And they talked about politicians. They dissected and criticized and commented about the senators and representatives who had taken the risk to run, who had managed to get elected. They were out there, on the floor of the House and Senate, trying to get bills passed, to make people’s lives better, no matter how maudlin that sounded. Even if they weren’t the ones who would be working in the daycares or hospitals or building the roads that the bills would make possible, at least they were accomplishing something with their talking. The media didn’t do anything except…talk.
Her phone chirped at her. She lifted it. “Congresswoman Stover’s office.”
A familiar voice. “Ma’am, this is Petersen, in the lobby.” Mr. Petersen. He worked the night shift as a security guard. An older man, with graying hair. He was usually on duty when Karen arrived at work. Over time, she’d learned his name and would pass a few words with him on her way up to the office. She’d even shared a cup of coffee with him on a couple of cold mornings.
“Yes, Mr. Petersen.” This was unusual. She couldn’t imagine why he was calling her.
“Ma’am, there’s a woman down here that wants to see your boss. Ms. Stover, that is.”
“She’s in a meeting. I’d be glad to schedule an appointment with…”
In the background, Karen heard a sharp voice say, “I’m not making an appointment. I want to talk to someone.” Mr. Petersen’s voice came back on the line, apologetically. “She would rather see somebody.”
Karen checked the wall clock. 10:30. The Congresswoman wouldn’t be here for another hour, at the earliest. She sighed, “I’ll speak to her. Is she…?”
“I’ve already wanded her. She’s not carrying anything.”
After hanging up, Karen paused, hand still on the phone. Maybe this was something Tarik should handle. No, she told herself, if she ever wanted to be more than an administrative assistant (a secretary, in blunt honesty); she would have to prove she could handle these kinds of problems. With that knowledge putting a little steel in her spine, Karen strode out of the office.
Walking down the stairs, it occurred to Karen she should have reserved a conference room, somewhere quiet, private, for the discussion. As it turned out, that would have been a waste of time.
In the lobby, there was a thin black woman waiting impatiently beside Mr. Petersen. Karen hadn’t thought to get the woman’s name before heading down. Mr. Petersen, ever a gentleman, took the lead.
“This is Mrs. Blanchard,” he said politely. To the thin black woman, he said, “This is Ms. Harvey. She works for Congresswoman Stover.”
Karen clicked into Competent Professional Mode. She extended her hand briskly.
“Mrs. Blanchard. Nice to meet you.”
Mrs. Blanchard was about fifty. She wore thick glasses, and something about her face made Karen think of a scarecrow. She was dressed in a modest blue skirt, matching jacket, and white blouse. Her shoes were worn, but polished.
“Miss Harvey,” she said, shaking Karen’s hand. Her grip was firm, her knuckles large. She’d done some manual labor in her life.
Karen, calling on skills she’d honed misdirecting journalists, smoothly took Mrs. Blanchard by the arm, ready to guide her to one side. Off to one side, with no audience, most people settled down and were actually quiet enough to listen to whatever soothing and agreeable noises Karen was making.
Mrs. Blanchard was having none of it. She stood her ground firmly, and for a thin woman, she had weight to her, as if she could control gravity with a simple act of will. Karen, still holding onto the older woman’s arm, was pulled a little off balance when Mrs. Blanchard refused to be led.
“Why is Miss Stover against school vouchers?”
Karen felt a little flutter in her stomach. This really was not a discussion to have in public. Mrs. Blanchard looked at her through those thick lenses, her dark eyes demanding an answer. She looked willing to stand there for hours, days, until she got some actual information.
“It’s a very complex issue,” Karen began, using a familiar stalling phrase.
“No, ma’am, it is not,” Mrs. Blanchard replied distinctly.
“Well…” Karen tried again.
“My children have to go to public school, in downtown. Have you ever been to downtown South Central?” The slight hesitation before Karen answered was all the answer Mrs. Blanchard needed. “Of course not. It’s a slum. It’s the hood. My children are required by law to attend that public school. It’s full of criminals and gangsters. I don’t want my children around trash.”
