“We’ll find the money. It’s doable. And Lucy, you seriously need a change of scenery. What do you think? We’d leave in a couple of days.”
I know Naomi. As generous as she is, I have a hard time believing she’s offering me this trip out of the goodness of her heart. “Whath the real reathon you want me to go?”
“I just told you.”
“Tho there ithn’t any other reathon?”
She sighs. “Fine. I just found out that the Bryant Agency is expecting a full, formal report of our trip, including the minutes of all our meetings. If we don’t do it, we can never expect to get grant money from them again. So I need your help documenting everything.”
I close my eyes. Writing reports is the most tedious aspect of my job. Besides, I have several meetings next week I’d have to reschedule. And in New York, with Naomi around, it will be hard to watch the news every waking moment that I’m not working. I open my mouth to say no when the realization hits me like a rock in the soft spot of my head. Monty’s in New York.
“I’d love thoo,” I say.
“That’s my girl!” Naomi is nearly squealing. “This will be so amazing!”
She goes on about what we’ll do, where we’ll stay, getting me a plane ticket, etc, etc, but I barely hear her because I’m composing the phone message I’ll leave for Monty in my mind. Or what if he picks up when I call? Which would be better? God, I hope it doesn’t turn out to be awkward.
“So we’ll talk more tomorrow, okay Lucy?”
I agree and we hang up. And for once I don’t immediately turn on the news.
On November 20th Naomi and I arrive in NYC, and we spend our days observing neighborhood programs in different areas of the city. We take cabs and subways, eat our lunch standing up in crowded bagel stands, discuss the effects of poverty on community outreach, and the merits of funding youth arts programs and social programs for senior citizens. We eat dinner in darkly lit restaurants on our own dime, skipping dessert and usually arriving back at our hotel by 8:00.
On Thursday evening, my last night in the city, I tell Naomi I’m seeing an old friend, and I go to meet Monty at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. After a week of slick, polished surfaces and rushing to keep pace on whatever sidewalk I’m walking down, it’s comforting to enter this place with red-checkered table cloths, Frank Sinatra music, and vintage photography hanging on the walls. Monty is already at a table; he and a bottle of wine are waiting expectantly for me.
His face lights up when I approach him, and he stands up to greet me. “Lucy, so good to see you!” He pulls me into a hug, and that warms me even more than the coziness of the restaurant does.
“It’s good to see you too,” I say into his neck. He loosens his grip around me, and plants a kiss on my forehead. Very big-brother-like.
We sit down. In the year since I’ve seen him he hasn’t changed much. He still looks younger than his years, and he still has the same big green eyes framed by long lashes, same warm smile, same easy confidence.
“How have you been?” he asks.
“Fine,” I tell him. He nods and simultaneously stares into my eyes. Like he’s challenging me.
“What?” I ask.
He breaks his gaze, and grabs the wine bottle. “Do you want some wine? You like Merlot, right?”
“I do.”
He smiles and pours me a glass. “I know it’s not exactly hip. And in retrospect, I could have had you meet me somewhere much more sophisticated. But I love this place.”
“It’s perfect. And if you’re anything like your brother, you don’t care about what’s hip or sophisticated. I’ve always loved that about Jack.”
“Yeah, me too.” He takes a sip of his wine and leans back in his chair. I take in his whole appearance: his thick dark hair that hangs just slightly over his ears, his face that’s become subtly lined with both tension and laughter, the rolled up sleeves, the loosened tie, and the friendly strength he seems to effortlessly exude.
“Thanks for coming all the way to Brooklyn, Lucy. I feel bad that I wasn’t able to meet you before this…”
“I was in Brooklyn today anyway, meeting with some of their community organizers. It’s really no problem.”
I take a drink of my wine and he stretches his neck, and for an awkward moment I worry we’ll have nothing to talk about.
“You look tired,” I say.
He looks me in the eyes, again with that intense gaze, and he shakes his head.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t go on about it tonight. I really do want to hear about how you are.”
