“I’m not worried. I just want to make sure you’re prepared for any censure you may encounter.”
“What are they going to do, disinvite us from their little tricorn hat tea parties?” Caroline scoffed. “Jack doesn’t consider himself a Republican anymore. But he was one of the first to come out as Never Santos.”
A decision that had cost him and their family so very much. “I’m not a Republican anymore, either,” I said.
“Yes. I saw the video.”
I’d forgotten that unlike me, my best friend spent copious amounts of time on social media. Usually lurking or working under an alias, but examining trends and stories nonetheless. I sighed. “You hadn’t brought it up before now so I hoped you’d managed to avoid it.”
“Not likely.”
“How many times did you watch it?”
“Oh, easily fifteen or twenty the first time around. Twitter lets you play things on a loop, so that saved loads of time. Then there were all the modified versions with sound effects and theme songs and mashups and…” She leaned back in her chair. “It was an entertaining night, to say the least.”
Hopefully she’d gotten her fill and moved on. “Did I at least sound marginally competent?”
“Oh, you sounded angry as hell. It was great. Very sincere. I bet it did wonders for your public image.” She held up her phone. “I made it into a custom ringtone, by the way. Now I always know when you’re calling. Want to hear it?”
Absolutely not. “I’ll pass. And I will yet again emphasize that I am not a Republican anymore.”
“Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to accuse you of waffling.”
“Unless Lincoln Republicans can become a thing again,” I added.
Caroline gave me an affectionately condescending look. “Chrissy, honey, we call them Democrats now.”
I’d always been more of an Eisenhower/Rockefeller gal anyway. “It doesn’t matter. There are limitations on how much I control how my affiliations will be remembered.”
That (R) after my name in the history books seemed intellectually dishonest, considering that the Republican Party had gone far beyond what I’d ever thought could be considered rational conservative policy. But Roger Bailey was working with his fellow Democrats and the remaining members of the GOP to restore dignity to the federal government, including how the two major parties treated one another. Whether or not he’d succeed was an open question.
I handed the file back to Caroline. “Seems like every time we try to move on, something else from the past few years rears its ugly head.”
“You were a Republican your entire life, Chrissy. That kind of betrayal cuts at the very heart of a person’s identity. The institutions we believed in so strongly failed us in a lot of ways.”
And I wasn’t all that trusting to begin with. Lorenzo Santos hadn’t been in office all that long, but the damage had been substantial. We couldn’t unring those bells but had to do our best to find a better melody, one more in line with an America that disavowed everything Santosism stood for.
“You didn’t do this to appease or antagonize either political party,” I said. “What’s the end goal? I know you’re not doing this for yourselves.”
As always, Caroline had an answer at the ready. “When I had to fill out those forms for the International Criminal Court, it got me thinking. You have to put yourself through this acutely emotional process, describing the horrors you’ve experienced, naming names, detailing your losses, whether they can be measured or not. I learned about the Trust Fund for Victims established under the Rome Statute. It allows psychological and material support for victims of crimes against humanity. And though we’re in that mushy middle ground when it comes to Santos, we believe it’s fitting to establish something similar in the United States specifically addressing his conduct.”
An interesting concept. And one that was wholly in keeping with their ethical code. “Some sort of nonprofit entity?”
“We’re hoping to come up with a better term since it’ll be so much more than that. Jack had a charitable foundation before, and we want to model some of what we do after his past projects, but, well…”
The system is a bit more scrambled now. That was what she didn’t want to say out loud. “The recipients are different, because the need is different.”
“It’s not just about people like us. We want to find some way to guarantee that the forgotten victims of the Santos Administration aren’t swept under the rug. So much more happened than what’s been reported and investigated. I get letters all the time from people who suffered discrimination in employment or housing, or were victims of state-sanctioned hate crimes who never saw the inside of a courtroom. Those whose claims were ignored by that joke of a skeleton crew at the EEOC or derided by law enforcement when they tried to report wrongdoing. People who suffered unspeakable horrors because of their sexual identity or their race or their religion. Their stories deserve to be told. We want to preserve that history.”
I’d heard my fair share of similar tales, and expected to encounter even more if I ever started a speaking tour. “It’s a multifaceted project.”
“Correct. We’re not doing it for purely punitive or compensatory reasons. We believe the government needs to be held accountable. We recognize that Santos was a blip on the radar of our nation’s history. But we also recognize that our existing power structures are part of what allowed him to do what he did with little to no oversight. Demagoguery is a hell of a drug. Jack and I knew when we started speaking out against him that we had the social clout to make our voices heard, as well as the ability to weather any backlash we might face. We want to, by definition, empower the disempowered, those who typically have been ignored when social histories are documented. The downtrodden never get to write the ending. This time, we’re going to make sure that they do.”
Caroline had faced her demons. Hadn’t quite conquered them, but she’d finally been able to get to a place where self-deprecating witticisms were her default, not her exception. It had been a long, long time since she’d sounded this serious about anything, and her sober reference to our ongoing American reality touched me in spots I hadn’t thought about in months.