“The public schools are a tremendously important part of the American experience—”
“Her children go to school in Georgetown.”
Ah, this old argument. “They attend a private school, that’s true. But they’re targets, as children of a government figure. It’s really for the safety of her children.”
“Does she have to worry about her kids getting shot when they go to school? I do. If the public schools are such an important part of the American Experience, why don’t her kids go, too?”
Karen felt a tiny trickle of sweat begin under her armpit and trickle down her ribs. She could almost feel the drops as they bumped over each rib. Sounding more desperate than she wanted, she repeated, “It’s a very complex issue.”
“If I had vouchers, I could send my children to a church school. I wouldn’t be afraid for my children all the time. Your boss, she votes against vouchers every time. I pay my taxes, I work hard.”
Now Karen felt the beginning of a headache. Another “I’m a taxpayer” complainer. Mrs. Blanchard went on, “I pay my taxes, but I can’t pick the school for my child. I have to send him to your school. It’s just like the company store. You get paid scrip, and you can only buy from the company what the company wants to sell you.”
This was going nowhere fast. She reached out to shake Mrs. Blanchard’s hand again. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Blanchard. I’ll be sure to convey your concerns to The Congresswoman.”
Then Karen turned and fled back to the office.
“Just another ignorant nigger,” The Congresswoman said when Karen told her about Mrs. Blanchard later that day. “She doesn’t realize…those private schools don’t have to take everybody. All she can think about is her church school. Like the church will save her babies.” Looking at the wall clock, The Congresswoman dismissed Mrs. Blanchard and her concerns. “Time to get down to the Hill. We have to get that bill through.”
Karen had her notes in hand. It was a revision to the compromise Immigration Bill that had been passed late in 2006. According to old wisdom, the Immigration Reform Act of 2006 should have been a win-win: it was a bill that made no one happy. The conservatives had complained that it didn’t go far enough to secure the borders and had the taint of “amnesty” contained in its provisions for illegal worker mainstreaming. Karen’s more compassionate compatriots felt it was too restrictive and generally anti-immigrant. However, after the conservative wing of the Republican voter bloc stayed home in protest during the 2006 elections, the Democrats swept to an almost veto-proof majority in both houses.
To anyone else, it was dry politics, but for Karen it came down to an exciting fact: they were in control. They were going to be able to redress the wrongs of years past, and one of the major promises they had made was to reform the racist Immigration Bill. Karen, through The Congresswoman, was going to make good on that promise today.
The fundraiser that evening had more the feeling of a victory celebration, rather than merely an entertaining way to hustle money from donors. The crowd around The Congresswoman was thick, and the pressure of congratulatory admirers kept forcing Karen from The Congresswoman’s side. Tarik had asked Karen to stick close. “Harriet gets a little full of herself. She thinks she did it all. You’ll need to try to moderate her a little.”
Moderate her indeed, Karen thought, as yet another lobbyist approached. It was getting late, and the music from their rapper host, Life SINtence, was giving her a
headache. The lobbyist had something to do with the teachers’ union—it was hard for Karen to catch the exact association over the thump from Mr. SIN. Karen leaned in to hear better.
“We kicked their asses,” The Congresswoman was saying as the lobbyist pumped her hand enthusiastically.
“You sure did,” the lobbyist agreed. “Brilliant to put in money for the education of the poor, huddled masses. Even if the Shrub vetoes the bill—”
“We have enough votes to shove it down that cracker’s throat, right back at him.” The Congresswoman grinned. Her head bobbed to the beat, swiveling to look for a waiter. “Can a sister get a drink in a place like this?”
Karen caught her cue. “Champagne?” she asked.
The Congresswoman winked. “Two. I’m thirsty.”
