Herself

by Leslie Carroll

  “According to Merriam-Webster’s, the word catholic, when used as an adjective, means ‘comprehensive, universal, broad in sympathies, tastes, or interests.’ Why did you really come all the way to New York?” I whisper to her, anxious to learn whether the root of her displeasure is the disapproval of the Jewish-American lady friend, or whether Jamie was right last night when he assured me it had almost everything to do with him.

  “Jamie has a very big heart, Tessa, as I’m certain you’ve realized by now. Big enough to always have room for his family. The Doyles are very big on family and we have ways of doing things that have endured for generations. The way we see it, Jamie’s disturbed the natural order of things by jilting his responsibilities and jumping on a plane. When Jamie sent us an e-mail to say how happy he was in New York, with no word about when he was planning to return, we held a family meeting and determined that I should come over and fetch him before Blackpools goes to hell in a handbasket.”

  She tilts her head to cast me a sideways glance. “I know what you’re about to say—I can read it in your face. ‘Jamie’s an adult, a middle-aged man even, if you will, he has free will to make his own decisions and I’m an ogre for acting like you’re taking him away from his family.’ Which you are, Tessa. Your life is here and my son followed you home. And I’m sure you’re about to insist that you didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to do. He thinks the sun rises and sets in you, ya know? I haven’t seen enough of you yet to know why.”

  As I suppress a smile, Maureen adds, “Which still doesn’t change the fact that he up and bolted on the family business like a spoiled child and left us scrambling to rearrange all the pieces. When you’re a Doyle, no matter how old you are, family comes first.”

  It’s a bad idea to get into a debate, so I hold my tongue, and remembering my grandmother’s advice, leave it to Jamie to have it out with his ma.

  “Don’t look at me,” Brigid says, clasping my arm as we leave St. Pat’s. “I was just trilled to get a free trip to New York! Do you think we could go to a Sephora store now?”

  Maureen clucks her disapproval. “Nuns don’t need lipstick and mascara.”

  “But I’m not a nun yet. I won’t be for years,” she argues. “Besides, where in the Bible does it say you can’t wear cosmetics?”

  This kid cracks me up. “You might have a future as a constitutional scholar if you change your mind about taking the veil, Brigid.” Come to think if it, if she put her mind to studying Talmud, she’d give some of those old rabbis a real run for their money.

  “I’ll make yiz a deal,” Brigid says to her mother. “I’ll go to church every day we’re here if we can go to Sephora. Is there one near where you live, Tessa? A Catholic church, I mean?”

  I tell her that the Holy Trinity Catholic Church is on West Eighty-second Street, just three blocks as the crow flies from another New York City landmark: Zabar’s. You gotta love the multiculturalism of the Upper West Side. David Weyburn’s constituents. Could be my constituents. Oh, God. That’s huge. I wonder if it would be okay for a non-religious Jewish woman to dash back into St. Patrick’s on Rosh Hashanah and ask God for a bit of guidance.

  Returning to my apartment after a very long afternoon of sightseeing (having learned from the Visitors’ Center in Times Square that there’s a Sex and the City locations bus tour), I find a thick envelope addressed to Jamie from a company in Dublin called Glavelock. I stash it in my purse in case his mother is trying to read anything over my shoulder. He’s at my computer, a pile of paper that wasn’t there this morning, resting by his elbow.

  “Welcome back!” He rises and greets me with a soft kiss. “How did yiz enjoy Manhattan then?” he asks his family. Before they have the chance to reply, he demands to know how my meeting went with the politicos, as he calls them.

  “I have mixed feelings,” I sigh. “On the one hand, I hate to be the candidate of a political machine—I mean we literally met in the back room! On the other hand, I need them. Which is why I wanted to approach them before they had the chance to reach out to anyone else. If I’m going to run for David’s seat I need the manpower that the Democratic Club members are in a position to muster, in order to get on the ballot and fight the good fight against Bob Dobson.”

  Jamie appears to be surfing the net while I’m talking, typing and scanning the screen, so I shut up until he assures me he’s still listening. “You said ‘fight the good fight against Bob Dobson.’”

