ve captured unique moments that you never see in campaign coverage.”

  “I’m surprised they’re letting you post those love-isodes on their website. How does that genius campaign manager like them?”

  “Not much.”

  “I wonder why? I hope Rogers’ wife is not tuning in.”

  “Okay okay, Hart, I got it. I’ve got to go—to a meeting.”

  Fanny doesn’t have a meeting to go to. Brock has seen to that. For a mad moment she wonders if she has, in fact, lost her head, lost her grasp on truth.

  Then her phone rattles. She sees Lee’s text: “I’m thinking of you, baby. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow morning, early. In fact I think I’d like to have you for breakfast. Big Kiss, L.”

  And Hart and all his mumbo jumbo about Primary and objectivity fly straight out the window of Fanny’s bright young mind.

  CHAPTER 19

  Connie Rogers has always cared about her hair. A pale shade of brown, it has begun to thin. And lighten. She worries that it has the flyaway look she sees sometimes on old women on park benches.

  Connie has not yet experienced the dramatic, disrupting tremors many Parkinson’s sufferers have. But even in her sturdiest days, hand-eye coordination was not her strength. Keeping her hair in the top-notch shape that befits a candidate’s wife requires help.

  In fact Connie is pretty sure she could live longer without her Parkinson’s medications than she could without Roseanne. For thirty years—and at least thirty shades of highlights and lowlights, countless shades of brown, dark and deep blonde— Roseanne has been Connie’s hair colorist and, of course, friend.

  After a short weekend with Rogers in Washington, Connie takes the train home so that she can see Roseanne first thing Monday morning. She wants to have her hair right for the Lower Merion Quaker Ladies Group Monday afternoon.

  The Anna Zane Salon is a small shop, just six chairs. There’s a nice intimate feeling here. Connie is happy to be home with the ladies when she marches into the shop early Monday morning.

  “Gorgeous day, Rosie,” she says.

  “Gorgeous day for some gorgeous hair. Let’s get yours in shape.”

  Connie grabs a magazine or two— Pennsylvia magazine and a few old copies of People. She thumbs distractedly through these. Generally it’s more pleasant to talk with Roseanne than to catch up on local comings and goings and celebrity gossip.

  Roseanne paints Connie’s head with a thick paste. In the next chair, Tina, Roseanne’s associate, folds tin-foil packets of hair color onto the head of Libby Reynolds. Connie has known Libby for years. They aren’t friends but they go to the same country club in the summer.

  “Coffee, ladies?” says the shop assistant.

  No thanks. Connie is tanked up and so, apparently is Libby, who has just run across a photo of Arnold Schwarzenegger riding a motorcycle in her old copy of People.

  “Can you believe anyone ever elected this guy? I mean really?” says Libby. She passes the People to Connie.

  “Hard to imagine anyone took him seriously,” Tina says. “I mean, Hasta La Vista and all that Terminator stuff.” Tina is a movie junkie.

  “And let’s not even get to the part about how he was banging the housekeeper all that time. I mean, really. Sleeping with the housekeeper and his wife at the same time. The guy’s got two kids, two different mothers. They’re running around the house together. And no one notices they look alike? Really?”

  Roseanne has a great genius for the obvious. This is not a common quality. It’s a rare thing to hold fast to the simple truth of things, and not cloud things up with obscuring complications, needless nuance.

  “How old are those boys now?” says Connie. Connie’s genius is for the straight and narrow, which is exactly where her question would turn the conversation if any cared to follow, which, of course, they do not.

  “Can you imagine?” Libby says. “Two kids running around. Looking alike. It takes twelve years before anyone figures it out!”

  “Poor Maria,” says Tina.

  “Dumb Maria,” says Roseanne.

  “Didn’t she notice that Arnold messed up the house a lot so he could call on the housekeeper’s ‘services’?” Ha ha. Tina is a cut-up.

  “Yeah. Really great the way Arnold stayed home with the kids—and the housekeeper—so that Maria could go out and promote her career,” Roseanne offers. “Ever see a picture of the housekeeper? She wasn’t the most attractive person in the world. She just happened to be there.”

  Libby shakes her head sadly. “The wife is always the last to know.”

  Connie follows the conversation with interest. She flips the page. She’d rather not look at Arnold Schwarzenegger on his motorcycle anymore. And she’d rather not think about Schwarzenegger’s wife, in the dark all that time.

  “Hollywood. Different rules govern there,” she says. “All that tinsel and glitter.” She turns the page to a story about a cancer survivor who has patented an early diagnostic test.

  “Oh yeah? What about that congressman?” Tina is remarkably up on current affairs. “You know the one who was on tape propositioning young pages?”

  Libby remembers that scandal well too. “Yeah. But that was homosexual. Totally different,” she says.