Karen scurried away. The faster she found two flutes of generic champagne, the faster she’d be back. She found a harassed Guatemalan waiter by the buffet table. The table had been ravaged. A few wilted scraps of lettuce curled on the deli tray. Otherwise, almost everything edible had been whisked away.
She tapped the waiter on the shoulder. When the waiter turned, Karen reached out, lifted two glasses from the tray. Hurrying back toward The Congresswoman, Karen was intercepted by Tarik.
He eyed the champagne glasses dubiously. “Already?” Karen shrugged. It wasn’t her place to comment on how soon, or how much, The Congresswoman was consuming. Tarik took a closer look at Karen. He took the glasses from her. “You need to go home. You’ve been up way too long.”
An old feeling flared in her chest. Undeserved dismissal. “But—”
The lyrics poured from the speakers. “Me and my bitch. Me and my bitch.” Tarik moved closer to be heard over the music. His voice was soft, concerned. “I can’t have you falling over from exhaustion. We need you at the office. You keep us on course. Please, go home and get some rest. There’s nothing of real value going on here.”
His tone, his words, soothed the old wound. She was getting a dreadful headache from the music and noise. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she promised.
Tarik smiled warmly. “Of course. Now go.”
Her cell phone was clipped to the strap of her purse. As she walked through the parking garage to her car, it chirped at her. She had bought the phone based on its great reception, after all. She reached for the phone in a reflexive and well-practiced motion. “This is Karen,” she said in her most professional voice, automatically scanning the garage with her newly developed city-girl skills. No rapists lurking in the shadows that she could see.
A familiar, upbeat voice came from her cell phone. “I saw you on CNN. Time to celebrate!” It was Pamela Cruz, former college roommate and one of her best friends. Something of a lipstick lesbian, but who cared?
Karen grinned, in spite of her fatigue. “You’re kidding.” She unlocked her car as she listened to Pam.
“Yes, I saw you right there behind Harriet. Everyone else was in the moment, and there you were, all serious and everything. I said, ‘There’s a girl who doesn’t know how to enjoy her success.’”
“Pam, it’s been a long day…”
“Just one margarita, I swear!”
Karen debated. It would be nice to relax, just for a while. “How about Pacer’s, in Arlington?” It was a quiet, upscale bar, right on the way home.
Pam gave a very unprofessional-sounding squeal of glee. “See you in twenty minutes. I will make you enjoy your triumph!”
It was just one margarita. One pitcher of margaritas. Pacers was only about a third full, slightly more men than women. Standard for a Wednesday night in a neighborhood bar in Arlington. People worked late around here, Karen had noticed. The Metro was only a few blocks away and maybe they needed to stop in and have a beer or cocktail to counter-balance all the coffee they’d consumed during the day.
Pamela was topping off Karen’s glass from the pitcher. Karen feebly gestured for her to stop. She’d already had one brain freeze. Besides, a couple of suits by the bar were looking at them. Looking at Pam, really. Karen didn’t want to face that. Didn’t these people have jobs? Even if she wanted to hook up after a long and satisfyingly successful day, why would she do it on a work night? Kiss kiss, fumble fumble, either try to sleep in a strange bed next to a naked stranger, or get up, dress in the living room and creep home for maybe three hours of sleep (guaranteed to make the next day Hangover Hell). And she didn’t want to hook up, whether it was a work night or a weekend. Still, one of the suits would probably take a shot at Pam, as much for practice as anything else.
There it was. One of the suits detached himself from the bar and was walking toward them. Lifting the glass like a barrier, Karen took a guarded sip. It was usually fun to watch Pam dispatch a bar shark with a deft phrase or two. Karen hoped the suit would have the decency to go back to the bar quickly and start complaining about the women in this town, so she and Pam could return to their celebration.
The suit was nearly at their table. Pam was sizing him up, ready to pounce.
Instead, the suit looked past Pam. “Karen?” he asked.
Surprised, Karen lowered the margarita. The suit was a short guy, but fit, with a kind of drawn face. Bright eyes, cute smile, even if his face seemed a little pock-marked. An image flashed in her mind. This guy, drunk at a wedding, leading a conga line. Bill?
