Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  “Why is the sky blue? My life is just sucking now, it’s a given, incontrovertible truth.”

  The elevator door opened, and Birdie stood inside in head-to-toe black lululemon and a black fedora. “There you are. Come,” she said, tugging each woman by the arm.

  “I definitely missed a memo,” Reagan said. “Were we supposed to dress like sporty cat burglars?”

  Birdie ignored her. “I want to do this fast. You never know with him. Sometimes he isn’t in the mood to socialize and he’ll leave a dinner party early just to appear eccentric. He’s such a diva. You know I’m the one who got him into TV in the first place. I pushed him, I made a call for him those years ago, I told him, ‘No, no, a face like that demands to be shared with the world.’”

  Cady gave Reagan a glance as though to say, See what I mean?

  The elevator opened again. “She’s our lookout.” Birdie nodded toward Abbie, who gave a thumbs-up from the stairwell doorway. “We’ve got an intern in the lobby too.”

  * * *

  In no time they were inside Buck’s room. Since Reagan’s belly had grown exponentially more voluminous since she last saw them, she took Cady up on her kind offer to do the necessary climbing. So Cady now stood atop the smooth-edged wooden desk fastening the camera above the window treatments.

  Birdie supervised. “Where do you get something like this? The Spy Museum? CIA gift shop?”

  “Do they have a gift shop?” Cady asked.

  “Buy Buy Baby,” Reagan said as she loaded the app onto Birdie’s phone that would allow them to access the camera remotely. “The night vision is great on this so you’ll see, you know, everything there is to see,” she said, regretting her choice of words instantly. “I mean, not that there’ll be anything interesting to see. But, you know.”

  Birdie looked over Reagan’s shoulder at her iPhone screen. “So that’s it, there we are.”

  “Get ready for your close-up,” Reagan said, zooming in.

  “This is so amazing it almost makes me wish I’d had babies,” Birdie said. “Almost.”

  Reagan and Cady exchanged glances.

  Birdie must’ve noticed the looks. She snatched her phone from Reagan.

  “Just remember, it’s not recording so you need to actually watch,” Reagan said, collecting the instructions and extra wires into her bag.

  “Oh, I’ll remember,” Birdie said and sighed. Then she hopped back up to the camera as if to triple-check the connections, though she clearly had no idea what she was doing. “I know you think I need to be fitted for my straitjacket today, but... I’m just having flashbacks of this time in my life that wasn’t particularly enjoyable, and I’d rather not have to live through the same thing again just with a different leading lady.”

  The two women knew well enough to keep quiet, remain frozen.

  Birdie didn’t look at them as she climbed back down and lay on the bed, checking her phone again. “I deserve better than this. With Gracie Garfield, I was young and stupid. I would’ve missed it entirely if he hadn’t flat-out told me. But at least I had enough of a competitive streak to use it to light a fire under me. I thought, ‘He embarrassed me, he made me feel like I wasn’t worthy of him? Never again.’ I wouldn’t have been half as successful if he hadn’t made me so miserable doing what he did. I wanted them to say, ‘Buck Brandywine is married to her, how did he get her?’ But like anything, then it’s not enough.”

  The sun had set and the room was dark now. No one made a move to turn on a light lest they should break the spell.

  Birdie continued, speaking to the ceiling as though her words could evaporate up into the air. “I wanted to even the playing field. I wanted him to feel like the widow. I wanted to be the one in demand. I wanted him to wonder how much fun I might be having and with whom. Even though it was all for show. No matter what anyone may have said, I only cheated the one time. Immediately after he told me about Gracie. It didn’t make me feel better. It was only the illusion of having these other men that ever felt good. In case anyone was wondering.”

  Without a word, Cady crept from the desk she had been sitting on and lay down next to Birdie, held her hand.

  Reagan followed her lead, on the other side, then with great effort rolled to face Birdie. “Sorry, gang, I’m only supposed to lie on my left side,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m clearly carrying a giant sea turtle at this point.”

