Jessica brushes by me on the way out the bedroom, struggling to lug the large rolling suitcase behind her. I turn and follow her down the hall, stopping short of the foyer. Her key to my place drops with a clang onto the glass plate atop the small table near the door. The message is clear. She won’t need them anymore.
“I asked you to listen to me. I begged you to listen to reason. I told you this campaign was dangerous. You chose to ignore me.”
“You wanted me to tow your line. It’s your way or the highway, right? Always has been in our relationship. There’s no room for discussion with you, only listen and obey. I get it now. You don’t want a husband, you want a lap dog.”
She slides her engagement ring off her ring finger and throws it at me. I catch it against my chest, and take a moment to admire how it reflects the light from the room. In colonial America, men gave women a thimble as a sign of eternal companionship. The women would remove the top in order to create a ring. Looking at the precious diamond fastened to this one, we’ve come a long way. Or maybe not.
“Rationalize all you want, Michael. It really doesn’t matter now.”
Her words hang in the air as she leaves, the suitcase trailing behind her providing the media circling outside everything they need to know about our relationship. The competing images of Bruce coming to my defense and my fiancée leaving over this scandal will provide debate fodder over the truth for the political pundits right up to election day.
As the door slams in her wake, I begin to realize the enormity of what’s happening in my life. She’s right, I am losing everything. In the span of a few hours, I have lost my livelihood, fiancée, and probably the election. And even if people in town haven’t lost respect for me because of Bruce’s comments, they’ll always look at me and wonder if the story is true.
I need time to think clearly, but all the emotions of the day have left me numb. Running, exercising, or even breaking something might help ease the enormous feeling of stress, but I can’t do any of them without drawing unwanted attention. I slide down the wall I was leaning on, tucking my knees into my chest and bury my head in my hands.
.
-FIFTY-TWO-
KYLIE
This is not your typical New England sports bar. Being closer to New York, the walls are adorned with copious amounts of memorabilia from the Yankees, Mets, Giants, and Jets instead of the Boston teams. There are televisions everywhere, and the big screen is currently tuned into ESPN. The place is busy, but not crowded for a Friday night.
Michael is sitting in a booth tucked away from the bar, a nearly empty glass of beer in front of him. There is no media present, and I am left to wonder how he managed to ditch them. Worse, how long it will be before they find him here? What will that report will sound like?
Each booth has its own little TV, and while most are tuned into one sporting event or another, he has Fox News on. I would have figured he’d seen enough for today.
“While the flap about Michael Bennit's possible affair with a student has cost him in the polls, the race may still go down to the wire,” the anchorwoman says. “No doubt both candidates will be working hard tonight, and this weekend, to make their plea to the voters.”
“If she only knew how wrong she was.”
Michael looks up in time to see me slide into the bench seat across from him. A waitress in a black waist apron and New York Giants jersey comes over to take my order.
“Sam Adams Boston Lager,” I tell her, “and bring another for him.”
“Good choice,” he affirms as she departs. “You know what I like.”
“So, drinking yourself under the table is your idea of last minute campaigning?”
“In light of recent events, my doctor says I need to drink more. In other news, I changed my name to Doctor. Nice to meet you,” he says, finishing the lame joke. “Besides, the one advantage to being a social media candidate is I can work from anywhere.” He drains the last of the beer in the pint glass in front of him.
“Yeah, you're working real hard.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I'm a reporter. It's my job.”
The waitress returns with the beers. He downs more than half of it while I take a sip of mine.
“I heard about you and Jess. I'm sorry.”
“Damn, bad news travels fast. It is what it is. She made her choice.” Michael shakes his head dismissively.
“Is that what you said about getting suspended from teaching, too?” Michael only rewards me with an annoyed grin, so I’ll give him another verbal poke or two. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d pick drinking as a way to run from your problems. I didn’t picture you to be the quitting type either.”
“I’m not. But even Atlas went down on a knee when they put the weight of the world on his shoulders.”
“Fair enough. How’s the staff handling all this?” I ask, more than a little curious how they’re faring.
“They think they’re in over their heads.”
“They didn’t actually believe the Beaumont attack machine’s propaganda, did they?”
Michael exhales impatiently. “No, even teenagers know bullshit when they see it. Look, Kylie, I'm not in the mood for a chat right now.”
“Good. Then shut up and listen.”
I take a long sip of beer from the glass. I’m not sure exactly what I want to say to him. A lot of things are rattling around my mind. I’m sad, angry and, disappointed all at the same time, but I’m not sure how to articulate those feelings. Eh, screw it.
“You know what the real tragedy of this mess is? There’s going to be a whole generation of students who will not get to learn from the great Michael Bennit. You went ‘all in’ with these particular kids at the expense of those who follow. Maybe it was worth it. I think you’re a jackass.”
“That's some pep talk, Kylie.”
“I'm a reporter, not a cheerleader. I don't give pep talks, I get facts. Why did you really do it?