  “In 1928, presidential candidate Herbert Hoover promised a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage. He won. Then came the depression and his empty rhetoric was no more effective than spitting into the ocean. What can Bob Dobson promise that he’s capable of delivering? A hound in every house hold and free kitty litter for all? I love dogs too, but c’mon! Some-one’s got to uphold David’s political legacy and then some. Tackle the issues he hadn’t yet fully addressed. Otherwise, we’ve got…well, we’ve got Dobson. The man who believes in liberty and justice for those who agree with his agenda, and to hell with the rest of us.”

  The printer begins to whirr and hum. “Well, I hope they gave you their backing and their blessing because the clock is ticking here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jamie grabs the sheet of paper shooting out of the printer and dramatically gives his arms a quick shake as though he’s shrugging up his shirtsleeves to get down to work on something. He picks up a pen. “If you’re running for Congress, I’ve only got a couple of weeks left to file this registration form.”

  “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, what are you talking about?”

  “What do ya think I’m talking about, m’darling? In seventy-two more hours, I’ll have been living here for thirty days. I’ll be eligible to vote!”

  His mother blanches as I suppress a smile. I suppose that means he’s got no immediate plans to go home after all.

  “You got some mail today,” I tell him during our first chance to be alone all day. I take the fat envelope out of my purse and hand it to him. “Who or what is Glavelock?”

  Jamie opens the envelope with all the eagerness of a kid on Christmas morning. “A realtor.” He thumbs through the documents. “I contacted them to put my flat on the market.”

  “You…?”

  “Oh, brilliant!” he exclaims. “Torns out Niall can represent me at the closing with a Power of Attorney. All I do is sign the form they sent me. Do ya know a notary public?”

  “You do!” I smile.

  “You’re a notary?”

  “Yes—you’re selling your apartment?”

  “Yes!”

  “This is a huge decision, Jamie. I mean…have you really thought this through?”

  He nods and grins, slipping his arm around my shoulder. “So I’d be grateful—and make it very much worth your while—if you’d look over these papers and notarize my signature. I’ll overnight it back to them tomorrow.”

  “Are you doing this for me? Because such a big step—”

  “There ya go again, my American darling. Always thinking it’s got to be about you.” Jamie laughs. “I think I’m old enough to make my own life-decisions, Tess. I may be a huge fan of spontaneity, but I don’t do things quite as lightly as you might imagine. Like selling my home, even if I’ve received an offer for well over half a million euro.”

  “You’ve—!?”

  “If you’re goin’ to be this articulate during your debates, Bob Dobson might actually win, ya know.” I try to digest this information and all its implications. “You think I’m moving too fast, don’t yiz?” I’m sure he sees me blush and knows he’s right again, the Empath! “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to marry me yet.”

  Yet. Hmm.

  “But I will ask ya to do me a favor. Keep this under yer hat. I don’t want me Ma, or even Brigid, lorning about this just yet.” He shoves the papers back into the envelope and covetously slides it under his pillow. “There’ll be time enough for that. I want to get
all me ducks in a row forst.”

  The next day, after notarizing Jamie’s signature on the Power of Attorney, I meet with Gus Trumbo. What does he think of the idea of my running for the seat?

  “A no-brainer, sweetheart.”

  And how to go on the offensive with Dobson’s crowd?

  “Don’t worry about the double-edged sword with the Washington insider/outsider thing. We can play that card to win. You know enough about the game to be able to get something done down there. But Len Avariss and the Dobson campaign can’t touch you on the fact that you lack experience by virtue of never having held political office, because Dobson may have more money than God, but he pitches kitty litter for a living. Tessa Craig will be a fresh face, if that’s what voters are looking for, but it’s a face that lawmakers—well, close to half of them, anyway—already recognize and respect.”

  And the willingness of David’s devoted and hardworking reelection campaign staff to work for me?

