by J. L. Brown
“No, I’m not running for president, but I do love my country. At the rate we’re going, though, the debts of the Greatest Generation, the Baby Boomers, and Generation X will be repaid by the Millennials and the next generation. And because of that, those generations will not have a chance at the American Dream as we had, unless we do something about it now.
“We need to eliminate federal agencies by privatizing or moving their functions to the states, or relying on private businesses or charities to perform them. I volunteer a lot of my time to raise money for learning-disabled children. I choose to donate my hard-earned money to people less fortunate than me. To me, that is much better than the government giving it to low-income folks to pay for their flat-screen televisions.
“All right. Do you want specifics on how we can reduce the deficit?”
“Yes!” the audience yelled.
“First, we need to eliminate the Department of Energy. We don’t need a national plan to address our energy needs. We possess plenty of good sources of energy right here: oil, gas, and coal. The DOE—it should be D-I-E—has been poorly managed and wasteful from the get-go. It is counterproductive to fund wrong or inefficient energy companies. Let the private sector fund research into alternative energy. We need to shut down the DOE!
“During the first half of the last decade, we gave one-point-two billion dollars to farmers who no longer farm and a bunch of money to large farming companies who don’t need it. Agriculture subsidies never made sense and they don’t make sense now. Shut it down!
“Fraught with scandals since it came into existence, the Department of Housing and Urban Development should be eliminated. Understand this folks, federal subsidies help people buy homes they can’t afford. Federal rent subsidies make people reliant on the government to pay for something that is their responsibility. Shut it down!
“As for the Department of Labor, unemployment insurance should be the responsibility of the states and OSHA downsized. Eliminate the federal minimum wage and job training . . . what in the world does the government know about training? Have you called the IRS lately? Shut it down!
“We need to privatize air traffic control. Canada created a private nonprofit organization to manage its air traffic. Our Federal Aviation Administration is poorly funded and has no idea how to innovate. Let’s be more like Canada, eh? Shut it down!”
On a roll, the sweat poured down Cole’s face, but he didn’t care. He didn’t wipe it away. Some members of the audience were standing up now and shouting “Shut it down!” with him, transforming the auditorium into an evangelical experience. The Department of Commerce, Federal Transit Administration, Federal Highway Administration, Department of Transportation, and Amtrak were all on his chopping block. Cole decided to wind down his speech. He could talk about this stuff forever.
“Assistance for needy families, children’s health insurance, and Head Start can all be provided by the states or funded privately. We don’t need the federal government to do these things.”
By now, every single person in the audience was standing and applauding and cheering. The crowd flowed out into the aisles. He took a deep breath. He finally wiped his forehead with a hand towel and placed it back down on the podium.
“The federal government can slash the deficit if it has the will to do so.” He paused. “If it has the will to do so.” He repeated. “This is what’s at stake in this election. A feminist Socialist who hasn’t done much in the Senate is trying to unseat President Richard Ellison, a strong, conservative Republican and a good family man. Don’t be fooled by Whitney’s new moderate attitude. Once she’s elected, she’ll pull out Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto and turn America into twentieth-century Russia. If you don’t believe me, folks, go back and read the papers she wrote in college. You’ll receive a Socialist education. For your convenience, we’ve posted all of her undergraduate and graduate papers on my website, www.theconservativevoiceonline.com.
“Now, Richard Ellison is a man we can trust. Didn’t he re-enact ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Don’t Worry?’ He’s done more for America’s families than any president since the late, great, President Ronald Reagan. Have you seen Whitney’s family? She lives in Washington, DC. Her husband lives in Missouri in a very friendly neighborhood. What kind of marriage is that? Do we want a long-distance, open marriage in the White House? What kind of example does that set for our kids? Also, if she’s that hands-off in representing her constituents in Missouri, what will happen if she becomes the president of the good ol’ US of A?
“Whitney Fairchild is untested, untried, and unfit to be our president.
“I want my posse to get out and vote and get your neighbors out to vote. We can’t leave this election to chance. We can’t allow the Commiecrats back in office. Your children’s future depends on it. Help me to re-elect President Richard Ellison, who has the will to give our children a future of prosperity and freedom rather than one of paying off the previous generations’ debts.
“Thank you for having me tonight. God bless you and God bless the United States of America.”
The applause was deafening.
Cole had given it his best shot. The rest was up to Ellison.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
St. Louis, Missouri
Yesterday, Whitney, Ted, and the road show flew across the country for last-minute campaigning, chasing the sun from east to west. She arrived home from California late last night. It had been a while since Whitney had been home. Her real home. She rose at six a.m., as if it were any other day. Grayson slept.
She pumped away at the elliptical machine in their home gym in St. Louis while watching a simulated bike ride through the mountains on a massive projection screen. She pushed herself hard, not sure when she would be able to work out again. Forty minutes later, she went back to their bedroom.
