by Heidi Pitlor
Now, standing beside Cass in his bedroom, I made myself block Nick Felles’s number.
In october, an actress tweeted something that a woman named Tarana Burke had come up with years ago, and #MeToo caught fire. I thought of Nick and Professor McCoy. I thought of Remy Calhoun’s former employees. Almost everyone I knew—Jenna Rose, Jessica Garbella, even Maggie down in Bolivia—put forth their #MeToo moments online. Facebook and Twitter became confessionals. I watched, awed by this enormous uprising of bald honesty and courage. I recalled some other incidents I’d had—a flirty high school Spanish teacher, the time I was flashed in New York. The rush of details that spread across the Internet made the long-hidden truth seem even more vivid and devastating. We should not have been so surprised: the long history of the world was built on uneven power dynamics and greed.
In the end, I would not add my voice to the chorus. And not just because I had already been exposed and shamed during the mess with Lana, and I hardly wanted to expose myself further. Maybe I also preferred to stay hidden because of the times I had waded into murky waters myself. It was, of course, an uneasy thought. I told myself that I would do better from now on. I emailed Jenna, Jessica, and Maggie and passed along my admiration and support, but it was hardly enough. I did hope that, in some way, writing speeches for Lana was a start.
She published an op-ed in support of the movement and reaffirmed her concern about Calhoun. She wrote that real and systemic change would only be possible with a widespread reexamination of our current laws, which meant that voters had to show up and make their voices heard. Women and people of color made up less than 20 percent of Congress, and yet this was the most diverse it had ever been. It sounded as if she were watching the movement from afar, chiming in rather than influencing. Maybe even exploiting the national fervor for her upcoming primary. But I reminded myself that her goals were pure. Lately, she was lunching with Reese Witherspoon at Le Coucou, sampling Cool Whip at a factory in Avon, and appearing alongside a group of students near SUNY Oswego hollering, “Never Apologize, Never Compromise, Never Rationalize!” One place where she no longer appeared was Twitter. Reggie and the bald guy, Everett, had taken over her account, and now posted only short videos from her speeches, endorsements, and constant reminders for people to vote.
In my new role, I was getting to know both Reggie and Everett better. Although he was sometimes blunt and always in some kind of panic, Reggie was a good and supportive manager. And I was coming to like the quick turnaround time of speechwriting, as well as the regular pay, although I did not love the way that a portion of each check was handed over to Countenance, or that Shirley occasionally excised any “overly sophisticated language” from my speeches. I learned to refer to people as “folks” and gun control as “gun safety regulation.” Government spending was called “investment” and abortion “the right to choose.” Speechwriting differed significantly from writing for the page. Sentences had to be shorter now, language overtly inspirational and far less descriptive. I had to cater my words to wildly different crowds; high-brow, low-brow, the political establishment, the disenfranchised.
Unexpectedly, Remy Calhoun’s daughter stepped out of the shadows and began to travel with him to campaign stops. Sometimes she even spoke. A glassblower and environmental activist in her late twenties, Andrea Calhoun did indeed have a shaved head, as well as a pierced eyebrow. She gave well-written, impassioned speeches about healthcare. She was diabetic and bemoaned the outrageous costs of insulin and the unholy interplay between big pharma and the government. If they made a strange pair visually, Remy clearly adored his daughter. She had a certain presence and passion, a magnetism that actually brought to mind the old Lana Breban. I thought she added something necessary to his campaign, and soon I was proven right. New polls had Remy and Lana within three points of each other.
When Remy signaled that he might switch his position and favor broadening some restrictions around medical marijuana, Shirley expressed concern to me. “He’s starting to look too much like us,” she said. “Thank God everyone hates old white men these days.”
“They do?” I said, although I should have been used to her generalizations.
“The #MeToo movement? Hello?”
“Well, his own #MeToo moments didn’t hurt him.”
“This is true. If only more women had come forward and he was more of a, you know. What Remy did looks like Boy Scout fun compared to Harvey Weinstein and those others.”
“You’re right. God,” I said.
Chapter Nineteen
Finally, in November, the evening of the special election arrived. I dressed Cass in a green checked button-down and little khakis. He was put off by all the buttons, as he was used to far more casual clothes. “When I grow up I’m never going to wear anything like this,” he said. I saw an adult Cass in loungewear on my couch, enjoying a Happy Meal, watching his third hour of TV. “Yes, you will,” I said. “But let’s not worry about that right now.”
Kurt had found a nice coffee-colored blazer at a thrift store. “You ready for all this?” he asked me.
“No,” I said. “Maybe.”
We began our drive down to New York to attend Lana’s party in Soho. It felt imperative that Lana win tonight; my future employment was now tethered to hers, but of course there were other things at stake. All of us working on her campaign—hell, everyone in New York—were desperate to see a woman, and mother and immigrant, overtake a man like Remy Calhoun and win this seat.
Our hotel was located just a ten-minute walk from the party. In my new black shift dress and heels, my hair blown out with Jessica’s help, I hardly felt like myself.
“Lana’s got this,” Kurt said, as we stepped out of the lobby.
“What do you mean? You saw that poll yesterday, it’s not a slam dunk.”
