The Candidate

by Paul Harris

  She had been in the campaign game for more than 30 years now, fighting twice as hard as any man she ever met and never once giving ground. She was terrifying, inspiring and seen as a rogue operator. Too much so, it was rumored, to get the top job on Harriet Stanton’s campaign. So instead of settling for a junior position with Stanton, she picked out Hodges and became his campaign manager, placing an outside bet that he could upset the race. Or, as she often admitted after a few drinks: “It is better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.”

  Dee dug out the remote control for the TV from under a pile of discarded napkins that were coated with some unknown fast food condiment. She dangled the remote between two fingers, keeping the sticky plastic away from her body, and winced theatrically.

  “Ya’ll are disgusting,” she said. “Your mamas should be ashamed to have raised you.”

  Then she pointed the remote at the TV and turned up the sound. The assassination attempt was the top story, as it had been for the last two hours. But now the news anchor promised fresh footage of the incident. Dee was eager to see it. She sensed, deep down, that this could change everything. That this one single moment would give them new life.

  The TV showed the new video clip; shot blurrily from someone’s cell phone camera. The footage was chaotic, confused, and it veered from side to side. For a moment Hodges could be seen, standing and speaking on the stage, then Christine was screaming, then the film collapsed into a mess of frames and shots of people’s feet as a loud bang rang out and chairs were pushed over. Then the TV switched to a series of new still photographs, taken by the lone wire photographer assigned the usually dull task of following Hodges around. That was when she saw it.

  It was a single frame freezing a moment in time. But it was a work of art. Hodges stood dead center and behind him, his wife Christine crouched down as the Senator held her back with one arm. His other hand was thrust out ahead of him, and he stared back in the direction where the shot came from. His face looked set in stone, determined and unafraid. Dee realized what he was doing: protecting his wife, putting his own body in between the shooter and Christine. Using TIVO, Dee paused the TV and rewound. She froze the shot and stared at it, feeling alone in the crowded room, suddenly full of the knowledge of where this could go. She savored the feeling like a prayer, thankful beyond measure. Then she went to work.

  “This is it!” she yelled. “I want this picture everywhere. I want you to blog it. I want it on Facebook and Twitter. I want you to email it to your friends, your families, even your goddamn enemies. I want it on posters and pamphlets. I want it on front pages. Christ, I even want it on the radio. If they can’t see it, they can at least talk about it. By the time America wakes up tomorrow morning and pours itself a coffee, I want it to have seen this picture.”

  The people in the room looked at her. Dee smiled broadly. She knew it made some of them afraid. She saw the looks in their eyes: they had no idea what this crazy old dyke was going to tell them next, she thought. But she could not contain herself. She was in complete control, just the way she liked it. She saw the future and it was bright.

  “Boys and girls,” she said slowly, as if talking to a class of school children. “This sorry ass campaign is finally going places. Prepare yourselves for the big time. Your candidate is a fucking American HERO.”

  * * *

  DEE GRABBED Mike as soon as he walked into the headquarters, quickly dispatching his two student volunteers to start blogging about the day’s events.

  “Come with me, buddy,” she said. “We’ve got things to discuss.”

  Mike ignored the jealous glances from other staffers as they walked outside, and headed toward Walnut Street in downtown Des Moines. He thought back to when they first met at a crowded bar on only his second night on the campaign. He and Dee had hit it off immediately. He was one of the few people who dared to stand up to her and she appeared to appreciate that. He was older than lots of the other staffers and as a result he had real life experience. He also didn’t scare easily. Down in Florida, among the immigrant shantytowns, he saw just how awful life could be. He was intimately familiar with stories of children working 16 hour days for a few dollars; of abuse and makeshift camps in which workers were locked overnight. Of the beatings and abuse that were commonplace. It took a lot to make Mike afraid and one of Dee’s rants was never going to do it. Instead, he felt an immense respect for her. She was an outsider in political campaigning, for her gender and for her embrace of her sexuality. But also, in Mike’s mind, because she grew up poor. Yet she took on the political world of privilege and bulldozed her way in. Now she was the mistress of her domain, perfectly at home, juggling a thousand tasks with the speed of a dervish and the grace of a ballet dancer. Mike knew she could teach him a lot about how to thrive in this bewildering world.

