As we gabbed on, I noticed Morena’s hands shaking as she peeled her orange. Then she suddenly burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did I say something wrong?”
With her head down, Morena reached across the table and took hold of my hand. “It’s horrible to be hated,” she said, sobbing. “The insults, the name-calling, the stares that say ‘go back where you came from.’”
“Is it that bad?”
She looked up and wiped the dampness from her face. “You can’t carry groceries home without being harassed. People sometimes spit on you when you pass them on the sidewalk. Yes, it’s that bad, especially for the children, who can’t possibly grasp the situation they’re in.”
“And to think,” I said, “there are powerful men who could put a stop to that kind of thing.”
“The men!” Morena’s despair abruptly turned to rage. “What do they know about the misery women have to go through? Our dreams are simple: a roof, a hot meal, a bed for our children. Who’s legal, who’s not; who stays, who goes; those are matters for fat politicians with tiny brains and big offices. They pass judgment on people they have no intention of helping—unless it’s an election year. It’s hurtful to be thought of as something less than human. But it’s the helplessness that hurts the most—the feeling that you’ve been cast adrift in a leaky boat, and there’s no one to rescue you.”
She wiped the last tear from her face. “But I don’t feel so lost around you. You’re kind, and I thank you for that.”
I was getting a little misty myself by that time. “I wish it didn’t have to be that way.”
“The world is full of wishes, Amy,” said Morena. “Luis wishes for a good job. He wishes for a better life for his family. I, too, have a wish, but mine is more powerful than his, more wonderful than any he could imagine.”
“What’s that?”
“That there be more Amys in the world.”
My heart melted. Never in my life had I heard stories of such atrocious treatment by human beings. I wanted to tell her that it’ll be okay, but that was a promise I couldn’t guarantee. The best I could offer her was a hug, and another cup of Cheerios for Olivia.
The baby was soon back on her mother’s hip, as we went outside to check on the boys.
Luis wiped his greasy hands on a rag, as Alan closed the engine hood.
“I can’t thank you enough, Luis,” said Alan, “but I can give you a lift to wherever you need to go.”
“Are you going anywhere near Houston?” asked Luis. “I hear the Space Center is looking for engineers to work on the shuttles.”
“I think you’re a little late for that,” I said. “The Shuttle Program has been scrubbed. All the planes are in museums now.”
Luis hung his head. “Which way did you say was California?”
“None of that, now,” said Alan. “We’ll get you to someone who can help get your papers in order. I’d hate to have you tackle that border wall again. I hear that thing’s a bitch to get over.”
“There you go again,” said Luis. “It takes more than a little metal and concrete to destroy a man’s dream.”
“Then, how did you get over the wall?”
“A ladder.”
“Oh.”
Down the road behind us came the distant sound of a police siren. “Uh, oh!” I said. I turned to Luis. “I think you had better—”
But Luis and his family were gone, vanishing as mysteriously as they had appeared.
Roswell! Did I just have a close encounter with a space alien? Was Luis’s knowledge of rockets just a coincidence? Or, were they just a typical family of border-crossing immigrants? I guess aliens come in all forms.
The wailing siren stopped as a vehicle pulled up next to the bus. What we assumed was a Border Patrol car, wasn’t a car at all. It was Chester’s custom coach!
“Didn’t handle that too well, did you?” said Chester stepping off his bus.
“What do you know about it?” said Alan.
Chester pointed to the video cameras along the roof of our bus. “Saw the whole thing.”
“Oh, yeah. Forgot.”
“I ran into a group of illegals myself,” said Chester. “The authorities had rounded up more than their trucks could carry, so I offered to help out.”
I leaned in through the doorway of Chester’s bus. Hand-cuffed and silent, sat a small group of frightened immigrants. A face leaned in from the back and looked at me. It was a pretty, brown-haired girl about the same age as me.
Peter sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield.
“And what do you have to say about all this?” I asked him.
Peter didn’t move a muscle, not even to look at me.
Chester studied Alan’s bus and rubbed his chin. “I could send you a tow truck from Bravo,” he said, “but that would be aiding and abetting the enemy, wouldn’t it?”
Chester planted his large self in his seat and started his bus up. “Too bad that rocket stunt of yours backfired,” he said. “It was very inventive. Still, it does my heart good to see another one of your grand ideas fail”
Then Chester roared off, leaving us to inhale his dust.
Climbing aboard our own bus, I buckled myself in as Alan started the engine—the one that came standard with the bus.
Marge chimed on. “You gonna take that from Chester?” she said.
Alan slowly closed the door. “To fight another day, Marge. To fight another day.”
Chapter 6
Cover Girl
It was midnight by the time we finally reached Bravo. We pulled into the hotel where accommodations were provided for us, and parked alongside our opponent’s bus.
The windows in Chester’s motor castle were dark. Having arrived hours before us, He and Peter had been relaxing in the Southwestern-style resort. Alan and I were beat, and couldn’t wait to get checked in to our rooms.