She watched him sleep for a few moments.
After learning about the affair five months ago, she still felt like crying every time she looked at him. She had thought long and hard about him, their marriage, his mistake. When she transcended the most difficult part of the pain, she thought about the role she had played in what happened. She hadn’t been there for him or her family. In some ways, she still wasn’t. She wasn’t excusing what he did, but she believed she had to own her part of it. Grayson was human, and that’s why she ultimately decided to forgive him.
She woke him. Head on the pillow, his hair grazing his forehead, he gazed up at her and smiled. The same smile that made her fall in love with him all those years ago.
He searched her eyes. “Is it time?”
“It’s time.”
“Okay, I’ll get up.”
He pushed up on one elbow, and she took his face in her hands. “Let’s take a shower.”
“Together?”
She nodded. They hadn’t made love since she found out.
“Are you sure?” Grayson asked. “Do we have time?”
Whitney took his hand and helped him to his feet.
*
Afterward, she walked down the hall to the children’s rooms. Emma’s room was white: white bed, white dresser, white walls. Posters of the singers Adele and Bruno Mars adorned her walls. Whitney touched her daughter’s shoulder.
“Are you ready?”
Emma sprang up and gave her mother a hug. “I love you, Momma. I’m so proud of you.”
Whitney, surprised at her own tears, hugged her back, tight.
She didn’t go into Chandler’s room. When he turned fourteen, his room began to take on a locker-room odor that nauseated her. She knocked several times, before he grumbled, “I’m up!”
“Are you ready?”
“I will be.”
She went back to her bedroom. She sat in front of her vanity mirror in the sitting area adjacent to the bathroom to apply her makeup—not too much—before moving to her dressing room to put on a new suit designed by the up-and-coming female American designer Ashley Smith. She admired herself in the full-length
standalone mirror and nodded.
Grayson sat on the off-white upholstered chestnut bench at the foot of the bed. Dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit, white shirt with a spread collar, light blue tie, and polished black dress shoes, he had his coat draped over one arm. He held a fedora hat in his other hand. She loved fedora hats.
“You look nice.”
He gave her a smile, tinged with regret. “And you look beautiful, darling. Oh, and presidential.”
She peered down at her suit in the same shade of blue as his, wiping away imaginary lint. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and held out her hand. “I’m ready.”
He rose and took her hand in his strong, firm one. He squeezed. It did not give her the feeling of comfort, of safety, that it once did. Forgiving and forgetting were two different things.
They walked down the stairs. At the bottom, her children, dressed up, smiled as they looked up at their parents. Sarah, her body woman, and a few other members of her staff and Secret Service agents waited with them. As she reached the bottom stair, Josh McPherson, her lead Secret Service agent, slid in beside her.
“Are you ready, ma’am?”
She nodded.
He brought his wrist to his mouth. “Twilight is ready to move.”
“Twilight?”
“I noticed that you read young-adult novels when you think no one is around.”
Whitney laughed. “I like it.”
Whitney and Grayson stepped onto the porch. A large crowd had assembled beyond the wrought-iron gate of their front yard. They gave each other much-practiced smiles, as the cameras clicked, turned to the crowd and waved.
It was a beautiful, crisp Tuesday in November.
Election Day had arrived.
*
Whitney turned to her husband. “I forgot something.”
She came out a few minutes later carrying a box.
Grayson shook his head, mystified. “Sweetie, what are you doing? Do you need some help with that?”
To Josh, she said, “Come with me. And bring some of your friends.”
“Where are you going?” Grayson asked.
As Whitney headed out the gate enveloped by Secret Service agents, the crowd parted and then followed behind her. She strode to the front door of the house and knocked. A minute later, her neighbor answered the door. Although it had been two years since Whitney had seen her, the woman had aged ten. That’s what being hounded by the paparazzi will do to you. When once Whitney regarded her as Midwestern cute, now she only looked plain.
The neighbor peered around Whitney at the large men in suits and sunglasses and the crowd beyond. She shrank away from Whitney’s gaze. “What do you want?”
“You left these dishes at my house. Your services are no longer required.”
*
Standing with her hands on the railing, craving a cigar, Whitney admired the spectacular view from the luxury suite’s balcony at the Ritz Carlton in Clayton, a suburb of St. Louis. She welcomed the cool night air on her face after being surrounded by people all day. She and Grayson had voted early in the morning and spent the rest of the day crisscrossing the state, shaking hands at as many polling places as possible.
Competing with the election coverage on television and social media, was Whitney’s visit to her neighbor. Not only the television cameras, but many of the people in the crowd caught the exchange on video for posterity. #NeighborBoom was the number-one trending topic on Twitter for most of the day.
She drifted back into the living room. Ted, Landon, Grayson, Sarah, vice presidential candidate Xavi Fernandez and his family, friends, and others sat or stood near the television, their eyes fixed on the electoral map on the screen.