  “Number one, they know you and like you; number two, don’t give it a second thought because all they know about your personal life was that you were David’s head speechwriter; and number three, as of two days ago they all need a job, even the volunteers. Especially the volunteers. Look at Mrs. Schnipkin. A woman who used to be a union organizer and now lives in an assisted living home. She’d waste away from loneliness if she had no place to go. You’ll be giving an old lady—and all her friends—their best reason to get up in the morning. These women need to be needed. They’re eager to work. And they love you; you’re like a granddaughter to them. They’d do anything for you. Even try to fix you up with their grandsons. Listen, between you and me and the lamppost they all wondered when that wonderful Mr. Weyburn was at least going to ask you out for a drink. They thought you’d be the perfect couple.”

  “Yeah, so did I at one point. At one point that lasted three years. So does this mean you’ll manage my campaign?”

  “I’m so on board, woman, I’m already wearing my deck shoes.” We shake hands and then Gus gives me a huge bear hug. “I suggest you go to bed early to night because it’s the last sleep you’ll get until after Election Day.”

  Note to self: try very hard not to mention to Mrs. Schnipkin and her friends that I am currently involved with an Irish Catholic until after the first week in November.

  Twenty-two

  September 15

  Gus Trumbo’s a true Georgia peach; he’s already mapped out a strategy, given my campaign staff their marching orders, and mobilized the volunteers, who will hit the streets first thing Monday morning with the sea-green nominating petitions. They’ll stake out key locations from subway stations to cinemas, scoping out registered Democrats in the district who have nothing against my being on the November ballot. There are a handful of fringe party candidates running as well, but the real horse race is between Bob Dobson and me. Gus felt that we shouldn’t hire a separate press secretary or spokesperson; he thought it made better sense to handle those duties himself. Fewer links in the chain of command. Positioning me (like David) as a Progressive Pragmatist (the most fitting descriptive for a social liberal who is a fiscal realist), we hammered out our talking points on the key issues facing my future constituents:

  Because Manhattan unfortunately remains a terrorist’s bull’s-eye, we must make sure that there are security measures in place to protect our ports and our mass transit and ensure that they are state-of-the-art and financed through a common-sense system of funding;

  Civil rights and right-to-privacy protections (keeping a sanctimonious government out of our bedrooms and our sickrooms), insisting that the Constitutionally mandated separation of church and state be vigilantly and rigorously maintained; and

  Education. Even with a lot of kids in private school in the well-heeled neighborhoods of this district, there are also tens of thousands of public schoolchildren in over-crowded facilities—kids who don’t have nearly enough school supplies, textbooks, or an outdoor space for recess and gym classes, let alone enough truly qualified and passionate teachers.

  Did I mention that I turned down Venus’s offer to host a fund-raiser for me? She was ready to call in her markers with a few former colleagues, and her name, even after years of retirement, is still legendary in her corner of the world; but after “WaterGayte,” the last thing I need is for the press to jump on Tessa Craig’s fund-raising party at a strip club. I told Venus about Maureen Doyle’s surprise visit and what an expert she seems to be at laying guilt trips. As busy as I’ve been, I’ve made a point of reaching out to Maureen, trying very hard not to see her as the enemy. Poor confused Brigid seems to be embarrassed by her mother. I have to say, I can’t see this young woman as a nun. She seems so secular. She has a curiosity and an energy not unlike Jamie’s, which makes me conclude, though admittedly I scarcely know her, that Brigid in a convent would be like Jamie in the army, places where joie de vivre and spontaneity are anathema to the system.

  Venus reminded me to just be myself, echoing Jamie’s comment that Maureen’s behavior has everything to do with her son and next to nothing to do with me. That said, I realize that “myself” loves to play host in my hometown, even if taking time to do it is the last thing I need. I’m very house-proud. And in this case, since Jamie showed me in and around Dublin for a week, the least I can do is reciprocate for his family.

  But when are they going to leave?

  Jamie will be accompanying me—at Imogen’s command, more or less—to Emily and Jacob’s bat/bar mitzvahs tomorrow, but I feel terrible at the thought of leaving Maureen and Brigid home like two house cats while Jamie and I dance the Electric Slide after sipping Pimms Cups at a teenage polo match. Yet it’s not right to drag the distaff Doyles with us. For one thing I doubt they’d enjoy it, and for another, we’re talking about a $200-a-plate event. Although money seems to be no object for the Becksteins, I can’t expect them to foot the bill for another pair. And it would also put Brigid and Maureen in the position of having to give a gift to two kids they’ve never met and will undoubtedly never see again. Still, Imogen is pushing for their presence, and my cousin is nothing if not persuasive.