  “Look at this,” she said, holding up her Blackberry which was pinging at regular intervals as new messages kept arriving. “It has not stopped for two hours. And you know who’s calling? The View. Good Morning America. Even Bill O’Reilly wants a piece of the action. I’ve busted my balls for months trying to get us a single mention on any one of those fucking shows. Now I’ve got my pick.”

  Her breath billowed out into the freezing air like plumes of steam that matched those from the huddled smokers crouched in each doorway, exiled from inside the downtown businesses. Mike shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around him. He had no idea why, but Dee always insisted on walking out in the freezing air. She ignored the warm, comfortable maze of walkways and passages that meant you could traipse from block to block in Des Moines without braving the winter cold. But Dee’s Southern blood seemed immune to temperature. Or perhaps she simply felt like taking on the cold and beating it into submission with her will, just like everything else.

  “This whole thing is perfect,” Dee said with a broad laugh. “I can’t believe I never thought of it before. What better way to get a campaign moving than almost having your guy killed? It’s pure genius!”

  Mike shivered from the cold. They were on their way to the Embassy Suites hotel, a little way from downtown, across the river. As they trudged over a bridge, Mike glanced at the gray, swirling waters barely visible in the darkness.

  “What happens next?” he asked, struggling to keep pace with Dee.

  “Textbook stuff,” she said. “For the first time in this campaign, everyone wants our candidate. So we keep them hungry. Jack Hodges is the hottest thing in America right now and we’ve got to serve him up in small portions. We’ll issue a statement tonight. Then tomorrow hit one of the morning shows. Then spread ourselves out over the next couple of days. We can ride this train for the rest of the week, right until the next debate.”

  Dee suddenly stopped in the middle of the bridge and gazed out over the river. “It all changes now, Mike. I’m going to need good people near me. I’m going to need an opposition research guy. Someone good at digging up things on our opponents, maybe even on our friends, too. I know the sort of work you used to do in Florida. I’ve looked up some of your investigative campaigns. It seems like you had a knack for uncovering some of the nasty secrets of those big, old fruit firms down there.”

  She flicked her lit cigarette into the river, its little glow twirling like an out-of-season firefly until it was extinguished by the frigid water below.

  “You want the job?” she asked. “Do you want to be my guy?”

  Mike looked at Dee, trying to gauge what was going on behind that wide, excited smile and those mischievous eyes. But he could read nothing in her face. Opposition research? He knew what that meant. It meant being at the heart of the campaign, inside the bubble and close to power. A shield against attacks and a sword to be used against opponents. It sounded like a good deal to him.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Dee grinned and extended her arm. She shook Mike’s hand, held onto it and stared deep into his eyes. Mike fought hard not to flinch. Dee’s grip was vice-like.

  “Hodges is n
ot just our man now, Mike. He is more than that. He is our cause. You know about causes. You proved that in Florida. And a cause is much more powerful than just a campaign. People work for campaigns, Mike, but they believe in causes. That’s a big difference. But a cause is also something that needs to be protected. At all costs. You got that?”

  Mike nodded. Dee released her hold. Together they marched across the bridge and into the lobby of the hotel.

  * * *

  JACK HODGES and Christine sat alone in their suite. They looked up as Dee and Mike entered. Hodges cracked a grim smile and nodded a hello, but Christine, her makeup smeared with tears, just buried her head in her hands. Hodges rested a hand on her shoulder, touching her lovingly, and squeezed.