The returns had started to come in.
Maine, New Hampshire, New York, and all the northeastern states had gone to her. Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama, and the rest of the Southern states went to Ellison. No surprises, yet.
They split two of the battleground states. Ellison won North Carolina. She smiled to herself. She had eaten all that barbecue and potato salad for nothing.
Whitney took Virginia.
Thank you, high school kids.
The Midwestern states started coming in for the president: Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, and—no surprise—Texas with its thirty-eight electoral votes. She picked up the key states of Michigan and, of course, her home state, Missouri.
The lead changed hands all night. And, then, she won Ohio.
As Ohio goes, so does the nation. She turned and gazed into Grayson’s eyes.
Are we really going to do this?
He patted her hand, but didn’t say a word.
They had never discussed what they were going to do if she won the presidency. Would he relinquish the CEO position to one of his brothers? Would he take a leave of absence? Or would he continue to work? Had a president ever had a long-distance marriage? Not in recent history. She had not wanted to jinx her chances by speaking to him about it.
A couple of her staffers shushed the others.
Someone turned the volume up on the television.
Blaine Jones, who had moderated the presidential debate, anchored the election coverage for CNN. He stared into the camera, and Breaking Results flashed at the bottom of the screen. A picture of Whitney popped up next to a picture of Florida. A big, blue check mark next to her face.
“This just in, CNN is now projecting that the state of Florida will go to Senator Whitney Fairchild.”
The gathering in the room erupted in cheers. With the explosion of Florida’s population over the past sixty-five years, its importance in presidential elections had grown. The sunshine state not only had the third-largest number of electoral votes, but also its diverse population represented a microcosm of the United States. Whitney was glad Florida now had its voting act together. The people should decide elections, not the Supreme Court.
She eyed Xavi Fernandez, the governor of Florida, from across the room, and nodded her thanks. He smiled and raised his glass of champagne to her. Adding him to the ticket had paid off, but she wondered at what cost. He wanted to be president. Now. Not eight years from now. She would need to watch her back.
Whitney grabbed Grayson’s hand while continuing to stare at the television.
One more.
She needed one more.
California.
Several minutes passed with no results. The staff parked in front of the television became antsy and started moving around the room.
Whitney did not move. The polls for California closed at 10 p.m. Central. The time was now 10:05.
CNN cut from a commercial.
She glanced at the Breaking Results at the bottom of the screen and at Blaine’s face. He had a slight twinkle in his eye.
And she knew.
Her face appeared on the screen next to her name. Underneath her picture were the words Elected President. The living room was quiet for the first time that evening, except for the tinkling of ice in someone’s glass.
“CNN has projected the states of California, Oregon, Washington, and Hawaii for Senator Whitney Fairchild. Whitney Fairchild, the Democratic Senator from Missouri, will be the next—and the first woman—president of the United States.”
All around her, friends and campaign staff jumped up and down while trying to hug each other. Some cried. CNN cut to different cities across the country and around the world where crowds celebrated her victory.
She stared at the screen, hand over her mouth, in shock. Ted had told her the polls indicated it would be close, but she should win. She had found it hard to believe him. She faced Grayson. He smiled and held his arms wide. She fell into them.
He whispered into her hair. “I love you. I have always loved only you. I’m so proud of you, darling.”
She clung to him, but did not respond. After a while, the others gathered around her, waiting. She stood to make it easier for them to hug her. She raised both arms.
“We did it!”
Everyon
e started cheering. She accepted the hugs from her family, staff, and members of the road show who had been with her every step of the way during the last two years. All of them felt like family. And this would be the last night they would all be together. Some of them would join her transition team and the administration. Most would not.
Whitney gazed out the window at the Gateway Arch, a monument to westward expansion and now a milestone in the country’s history.
In a few minutes, she would be leaving for the Arch to deliver her acceptance speech as the first female president-elect of the United States of America.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Bethesda, Maryland
A commentator for the Patriot News television network insisted that all the votes weren’t in for Ohio. But with the loss of California, it didn’t matter. It was over.
Cole Brennan stared in disbelief at the television in his family room.
This did not just happen.
His wife, Ashley, patted his back and said soothing words to him he couldn’t, wouldn’t hear.
The tall, lanky, former cowboy—and soon-to-be former president—stood with his wife and two children on a stage somewhere in Wyoming and spoke about what he had accomplished over the last four years. That this wasn’t the end, but only a setback. The beginning of the next phase of the journey. Their party was stronger than ever and its ideals would endure.
The son of a bitch doesn’t even appear upset that he lost.
Cole dropped his head into his hands. He felt sick to his stomach. When he looked up, the scene on the television screen changed to the imposing Gateway Arch. The camera cut to Whitney’s beaming face.
Cole couldn’t take it anymore. He swept the remote off the coffee table and pressed the power button.
He got up and left the room to go to bed without a word to Ashley.