“You wouldn’t go on about what, Monty?”
He slumps a little, then waves his arms up in resignation. “The election. It’s seriously all I can think about. The fucking election.”
I laugh and he leans in, like he’s about to share some deep, dark secret. “We’ve been flooded, you know. All sorts of complaints about voter suppression.”
By “we” I’m sure he means the ACLU. “All the way up here in New York?”
“Mostly down in Florida, but we’ve of course heard about it. Did you know Attorney General Katherine Harris purged over 20,000 names from the registry in Florida? Anyone whose name resembled the name of a convicted felon was vulnerable. Innocent people were turned away at the polls, and of course most of them were poor, black, or both.”
“I’ve heard about that…”
He taps his fingers against the table. “Do you realize where the ballots with hanging or dimpled chads are most likely to show up? In the counties where the ballot machines are old and need replacing. Again, the poor, black neighborhoods were hit. So they’re doing this recount with no consistent standard for interpreting voter intent, and the Republicans are contesting every single ballot that doesn’t go their way, so of course there’s no way we’ll meet the November 26th deadline.” Monty stops talking for a moment and takes a deep breath, like an underwater swimmer coming up for air. Then he plunges back into the deep. “And don’t get me started on Palm Beach and their asinine butterfly ballot! How many people were confused and voted for Pat Buchanan instead of Gore? We’ll never know, but over 19,000 votes were tossed out because people voted twice. I can’t stop obsessing over it.”
He lets his eyes roll up so his gaze is now focused on the ceiling, and he taps his fingers against the table some more, nervous energy winning the battle to escape. The waiter comes over. “Are you two ready to order?”
I realize I haven’t even looked at the menu. “Maybe give us a minute?”
The waiter nods and walks away. I reach out to Monty, grabbing his left hand, the tapping hand, which both physically calms and compels him to look back at me.
“I understand,” I say. “I keep thinking about it all too. And I can’t stop watching the news, yet I hate every newscaster there is right now, except maybe Jon Stewart, but I don’t think he counts.” Monty smiles, and I continue. “I wanted to punch Cokie Roberts in the face last Sunday when she was going on about how Florida wouldn’t be an issue if Gore had won his home state of Tennessee. So not the point!”
He nods, leans forward, and speaks earnestly. “I would pay cash money to see you punch Cokie Roberts in the face. I know some people; maybe it could be arranged.”
“You know Cokie Roberts?”
He shakes his head no. “I work with her neighbor’s niece. It might take a little finagling, but I’ve made a career out of arranging things and convincing people, so I bet I could get this done.”
“Call me. Just tell me when and where, and I’m totally in.”
He laughs now, and the tension he had been wearing is tucked away, like a stained shirt beneath a sweater. Monty squeezes my palm and he grows serious again. “The thing is, we just want justice to be served. What happened in Florida is not just.”
I look down at our joined hands, and my heart flutters a little, enough to keep me from pointing out that we don’t just want justice; we also want Gore to have won. It probably wouldn’t be produ
ctive to mention that at the moment.
“I simply thought…” Monty trails off for a moment, and he stares at my fingers, which he is still holding in his hand. He looks up, refocusing on my face. “I thought our democracy was better than this. Maybe it’s too obvious… Katherine Harris and Jeb Bush are clearly not on Gore’s side. Still, military ballots, which are more likely to be cast for Bush, are counted even if there’s no signature, post mark, or witness, but other ballots, the questionable ones for Gore, aren’t.”
I let go of Monty’s hand and pick up the menu. “You know what? I’m starving, and something smells really good. Let’s order dinner.”
“I recommend the chicken parmesan.”
“That sounds great.”
Monty motions the waiter over. We order, and as the waiter walks away Monty sighs.
