November Surprise

by Laurel Osterkamp

  Monty, I’m glad that Cokie Roberts makes you think of me. Since you’re using my work email you must know I’m living/teaching in Seattle. I heard you conquered malaria. Congrats on your article in the Atlantic. Jack went on and on about it. It was really good.

  If you’re ever in Seattle, give me a call.

  -Lucy

  I hit send, and then I try to focus on work. In a little more than an hour, there’s another email from him.

  Lucy, why do you have to be so far away? Seriously, the West Coast? What’s with that?

  If I’m ever in Seattle, I’ll definitely call, but I don’t know when that would be. I guess geography has never been on our side, huh?

  I place my palms down, flat upon my desk. I inhale and exhale, and try not to get too excited. Yes, the email is definitely flirtatious. But as he said, geography is not on our side.

  This time I delay writing back. This time I will over-think what I’m going to say. After all, in the last four years I’ve had only two short-lived relationships. I wasn’t in love, not like I was with Drew, and neither guy could give me what I want. Probably it’s my fault; what I want is both fluid and complex. I could barely explain it to myself, let alone to either of them. So I decided to give up on my attachment to love and romance. You don’t spend years getting to this point, of actually being happy alone, only to throw it all away with one simple little email.

  Chapter 13. 2008: Obama vs. McCain

  May

  It’s rare when a guy with a knack for getting you to believe both in yourself and in the world comes along. But once he does, you can imagine that greatness is possible. When he appears, you need to forget about what you thought you wanted, what you’d settled for wanting, and reach for your highest ideals. Because for once in your life, you just might be able to grasp them.

  Carolyn Kennedy said as much about Obama last January. Her op-ed piece in the New York Times stated that he could be a president like her father was, and every bit as inspirational. Oprah Winfrey even declared that he’s “the one.” I admit; I feel the same way.

  But the primary season has been rocky. Just when I think he has the nomination sewn up, Hillary Clinton wins New Hampshire, or Texas, or some other state. And when the Reverend Jeremiah Wright scandal broke, it didn’t make me doubt Obama as much as I doubted that idealism itself could ever last, long term. Then he made his speech about race, and I believed again. I guess the beauty of obstacles lies in overcoming them.

  When Monty calls, I remind myself of this point.

  What are the chances that we could wind up in the same place, yet so far from home? Two years ago, after completing my degree, I did an extensive job search and found a teaching position at Seattle University. It pays just enough that I can afford a nice one bedroom in a nice neighborhood, but more importantly, I’m teaching social justice, which I love. I finally reconciled with the idea that I wasn’t ever getting married and having kids, and I decided there are benefits to being alone.

  I already knew Monty had regained his health but lost his girlfriend to another man. His bout with malaria had inspired him to write an article in The Atlantic about both his personal struggles with the disease and society’s obligation to eradicate it. His article led to a lecture at NYU, which led to a speaking tour. Now, apparently, he’s gotten a job offer from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to write policy and be the public voice for their research for a malaria vaccine. I suppose it figures that if anyone could actually benefit from having malaria, it would be Monty.

  His message said he was coming to Seattle to check out the job, and we should have a drink. Of course I say yes.

  The evening goes great. Our drink turns to dinner, and since we’re eating at a restaurant close to my apartment in the Queen Anne neighborhood, it’s only natural for me to invite him over to see my place.

  So I’m standing in my kitchen, preparing decaffeinated coffee and trying to ease my jitters, now that the effect of the wine I drank earlier is wearing off.

  He’s sitting at my tiny, shabby-chic dining room table, fiddling with my laptop. “I don’t know why I’m having so much trouble accessing my account,” he says.

  “Are you sure you’re using the right password?”

  “No.” He looks up from the computer, and I meet his gaze from the kitchen. His eyelids look heavier than I remember, but other than that, he’s still the same guy who has occupied my fantasies, off and on, for years. He must have had time to change clothes after his interview, because he’s wearing a black, long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He’s thinner than he was six years ago, but that’s probably more from working out than from any lasting effects of malaria. He smiles. “I have so many different passwords, I can never remember them all.”