  Roseanne runs her brush across Connie’s scalp, filling in the spots she’s missed. “I don’t think it’s so different.” Roseanne reminds the entourage that the Philadelphia Inquirer reported, just last week, that Dirk Reynolds, Deputy Mayor, was carrying on with his secretary.

  “Right,” says Tina. “And when Coco Reynolds found out, she threw Dirk out in a heartbeat. Just as she should have.”
<
br />   “Dog,” says Connie.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Guess what,” Senator Rogers tells Fanny. He is sitting on another red leather sofa in another hotel suite. He has his monthly calendar on his knee. “We’re going to France.”

  “Really?” says Fanny.

  “Three days in Paris for a NATO conference,” says Rogers straightening his tie. And he’s off to a breakfast briefing.

  Later Fanny, alone, heads into her hotel bathroom. She’s wearing a white terry robe emblazoned with the Marriott logo over black jeans and a tank top. She’s shooting her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “Paris!” she says to the camera in the mirror. “How great! Meanwhile, things are getting a little weird around here. I’m getting funny looks all the time. Especially when Lee and I are laughing together. They resent my closeness to him. He says I’m paranoid, nothing’s changed, just do your job, blah dee blah dee da.”

  There’s a knock at the door. Fanny turns the camera off, tightens the bathrobe belt, walks through the hotel room and opens the door. It’s Brock. “Can I come in and have a word with you,” he says. Stern. No jokes. Not even a pleasant remark about the rainy Lancaster morning.

  “Sure,” says Fanny. “Is something wrong?”

  “Maybe,” says Brock. All business. “You know the Philly Star?”

  Fanny does not know the Philly Star and thinks, momentarily, about astronomy.

  “It’s a rag. And they’re poking around, asking questions about you and Lee.”

  “But why?”

  “Um, let’s see,” says Brock. “A good-looking girl follows him around with a camera all the time? Questions arise.”

  “But it’s my job!” Fanny and her usual big-time earnestness.

  “Listen, Fanny. It doesn’t look good. With his wife sick and not traveling with him on the campaign. They’re picking up gossip. And gossip goes right on their front page whether it’s true or not. Now with the last debate coming up, I don’t want anything muddying the waters or scotching our chances. You see what I’m saying?”

  “I’m so sorry,” says Fanny, “I didn’t mean to hurt Lee in any…”

  “I know that, Fanny. It’s just appearances, okay?” He’s softening Fanny for a blow that she sees coming.

  “So what do you want me to do? Disappear?”

  Eureka, thinks Brock. That was easy.

  “Just until we get past Tuesday and clinch the final debate,” he tells Fanny. “And I want you to know from me directly, you’ve been a big part of the campaign’s uptick.”

  Brock hugs Fanny and leaves. Mission accomplished, he thinks as he heads towards the elevator.

  Fanny walks through the bedroom, where she left the camcorder, and takes it back into the bathroom. She thumbs the power and resumes shooting herself in the mirror.

  “Where do men learn to lie like that?”

  CHAPTER 21

  The Lower Merion Quaker Ladies Group might as well be the Altoona School Parents Organization. Or the Harrisburg Women’s Bar Association.

  Connie Rogers has been to a million of these. She loves each and every one of them. A chance to meet new people, listen to new ideas, shake hands and most of all to talk about Senator Lee Rogers.

  Connie’s energy is flagging, slightly, from the medication and maybe the weight loss, but she’s just as game as always. (And besides, her clothes fit better!)

  After tea and talk and what Connie regards as a hopeful sign of interest from a potential big campaign donor, she stops to chat with the small clique of Rogers’ staff people who’ve stayed behind.

  Lily, Nanci (“with an i”), and Bob are long-time members of the Rogers team, practically family, really. They’re chatting about the weekend, polling data and increased traffic on the Lee Rogers for Senate campaign website when Connie enters the conversation.

  “They’re fun,” says Nanci. “They really do provide a look at Lee in action. You know, in a becoming, not so stiff, candidate-y way.”

  “Not sure if the webisodes are what’s driving the traffic up or not,” Bob says. “But they are fun. And maybe they show voters another side of Lee.”

  “I know!” Lily agrees. “Who knew Lee cared about whether his shoes are cool are not?” She sees Connie and makes room for her to join the circle. “I thought you bought Lee all his clothes, Connie. Because he doesn’t care at all about clothes or shoes or what’s cool.”

  No, Connie thinks, he doesn’t.

  She wonders what these “webisodes” are and why Lee is using them to broadcast some weird new interest in fashion.

  No sooner is Connie home than she heads into the library, boots up the computer and types RogersforSenate.com into Google.

  There it is, all the way on the right: Webisodes.