“You know why.”
“No, I want the whole story this time. Nobody goes through all this for a civics lesson to eighteen-year olds. I want the other reason.”
“We off the record?”
“Screw you. We’re beyond that crap now. I can’t help you anymore unless I know the whole story. Answer the question.”
Michael takes a long pull of his own draught and then returns the glass to the table, swirling it in circles as he gets lost in his thoughts. I am about to lose my patience until he finally speaks.
“We like to believe all kids are equal. They're not. Chelsea, Vince, Peyton, Amanda, Brian, Emilee, Vanessa, Xavier - they are special, and I challenge anybody to say otherwise. I saw an opportunity to take an active role in their lives instead of just being a bystander. Maybe for once I was trying to actually make a difference as an alternative to sitting in my classroom and reading from a textbook. That’s the whole story.”
“Bullshit.” I study his face intently, and it betrays him. There’s more to the ‘why’ he is doing this and I deserve to know. I’ve been patient through this process, but I am at the end of my rope. “Earned, not issued,” is all I say in pleading my case.
“You’re beginning to sound like Jess,” he says with a smile before exhaling deeply. “And yes, you’re right, it has been earned.”
He then goes on to explain everything. Why he took the bet in the first place, decided to include his students, how he ran the campaign, everything. Suddenly the enigma that is Bennit for Congress has an answer, and the world makes perfect sense because of the answer.
Michael Bennit is either an evil genius or a reincarnated founding father. He is one of those rare breeds willing go to great lengths to prove a point because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. Not in the negative way, but in the ‘I’m not asking you to believe me, let me show you’ way important men and women of the world have throughout human history.
The founders fought a war to prove America was better off without the Crown. Lincoln wen
t to war to mend the divide between north and south. FDR went to war with the Supreme Court over the benefits of the New Deal. Michael Bennit is going to war over the American election process itself.
Well, the comparisons may be a little extreme, but I’m excited. Bruce Stanton was right. Michael will make a terrible politician, but he would be one hell of a leader.
“Wow,” is all I manage to say when he finishes. My mind is racing. It is the most selfless thing I have seen in politics. Ever. All I want to do is find ways to help. I’m just not sure what more I can do.
“You're paying an awful steep price for this. Your kids are going to pay up too. Is it worth it just to make a point?”
“That’s for them to decide. Is it worth it for me? Well, I guess we'll see next week.”
“If you win?”
“No. If the country gets it.”
.
-FIFTY-THREE-
BLAKE
Thirty-six hours. That’s the sum of time it took for Michael Bennit to recover from the biggest political bomb our campaign could drop and come back swinging.
The ten point lead he enjoyed following the debate was a brief one. Once I leaked the news about the affair, he plummeted thirty points overnight to a twenty point deficit, or so Marcus said when he reported our internal poll. Beaumont was ecstatic at the result, and I got a huge pat on the back.
“Your political future is secure,” he told me. Maybe, but I sure didn’t feel like celebrating. I figured the Bennit campaign had suffered a fatal blow and would go out with a whisper.
I was wrong. The man took our best knockout punch, but didn’t stay on the mat long. Yesterday morning, he took to every social media site in existence, and even hosted an eight hour web chat to answer any question a reporter could dream of asking. Bruce Stanton’s interview got posted to YouTube seconds after he finished it and had generated a record number of views by then. The Bennit camp tackled the accusation head-on, and as a result, Roger watched in horror as the well-planted story burned out by the end of the day.
Then the iCandidate went on an offensive of his own last night. He twisted the issue so the question was no longer whether he slept with a student, but who made up the story he did. Bennit commanded the media’s attention, and could have spent the time going negative and accusing us of dirty politics. Roger thought he would, and wasted a ton of time preparing to counter his accusations. Hell, it made perfect sense because they’d be right. We were dirty.
Michael Bennit doesn’t use that playbook though. Instead of going negative on us as predicted, his campaign went positive. No other candidate in the country could ever pull off such a move. The focus again shifted right back to his message and the ideas about both America and the future we collectively share in this country. He even used the incident to highlight everything wrong with the modern election process. His staff still addressed the occasional scandal question when it surfaced, but they managed to move everyone in the media off the subject. It’s worked brilliantly, but it will fall short.
It’s a weekend, so people are going to spend a lot more time watching college and pro football than news about politics. He’ll get back to within ten points or so, but it won’t be a suspenseful election night. On paper, anyone reading about this race twenty years from now will see an independent candidate make a brilliant run, but still fail to unseat a popular incumbent. They won’t ever learn the back story.
So no, Bennit won’t be able to recover from the hit he took, but he won’t go down without a fight. You have to admire the tenacity he inspires in his students. Fox News practically has his Twitter feed scrolling live at the bottom of their screen. Kylie worked the media up into a frenzy over him again, and we gave her the reason.