  “I understand. You can show me the pictures some other time. Maybe another six years from now?”

  I grab the coffee mugs, and bring them to the table where he’s sitting. I sit across from him and pull my semi-short jersey dress down, over my knees, so it doesn’t ride up too suggestively.

  “It’s really been six years? Wow.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and then he sets the mug back on the table. “You know, I never thanked you for that night.”

  I cock my head. “There was no need. I didn’t do anything.”

  “You promised to check in on Jack.”

  “I would have done that anyway.”

  “I know.” He runs his finger along the rim of his cup, and his eyebrows knit together. “And you listened to me, about my dad. You said nice things.”

  “Anyone would have.”

  “But it was you.” He stretches a little in his seat, and his voice lowers as he continues to speak. “I felt like I talked to him, when I was sick. My dad, I mean.”

  The evening has been so light, up until now. I fold my legs up, so I’m sitting cross-legged in my chair, with my dress carefully covering what needs to be covered. I lean forward, as if to suggest that I can handle whatever it is he’s about to tell me.

  “It was probably a hallucination, or a dream,” he says. “But it felt real.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Standard dead-dad stuff, I suppose.” Monty grins self-consciously. “He told me to make sure to have my tires rotated at least once a year, and to refinance our house while mortgage rates are low.”

  I can’t tell if he’s kidding. “Really?”

  He shakes his head and laughs. “No.” His face grows serious again. “It’s sort of a haze, you know. But I remember he said he was proud.”

  “See. I told you. Turns out I was right.” I smile, unconcerned if I appear smug.

  “I should never have doubted you.” He reaches out and takes my hand. Warmth spreads through me from his touch. “Don’t tell Jack, okay? It’s not a story I typically go around sharing.”

  “I won’t tell him.” I turn his hand over, and caress his thumb with my index finger. “But speaking of not telling Jack…”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “Seriously? I’m not allowed to tell him we had dinner?”

  “No, of course you can. Just don’t tell him you came over after.” Monty looks at me with silent skepticism. “It’s complicated,” I say. “I know that sounds lame, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  “There’s no need to explain.” Monty shrugs his shoulders. “Your friendship with Jack has lasted way longer than anything I’ve ever had with an ex.” He draws invisible circles with his finger into my palm. “Who am I to judge?”

  I ignore the tingling feeling that his touch is causing inside of me. “Well, it’s you I have to thank, right? It was you who talked him into staying friends with me after I broke up with him.”

  “Oh, you mean after I eavesdropped in on your conversation?”

  I move my hand away. “You swore that you hadn’t.”

  He shrugs his shoulders again, and his eyes gleam with happy guilt. “You got what you wanted. Alls well that ends well, right?”

  “Don’t quot
e Shakespeare to defend yourself.” Playfully, I punch his arm. “That’s low.”

  He reaches for me and pulls me into his lap. I don’t even pretend to resist. “Oh,” he says, in mock offense. “I forgot who I’m dealing with. How about I quote Jefferson instead?” He tilts his head down and kisses my neck. “A little rebellion now and then is a good thing.”

  “I doubt that’s how he meant it.”

  “You never know,” he whispers. His lips find my lips, and he gives me a gentle kiss—gentler than I remember ever receiving from him. That’s not a complaint; I feel like I could live comfortably, encircled in his arms, for quite a while.

  But I break away. “I didn’t ask you here, thinking we would, you know…”

  “I know.” He doesn’t smile; his voice and his face seem neutral. “Do you want me to go?”

  I consider his question. I could say yes. But he probably won’t accept this job, and he’ll be gone in a day or two. Spending time with Monty has always been short-lived, and I’m usually left wanting more. However, if he leaves right now, I’ll definitely be left wanting more.

