“What the hell?” Jerry tossed the paper back at me. “The poetry of trees dancing in the wind? This is what we play when we want trash thrown at us.”
“Fuck you.” I slumped down on the one couch in our studio. It was apparent that I’d totally lost my judgment.
“What, are you tuning into the easy-listening station?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” I said. I sat up and scratched out the line. “We’ll cut it.”
* * *
Watching Robin’s rise was both disturbing and exhilarating, if that’s possible. The type of music I was writing was way different than where I’d begun. But music is an extension of the artist—it changes as you do. For me, it’s always been that way, throughout my life. I didn’t know how to process what I was seeing whenever I watched the metamorphosis of this woman I used to know.
Watching her take her place behind the platform, I could see the defiant girl I used to know and now the calculated politician, with steely reserve behind black-rimmed reading glasses.
“She wants to look like a fuckin’ librarian,” I said, popping chips into my mouth as though they were oxygen.
“Why do you care?” Carmen asked over the kitchen pass-thru. She was fixing something for dinner, and I secretly wished she wasn’t there. I was in an emotional blender; I couldn’t handle her comments too.
“I don’t,” I said, my eyes never leaving the TV. I had an open notebook on my lap. In it I was musing with a few lines from a song that would be called “Missing Person.”
“For someone who doesn’t care, you watch every press conference she does.”
I turned around to glare at her. “You’re keeping score?”
“No.” She got quiet and resumed her cooking. “Those are actually very stylish now.”
“What?” I asked.
“The glasses.”
“Huh.” I hadn’t realized that. In the silence, I felt the distance between Carmen and me growing. I felt a need to explain things. “It’s kinda like watching a train wreck,” I offered.
“Uh-huh.” Then she started vigorously stirring sauce.
There was no way to get out of the doghouse, so I just settled in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Adrienne
A few years later…
Carmen had just started working at a therapy practice and was bringing in good money—good enough for us to afford this cool new loft with high ceilings and loads of charm. There were cool features like built-in bookshelves and a Roman column right in the living room. It was as if the building had been used for something else, then converted to apartments.
By this time, my love for the city had become a permanent part of my soul. Over the years, exploring the neighborhoods and learning what was where, I grew to love the chaotic charm and history of it all. I loved the little bakery counters and funky shops around the Faneuil Hall marketplace and Quincy Market, the brick-lined walkways and especially the park in the summer where I could lay in the grass and write song lyrics while watching ducks float along the lake. I even appreciated the quirks, like learning a new language and finally feeling as though you’d mastered it—the weird ways people pronounced surrounding towns with no consistent set of rules, like leaving out several letters in city names like Worcester being called “Wooster,” but Dorchester was just like it was spelled. The way traffic would literally get shut down over a Celtics game, even when the Celtics weren’t doing so well. And the book and CD shop with an outdoor area in between buildings, with books and CDs stacked high, even getting rained on. It became my city. And wherever else I’d travel, no place held the same magic as Boston.
“Hey, girl,” Carmen called, throwing her keys on the counter.
I smiled at the vision of her in a black blazer and sexy white shirt with the top buttons undone.
I came over and kissed her in that soft place beneath her throat, feeling her quickening pulse against my lips.
“Hey.” I wrapped my arms around her waist. “How crazy is everyone?”
She pulled away. “You know I can’t talk about that.” She winked, pulling off her blazer.
Before her arms were free, I ambushed her with kisses in a long line down her neck.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“I mean, you want to order Chinese?” She seemed tired, as she freed herself from my grip.
“Sure.” I sat down on the couch, acting like a child whose balloon was popped.
“You only want me for sex.” She sounded playful, but a little accusatory.
“No, I don’t.” Maybe I did. Couldn’t committed partners have sex anymore? We were much closer as a couple, and I was careful to make sure we didn’t lose the exciting part of our relationship, even if it meant I had to be the initiator most of the time.
She started speed-dialing our favorite Chinese place, and I sank back into the pillows, watching her rub her neck, wondering what stresses she’d had that day. I used to live with a monster of guilt always inches from my back, because I couldn’t say if I totally loved Carmen or not. The monster got bigger every year and was threatening to pounce and smother me.
But that moment, as she paced in front of the big picture windows with her phone pressed against her ear, saying the order extra loudly because the guy barely understood English, the late afternoon sun casting reddish highlights in her chestnut hair… All at once I realized I did love her. I felt good. I felt safe.
After two heaping bowls of Chicken Lo Mein, we were too stuffed and tired for sex that night. She slumped wearily on the edge of her side of the bed, setting her alarm. When I came in, the glint of a gold bracelet on her nightstand caught my eye.
“A gift from an admirer?” I teased.
“I got this a while ago,” she said vaguely and gave me a tired smile.
I checked the messages on my phone when I heard “good night” and her light was already off. I turned around, and she was lost under the covers in the dark. I reached for her, kissing the top of her head.