“That’s beautiful, Punky. Really, it is.”
She smiled. “And the best part is, we’ll do it anyway, but any settlement money we get allows us to do more. Am I living my liberal values or what?”
I knew she’d have to make a joke sooner or later. “You are. And I’m proud.”
“Plus, there are so many, many things we can do. Like being another watchdog. Teaching folks about their rights and responsibilities. Encouraging citizens to become more involved in their communities, forging ties with their neighbors. You know, all the fluffy stuff we used to talk about but never did when we were in Congress.”
I feigned ignorance. “You cannot possibly be suggesting that a country that allowed a racist, homophobic, ill-informed, power-hungry asshole to ascend to the highest office in the land is in need of some sort of comprehensive civics education?”
“I’m saying that we need to Schoolhouse Rock this motherfucker up,” Caroline said.
I might not have stated it so colorfully, but anything that encouraged Americans to spend even a scintilla of time learning about civic engagement seemed like a winning cause to me. “Then, by all means do that.”
Caroline sighed. “I wish you’d get more comfortable saying fuck. It’s so liberating.”
She made it sound like a philological bra burning. “I am who I am. Very little can change that.”
“Speaking of your identity, how are things with Alex?”
“Good.” We had fallen into the habit of spending a few nights a week together at his place. It seemed so much more comfortable than my condo. And we weren’t just having sex, even though that was a fairly easy thing to do once we got going. We were talking too. But also having a lot of sex. “Told him I couldn’t see him tonight because, you know, our weekly routine.”
“You’re important.”
“Yes, but so is your continued… socialization.”
“You make it sound like I’ve emerged from a decade wandering the woods alone without any human interaction.”
“You know what I mean. You can’t really replicate the initial stages of an auspicious relationship. Relish them.”
“But I like spending time with you too.”
Caroline frowned. Clearly something I’d said had set her off. “Chrissy, you know you’re too dependent on us. On me in particular.”
Truth. “I don’t know how to fix that.”
“You need to break away a little. Jack and I have the same problem. Now that all of us are together again, it’s hard to find reasons to spend time alone. Which is why I’m going to spend a week in New York with Natalie, by myself.”
Dr. Natalie Haddad, one of Caroline’s friends from California, was completing her residency at Columbia. She and I had worked together at the hospital on the rebel base. She’d been kind enough to let me vent to her a few times in what we both considered a very ad hoc attempt at psychiatry.
“You think Jack and Sophie will be okay without you?” I asked, without a trace of sarcasm.
“My therapist suggested I do it. It’s not a huge risk. It’s a short train ride away.”
Safely testing her limitations. “But that’s nothing major. You’re not altering your lives or anything.”
“No, but we’re seeing if we can take those baby steps and come out okay on the other side.”
Amazing how much we had to do as people to recover from the distress of separation. Reunification didn’t magically solve all our problems.
“You’re saying I need to do the same thing. Baby steps, I mean.”
Caroline grinned. “Well, you’ve already slept with the guy, so maybe you need to take more of a big girl panties approach.”
Shockingly, the sex seemed to be the easiest part of all of this. “He thinks my condo is sterile.”
“It is. Even your plates are white. It makes me want to IKEA-fy all your stuff.”
“I don’t want ice cube trays shaped like ladybugs.”
“You don’t have to go to such Swedish extremes. Just lighten things up. Give it more color. Even an accent wall would improve upon the place.”
“You’re into violent rage artwork. Want to redecorate the master bedroom?”
“How comfortable are you with some sort of lewd demon painted above your bed?”
“Not very.”
“It’s a metaphor, though.”
“What on earth for?”
“Your sexual reawakening?”
I chuckled. “Isn’t that what Georgia O’Keeffe paintings are for?”
Caroline did her best to look mock affronted. “Christine Spencer Sullivan, I am not painting a vagina above your bed, so do not ask.”
“Technically it’s a vulva.”
“Nobody cares about your complicated medical argle bargle, Chrissy.”
“Well,” I said. “I look forward to seeing your creative interpretation of what a birth canal looks like. Please keep it tasteful. I do have to sleep in there.”
“Sophisticated internal ladyparts. Done.” She stood up. “I shall take this opportunity to push you toward further spiritual and erotic liberation. I’m packing up some cookies to go and you’re going to march over to your boyfriend’s house and have a splendid evening.”
“Do I give him the cookies or can I keep them for myself?”
“That depends. Are you going to tell him who baked them?”
She refused to let me forget about the tiramisu. “I’ll tell him they’re from you, okay?”
“Fantastic. I noticed you didn’t wince when I called him your boyfriend.”
We hadn’t defined the parameters of our relationship, but the term seemed as good as any. “What else should I call him? Companion? Male chum? Consortium mate? Dating associate? Meal and other activity pal?”
“That’s a good start but I think you should work on more specific adjectives to describe the extent of your relationship. I noticed you very obviously left out fuckbuddy.”
