“I’m not touching that one,” Carl said, smiling. “By the way, Sam’s been calling.”
“Of course. But I still can’t endorse someone I don’t believe in.”
“You may not have a choice at this point.”
Mark’s mind wandered to Josiah again, wondering how he could have handled the matter differently. “Maybe I should have kept it from him until after he was elected.”
“Oh, that would’ve worked,” Carl said sarcastically. “‘Surprise! You’re the president of the United States! Oh, and by the way, I think I just got you excommunicated from your church too.’ Yeah, that would’ve worked all right.”
“So what are you saying? That it’s time to face reality?”
“I’m saying you’d better get used to saying ‘President Harley Phillips.’ “
“Well, it’s easier to say than Ledbetter,” Mark said. “Where do they get these names?” he pondered aloud. “ ‘Ledbetter, a go-getter.’ What a slogan.”
“You think Stoltzfus was better? Voters never would’ve learned to spell it.”
“Sure, they would’ve. We would’ve written a jingle.”
Carl couldn’t resist. “Who can you trust? Stoltzfus! When you’ve had enough? Stoltzfus! S – T – O – L – T – Z – fus! Stoooolllllltzfus!”
Mark chuckled at Carl’s improv, but right now, the team needed more than a jingle. They needed their candidate. Mark was beyond disappointed that his plan to draft the Amish man hadn’t worked. He was convinced that Josiah was the man of the hour, exactly what the country needed. But Mark had one small problem — he hadn’t been able to convince his candidate of that idea. Frankly, he hadn’t been able to raise enough money to keep the campaign alive either. Carl was right. It was time to turn out the lights and call it a day. The Josiah presidential campaign was dead on arrival.
“You’re probably right,” Mark said as he sealed up another box of posters. “They never would’ve learned to spell Stoltzfus anyway.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been spelling it correctly since I was five,” a voice from behind them said.
Mark’s eyes widened, and a broad smile broke across his face when he heard the distinctive voice. Both he and Carl turned at the same time to see Josiah standing there, in the flesh, holding a suitcase at his side.
“Josiah!” Mark exclaimed in both shock and excitement. “Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? How’d you get here?”
“Bus,” Josiah said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it when your likeness is painted all over the side of it.”
The men laughed, and Mark threw his arms around the bearded man. “Josiah, am I glad to see you! I hope this means what I think it means.”
“Elizabeth and I talked it over,” Josiah said, “and we’ve decided that … well, we’re going to leave it in God’s hands.”
“Oh, that’s great! That’s great!” Mark exclaimed, bounding around the room with a few fist pumps. Then he stopped in his tracks. “Wait a minute — that does mean you’re running, right?”
“It means you’re welcome to throw my hat into the air — or however you English say it. If I am meant to serve, then I will win. If not and I lose, then Elizabeth and I will face the consequences of our misjudgment. But if this is indeed what we are supposed to do, then we know in our hearts that we have to take that first step of faith.”
“Elizabeth feels that way too?”
“She has turned her fears and doubts over to God. Well, most of them. None of us is perfect, jah?”
Mark let loose his excitement once again.
“I can’t believe this! Carl, unpack those posters!”
“You do realize I probably won’t win,” Josiah said.
“You’re gonna win if I have anything to say about it!” Mark vowed.
“I believe you, Mark. But this may not even be about winning. Maybe I’m only supposed to be in this campaign to help point people back to common sense and simpler ways.”
“Look, if it comes down to you or Harley, I’m going to do everything I can to get you into office. But what about your bishop?” Mark asked. “Did he give you his blessing?”
Josiah hesitated. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
“What I need you to do? What I need you to do?” Mark was overjoyed and grabbed Josiah in another bear hug. “I need you to win an election!”
“Will that make you let go of me?” Josiah said.
Mark apologized and released the gentle Amish man who wasn’t accustomed to such exuberant displays of emotion.
Carl had been watching all of this — watching the candidate for whom he had been campaigning and whom he was just now getting to meet for the first time. He extended his hand toward Josiah.
“Carl Wilson,” he said, introducing himself.
“Josiah Stoltzfus,” Josiah said with a friendly smile. “Apparently I’m the fella on the posters.”
“Kinda thought so,” Carl said. “Welcome to your campaign, sir.”
Josiah laughed. “I do have one condition for you, Mark,” he said, turning back to the congressman.
“Name it,” Mark said.
“I get to pick my own running mate, right?”
“Sure, sure. A double Amish ticket? That’s even better!” Mark said, thrilled beyond measure.
“I want you to be my vice president.”
“Me?” Mark laughed. “Oh no. You don’t want me on the ticket. I couldn’t even win my own election.”
“But you know Washington. I don’t.”
“Yes, and I also haven’t been making a lot of friends there lately.”
“Then it’ll be two outsiders on the ticket. It’s the only way I’ll agree to run.”