  Cady was first to giggle. Then Birdie.

  A phone rang underneath one of them. Cady found it: “Abbie.” She handed it to Birdie.

  “He’s in the lobby waiting for the elevator,” Birdie relayed.

  They grabbed their bags and were out the door and in the stairwell by the time they heard the elevator doors open.

  * * *

  Reagan felt a newly invigorated love for Ted when she got home: he wasn’t perfect (she wasn’t either), but he wasn’t the type to cheat, to let something happen, to slip up. It just didn’t seem to be in his DNA, and for that she was grateful.

  She walked into a quiet, albeit ransacked house—remnants of dinner all over the kitchen, dishes in the sink, dirty diapers on the floor—and went looking for him, anxious to tell him about Birdie. They had known only bits and pieces of that story, cobbled together from years in the rumor mill.

  “Finally,” he greeted her before she said a word. “I didn’t realize you were going to be out all night.”

  “It was, like, three hours. Maybe four.”

  “Well, it sure felt like longer.”

  “Welcome to parenthood.” She said it upbeat and thought he would hear that in her voice.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, apparently not in the mood for upbeat.

  “No, nothing,” she smiled. “It just means it’s not easy, it’s harder than, like, sitting at a desk or strategizing a presidential campaign,” she actually wasn’t kidding. “I mean, it’s more fun, for sure. But it’s exhausting. My bosses are probably tougher than yours.” Again, she thought she was being funny, referring to the girls this way. Sometimes she needed to maybe not try to be funny. Like now. But these were the words that had come out.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked again, sounding offended.

  “Never mind, forget it. I just meant, it’s, you know, tougher than it looks. Especially if you want to be more than just, like, a sperm donor.” She realized as soon as she said it that it was not going to be an applause line.

  “Oh! Okay then, so we’re doing this,” he said, ready to fight.

  “No,” she sighed. “Look—”

  “This sperm donor is also the breadwinner, last time I checked.”

  “Look, I’m enormous and exhausted and hormonal. Let’s just stop talking. Now. Not, forever. Just for, like, ten/fifteen minutes.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled, then with a nod but not another word he turned around, walked silently to their bedroom and closed the door. She knew he was on edge between the election and the baby, she hadn’t intended to wage any battles tonight. She curled up on the sofa, a feat that took several minutes to accomplish, and switched on the TV. Their old baby monitor—just sounds, no picture, like radio before the invention of film—hissed static on the coffee table.

  * * *

  Cady pulled on her pajamas and snuggled into the cushy bed. She had packed her overnight bag, reluctantly taking Birdie up on the very generous offer of the room at the Watergate for the night. Flipping through TV channels, Cady puzzled over the evening’s events: a piece of Cady didn’t want to live that way, keeping score, after what Jackson had done. But she couldn’t stop comparing her situation with Jackson to what she had learned of Birdie and Buck. How was she, Cady, any different from Birdie? She understood why Birdie had stayed, but she also felt Birdie and Buck’s foundation might have just been stronger to begin with. It was impossible to know what went o
n in anyone else’s relationship, but perhaps there was just a greater feeling between Buck and Birdie that they were still a team that could overcome something so damaging after all these years. Maybe there was an extra level of commitment or effort. Whereas with Jackson she felt more like this had been a sign that they just weren’t right, a signal that he had changed and he just didn’t want the same things she did anymore. She stopped at PBS, a special about the restoration of the Capitol. The camera crew snaking up that same spiral staircase she had taken into the dome on one of her earliest days in the city. As much as she longed for that night, now that she thought about it, maybe her relationship with Jackson had been like the Capitol Dome: beautiful on the outside, but quietly crumbling inside, in need of a massive overhaul in order to not completely fall apart. She turned off the TV, then the lights. She would start looking for an apartment in the morning. It would have to be small, a studio, for her to be able to afford it, but it was time.