  It’s a lose/lose situation. I may as well enjoy the process.

  I kiss him again. This time his arms wrap around me tightly, and his mouth becomes more firm and demanding. I can’t imagine telling him to stop.

  “Stay,” I say between kisses.

  Then we stop talking altogether.

  The next day he calls.

  “I decided to take the job,” he says.

  “Congratulations,” I grab onto the edge of my desk for stability. “When do you start?”

  “Right away. They’re even finding me a furnished apartment. I should be back here at the beginning of the week.”

  “Wow.”

  “So…” he murmurs. “When can I see you again?”

  My throat goes dry, and I reach for the water bottle I just refilled. After taking a sip I say, “I think we should take things slow.” I add, clutching my phone. “I mean, of course I want to see you again, soon even, but…”

  “Lucy,” he cuts me off with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. You have a life, and I’ll have tons to do, getting acclimated to a new job and a new city. I wasn’t expecting a serious relationship.”

  I laugh too. “Right. Sorry. Of course you weren’t. But when you get back to town, call me. I’ll show you around.”

  He promises to call.

  I return to grading my students’ papers about the effects of early 20th century immigration. Later, I’ll plan tomorrow’s lecture about the rise of workers’ unions. There will be no sitting, waiting around for the phone to ring.

  Two weeks later I’m sitting up in bed, watching the results of the Indiana and North Carolina primaries. But it’s not my television, not my bed, not even my t-shirt that I’m wearing as I watch.

  Monty comes in from the kitchen, wearing only his boxers. It’s a look he can easily get away with. He’s carrying a large glass of water. “I’ve only got one clean glass,” he says. “So I figured we could share.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him, and he uses his free hand to scratch behind his ear. “The apartment didn’t come with glasses.”

  “Really? I thought this apartment came with everything.”

  He gives me a crooked smile. “Even a girlfriend.”

  I glance around the room. “Are you hiding her in the closet?”

  “You’re the girlfriend.” He takes a long drink, nearly finishing it. “And I would never hide you in a closet.”

  “You’re a prince. You couldn’t be more perfect unless you gave me my own glass of water.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I bought a set of four the other day.” He walks back into the kitchen to refill his glass, raising his voice as he continues to talk. “And I’ve used three of them since then, but I haven’t washed them yet.”

  “Uh huh.” My attention belongs not to him right now, but to CNN, where “the best political team on television” is sitting around with their laptops, discussing the ramifications of tonight’s results.

  Monty comes back and sits down next to me on the bed. “So Clinton pulled it out in Indiana, huh?” He doesn’t even try to keep the happiness out of his voice.

  “Just barely. And she was pounded in North Carolina. All the commentators are saying she’s done.” I pull the covers up over my bare legs and cross my arms over my chest. Monty offers me a sip of water but I refuse.

  “Well, if Obama hadn’t said that thing about bitter people clinging to their guns and religion, he probably would have sealed the deal a lot sooner.”

  I lightly kick him with my sheet-covered foot. “She gleefully exploited his statement! You know that’s not how he meant it,” I say.

  “Politics is exploitation, Lucy! I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Obama’s guilty of it too.”

  “Not like she is.”

  “Maybe not yet, but give him time. He’ll get there.” Monty moves closer and caresses my arm. I pull away.

  It’s not that I’m not enjoying the evening, or being with him. Earlier we went for dinner at a low-lit Asian restaurant, where we shared a bottle of wine, a spicy noodle dish, and all sorts of details from the last six years of our lives. Afterwards he invited me to see his new apartment, and as we strolled back through the neighborhood he held my hand. When we got to his building and walked through his door, he didn’t let go. Rather, he pulled me in close, picked me up, and carried me to bed.

  But now I’m annoyed. How can he seriously be for Clinton? Even if he is from New York, that’s just no excuse. Obama is special, the type of candidate that comes along very rarely. I tried to explain to Monty how idealistic and inspirational Obama is, that his message of reaching across the aisle to Republicans, working together, and finding strength through common ground is better than being divisive, but Monty just laughed, shook his head, and told me I was drinking the Kool-Aid.