“Good night,” I whispered. I cradled her in my arms. When she rolled over to face me, I was lying there, listening to her rhythmic breathing, so soothing. I couldn’t see anything but a penetrating darkness in the room, but I felt warm and safe and finally like a grown-up.
A few weeks later, Carmen and I met a couple of friends at a trendy hipster bar and restaurant in a part of town we didn’t usually go. We sat in the lounge area because the restaurant was too full. I quickly realized it was a hot spot for young yuppies trying to impress each other.
We crowded around a tiny table, leaning toward each other, trying to hear through the noise. Lacy and Kandace. Lacy had known Carmen since college, and they shared inside jokes every time they got together. It never annoyed me before, but tonight it did. Seeing my annoyed expression, Lacy leaned in closer to me.
“I saw your poster at Star Struck,” she cooed. “Congratulations!”
She was talking about a place where my band was playing. Our underground following had grown larger. But I still yearned to make it an above-ground following. I was never satisfied with the status quo, even if we were making more money.
“It must be hard, living with a rock star.” Lacy bumped Carmen’s arm. “All those late nights…and groupies.”
Carmen smiled faintly. “I have late nights too, so it works out.”
“I saw you on YouTube,” Kandace told me.
“Really?” I tried to act surprised, but I usually saw the new videos people put out about us.
“Yeah,” she continued. “People in the audience record you and put up the videos.”
When the waiter came to take our drink orders, a flash of light drew my eyes to the bracelet on Lacy’s wrist—the same gold, herringbone pattern as the one Carmen had.
Since it was so noisy, I casually tapped Carmen’s thigh under the table and pointed to the piece of jewelry as Lacy gave her order. In an instant, I saw Carmen’s face sink as though she’d been c
aught.
“What does that mean?” I shouted repeatedly over the noise in the bar area. “What does that mean?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Adrienne
“Don’t you want to know if I cheated?” she asked, once we were alone in the bedroom.
The cab ride home had been long and quiet and awkward. I had been off ever since spotting that bracelet, not making as many jokes as I usually did. She knew I was upset.
“Did you?” I asked.
A bitter laugh seemed to catch in her throat. “Do you really give a shit?”
“Is that what it was about? You had an affair to see if I cared?”
“No,” she said quietly, glancing away. “It only happened once. It was an attraction we had for a while and it just…happened. But I love you.”
I couldn’t move or think. On the one hand, it was a relief. I wanted to touch her face, but something held me back.
“Say something, please.” She reached for my leg, but I jerked it away.
With years of guilt tightening around my neck, I assured her I still loved her. But I couldn’t tell her that I was scared I wouldn’t be able to forgive her. I guess we were even.
I went to sleep that night, my back to her, facing the hollow blue light from our window. I wondered if I was worse than she was, if I’d carried an affair in my heart. It wasn’t physically cheating, but my emotional self was sometimes separated from where I was supposed to be. Maybe I was a total jerk.
I wrote the song “Pieces,” which turned out to be one of our biggest hits. The anger and fury songs always did the best.
* * *
“What an unholy bitch.” Of course I was talking about Robin. Yeah, my relationship was falling down around my ears, but I made time later that week to watch the Georgia governor’s debate online. Robin was running for reelection, and tonight she was making comments that left me searching for more antacids.
She was going up against this guy, Buck Deringer, who was popular with Democrats. He was favored to win. But Robin, who was getting increasingly famous for her “tell it like it is” style, was the reason people watched. They wanted to see what bomb she was going to drop. She didn’t disappoint either.
The debate flashed in front of me in segments, pieces of comments—each one more outrageous than the last. It started out tamely enough, then gradually became a bloodbath.
Buck: “I’m gonna make education a top priority. Our schools need to be competitive.”
Robin: “I too believe in education. But how are you going to get more funding, Buck? With that sweet smile of yours?”
Buck: “You’re just another ‘trim the fat’ conservative. Only that fat is our children’s future!”
Robin: “I believe in fiscal responsibility. I don’t believe in playing fast and loose with the budget. You go down that road and our children surely will have nothing left.”
Her Southern accent sounded thicker on TV, as though she was trying to prove how purely down-home she was.
“My daddy always had a gun,” she said. “He had to protect our farm from wanderin’ coyotes in the middle of the night.”
Then it was Buck’s turn to prove how much he loved his gun, went to bed with it every night or some other shit.
Once they’d kissed the ass of the Second Amendment adequately, they moved on to those damn gays and what to do about them.
Neither of them seemed to believe in gay rights, even the so-called liberal guy. But Robin came off as disliking us more than he did, so I guess that’s what continued to solidify her place in the governor’s mansion.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to add any hate crime legislation,” Buck said.
“I’d like to take that a step further,” Robin interrupted. “I’d like to impose a fine on couples displaying homosexual activity in public places.” She looked at Buck. “If you want to protect our children and ensure strong moral values, why not put your money where your mouth is?”
