Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  A no-nonsense woman at the front desk looked at Reagan’s belly and then at her face again.

  “Hi there, I think you’ve got my husband here? Campion? Theodore.”

  The woman looked something up in her computer.

  “This isn’t like him at all,” Reagan continued. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. But I mean, who isn’t, right? Your job must be very stressful. I can’t even imagine. Thank you for your service.” She didn’t realize she was actually saying this all out loud.

  In the waiting area a disheveled man began chanting. Two girls in very short shorts sat crying, mascara running down their faces, talking about how their moms were going to kill them. “Busy night here.”

  The woman glared. Reagan had gotten used to enjoying some minor sympathy thanks to the small watermelon ballooning from her midsection, but this woman was not having it.

  “Or not. Maybe a quiet night.” Reagan was a little nervous, to be honest.

  The woman said nothing until finally: “Theodore Robert Campion. Assault charge. Bail’s been posted. He’s free to leave but will need to report to court on the appointed date. Look for paperwork in the mail.” The lady cop picked up the phone, issuing instructions to whoever was on the other end.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, how does that work? Who paid? Him? The guys? But they wouldn’t take him home? I’m confused.” She was trying to make sense of it all, thinking aloud again. It was a lot to take in.

  “The party wishes to remain anonymous, ma’am.”

  With another cop holding his arm, Ted stumbled out, sweaty, eyes heavy in that still-drunk way, his right hand swollen.

  “Jesus, Ted.” Reagan shook her head, waved for him to follow her and turned to go. “This’ll be a nice memory for the baby book. ‘Things happening the year you were born.’” She sighed, then stopped: “Is there a back way out of here, closer to the parking lot, so we don’t have to walk around the building?” she asked the lady cop. She could only imagine a press secretary would be too happy to inform the media that he’d been slugged by a guy from the other team and had him arrested.

  The cop pushed open the back door and a light shone in their face, a camera. Grant Foxhall.

  She felt the shock register, then put on her game face.

  “Grant, hey, what brings you here?” She kept walking toward the car.

  “Hey, Reagan,” he said, his tone more apologetic than she would have expected. “Ted.”

  Ted nodded in his direction, then looked away again.

  “Hey, Matt, how’re Jenny and the boys?” Reagan asked Grant’s longtime camera guy, smiling into the lens. They all kept walking as a unit, as if they made up an eight-legged animal.

  “Hi, Reagan,” Matt said from behind his equipment, sounding embarrassed by his role in this task. “She was just saying you guys are due for another lunch.”

  “I’ve been meaning to call,” she said.

  “So I got a call,” Grant jumped back in, getting the train on track again. “And I wanted to confirm—has the Goodfellow campaign filed assault charges and a restraining order against you, Ted?”

  “Grant, is this because Ted has been on MSNBC so much lately?” She tried not to show how much she wanted to punch him herself. She knew there was some reason they’d never gotten serious when they went out all those years ago.

  Ted ignored it all. “Why do you always park so far away from everything, Rea?” he said into the air ahead of them.

  “Maybe Grant will drive you home? You can give him an in-depth interview about whatever went on tonight.” She smiled. She was annoyed with them both. She wanted to go home alone to her toddler girls who behaved better than these grown men. She wanted to watch something other than the news and eat ice cream.

  The walk felt endless with the extra 320 pounds: these two idiots plus her twenty pounds of baby. She unlocked the car door.

  “Guys, I’m fucking exhausted. Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna ask one polite, nonattacking question.” She pointed at Grant. “You’re gonna give a thoughtful, remorseful answer ‘this election has been emotional, I regret letting it get the best of me, blah blah.’ And then we’re so fucking out of here.” She smiled again. “Good?”

  * * *

  As Reagan drove home, Ted watched the city pass by outside the window for a few minutes, then became engrossed in flipping through radio stations.

  “I’m scared to look at my phone,” he finally admitted.

  “Yeah, you should be. Did you give people a heads-up to commence damage control?” she asked flatly.

  “Yeah.” He was quiet for several minutes. “I just made a mistake.”

  “You think?”

  Silence again and then, “Why do I care so much?” he asked it sincerely, thoughtful.

  “Generally speaking, that’s not a bad thing,” she said, more gently now. “But something’s going on with you this cycle. I don’t know.” She was glad to be driving so she didn’t have to look at him.

  “I just. I’m sick of failing. I need a win to erase two years ago. I can’t keep losing.”

  She understood. This was what she loved most about Ted. He did care too much. He didn’t have another speed; it was all or nothing.

  “This is why people burn out and have heart attacks,” she said, serious.

  “I’m sick of being a failure.”

  “There’s more to your life than whether your boss wins an election, whether you win an election.”

  “It just feels different this time. I’m an adult now—”

  “Allegedly,” Reagan said under her breath.

  “Seriously, though, I’m supposed to be a provider,” he said, beat down. “I’ve got a family. There’s more riding on it this time. I can’t fail.”

  “I know. But why don’t you check your poll numbers at home? You still have a very high favorability rating with two very tough little girls.” She said it firmly, trying to get through to him.