“I hope you’re not worried about the flurry of Bennit-related activity,” I hear Madison say from the office door. I have no idea how long she’s been standing there.
“Sorry. No, I was just lost in my thoughts.”
“He’s finished, Blake. It’s a Sunday night. The news can say what they want, and he can tweet, post to Facebook, and all that other crap they do, but nobody is listening or watching. He can’t recover.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, don’t sound so thrilled.”
I flash the best fake genuine smile I can. I should be elated we are frontrunners again. I would have taken Dick Johnson out at any point in this campaign and slept like a baby afterwards. Even taking on the iCandidate for something he did in his past would have been acceptable. Going after Bennit by using his teenage staff? That is wearing on my conscience.
“I set you up for failure Blake, I hope you know that. I never thought you’d go through with it. You’d waffle, and complain, and ultimately fail and I’d swoop in to the rescue and do it myself. But you came through.”
“Yeah, well, you should never have doubted me, Madison.”
“Nope, you’re right,” she says. She crosses the small office and leans across the desk until her face is mere inches from mine. “This thing between us isn’t over. Not for a second. You trampled me to get ahead, and I haven’t forgotten. Remember, I can be every bit as ambitious as you, and someday it’ll be your turn to take the knife in the back.”
She winks at me before retreating out of the small office and out into the war room. The fact is, she had every reason to doubt me. I didn’t want to do what I did to Michael Bennit and Chelsea. They deserve better. Making the story up of them having a sexual relationship epitomizes everything Americans hate about politicians. Scandals make for great ratings in the press, but making one up for political gain is the ultimate in slimy politics.
The Bennit campaign is dead, and I pulled the trigger. Beaumont has no business getting reelected after the race he’s run. He’s offered no fresh ideas or bold initiatives. His message was the same tired reliance on funneling money into the district and buying his way to another term. It’s a shame.
I actually think Michael Bennit would make a better congressman. A man of principal, he would be despised by most of the members of the House. With the right guidance, he could actually shake things up and make life interesting in D.C. Too bad he will never make it there, not down so far in the polls just days before the election.
No, Bennit is cooked. I lean back in the chair at the desk and stare at the ceiling. There is a lot of uncertainty with the voters of the district. Can they be influenced again? He’s finished in this race, at least on paper. Unless, of course, something drastic is done to even the score and give him a fighting chance.
.
-FIFTY-FOUR-
CHELSEA
“The polls open in like, fourteen hours, Chels,” Brian says despondently. “We’re just not going to make up enough ground.”
“Down eight in the Rasmussen poll,” Vanessa says, peering at her laptop. “Eleven in the ABC-Washington Post poll, but they’ve never liked us.”
“What does Marist have us at?” Emilee asks.
“Ten, but with a larger margin of error,” Amanda says.
“We can’t let them beat us over a lie,” I say, slamming my hand in the table.
“Chels, if it wasn’t for your dad, we wouldn’t even be this close.” Vanessa consoles. “We’re lucky we’ve gotten ten points back so quick.”
“Well, the mainstream media is questioning the integrity of the story, thanks to Kylie. Our numbers should be better,” Vince adds, grasping for reasons why we are still low in the polls.
“It’s gonna take a while for the word to spread,” Xavier tells me. Maybe he’s right, but I doubt it. People have chosen to stop believing in us. I have to hand it to the Beaumont camp, they timed this little nightmare perfectly.
“I don’t know what to do, guys.”
“We keep fighting,” Vince tells me. “We don’t quit.”
A long silence fills the room before Amanda finally breaks it. “What do you think Mister B?”
Mister Bennit is preoccupied with his thoughts, staring blankly out t
he window. We convened at the shop immediately after school to make one last plea to the public for votes, but even he can’t be optimistic about what he’s hearing. He doesn’t even turn when he speaks.
“People are confused. They don’t know what or whom to believe anymore. Everybody has a side, including the media.”
“With all the accusations flying over the last week, who could blame people if they stop listening,” Emilee decrees.
“I wouldn’t,” Vanessa agrees.
“If I wasn’t working on this campaign, I would have stopped listening months ago,” Vince adds.
“What can we do to make them listen?” Amanda asks in frustration.
“Nothing. It’s out of our hands now.”
.
-FIFTY-FIVE-
BLAKE
If I press this button, it’s all over. My job, career in politics, and everything I’ve worked for to this point will go up in flames. Ones and zeros sent over an invisible network to the world will lead to real repercussions.
I sit in the war room of our campaign headquarters among the rows of phones prepped for tonight’s action. Volunteers are starting to arrive for the final stages of the get out the vote effort designed to propel Winston Beaumont to victory tomorrow. Of course, recent events have considerably reduced the urgency of the work.
I stare at the message I typed on @WinstonBeaumontIII, the official Beaumont for Congress Twitter account as my finger hovers over the tweet button. My heart tells me this is the right thing to do, but my head is screaming that it’s also futile. Problem is they’re both correct.
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