I crossed my arms. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were making fun of me.”
“Your powers of deduction are lacking, my dear, because that is exactly what I’m doing.”
I grabbed my phone and started texting Alexander. “Build me a tall pile of cookies and put them in a feed bag. I’m going to see my boyfriend.”
*****
Or rather, he came to see me. I figured that way if he didn’t eat all the cookies, I’d have a few left for myself. I really needed to learn how to bake. Maybe Caroline would teach me, if she didn’t strangle me during the effort. I wasn’t a very patient student, unless you counted my intense exploration of Which Bakeries in Greater Philadelphia Met My Sweet Tooth Needs. Homemade was almost always better. Except baklava. Caroline made awful baklava.
She hadn’t given me a feed bag, but a foil-covered plate. I held it up as soon as Alexander walked in. “Look what I have.”
He kissed me before draping his coat over a chair. “I see your best friend has been quite generous. Cookies?”
“All sorts.” I smiled at him. Maybe I could catch him by surprise. Prove that I wasn’t as predictable as everyone thought I was. Demonstrate my ability to be fun. “Want to play a game?”
“Hmm.” He kissed me again, taking the plate and pulling off a corner of the foil. “What did you have in mind?”
I tugged the viscose scarf from around my neck. “I was hoping maybe you could be my food taster. I’m not sure I can trust what’s on this plate.”
“Caroline has it out for you?”
“You never know. I need you to make sure there aren’t any ingredients I find disagreeable. Plus,” I said, draping the scarf around his shoulders, “if you’ve got something over your eyes you can focus on the taste and not on this very dull décor.”
“Christine Sullivan, you’re trying to seduce me! Aren’t you?”
I could play along. He certainly knew the best movies to reference. “Would you like me to seduce you? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Only if you do it with cookies.”
I guided him to a chair next to the kitchen table, straddling his thighs. “You know, I always wanted to try that Anne Bancroft chunky highlight thing but wasn’t sure I could pull it off,” I said, tying the scarf around Alexander’s head. “Is that too tight?”
He slid a finger under the material. “We’re good. I’m almost convinced you’re not trying to blind or poison me. You actually bear a pretty strong resemblance to Anne Bancroft,” he added.
“The Miracle Worker Anne Bancroft or Agnes of God Anne Bancroft?”
Alexander laughed. “She was an attractive woman but those were not her most visually appealing roles.”
“To Be or Not to Be?”
“If I agree with you, do I get cookies?”
I kissed him. “You might get more than a cookie.”
He put his hands behind his head and rested against the wall. “Feed me, early 1980s super-sexy Anne Bancroft. Help me protect you from yourself.”
I very noisily took the foil off the plate to tease him a little. “Getting excited?”
Alexander swiveled his hips, ever so slowly. “Care to check?”
I was being naughty. And it was fun. I broke off a piece of cookie and placed it near his mouth. “Open up.”
He chewed with what I can only describe as contemplative introspection. The man was taking this task seriously. “Macadamia nut?”
“Very good.”
“I like it.”
So did I. I liked chocolate as much as the next gal, but macadamia nuts were one of my few weaknesses. “There are about twelve different varieties on this plate. Want another one?”
“Need a kiss first. That’s the rule.”
“You’re blindfolded and at a disadvantage. Why do you get to make the rules?”
“Because I’m blindfolded and at a disadvantage?”
His logic seemed sound. I leaned in to kiss a bit of cookie crumb away from the corner of his mouth. “That counts,” I said, before breaking off a piece of another cookie. “Open up.”
He more than obliged, and I let my thumb rest against his lips as he chewed. “Snickerdoodle,” he said.
“That was easy.”
Maybe I could fool him with a trick cookie? I scrambled to find something to throw him off. “Here,” I said, shoving a piece into his mouth.
“Ywer mwuf,” he said.
Maybe it had been too big a piece. “My muff? Is that your guess? I’m not sure that’s an appropriate way to speak to a lady.”
He had to chew for a while before speaking again. “Double chocolate.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Dark, not semi-sweet. Probably some pretty heavy cacao. Eighty percent or more.”
Had Caroline sent him a list of what she’d given me? She only baked those almost-bitter cookies because she knew I liked them so much. “Damn you.”
“That’s not nice. I happen to have a discriminating palate.”
I had to find the one man in the world who could actually discern the difference among percentages of cocoa. “Fine,” I said, tapping my fingers against his lips. “I’ll stump you yet.”
Alexander sucked my index finger into his mouth and I gasped. “That’s not a cookie.”
He tugged me toward him. “Don’t need any more.”
“But the arsenic-laced one was next.”
“Too late.” He kissed me deeply. “Just trust that if any poisoner, attacker, disparager, or rude individual crosses your path, I shall intervene.”
“You know,” I said in between kisses. “My bedroom is just a few steps away.”
“From what you’ve told me, that mattress is only a few months old. Perhaps we should break it in.”
I tugged the scarf off his head. “Let’s go.”
Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7) Page 19