As I unbuckled my seat belt, Marge came on. “Before you go,” she said, “there’s something I think you should see.” She displayed a TV news broadcast from earlier that day. There on the screen was a tabloid photo of Alan, unkempt like he had just awoken from a sleepless night. The caption across the bottom read, Sex Scandal Rocks Presidential Race.
“Turn it up, Marge!” I said.
The camera cut to a shot of Chester sipping a margarita in the hotel’s Mexican cantina. A female news reporter tilted her microphone into Chester’s face, while a beautiful señorita served him another drink.
“All I’m asking,” said Chester, looking straight into the camera, “is what was Mr. Freeberg doing in that bus, while holed up in the middle of nowhere, with an underage girl for over an hour?”
The camera swung over to the reporter. “A very good question indeed,” said the busty, blond newswoman, “and one the voters will be asking themselves as The Race For The White House heats up! Back to you in the studio.”
Score a point for Mr. (mudslinger) Fields, for planting the seed of doubt in the minds of the voting public. There’s nothing like alleging inappropriate sexual conduct to keep people’s minds off the real issues. His innuendo quickly spread from the broadcast airwaves to the depths of cyberspace.
“This is why I don’t watch television,” said Alan. “It’s all crap!” Then he headed for the door with his overnight bag.
Stunned, I didn’t move from my seat, like I had been sitting in superglue.
“Aren’t you coming?” asked Alan.
“Hell, no!” I said. “I’m sleeping on the bus tonight. That’s all I need is to be seen walking through a hotel lobby with you after what just happened.”
“No-no,” he said. “You take the room and I’ll stay here.”
“You go ahead. I’ll be alright. You need a good sleep more than I do.”
Alan looked over at Chester’s bus and clenched his fist. “I knew that old buzzard was a sleazeball, but I never thought he would stoop this low.”
“We should have known something
like this would happen at some point.”
Alan grabbed hold of the door lever. “The couch in The Lounge folds out into a bed. There are sheets and blankets in there, too.” He started to leave, then heaved a heavy sigh and glanced over his shoulder at me. “Maybe we should just quit right now. Once rumors like this get started, your chances of winning are practically zero.”
“Well, okay,” I said, pretending to agree with him, “if that’s the way you want it. I can see the headlines now:
PRESIDENT FIELDS VETOES ANTI-POVERTY BILL.
IMMIGRATION REFORM STALLS AT THE WHITE HOUSE.
HOME FORECLOSURES SKYROCKET FROM FIELDS ECONOMIC POLICIES.”
Alan shot me a stern look, then smiled an instant later. “Bless you, Amy,” he said, “You know me better than I know myself. See you in the morning.”
I locked the door behind Alan as he walked off, more determined than ever to see that Chester Fields never sees the inside of the Oval Office.
This morning . . . on Gossip Today:
High priest caught with his robe down.
And, caught on camera!
Royal prince crowned by stripper.
We’ve got the ‘bare’ facts!
Plus, candidate Freeberg’s secret teen fling.
If the bus is a-rockin . . .
“Turn that damn thing off!” I screamed at Marge. What a nasty thing to wake up to. Alan and I were now easy targets for the tabloid press, and the TV gossip shows wasted no time in dishing the dirt.
Spending the night in a bus, in a hotel parking lot wasn’t so bad. Except for waking occasionally from passing cars, I slept pretty soundly. Slumbering under the stars in Alan’s personal planetarium probably had something to do with that.
I got up, showered in the phone booth-sized stall, and enjoyed a full breakfast, courtesy of the hotel’s room service. Alan would be tied up in PR activities all day, which was just fine with me. I needed some chill-out time before the next day’s challenge, anyway.
After watching an old movie from Alan’s classic film collection, I was totally relaxed. The day was starting out to be a pretty decent one, until—
Bump!
Something hit the front door. I opened it to see that someone had graciously delivered me a copy of that morning’s Schlock Magazine, the country’s number-one tabloid rag. I picked it up, then nearly fainted: My picture was on the cover! Chester’s rude remarks from the night before had been copied, edited, transcribed, formatted, and uploaded. Now the story was in print, too.
How many thousands (millions?) would see that cover, I didn’t want to know. It wasn’t even a good likeness of me—lifted from my high school year book. (Since when do those pictures ever look any good?)
At least I didn’t have to worry about being tailed by the Paparazzi. Breadcrust’s favorite Supreme Court justice ruled that they couldn’t come within a hundred yards of anyone involved in the show. Using a long-lens camera to snap candid photos was a punishable offense. But Freedom of the Press was still constitutional, and the media reported all the gossip they could dig up—the more salacious, the better. And as usual, they held absolutely no regard for how damaging it might be for any of us, personally. For me, that damage was just beginning.
So much for a stress-free morning.
I tried to maintain my sanity by finding ways to keep myself occupied. I tried reading, but my mind kept wandering elsewhere. Playing video games on Alan’s laptop got boring real quick, not being a gaming fan. I played chess with Marge, but she beat me after only five minutes. I finally decided that washing the bus would be a nice distraction. Besides, if I was going to be a victim of tabloid name-calling, at least “slouch” wouldn’t be one of them.
Poking around the bus, I found a bucket, a sponge, some soap, and a step ladder. Outside, a water faucet was strapped to the wall near our parking space. The hotel supplied me with a garden hose.