  “Oh my God! Wait! Where are they?” he said frantic, as though just remembering that he did, in fact, have two children.

  “They’re home. They stayed up late again working in their meth lab.” She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t seem to find it funny. “Cady’s there. They were sleeping when I left.”

  “Ugh, is she going to want to talk?” he asked, exasperated, the “soul-searching” and “introspective” portion of their discussion apparently over. “Why is she always so chatty?”

  “Maybe because she’s a nice person? And a good friend to me,” she said, suddenly regretting having very briefly introduced them at the Arnold fund-raiser. “Or maybe you would’ve preferred to have our girls on CNN with you? Family night at the lockup?”

  “Sorry,” he said in a voice barely detectable to human ears.

  “What was that?”

  “I said I’m sorry, okay,” he bristled, a moody teen who had taken the car without permission.

  She hoped whatever was going on with him was just a phase, and that it would be over soon.

  * * *

  When Reagan checked her email the following morning, she had a message from Grant’s personal non-CNN account with a time-date stamp just thirty minutes after their run-in outside the lockup. Subject line: “I’m sorry”

  Message body: Reagan, I’m sorry about tonight. Truly sorry. I know it won’t matter but it was just business, exec producer on us these days, etc, you know how it goes.

  She wrote back to him while the girls threw their bananas at breakfast: You are barely human. She wasn’t sure why she had expected more from him, more compassion. It wasn’t as if they were actual friends, but still, she had expected more. She had always thought maybe there was something greater in his character than he had shown when they first met way back when, that perhaps his arrogance had been an attempt to impress her and she had misj
udged him. But, no, it seemed she had been right all along.

  During a commercial break on his show, she received this response: Fair enough, it may seem that way when I do things like last night. But I am capable of being a good friend occasionally. Ask Buck Brandywine.

  She didn’t write back. She was still too disgusted and disappointed in him, in this entire situation, and she planned to feel that way for quite a while.

  22

  AIR FORCE TWO HAS A MILE HIGH CLUB

  Jay watched Sky drive off to rendezvous with Rocky and Co. at her hotel and then Andrews Air Force Base. Arnold had apparently offered Rocky a lift to the convention, and she was taking some of her reporters along. There was clearly a story coming, but Sky couldn’t get anything more out of anyone yet.

  Jay wasn’t quite ready to return to his empty apartment, so he opted for a walk, the H Street corridor already coming alive. The strip was studded with memories, mostly of the early days of their relationship since they spent most of their time in Jay’s neighborhood now: the sushi place from one of their first dates, the performing arts center where Jay had tagged along on some of Sky’s early assignments. How lucky he had been that Sky had invited him along. He laughed at himself now, the uncertainty at the beginning about whether it was really all work. The thick July air was stagnant even at nearly eight in the evening; it had been a day of record-breaking heat and soupy humidity, the kind of weather that got everyone hot and bothered about how crazy George Washington had been to build his city on swampland. Even though factually, that wasn’t true; it wasn’t technically a swamp. Jay found this time of year exhausting, having to constantly set everyone straight.

  Despite himself, Jay had done his best to convey his excitement as Sky had packed for another trip earlier. “Tell me everything! We’ll do a piece on it. Like fun facts on Air Force Two!” Jay had said, lying on Sky’s couch. “Take abundant selfies! And whatever pics you can! Like, pics of everything! Take souvenirs too, like if there’s a blanket with a presidential seal or, like, bags of pretzels or whatever! So, you know, in short—play it really cool, just like I would.” Sky had laughed, always generous with Jay’s humor.

  Lost in his thoughts he walked all the way to Union Station, over a mile. Just before Sky’s expected takeoff time, Jay heard from him once more. Rocky isn’t only one here—Carter Thompson too, Sky texted. staff. some white house pool. heard cnn guy whispering to producer that the decision is being made imminently! hear anything there? trying for more. taking off. xxxx”

  Seated at a bench inside the grand lobby of the station, Jay forwarded Sky’s notes (minus the xxxx) to Helena and the rest of the Politics Desk with the subject line: “Arnold vetting VPs now!”

  Helena called seconds later. “That’s awfully optimistic of Arnold,” she launched in, no greeting, as soon as Jay answered. “Is Sky sure?”

  “Well, maybe—” Jay started.

  “Fascinating!” Helena cut him off, answering her own question. “He’s neck and neck with those two and scared to lose the nomination, so—”

  “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em?” Jay asked.

  “Exactly,” she agreed.

  * * *

  Cady was still at work and, noticing the time, texted Jackson just before he was due to take off: come back as a staffer for the next vp! good luck to carter! xoxox She didn’t know how it had happened, but Jackson had come home the night before with hush-hush news that Carter Thompson was now on the short list to be Arnold’s vice presidential pick. Jackson wouldn’t say any more.

  “So mysterious! I’m kind of loving this drama,” she had cooed, as she’d helped him pack. “And Carter would be cool with VP, right? I mean, who wouldn’t? That ain’t so bad.” A few months ago, she never would have been so fascinated with Jackson’s job. She was proud of how much she had learned about campaigns, how she had become part of his world.