“It smells like a toilet,” Cass said. One of the many talents of children was to keep you in the present moment.
“Canal Street Station,” Kurt said with a laugh. “The nose knows.”
I focused on not tripping in my new shoes as we crossed the street and bypassed a group of twenty-somethings speaking French.
We made our way to the party at the other hotel and, inside the crowded lobby, an alternative universe. Clouds, real clouds, hovered near the ceiling. One of the walls was covered in live moss. I took in the throngs of people, the upbeat jazz, the wait staff threading their way through the group with trays full of small, skewered things. More than a few people in the room wore pink knitted hats. I scanned the room, but Lana was nowhere to be seen. Kurt’s hand in mine, I tried to let it sink in that we were really here in this boutique hotel in Soho, at a party for Lana Breban.
“What would Jimmy think of this?” I said.
Kurt rolled his eyes. “ ‘Buncha coastal elites.’ ”
The mood in the crowded room was giddy, buoyant with a sense that momentarily, we would begin to take back our country, a phrase I had written into Lana’s speeches several times by now. A phrase I had written into her acceptance speech. I imagined replaying one of her speeches before Congress on my laptop for Cass. “I wrote those words,” I would tell him.
I imagined the words I might use to describe this party had I still been a ghostwriter working on Lana’s book. Here we were, moments before all the hard work of balancing motherhood and career would finally pay off, when Lana would rocket upward into her new role as outspoken progressive senator. I might detail the atmosphere of the room, the din of nervous voices, the laughter of others, the soft mossy wall, Coltrane’s busy saxophone in “My Favorite Things.” I might namedrop: Hanging on other walls were poster-sized photographs of me with Hillary Clinton, Ellen DeGeneres, and Alyssa Milano. Was that Reese Witherspoon headed my way?
Cass stayed by my side and poked at the collar of his shirt. Kurt went off to get us drinks.
Shirley and Colin approached. Colin gave me a hug and bent over so Cass could hear him. “Hey little man, you look sharp.”
“Thi
s is our night!” Shirley said as she hugged me.
“I hope so,” I said.
“You know so,” she said with a controlled and controlling nod.
The music grew louder, and it became more difficult to hear what she was saying. When Kurt returned, I introduced everyone the best that I could. Shirley gave Cass one of Lana’s campaign buttons, and went off to talk to a few actresses whose faces I recognized but could not identify by name.
I took Cass’s hand as I wandered the room, enjoying my free martini, and trying to maintain hope for the future of women and democracy. I made myself smile big whenever I remembered.
“I almost forgot,” Shirley said, finding me again. She handed me an envelope. “From Lana.”
Inside were three tickets for a show of The Lion King the next day, along with a card that read: “For Allie. For everything. Whatever happens, I hope you’ll keep giving me the right words to say.”
“Oh my God!” I said, and hurried back to Colin and Kurt, who were talking now. “This is Broadway. What the hell?”
“Jeez! Cass is going to love that,” Kurt said.
“Looks like she wants you to keep writing for her even if she doesn’t win tonight,” Colin said.
“I guess so,” I said. “I mean, who knows where she’ll land if things don’t go her way? Even the mighty fall. She can’t exactly put out another memoir any time soon. I guess she’d still do her op eds—” Colin shook his head. “What the hell am I talking about? She’s going to win. And our Allie has good, steady work, and now we need to celebrate, right?”
Someone called out, “We’re getting some results!”
People were gathered around TV screens in two corners of the room, and we made our way toward one of them. Still reeling from the gift of the tickets, I watched as a commercial for arthritis medication played. I asked a man next to me if he had heard any of the returns yet, but he shook his head.
Lana sat nearby on a leather couch, flanked by Lester and Shirley. Lana and I locked eyes for a moment, and I held up the envelope and mouthed, “Thank you!”
She gave me a thumbs-up.
More commercials came on, and Cass tugged me back toward a small dance floor. The jazz had ended and someone had put on “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Kurt appeared and the three of us danced, making faces at each other. Again, I imagined writing deeper into this scene, but this time, from my point of view. I would describe my wild adoration of these two people beside me, now doing a bastardized “Macarena,” my new appreciation for Lana and her unexpected if complicated generosity, for Colin and his connecting me with her after the bottom fell out with Nick’s book. “There were plenty of reasons to despair about our country,” I would write, “but here in this room were plenty of reasons to feel lucky.”
Someone turned off the music and an abrupt hush fell over the room.
“Ulster and Columbia counties by 3 percent each,” Shirley’s voice announced. An explosion of clapping and whistling sounded, and we made our way back toward the corner where Lana sat. Cass pulled at my hand. Kurt kissed the top of my head. There it was on the TV screen: she was in the lead, but with only two precincts reporting. Coltrane came booming back on, but Shirley yelled, “Not yet! Keep it down for now,” and the music cut again.
The commercial for arthritis medication played again. I leaned over and told Cass that we had tickets to see The Lion King the next day, and his eyes went wide. “Really?” he said.
“Really!”
“I’m tired. Can we go soon?” It was growing late.
Putnam County went for Calhoun. This time Shirley didn’t announce it, and people nodded grimly. Reggie walked past and we exchanged looks. “To be expected,” he said.