  “They’re saying she can’t win the nomination now, and that she ought to drop out. But there’s no way she will.” I prop my chin against my fist and continue to listen to Wolf Blitzer.

  “Of course she won’t,” states Monty. “Why should she?”

  I give him an incredulous look. “To unify the party. To let Obama have his victory, so he can move on and engage in the general election. She needs to think about more than herself, here. This is for the good of the country.”

  Monty whistles and his eyes widen in exaggerated shock. “Wow. I’m glad we had sex before watching the primaries. If we’d waited until after it probably wouldn’t have happened.”

  I push him in response. “Watch it,” he cries, “you’ll make me spill the water.”

  “It would serve you right,” I say.

  He sets the water down on his nightstand and tackles me in an embrace. “Serve me right? Really? Half the bed would be soaking wet, and I’d be forced to sleep on top of you.”

  He tickles me, and I relent and enjoy it. Gently he pushes me down onto the bed, and holds my arms down.

  “Let me up,” I demand, though I’m laughing.

  His voice is soft, as soft as this bed, these high-thread-count sheets, and the old t-shirt of his that I’m wearing. “I will let you up in a second. First I need to know: will our little romance survive me being for Clinton and you being for Obama?”

  I squint at him, my attempt to look mean and imposing. “Of course it will, unless Clinton wins the nomination. But the chances of that are literally zero, so we’re good.”

  He releases me. “If that’s true, why are we still arguing?"

  Easy question, but no answer comes to mind. Most of the time I feel so familiar with him, I forget we’re still learning the ins and outs of each other. Then I get tongue-tied. After all, this is only our third date, unless you count all the unofficial ones that brought us to this point.

  I decide it’s time to change the subject. I use the remote to shut the television off, climb on top of him, and nuzzle and kiss his neck.

  He laug
hs. “Really? You’d rather make out than listen to Bill Bennett and Paul Begala pontificate? Admit it; you’re just trying to distract me.”

  “Shhh…” I collapse all my weight against him, so he’s lying on his back, and my head is resting against his chest. I listen to his heartbeat while he strokes my head.

  “Do you have any plans this weekend?” I ask.

  “Just trying to get settled in.”

  “Your job found you a furnished apartment. How much more settled in do you need to be?”

  He arches his back and shifts a little. “I still have stuff to unpack.”

  I lift my head and try to make eye contact without moving too far away. “You do?”

  He nods. “I actually haven’t unpacked anything but my suitcases.”

  “You have boxes?” He nods again, and I’m surprised because I haven’t seen any boxes sitting around. “How many? I’m just curious.”

  “Three.”

  “Three whole boxes? Over the past twenty or so years, that’s all you’ve acquired?”

  “When you’re travelling through Africa, you don’t hang onto a lot of stuff.”

  “Well,” I say. “That’s impressive. So you need to unpack your boxes.”

  “Yes. And I should go shopping.”

  “For more glasses, or for dishwashing liquid?”

  Monty chuckles a little. He reaches down and brings my hand to his lips, baby-kissing each knuckle. “Maybe I’ll go crazy and buy both. I think I’m going to be here a while.”

  “But you’ll probably be too busy to do anything?”

  “It’s three boxes, Lucy, and some shopping. I’ll be done by Saturday afternoon.” He pulls me up so we’re facing each other, eye to eye. “What were you thinking?”

  “A harbor cruise of the locks?”

  He gives me a quizzical look.

  “What? They’re cool.”

  “I can see the boats pass by from my office window,” he says.

  “So you don’t want to go?”

  “It’s not that…” His face looks focused, contemplative. “I just think it’s a good idea for us to stay land-locked for a while, you know, until the primary is over. Otherwise, things might get heated, and one of us could wind up overboard.”