  “It’s been tough on her,” he said. “I guess everyone who runs for president thinks something like this might happen. You just never think it will happen to you…”

  Dee sat down and waited a moment. She was clearly itching to talk but wanted to be polite; respect the enormity of what might have happened. A few inches to one side and the bullet would have hit home. Then they would be planning a funeral, not a talk show appearance. But it was Hodges, not Dee, who broke the silence.

  “What happens now, Dee?” he asked. “I know you must have a plan.”

  Dee’s face was serious. There was no trace of joy or thrill. It was down to business.

  “I’ll issue a statement tonight. Then tomorrow we’ll have you do one of the morning shows. A day after that we’ll soak up all the media we can get and it will be a lot. We keep it straight and simple. Make it personal. Make it all about how you stood tall when the shooting began.”

  Hodges laughed. “Dee, I’ve been a soldier all my life. That’s not the first time I’ve heard gunfire,” he said.

  Dee pumped a fist. “Yes!” she said. “That’s the sort of line you use. You’re a natural, Jack.”

  “What about campaign appearances?” Mike asked. “We’ve got three town hall meetings set for tomorrow.”

  Dee nodded. “Good question. We stick to them. Do the TV around them. They’ll come to us now. We don’t have to change our schedule.” Dee then turned to Hodges. “We keep you in the public eye.”

  A small moan cut through the room. Christine’s shoulders shuddered up and down and her head sank to her breast. Hodges bent down and put his arms around her, whispering something in her ear. Then he looked up and shrugged at them. “She thinks there may be more shooters out there,” he said.

  Dee and Mike glanced at each other.

  “Yeah,” Dee said. “That’s my next question. Sorry, to have to ask this. But you need to tell me everything you know.”

  A look of puzzlement crossed Hodges’ face. He frowned and exchanged confused glances with Christine. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Dee was blunt. “Who tried to kill you, Jack? I need everything you know. I need the truth and I need it now.”

  Hodges stood up. He may have been wearing a politician’s suit but he looked a military man now. He paused before answering, just the same way that he worked a crowd before he spoke. “I have no more idea than the cops, Dee,” he said. “They say it was a woman. But they have no idea who she is. She doesn’t speak. She has no documents. They think maybe she’s mentally ill or something.”

  Dee nodded. Something in Hodges’ tone seem to imply that further questions would be unwelcome. She smiled. “That line is good enough for me. It keeps things simple. Just your average nutcase in a country full of them. But I tell you this, Jack, when you win this election, you’re going to want to thank her for what she’s done for you. You really are.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MIKE SAT ON the bed in his hotel room in Des Moines surrounded by a fan-like spread of newspapers. It had all played out just like Dee predicted. Hodges had dominated the media for three days straight, right up until this night: the last Iowa debate.

  The picture of the Senator, shielding his wife from a killer’s bullet, was on every front page in America, before spreading across the world. Overnight, his public meetings went from a handful of bored farmers and a local journalist or two, to banks of TV cameras with standing room only. Through it all Hodges did not change a thing. He opened every meeting and every interview with his familiar phrase: “Let me tell you how we are going to save this country…”

  Mike stared at the newspapers like he was hypnotized until a distant ringing in his ear grew suddenly clearer and he snapped into focus. It was his hotel phone. He picked it up and heard the clipped upstate New York accent of his mother.

  “Hey, sweetie. I thought I’d just check in with you, before it begins,” she said.

  The debate started in a few minutes. The cable news shows were already counting down the minutes, a sea of talking heads filling the airspace with meaningless analysis until they had something actually concrete to discuss.

  “It’s a big night,” said Mike. “Been a crazy few days.” It was good to hear his mother’s voice. Calming.

  “So, is he all he’s cracked up to be? Your Senator Hodges. Should he get your mom’s vote for any reason other than out of loyalty to her son?”