  Connie clicks. There’s Lee, smiling at the camera, talking about foreign policy and…shoes. He looks odd. Giddy and vaguely flirtatious as he talks into the camera asking questions about what’s cool.

  Connie sees the words “About the Webisodes” at the bottom of the screen and clicks. A sick electric jolt climbs up her throat when a picture of Fanny, with a camcorder in her hand, flashes up on the screen.

  “Lee, we have to talk,” she says into the receiver when she reaches him on his private cell phone.

  Really this couldn’t be a worse time for Rogers. “I’m sorry, darling. Very busy here. Working on the mass incarceration criminal justice reform speech. Could I call later?”

  “No, Lee. Now.”

  Is she having new symptoms? Lee has rarely heard this level of alarm in Connie’s voice. “The webisode thing. That web girl. Lee. Are you…carrying on with her?”

  Rogers laughs. Ha ha ha. “Connie, are you okay? Of course I’m not ‘carrying on.’ With the web girl, Franny, or whatever her name is—or anyone else.”

  “Tell me the truth, Lee. I can take it.” In truth, Connie is not at all sure she can take it, whatever it is.

  “Darling. Please. Are you taking the Sinemet? Confusion and paranoia are side effects.”

  “I’m sick, Lee. I’m sick. But I don’t have extreme symptoms. And I haven’t had side effects from the meds. I saw the videos and you seemed so…strange.”

  “Connie, my love. You know what’s coming up? Our thirtieth anniversary! I love you, darling. You and you alone. I have to be in Paris for a NATO conference. What do you say you come along. We can renew our vows on top of the Eiffel Tower! Oh, let’s do it, Connie! The campaign is hard on all of us, especially you, in your condition. Look what you’ve dreamt up. Let me take you away from all this. At least for a few days. We’ll renew our vows, eat some ace food, and knock all this kooky stuff out of your head.”

  Rogers is surprised by this torrent of unexpected declarations. And the invitation to Paris. Nice touch. He’s at his best under pressure, always has been.

  For a half a second Connie wonders if it is the medication— Doctor Katz did say it could cause paranoia, even hallucinations —and then she’s racing off in her mind to the closet, wondering what she’ll pack for the Paris trip and whether it will interfere with her scheduled fundraisers and campaign briefings.

  “That shoe thing threw me. I’m silly. And I’m sorry. I love you. Count me in for the Eiffel Tower trip.”

  “Don’t worry about it, darling. I’m here for you. Always.”

  “All right, dear. Forgive me. Pay no attention. Go back to your work, Lee. I love you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Elizabeth sits in front of a bay window in a one-bedroom cottage overlooking the rocky Maine coast. The water is ice cold. Swimming is not on today’s schedule. Neither is talking to anyone since there isn’t really anyone around. Elizabeth lolls in the delicious expanse of empty space.

  Elizabeth sits herself down at an old wooden table, pulls up her chair and opens her laptop. Now she’s Dottie.

  Dear Dottie,

  I know my boyfriend loves me very much. But he’s been acting screwy lately and he tells me he slept with someone
he had a crush on in high school. He said he was scared he’d wrecked the best thing in his life and could I forgive him? I can. He’s bipolar. If he readjusts his dosages and stops drinking, he’ll see clearly and come back.

  I love him very much.

  Should I be tough or just give him the care and love he needs?

  Yours,

  Fighting Hard

  Elizabeth rolls her eyes.

  Dear Fighting Hard,

  Do the words “lost cause” mean anything to you?

  Cheating on you and blaming it on mental illness—that’s as low as you can get.

  Bipolar? What else is this pond scum? Let me guess. Alcoholic? Really boring? A Nazi?

  Fighting Hard, you’re fighting the truth.

  Strychnine is the only medicine for this creep.

  Yours,

  Dottie

  Elizabeth is having fun. The inbox is full of queries and, so far, no one in the home office has objected to—or maybe noticed— “Dottie’s” new tone.

  Other people’s problems are soooo easy, Elizabeth thinks.

  She rifles through a terrible assortment of letters from people with all kinds of maladies, broken hearts, incurable diseases, murderous secrets, you name it.

  What is the matter with these people? Elizabeth asks herself as she clicks open a letter from someone who calls herself “It Wont Be Long”:

  Dear Dottie.

  I have terminal cancer. I hadn’t seen my ex-husband in 18 months. But, when he heard I was in the hospital, he showed up and started asking questions about my estate and has been suggesting I have a living will and all kinds of things like that.

  I don’t have any children or family. The hospital is very crowded and staff is short and I can’t get painkillers or any help really unless someone is here with me.

  My ex scares me—also I hate him—and it looks like he’s angling in on my estate. But I need him now. What do you think? Is there anything wrong with letting him care for me now?

  Signed,

  It Wont Be Long

  Elizabeth thinks this is definitely getting to be a bit much.