“Lucy, I’m so sorry. Seriously, let’s talk about something else. How has your trip been?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears, both sides. I tried to blow dry it straight this morning, but by 7:00 PM it’s inevitably escaped whatever effort heat and styling products had asserted for control, and it’s now reverted back to its rebellious, curly nature. So much for my fantasy of Monty running his hands through my hair later this evening, back at his place, when we’re alone and all talked out.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a relief to be able to talk about it. All my friends think I’m obsessed and delusional, like I’ve taken this liberal slant and I can’t see things clearly.”
“You should come work for the ACLU,” he replies. “Most of my friends actually think I’m too conservative.”
Our eyes meet, and simultaneously we recognize the ridiculousness of his statement. The corners of his mouth turn up. I return his smile, relax into my chair, his company, and the evening ahead. If only I could slow the clock down or simply make time stop.
We drink the entire bottle of wine, linger over dinner, and even order dessert and coffee. But eventually it becomes impossible not to get up and exit into the chilly November night. Monty puts his hand on my shoulder as we walk out the door. “I’ll get you a cab,” he says, and my heart sinks.
We’re standing on the curb, and no vacant taxis are in sight. I wrap my arms around myself, trying not to shiver noticeably. Monty notices anyway, and reaches out to take me in his arms. Without a word he’s kissing me, and suddenly my entire body is warm and delving for a way to get even closer to him. I wrap my arms around his neck, and we pull each other as tight as possible. His hand is pressed against the small of my back, and his other hand has traveled up my spine, caressing my neck, and then his fingers burrow into my hair. It couldn’t feel any better to me if my hair was as straight and smooth as silk.
He stops kissing me and pulls away, yet our faces are still super close.
“I don’t want you to think I’m a jerk,” he whispers.
“I don’t.”
He kisses me again, briefly, and continues talking. “I always feel like I’m taking advantage of you. Jack’s wedding, calling you when I did, and now…”
“I don’t mind.” I gently grab his face and pull it down so his lips are meeting my own, once again. My pulse is pounding and even if I was capable of common sense or reason at the moment, I’d abandon rational thought for the feeling of being with him, no question.
We go back to his place.
Later we’re lying in his bed, staring into each other’s eyes, and he’s twirling a lock of my hair around his right index finger.
“You’re so pretty,” he says. “How is it possible I never noticed you in high school?”
I exhale through my nose and touch his cheek. “You did, you just don’t remember.”
“Huh?”
“It was after you graduated, actually. But I was still in high school. We were at a bonfire party, and Reggie Hanson was bothering me. You stepped up and told him to get lost.”
“I did?”
“Uhm hmm.” I lean in and kiss him. “Thanks for that. He was always such a jerk, and you stood up to him for me.”
He kisses me back. “I have no memory of that. But I’m glad I did it. If I had known it was you, I would have done a lot more.”
We continue kissing, but after a minute Monty breaks away. “Reggie Hanson? Isn’t he the guy who got into the hunting accident?”
“What?”
“Yeah. I’m sure it’s him. My mom knows his mom. He was hunting with a friend, got drunk, and shot himself in the leg. He’s in a wheelchair now.”
“For good?”
“As far as I know.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. I shouldn’t feel bad. If anything, I should be happy that karma has given Reggie what he deserves. But the only emotion I can produce is a vague sense of anxiety. If Reggie Hanson is vulnerable to life’s cruelties, then certainly we all are.
Monty scoots in closer to me. “You okay?”
I turn my face toward him. “Yeah.” I close my eyes, but even still I see the beauty of Monty’s face, and I can’t deny that right now, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I may as well enjoy the moment. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?
I put my arms around him, and we settle into each other. He continues to play with my hair as we fall asleep, and for once, politics are the last thing on my mind.
A few weeks later, December 12th, I’m at home in the evening when my phone rings. I know it’s Monty before I pick up. Not because we’ve been in contact, but because I could feel his disappointment today when the Supreme Court decision came in, as keenly as I felt my own.
“Can you believe it? The counties can’t make the recount deadline, so they’re not extending the deadline.” he says. “It makes no sense. The Supreme Court never used to be a political entity. What’s happened?”