I hosed down the old bus, being careful not to splash the “Chestermobile” parked alongside. Working my way down the length of the bus, I came upon an open tool box on the ground. A pair of legs in jeans stuck out from under Chester’s bus. They were attached to Peter, who was lying on his back making some mechanical repairs.
Peter suddenly slid out from under the bus. I immediately turned away, pretending not to see him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him face me.
“I see you got a little publicity overnight,” said Peter.
“Oh!” I said, acting startled. “I didn’t see you there.”
Peter wiped his hands on an oily rag. “Yes you did,” he said.
I guess I had that coming.
“So what if I did?” I said, keeping my eyes on the bus. “What were you doing under there? Spying on me?”
“Tightening up a loose hose clamp.”
Peter turned and bent over to close up his tool box. I checked him out while his back was to me. So far, I had only seen him from a short distance, and behind a wall of suitcases. He was taller than I thought he would be. Under his oil-stained t-shirt was a fairly attractive build. My eyes lingered on his disheveled blond hair. My instincts were telling me, ‘Look away! He’s a brute! He’s scum!’ but my adolescent hormones were saying, ‘Hmm.’
“Is washing the bus part of your job description?” asked Peter, straightening up.
“Just trying to keep busy. With Alan away all day, I was getting bored.”
“My dad had to fly off to a corporate meeting this morning, and won’t be back till late.”
I froze. I hoped Peter hadn’t confused my comment as being some kind of a come-on. The two of us were alone, with no Press around, and no Secret Service to chaperone us. With the show following Alan, and Chester out of town, our bus cameras had been turned off.
I dipped my sponge into the soapy bucket. My hand trembled, but not enough that Peter would notice. I stepped up onto the ladder, but holding the sponge in one hand, and the hose in the other, I started to lose my footing.
“Here,” said Peter, “let me help you with that.”
“No-no” I said. “I can do—”
But before I could finish my sentence, his hands were around my waist, as he hoisted me up to the first step.
“Thank you,” I said. I must have been blushing.
“You know what?” said Peter. “I have something to make your job a lot easier.” He went into his own bus and came back with one of those car-washing gizmos that jets out soapy water through a nozzle. He attached it to the end of the hose.
“Why don’t you relax,” he said. “I’ll do this for you. It’ll go quick.”
While Peter was being the perfect gentleman, I still had my doubts about his sincerity. But I would worry about that later. For now, I could relax while he did my dirty work for me.
It was now early afternoon, and the day was warming up. So while Peter spray-washed the bus, I brought out two chairs, and set them in a nice, shady spot. I made up two, tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade. After he finished with the bus, I figured Peter and I would . . .
What was I doing? Okay, he was polite and a pretty good looker, but how could I have so easily forgotten what he did to me all those years ago? Had he changed that much? I had to find out.
Peter gave the bus a final rinse, changed his greasy shirt, and sat down with me. He took a long swig of his lemonade. “Ahhhh,” he said, like he was doing a beer commercial.
I looked squarely at him. “I think it’s time we talked,” I said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he replied.
“You were awfully mean to me back in grade school, you know.”
Peter frowned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t go there. Can’t we put that behind us?”
“No!” I demanded. “I want to talk about it.
Peter gritted his teeth, preparing for the worst.
“Why did you do it?” I asked him.
“I was a jerk,” he said. “What else can I say?”
“Why didn’t you come back to school the next day?”
“My dad heard what had happened and took me out of there. He was running for City Council at the time, and was afraid my bad behavior would tarnish his squeaky-clean, public image. He placed me in a private school right after that.”
“What did your mom say?”
Peter looked away, as a gloominess crossed his face. “My parents were already divorced by then. My dad was drinking pretty heavily, and we didn’t get along too well. But we toughed it out together.”
As Peter said that, I noticed him rubbing the back of his neck. His hair parted, and I saw a three-inch scar on his scalp. An injury like that would certainly have meant a trip to the emergency room.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t be prying like this.”
“I don’t mind,” said Peter. “You deserve to know if anyone does.”
This was crazy! Here was this loathsome creature that I hated all my life. I should have forced him to lick the dirt off my shoes, yet there I was, feeling sorry for him. But maybe it was time to let go of the past, like Peter said. At least he was being honest with me.
“And what about you?” asked Peter. “What did your folks say when they found out what I did?”
“I never told them,” I said. “We moved to Shankstonville just as I started high school. Since then, things haven’t gone so well with me and my folks, either, and living life as a Midwesterner hasn’t improved my attitude. I miss the city.”
“Dad and I still live in the East,” he said. “Maybe you could come visit sometime.”
I grumbled: “You mean, after your dad steals the election? After he destroys the last ounce of dignity Alan has left? After dragging my name through the mud?”
Peter stared at the ground. “I wish I’d never volunteered for this.”
“I don’t blame you for your father’s actions,” I said. “Actually, I’m kind of glad you came. We might never have had this chance to clear the air.”
Peter rose from his chair and handed me his empty glass. “Thanks for the lemonade, Amy.”
The Thumper Amendment Page 5