That made the national news, sending shockwaves throughout the country. The idea that a governor wanted to fine gay couples outraged millions of people. It was so beyond the pale, there was an LGBT protest march in Atlanta that same night.
I was distracted by it all, stewing in my contempt. Maybe I needed the distraction from my rocky relationship. Whatever the reason, the next few days I found myself obsessing over what Robin had said and how she could have possibly said it.
That night Carmen had come home, switched on the bedroom light and found me sitting in the dark.
“You have to say something about her,” she said. I guessed she’d been listening to NPR again on her way home.
“I won’t.” I stood up and started getting ready for bed.
“Why? Where are your guts?”
I looked at her and noticed that she’d chopped her hair off. It was sexy, actually, making her big brown eyes larger, exposing more of her long neck. She saw that I noticed it, but I said nothing about it.
“I don’t wanna get involved in political bullshit,” I said, leaning against the wall, taking a deep breath. “Right now, it would be like me admitting to sleeping with Hitler.”
“Or…”
“Or nothing.” I shook my head in irritation. I hated it when she tried to psychoanalyze me.
“Or you want to protect her still, even if she is diablo.” She crossed her arms, poised against the closet door. How very symbolic it all was.
“You’re one to talk.” I’d slipped on my nightshirt, the tattered FSU shirt, now with even more holes in it. It was the softest thing I owned. It felt so good against my skin, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. It was like an old friend that hadn’t betrayed me. I sat on the bed and set my alarm, pretending to ignore her.
I could feel her weight at the foot of the bed. I could feel the even greater weight of her judgment.
“So you haven’t forgiven me?” she asked.
“Not really.” I put down the clock and looked up at her. “I will, though.” I didn’t want to go to bed in the middle of a fight.
Then unexpectedly, she slid her arms around my waist and nuzzled in against my back. It felt good, reassuring. I held her hands tightly in front of my torso. We stayed that way a long moment. It seemed like the beginning of everything being okay again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cory
I almost became a political reporter, not because I love politics, but because I always wanted to pull back the curtain on all the secret goings-on in DC. Every time someone stands behind a microphone at a press conference on TV, there’s a whole crew behind-the-scenes who poured their blood and sweat into that moment, a speechwriter who has carefully crafted and revised every phrase, political strategists who have advised what to do and what not to do so that everything appears wrinkle-free even if it’s not. But I’d love to see the wrinkles that had to be ironed out. I’d love to hear the arguments and determine whose strategy turned out to be a good one or a bad one.
Behind the scenes of Robin Sanders’s campaign, there had to have been so many fights, so much turmoil. Of course I could only get glimpses into this in pieces of stories on the Internet. That’s another reason why I’d hoped that Adrienne Austen would shed more light on it and answer the question: what really happened to Robin Sanders?
Chapter Thirty
Adrienne
I remember Robin telling me how politics was a good ole boys’ club. She’d recount things her dad used to tell her. According to the boys’ code, you didn’t tell on each other when it came to private affairs. But then again, she said she could break that code because she wasn’t a man, and she’d always wanted to blow the lid off all the hypocritical adulterers in Washington. It’s ironic, of course, because she had a secret of her own. I didn’t think her secret was equal to cheating on your spouse. But for a Southern conservative, to reveal the truth about her own past, with her “family values” candidacy, would’ve been like a drag queen speaking from the pulpit in church. It
didn’t usually happen.
It was the early days of the campaign for president—the Republicans still had a dozen candidates vying for the nomination—and I was trying not to follow it, but then one of them said something in a Republican primary debate that CNN said was “sending shockwaves throughout the country.” The clip, posted on YouTube, went viral.
Somehow I knew it had to be her.
There she was on a sparse stage with a black background, dressed in a power red pantsuit with tiny round pearl earrings—the only jewelry, I’m guessing, that doesn’t make you look like a whore to other conservatives. I speculated about this a while ago because they were the only kind of earrings she wore. Ever.
When asked why he was running, one of her opponents—Jay Felder, an uninspiring man whose personality was as gray as his suit, said, “I’m running because I believe in protecting family values.”
This was still the time when everyone was on the “family values” bandwagon. But I knew it was code for anti-gay. Everybody did.
The moderator turned to Robin, who all but licked her lips, as though she had the exact right knife in her pocket to finish him off for dinner.
Remember what I said about how Robin wanted to bust up the boys’ club?
“Well,” she said after a throaty chuckle. “I don’t know how a married man who practically has a hotel room named after him, who takes interns on getting-to-know-you sleepovers, can protect family values in America!”
The clip ended just as the audience erupted with laughter and applause.
The only thing worse than power given to the wrong cause was a smart enemy. I knew Robin had the gift, making speeches that could persuade audiences like those of a cult leader. All around the South, her fans would be drinking her anti-gay Kool-Aid and who knows what else. I could only imagine. Flashes of terrifying images—people seething on TV, protesters in the streets, murdering in the name of God—I could see it all. And it would begin with her saccharine smile.
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