  “Oh yeah, it would be kind of perfect,” Jackson said, eyes dancing. “There were so many reporters hanging outside the office today, more than ever. President was always going to be a long shot, but this, this, it would be like a dream team.”

  * * *

  Ted nearly had to sit the convention out, thanks to his bar brawl. But a call came late in the day: there were decisions to be made now, strategies to fine-tune, and they needed him in on it. They were meeting en route to the convention, and they wanted him on the flight. Reagan got his text while at My Gym with the girls. By the time she wrote back, he was already in the air.

  * * *

  Cady got the alert on her phone: Fighter Jets Called to Escort Air Force Two. Just a headline, no story yet. She went looking for more and found only: Air Force Two Forced to Make Emergency Landing. Her heart fell. She called Jackson but, of course, his phone was off. She texted, emailed, left messages: Call when you get this, I love you.

  * * *

  Reagan had caved, feeling particularly exhausted and enormous after their afternoon at My Gym. (Stacy had the day off and therefore, Reagan had actually had to watch and chase the girls.) They were teething and wouldn’t sleep, so she positioned the pack-and-play in front of the TV and was just searching for their favorite bedtime show on Sprout when she caught the headline. She called Ted but got no answer. Maybe Jay would know something.

  * * *

  “I’m fine, there was this turbulence, like something big hit the plane.” Sky phoned Jay the minute he landed. “We’re somewhere in Delaware. The plane was inspected. It must’ve been a bird that rammed itself against the plane’s wing. Arnold is still going ahead with the meetings, right here. The press and staffers are just hanging out until another aircraft arrives, or a bus or something. We were all standing around outside, but it started pouring rain so the pilot gave the okay to let us back on and wait, said it was safe.” Sky promised to text when he had more.

  * * *

  Pretty fucking crazy, Ted texted Reagan when the plane touched down. An eagle, they think. We were in Arnold’s quarters meeting with Haze—she’s probably out. Staying here for a bit—looking like Thompson will get it, IMO. Love you and girls. Don’t worry, fine, promise.

  * * *

  Cady didn’t understand why Jackson wasn’t writing or calling. The aircraft had landed somewhere, and it seemed everyone else had been able to contact loved ones. Reagan and Jay had both heard by now and let her know that Ted and Sky were fine, and from what they knew there were no life-threatening injuries. A few reporters and staffers just had bumps and bruises, maybe one concussion. She pictured Jackson being the one person who hadn’t been okay and wished she could just hear something from him. She wouldn’t be able to move or breathe or think until she did. She waited, his phone still off with calls going straight to voice mail, no returned texts or emails. She searched obsessively for news, more details, any sign that there might be injuries that hadn’t been reported yet. All she managed to find was one major press break from Capitol Report:

  REP. CARTER THOMPSON TO BE ARNOLD’S VP PICK

  By Willa Sedgwick, Staff Writer

  Capitol Report has learned exclusively that Iowa Representative Carter Thompson will be John Arnold’s pick for vice president. Story developing.

  * * *

  EYES ON THE PRIZE: ROCKY HAZE REPORTEDLY TURNS DOWN VP

  By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue

  The path to the presidency has been a dramatic one, but nothing could compare to the scene on Air Force Two Monday night. After severe turbulence forced an emergency landing near Wilmington, Rocky Haze had a change of heart. Sources say presidential hopeful Vice President John Arnold had all but offered Haze the job as his running mate, when she reportedly took herself out of the running.

  “What happened on that plane shook me up, gave me some time to think about what I really wanted,” Haze said after the landing, though she still hasn’t issued a formal statement.

 
Only Haze and Arnold were in the meeting, no advisers, no press, but sources say what happened is the stuff of legend and folklore. “They had a great vibe, they talked about their families, about how hard it is to be on the trail, how intense the primaries were,” says the insider. “Arnold said Haze was a good pick because her skeletons are all out there, no secrets, no lies. Everyone knows her troubles, her past, how she cleaned up. Arnold offered it to her. She was polite and gracious, said it was the kind of opportunity she never expected would present itself to her. But that she needed a minute.”

  Haze returned to her seat to think it over, putting in her earbuds, closing her eyes. “This was when the turbulence began,” says another source. “She was so calm, other people were freaking out. People’s stuff was flying all over, hitting other people in the head.” When the plane landed, got checked out, Haze met with Arnold once more. An adviser in the room this time described the scene like this:

  “Haze says to Arnold, ‘I want you to listen to this new track,’ she cues up this song on her phone, says it was inspired by the Southern states she visited, it had a country twang, it was cool,” says the source. “Then she asks him, ‘How many fiddles do you hear there?’ And Arnold says ‘One?’ like he’s not sure. And Haze says, ‘That’s right and that’s because I don’t believe in playing second fiddle. And I can’t start now. I’m sorry, I appreciate your offer more than you could know but I’m going to try to do this my way.’ She shook his hand and smiled and returned to her seat.”

  Haze’s camp will only say they intend to go forward with the contested convention. “We want to see where we stand.”