  * * *

  Secretly Birdie liked the idea of being home alone tonight after her day. So she poured herself a glass of wine, turned off the TV and watched Buck’s room on her phone from the comfort of her couch. She had seen him arrive minutes after they’d left and watched him undress, shedding his suit for his favorite joggers and a Georgetown T-shirt she was sure was new. She had had to take a few calls, send a few emails, and had missed some footage from earlier, but when she returned to this very slow-developing show, she found him lying in bed, alone, the glow of the TV filling the room. And a text on her phone: Birdie, I left a note for you on the bed.

  A sweet combination of shock and thrill overtook her. She raced upstairs to their bedroom. Had he dropped by during the day? Their housekeeper had been here much of the afternoon and hadn’t said a word. Maybe it was while she had been at the Watergate? She found nothing on top of their Frette comforter so she shook it out, then peeled back the blanket and sheet, even looking beneath the puffy pillows (he always said there were too many pillows). Still, she found nothing.

  Finally, she wrote back: Very intriguing, but I’m afraid I can’t find anything. Did you sneak in here today?

  He texted: I’m not the one who did the sneaking. Check your monitor...

  She felt her blood go cold. She brought the camera up again: the lights now on in his room, Buck waved right at the camera and gestured to the foot of the bed, where he had written in very large letters on many sheets of paper, “Hi Birdie Breaking + Entering = your new talent?” He smiled right into the camera.

  I know you were in here, your perfume is all over this place, he texted. Then I found the camera. Very clever. Not sure what you’re looking for but don’t think you’ll find it here.

  She didn’t respond at all, what could she say? She had never felt quite so caught.

  You should be flattered, she wrote, giving up.

  I suppose I should.

  But not too much: all of my shows are in reruns, one has to do something.

  Goodnight, Birdie.

  Goodnight, Buck.

  He turned off the light but didn’t bother disconnecting the camera. Birdie watched him until he fell asleep, then she dozed off on the sofa, clutching her phone.

  33

  JUST TELL ME WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE

  ROCKY HAZE STAFFING UP: STAR STRATEGIST BRANDYWINE JOINS CAMPAIGN

  By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue

  A spokesman for Rocky Haze announced today that legendary political strategist Buck Brandywine has been acting as political director for the campaign for the past month.

  “They wooed him,” an insider says. “Haze and Brandywine spent a couple of weeks off the grid, hammering out a plan, prepping her for upcoming debates, and formally nailing down her platform.” Sources say Brandywine had been unsure of Haze’s depth of knowledge on the issues but “was completely won over” during their vetting process. “He was impressed with her United Nations work and came away from their time beyond confident in her ability to lead and to formulate foreign and domestic policy. She’s no lightweight. He feels a Haze administration would bring the right kind of change to Washington.”

  * * *

  Early on a crisp September morning, Jay sent the story to Birdie to preview before posting it. His note read simply: “Mystery solved...”

  The hottest summer on record had wound to a close, and Sky had returned to the trail, after the worst homecoming ever. They had barely seen each other at all, and having so little time together created even more tension as every minute ballooned in importance. Maybe Sky really had just been overworked and in need of rest. Jay kept going over it in his mind. Jay always had trouble bouncing back from even the slightest bump, so he could acknowledge that, yes, maybe he had acted a little awkward the rest of Sky’s time in DC.

  Still, since he had left, Jay had become increasingly irritable, angry, and yet shockingly efficient at work. It was amazing how fast he could get things done now that he wasn’t concerned with others’ feelings. He had always prided himself on being that easygoing editor, ruling his section with a velvet glove, not an iron first. Now he was like an iron fist inside a very thin velvet glove. But his page-views were through the roof. Too bad he was miserable.

  He finished his notes on the Jared Leto profile he was editing: “We’re getting the crazy passion but none of the fun—Jesus, why doesn’t it look like there’s any fun? I need more color from your bike ride around the city with him. I want this back in thirty minutes.”