“Will,” he said.
Oh, God. She gestured at the pitcher. “Sorry. Long day, too many margaritas.” He nodded with an understanding grin. Karen turned. “Pam, this is Will Evans,” she said, catching his eye for his acknowledgement that she’d gotten his last name right. “We were at Georgetown together. Worked on the school lit magazine. Haven’t seen you for years,” she added. Will pulled out a chair, sat down. A blink of annoyance from Pam. He either didn’t catch it, or ignored it.
“It’s wild we’re both still in DC,” he said. “What are you up to these days?”
Pam needed to reassert control. “Karen works for a congresswoman.” She poked Karen in the shoulder. “When are you going to get me into one of those fundraisers?”
“Next one,” Karen promised. “Really, it’s not a lot of fun.” Not for me, she admitted. The Congresswoman held court, the focus of attention, with the guests like courtiers, vying for the opportunity to give her money.
“How could it not be fun?” Pam asked, looking to Will for confirmation. “The food, the music. You had LST mixing it up for you tonight.”
LST. Oh, Life SINtence. Months later, after everything had changed, Karen would remember this chat, just like she remembered so much of her life Before. She decided it was the margaritas and the fatigue that made her do something as unexpected as tell the truth. “The music was god-awful,” she said. “He kept rapping about his bitch.”
“That’s just for show. His street cred or something.”
Damn, that margarita was good. Karen drained the glass. “Look, the way they talk is infectious. I go in the break room, and the younger guys are talking about their friends. N-word this, MF that. I don’t want those in my head. After a while, I start thinking that because I’ve heard it so much. It’s like a virus of ugliness.” Tarik, she thought. Kevin called him “that old-school nigger.” How could anyone call as decent a man as Tarik a nigger? It sickened her to even put that word in the same sentence as Tarik’s name.
Pam affected mock shock. “You sound like the Republicans talking about ‘them.’” Under the humorous dig, Karen could feel a warning. Karen was talking out of school in front of a stranger whose allegiance was still unknown. “It’s simply a part of urban culture.”
“That’s kind of a lame excuse,” Will offered mildly. Pam’s eyebrows went up. “A negative part of a culture is still negative. I grew up in the South. Part of my culture at one time said it was okay for a bunch of white kids to gang up on a black kid, egg him, and humiliate him. Since it’s a part of my culture, would that make it okay to do?”
Karen giggled suddenly. “He looked like a clown. LST. He has
on this garish suit, and all this bling, and he’s rapping about his bitches and his ho’s. I heard him talking to one of our staff at a break. LST was talking about jumping some cracker who rode a bike into his neighborhood when he was kid. How they beat him up and took his bike. They all laughed.” And they talked about pulling a train on some girl. And laughed even more, like they were talking about making the winning play in a football game. Karen could too vividly imagine that frightened girl in the sweltering back room of some apartment. Heart beating wildly, terrified, helpless. Just meat with a hole for those men.
She shoved away her glass. It wobbled, nearly tipped, then righted itself.
Pam looked at Will. “She’s had a lot to drink. You won’t mention this…”
Will shook his head.
“Good,” Pam said to him, talking as if Karen wasn’t there. “She works for Congresswoman Stover.”
Will looked at Karen with some emotion she was unable, in her fuzzy state, to exactly identify. “You work for Harriet?”
Karen nodded.
“Why do you work for a traitor?”
“What?” Pam snorted. Karen giggled again. Pam was doing all her talking, as if Karen was a mental ventriloquist and Pam the puppet with sawdust for a brain.
“Harriet is the one who leaked the SWIFT program.” Any friendliness in Will’s face was gone. Both women looked at him blankly. “The SWIFT program. Last year, remember? The New York Times broke the story. It was the secret program that was tracking money that supported Al Qaeda and the rest of those bastards.”
The Big Bang Page 5