Cass pulled at my arm again, and I looked around for Kurt. Maybe he could take Cass for a walk or something during this last part of the night. Where the hell was Kurt? I grew panicked about being on my own with my son if, God forbid, the news was bad. In that case, I would be the one who might need a parent.
And then, like the bursting of a dam, St. Lawrence, Franklin, Albany, and Rockland all came in, and minutes later, someone rang what sounded like a cowbell. Everyone began to jump and clap and hoot, hugging each other and exchanging high fives. I scooped up Cass and finally found Kurt making his way toward us. My heart threatened to leave my chest and rise up with those odd clouds near the ceiling. People clustered around Lana and I could hardly see her, until I could, and then I saw her wipe at her eyes and cover her face with her hands. When she removed them, she threw open her mouth and laugh-cried with abandon. I had never seen her face this way, so wide open.
Soon she would make her way to a podium and begin the speech that I written for her. “My friends, my friends! Look at all of us!” she would say. “Look at what we have done. I am so full of thankfulness for every one of you here. You have each worked so hard. You have fought like soldiers in this ongoing war to defend women and people of color, immigrants and working people, LGBTQIA and disabled people. To defend all of the people who have been resisting tirelessly and trying make this country our great home again. That’s right. We will make America great again, but on the people’s terms, and not the terms of the one percent. Not the terms of the corrupt. And certainly not the terms of the current regime.”
I would stand, relieved, with my son and begin to feel more hopeful about the country. I would begin to more fully believe in his future again, as well as my own.
It was as familiar to me as the Berkshires sky, this sort of ending. I had written it how many times? I had written the crescendo, this moment of victory, in whatever form it took. I had written the ensuing denouement, the last sentence.
If I close my eyes even now, I can visualize the rest, both on the page and in person: Lana setting up her desk in the Russell Senate Office Building, Norton seated in the corner doing homework. “Can you believe your old mom is a United States senator now?” Lana would say. “Whatever.” But then he would look up and flash her a proud smile.
If only this was what had transpired; if only we could determine the future by writing it first.
Someone turned off the music as an abrupt hush fell over the room.
“Ulster and Columbia counties by 3 percent each,” Shirley’s voice announced. An explosion of clapping and whistling sounded, and we made our way back toward the corner where Lana sat. Cass pulled at my hand. Kurt kissed the top of my head. There it was on the TV screen: she was in the lead, but with only two precincts reporting. Coltrane came booming back on, but Shirley yelled, “Not yet! Keep it down for now,” and the music cut again.
The commercial for arthritis medication played again. I leaned over and told Cass that we had tickets to see The Lion King the next day.
Putnam County went for Calhoun. This time Shirley didn’t announce it, and people nodded grimly. Reggie walked past and we exchanged looks. “To be expected,” he said.
Cass pulled at my arm again, and I looked around for Kurt. Maybe he could take Cass for a walk during this last part of the night. Delaware went for Calhoun. I got the creeping sense that Andrea Calhoun may have had more impact than we thought. Or worse, that she was not even needed in the end—and that the electorate had no real qualms with Remy’s harassment of his employees. Suffolk and Nassau came in for Calhoun. Where the hell was Kurt? Orange and Schenectady went for Calhoun, just as Kurt finally appeared.
“It’s not looking good,” I said and gestured toward a few people quietly leaving. “Where were you?”
“I ran into an old neighbor. We were out in the hall. I didn’t know all these returns came in so quickly.”
“Mom,” Cass whined.
If we left the party, maybe things would turn around for Lana. If I was not here to witness the worst, then the worst might not happen. The irrational bargains we make when faced with the possibility of grief.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Kurt looked at me. “You sure? We came all the way here.”
“Ca
ss needs sleep,” I said.
I found Lana still seated in the corner with Shirley and a few others, and when Lana saw me, her face lit as if she remembered to look upbeat. “Stay optimistic,” she said, reaching out her hand for mine.
“You, too,” I said.
Back in our hotel room, Cass drifted off just after we set him in his bed. Kurt headed into the bathroom.
I found my laptop and took it to a chair at the side of the room. I pulled off my shoes, tucked my feet under my legs, and opened the screen. A moment later I was looking at a photograph of Remy Calhoun and his wife hugging. My eyes moved down to take in the headline.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “No, no, no.” I grew a little breathless. There were times I still did not know how to find enough oxygen in this new place, the country as it had been over the past year.
Kurt stepped out of the bathroom and saw my face. “Oh.”
I nodded.
He came and sat on the floor next to my chair and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Shit,” he said into my stomach.
“What do I tell Cass?” I said.
“The truth?”
“Can’t I just lie to him and let him believe it for a minute or two before I tell him what really happened?”
“He’s a kid,” Kurt said. “He’ll love you regardless of whether your team won or not.”
“It’s not about that,” I said. The distance between our sexes was too far at that moment: Kurt could not know the disappointment—the outrage—of watching Lana fall to Remy Calhoun. It was hardly Kurt’s fault that this pulverizing disappointment might never be as pulverizing to him. But I did not have the heart to explain anything more right then.