  * * *

  Madison stretched her arms up, twisted her neck side to side, yawned and returned to her phone, flipping through emails as she attempted to tune out Hank’s red-faced histrionics at the podium. “More Syria? Can we talk about something else, for chrissakes?” he barked at his team.

  “We can move on when you’ve got the position set, sir,” his new senior adviser said flatly.

  “I don’t know, what am I supposed to say again? Just tell me what I’m supposed to believe.”

  It was too painful to watch. So she focused on texting Henry. Soccer season (his second best sport) was just getting under way: Good luck at the game! Go Big Blue! And Gemma: Hi sweetie! Did you see any butterflies or squirrels on your walk today?

  The first debate, from what Madison had gathered, had not gone well. Hank had insisted on winging it. He had tugged at his tie, grimaced and repeated, “I’m just gonna change it all, gimme a chance, you’re gonna love me!” enough that even she could tell it wasn’t the strongest showing. So now they were “doing this the old-fashioned way,” according to the Machine. Which meant spending hours sitting in this hotel ballroom in downtown St. Louis watching Hank roll his eyes while being fed answers to questions he didn’t bother to understand. Madison had attempted to leave St. Louis for New York the night before, but Hank had claimed he needed her; the debate had him jittery.

  Mike burst up from his chair at the front of the ballroom, running to Madison like there was a fire in the building, “I NEED YOUR PHONE! NOW! MADISON!”

  “Mike, what in God’s good name are you doin’?” Hank asked.

  The weary Machine, seated at their long table, sighed at the interruption.

  “Is everything okay, Mike?” she asked innocently.

  Madison had been watching a video their nanny had taken of Gemma doing cartwheels across the rooftop of their town house while singing the new Justin Bieber song. It made her smile and long for home even more.

  “You’ve been hacked!” Mike, perspiring in his suit, yanked the phone from her hand, as though she had been caught texting in class. “Your Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat. EVERYTHING!”

  “What? How do you know? What do you mean?” she asked calmly, vacantly.

  “Have you seen this?” He pulled up her Facebook page. “A post from early this morning reads, ‘Climate change advocates, protectors of our country’s vast natural res
ources and fellow naturists.’ NATURISTS!” Mike said, eyes bulging. “‘I urge you to join me on October 9 at the Presidential Debate in beautiful St. Louis to demand that our candidates address our growing environmental concerns. Global warming is an epidemic. Show your support in raising awareness of these key issues by shedding your clothes for the cause. #backtonature #goodfellow2016.’”

  “Ohhh, naturist, is not a nature lover,” Madison said, smirking. “Wouldn’t that be funny to see?” Observing that Mike was not amused, she went on. “No, that’s not from me. My last post was the picture of that chubby cat near the big arch from yesterday. It got 55,000 likes. You know? This one isn’t from me.”

  “Fuck me, now we’ve gotta give him a position on global warming too,” she heard one of the advisers say, more loudly than he should have.

  “Where are you on global warming, Hank?” another one asked.

  “I don’t know, where am I supposed to be?” Hank said, annoyed at the question. “Shut this down, Mike,” he called out. “We gotta get back to it up here.”

  “Let’s get back to the Middle East,” one said.

  “Nowhere I’d rather be,” said another sarcastically.

  Hank and the Machine continued their discussion of foreign policy talking points while Mike typed furiously at Madison’s side, speaking aloud. “Hello Goodfellow supporters, my sincerest apologies. My Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat accounts have been hacked. Today’s posts have not come from me. We appreciate your support while we are investigating this breech. See you at the polls! Fondly, Madison Goodfellow.” He looked at Madison. “Hold off on social media until I give you the green light and some new passwords.”

  Whiplash sidled up, pulling Mike away, and Madison returned to her home videos, trying not to smile. Then she opened her email—the secret account she had set up that Mike had yet to discover—and wrote to Birdie Brandywine: Hope you saw my pages before my warden took the posts down. I put out the call for disrupters. ;-) Love, Maddy PS: Going to try talking to him tonight.