  He could feel his mother’s warmth down the phone line, her tone gently mocking. She was always like that. Walking the line of tough love, with a joke and a twinkle in her eye. But he was surprised she was genuinely asking after Hodges. Moira Sweeney did not take politics lightly. She lived and breathed it. Always had. It was a way to rationalize their hardscrabble life in Corinth Falls, struggling to make ends meet in a factory town in the middle of New York, abandoned by a country that did not make anything anymore. She always distrusted mainstream politicians, damning them as all the same.

  But now she was asking of Hodges: “Is this guy for real or does he just come in better packaging than the rest of his kind?”

  He paused for a moment, before answering. He couldn’t lie to her. He could not spin her the same lines that he did the student volunteers, the bloggers and the journalists. “He’s the best I’ve seen, Mom,” he said. “I’m pretty close to him. They’ve made me the opposition research director and I see him every day. You should vote for him and not just because of me.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mike,” she said.

  But Mike could tell there was something else behind her phone call. Her whirring mind was almost audible down the phone line; the cogs and wheels of disparate thoughts coming together. “What is it, Mom?”

  She sighed. “It’s Jaynie.”

  Those old, familiar words. His high school sweetheart. The love of his life who was now his ex-wife. It was a name he dreaded and feared hearing and yet still somehow, he longed for. It seemed there were few big moments in Mike’s life that did not begin with someone saying: “It’s Jaynie.” Some were the happiest times of his childhood, others the worst nightmares of his adult years. His heart quickened.

  “What’s she done now, Mom?”

  “Nothing specific. She just came around the other day, knocking on the door. She seemed kind of confused. I gave her some coffee and tried to get some sense out of her. But she didn’t stay too long.”

  Mike knew what it was his mother would not bring herself to say. But the signs were clear enough. He would make the point for her.

  “Do you think she was on something? Was she high again?” he asked.

  “She didn’t look good, Michael,” she said. “I know you’re divorced now but you two have always been close and…well, I just thought you should know.”

  There was no hint of reproach, but there didn’t need to be. Mike met Jaynie in high school, when they were both 15. Her family lived only a few blocks away and they formed a bond so close it seemed it would never break. She was the most beautiful creature he ever saw, and the most wild. She was like a crazy, free spirit, a shining light in the grim surroundings of their dying, little town. They were married by age twenty, but it was a disaster. Jaynie’s crazy streak grew progressively more out of control and Mike struggled to contain it.
Her drug problem began with pot which Mike dabbled in, but never found a taste for. But Jaynie didn’t stop there. She quickly became lost in a maze of hard drugs and alcohol, trying to make meaning out of her life by driving it to the extremes. Mike tried to keep her grounded, struggling against her addictions like a boy clinging to a kite in a storm. But the tempest was too strong. He had to let go. To cope, Mike headed to Florida and flung himself into community organizing. Work became his own drug, but Jaynie was unable to follow him out of her chaos. The divorce came through five years ago, although they were separated long before that. Yet still Mike felt a responsibility; a sense that he failed her by grasping at escape and not being able to take her with him.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said. “I’ll get someone to check up on her and make sure she’s okay.”

  His mom seemed satisfied with that and Mike glanced at the TV. The screen showed a panning shot of the seven or so top candidates in the party, all of them, save Harriet Stanton, were men dressed in dark blue or gray suits. Hodges and Stanton stood next to each other, neither looking at the other, their heads down, reading their notes.

  “The debate’s about to start, Mom. I gotta go,” Mike said, and he put down the phone.

  Mike darted across the hallway and knocked on the door to Dee’s room. She opened it quickly and ushered him in. A tight knot of campaign workers were already there, huddled around the TV like it was some sort of religious shrine. The atmosphere was tense and no one spoke as the on-screen moderator began introducing everyone. Dee smiled at Mike but he could tell she was feeling the strain. The lines around the corners of her eyes were pulled taught like fishing line on the end of a big catch — perhaps too big — and her forehead was deeply furrowed. She ran a hand through her close-cut graying hair, grasping for locks that were not there. For the first time, Mike thought, she looked every single one of her 52 hard-living years.