  Maureen utterly mortified me yesterday. I awoke to find her on her knees scrubbing the parquet in my dining gallery with Murphy’s Oil Soap. Evidently, my apartment is not clean enough for her. The house keeper only comes every other week, and it’s all she can do to keep up with Jamie, because I refuse to pick up after him. I won’t be his cleaning lady and I’m not his mother—something which is even more obvious when you put the both of us under the same roof. But still…I guess what I want to say in defense of my home (and my new lover) is that it may be messy, even cluttered—and I never had clutter until Jamie arrived; I hate clutter—but it’s definitely not dirty. Maureen Doyle evidently disagrees. I suppose that while I’m incredibly insulted, I shouldn’t be surprised. Her own home was absolutely spotless. You could have eaten off the toilet seat.

  We’re all mired in an unspoken stalemate, a family filibuster. Maureen and Brigid aren’t leaving unless they take Jamie with them. Jamie shows no inclination to return to Ireland, and in fact, his recent behavior—bidding farewell to his tangerine dream of a living room by putting his flat up for sale, and registering to vote here the minute he became eligible—demonstrates his increased entrenchment in Manhattan and in my life. I still haven’t digested the magnitude of the former deed, but the latter was a very romantic gesture. Better than flowers or chocolate. Lots of boyfriends will buy you a bouquet or a box of bonbons. But how many of them register to vote for you? Literally for you. Of course you actually have to be running for something…so I guess the number’s pretty low.

  There might as well be a red carpet unfurled in the parking lot of the synagogue, but that’s a Great Neck bar mitzvah for you. Double the ostentation when the soon-to-be-man (and woman) of the hour are twins. Amid the air kisses and the exclamations of Mazel tov! Shabbat shalom! and Happy New Year, the Reform Jewish equivalents of desperate house wiv
es ask one another in a mixture of curiosity and envy, “Who are you wearing?”

  The Doyles, none of whom have ever set foot inside a synagogue, are very surprised at the starkness, even asceticism, of the sanctuary, especially when they compare the exotic plumage of the female guests to Temple Beth Shalom’s mostly unadorned, blindingly white stuccoed walls.

  “They’re pretty spare on adornment,” Maureen remarks.

  You can see where the congregation’s money has been spent if you know where to look. The lobby walls are adorned with original Ben Shahns and inside the sanctuary the bimah is flanked by a pair of Chagalls, the only color in the room apart from the violet carpet. I can see how someone unused to architectural expressions of modern Jewish sensibilities might think the place resembles an art galley, rather than their notion of a traditional house of worship. Of course there are no statues, and nothing is carved, embellished, or in any way ornate. Even the organ is unprepossessing.

  “Without all the bells and whistles, how do people know God is here?” Brigid whispers to me as we take our seats. Dr. Beckstein, Jacob and Emily’s father, hands out programs to everyone, greeting well over two hundred people by name and thanking them for attending this momentous event.

  The ser vice gets under way, when Rabbi Shulman, a short and portly man of middling age greets the congregation and their guests. I place a bet with Jamie as to when the rabbi will lose his rectangular, rimless spectacles, as the eyeglasses, precariously hovering well south of the bridge of his nose, are poised to take a dive at any moment.

  “We celebrate the bar mitzvah of Jacob Beckstein and the bat mitzvah of Emily Beckstein in interesting times,” the rabbi intones in the archetypal drone that has always left me with a cold distrust of his ilk as true men of God. “I say they are interesting times because today—the Saturday that falls between the New Year celebration of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonment, is called Shabbat Shuva—the Sabbath of Repentance. This Sabbath, unlike every other Shabbat, we are asked by God specifically to look within ourselves and repent our wickedness, atone for our sins, and return to Hashem with a renewed commitment in our faith, for only then can we be assured that He will inscribe us in his Book of Life for the coming year.”