“I wish I knew.” I take a sip of my hot tea, and the spot where Dr. Randolf said I’ll probably need a root canal twinges in pain. Anything too hot or too cold, which basically includes anything that isn’t the exact temperature of my mouth, isn’t comfortable any more. One of the many ways I’m now paying for my complacency.
“And they’re saying their decision should not be used for legal precedent. It’s the first time the Supreme Court has ever said that. Ever.”
“Yeah,” I reply softly, “I heard that on the news.” I grip the phone, wishing I knew what to say. Honestly, I gave up hope a couple of weeks ago. I guess after I got back to Minneapolis I realized, no matter how adamantly you believe you deserve a specific outcome, it doesn’t mean you’ll get it. But Monty has built his entire career on the concept of justice. If he were to make this same concession it could destroy him.
“Monty, I’m so sorry. I wish there was something…”
“I voted for Nader.” His voice is low, ashamed, and briefly I think there’s a third party on our line. He couldn’t have just said that.
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
I hesitate, wondering how to proceed. “Okay.” I pause, and the connection between us stays silent. “But Monty, why?”
Monty whooshes out a sigh. “I don’t even like Gore that much. He kind of seems like a prick. And there was no way he wasn’t going to win in New York. But my God, what if people in New Hampshire and Florida thought the same thing?”
“They would have been wrong. Those are swing states. New York never was.”
“But Lucy, I’m trying to say that I—I didn’t get it. All of it. The last eight years, even when Clinton was caught with Monica Lewinsky and nearly kicked out of office, I just lived with this notion that everything would eventually work out. That nothing was too consequential, and I could do what I wanted without worrying about the bigger picture.”
I rub my cheek and press my fingers against the skin over my sore gums. “I think you just summed up the '90s mentality.”
He lets out a choppy little laugh. “The party’s over, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say softly.
“Well, we’re going to fight it,” he says. �
��This isn’t over. I’ve been working like mad, finishing up my current cases, so they’ll let me go down to Florida or Atlanta to work with the Voter Suppression Project. Either that, or perhaps help file a brief to the Supreme Court stating that Florida should’ve been able to resolve this through state law.”
He says it isn’t over, but I know it is. So I simply wish him luck.
Then we both go silent again, until Monty speaks up.
“Lucy, I had a really good time with you last month.”
“Me too.”
“But long distance relationships are—”
I cut him off. “You don’t have to say anything more. I already know. And I agree.”
“Really?”
Not really. But I’m done fighting battles for now. It’s time to take the pain. Or, at the very least, numb myself with some Novocain and try to ignore it.
“Take care of yourself, Monty
“Yeah, you too.” I hear him breathe and fiddle with the phone. “And who knows? In four years there will be another chance. There are all sorts of possibilities.”
I know he’s talking about politics now. But somehow, that makes me feel better than anything else he could have said.
Chapter 9. December, 2002
Drew’s lying with his back to me. We’re at my parents’ house. It’s the home where I grew up, in what used to be my bedroom. Now it’s a generic looking guest room, with a double bed, navy blue curtains, and a square white dresser.
It’s not the first time we’ve stayed in this room together. Drew and I have been a couple for over a year; we met shortly after 9/11. We’ve had a few happy visits here with my parents, who love him as much as I do. But now I wrap the stiff, barely used navy blue comforter around me for warmth rather than cuddling up to him, and I feel like something is ending.
“I know you’re still awake,” I say. I consider reaching out and touching his shoulder blade, but I think better of it.
“I’m talked-out, Lucy. And it’s not the time or place to be discussing this, anyway.”
I understand what he’s saying. We drove down to Iowa because Jack and Monty’s father died suddenly of a heart attack. Drew offered to come with me to the funeral; it’s the sort of thing a devoted boyfriend would do. I didn’t plan on telling him about applying to out-of-state graduate schools until after we got back, but somehow the confession slipped out, right in the middle of trying to console Jack.
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