Mark had already done a good bit of soul-searching over his own failed candidacy. Even though the idea of getting back into the ring — and possibly even whupping Harley Phillips in the general election as an independent — felt good to his wounded ego, he also knew that his name could be a drag on the ticket. The phones at his now-irrelevant campaign headquarters hadn’t exactly been slammed with calls from party officials — or even voters, for that matter — begging him to stay in the race. That was one reality he had to take into consideration. If he truly wanted to see Josiah elected president, it would be an absolute necessity to have the right man or woman on the ticket with him. Maybe that person was him. But there was also a good possibility that it wasn’t.
“I’ll need to think about it,” he told Josiah. “I’m not turning you down — don’t get me wrong. I just want to make sure I’m the right man for the job.”
“You believed in me, Mark. Now I believe in you.”
“Well, let me sleep on it. In the meantime, let’s go to my house. Cindy and I will show you some Stedman family hospitality. Return the favor, so to speak.”
“I’d enjoy meeting your family, Mark.”
Mark quickly sent a text to Cindy forewarning her that company was coming. He didn’t tell her who it was, just that it was someone she would enjoy meeting.
CINDY AND JOSIAH HIT IT OFF RIGHT FROM THE START. LIKE Mark, she was entertained by Josiah’s quick wit and intrigued by his wisdom. She easily saw what her husband had found so engaging about the ruggedly handsome Amish man. He reminded her of what Abraham Lincoln might have looked like, even though by many accounts, Lincoln wasn’t all that good looking. His character was what had a strong appeal.
Cindy knew she probably couldn’t compete with homemade Amish cooking, so she didn’t even try. She ordered a meal from one of their favorite take-out restaurants in town and, after accepting Josiah’s compliments graciously, confessed her secret — that she hadn’t cooked a morsel of it.
“Well, then, you are a very gut orderer,” Josiah said, which caused everyone to laugh.
Cindy didn’t know if this man had any chance at all of becoming president, but she sure liked him. And as the evening progressed, she was growing more and more convinced that, as Mark had said, Josiah was exactly who America n
eeded living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Later that night, Mark and Cindy discussed the matter of Josiah’s vice-presidential candidate at length in the privacy of their bedroom. Political pillow talk — not very romantic. But Mark wanted her input.
“So what do you think?”
“About Josiah? I like him. I like him a lot.”
“I knew you would. And what about my being on the ticket with him? Think I should do it?”
“Honest answer? Even if you don’t like it?”
“Honest answer.”
“Well, my biggest concern is whether you’ll be able to take a backseat and allow him to lead.”
“No question about it — absolutely.”
“It might not be as easy as you think. You wanted the number-one position, remember? Could you play second fiddle?”
“I could with him. Not with any of the others, though. But I still don’t know if I’m the best pick for the ticket.”
“Well, you’d get my vote, Congressman.” She smiled and rubbed the back of her hand gently across his cheek.
“I would, huh?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, snuggling a bit closer. “What was your name again?” she teased.
“Madam, you’ve forgotten my name already? Maybe I am vice-president material after all.”
They both laughed and then settled down to rest in each other’s arms.
“ALL RIGHT, I’LL DO IT,” MARK SAID WHEN JOSIAH CAME DOWNSTAIRS for breakfast in the morning.
The two men shook hands, sealing the deal for a Stoltzfus-Stedman ticket.
“You do know this could end up costing us both more than we realize?” Mark said, trying to gauge Josiah’s commitment to both the election and his running mate one final time. “Your standing with your church and community; my reputation as a rational and sane individual, which has already suffered for endorsing your candidacy in the first place. And your privacy. Everywhere you go from now on, you’ll have Secret Service with you. Are you prepared to pay the price if we do this?”
“What if there’s a bigger price to pay if we don’t?”
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, MORE VOLUNTEERS THAN MARK HAD seen in his own campaign began showing up at the newly reopened Elect Josiah headquarters, thanks to the wonders of social networking sites such as Facebook, YouTube promos, and the novelty of the Josiah for President campaign. It seemed there was a good bit of enthusiasm for this newcomer to politics, and it had gone viral. People had obviously been waiting for a candidate to come along about whom they could get excited. Apparently, Josiah fit the bill. The volunteers for this grass-roots movement began arriving en masse, and they were eager to be put to work.
Carl handed out assignments one by one, and before long, phones were ringing, interviews were being scheduled, and strategic mailings were being discussed. The Josiah for President campaign was underway.
“WHAT GAME’S HE PLAYING NOW?” HARLEY PHILLIPS BARKED AT his son-in-law, who had just walked into his office. Bart knew exactly to whom Harley was referring, but he asked anyway.
“Who’s that, sir?”
“Stedman! Who else? Get him on the phone!”
“We’ve tried, sir. He’s not returning our calls.”
“Well, did you leave a message telling him it’s important?”
“Yes, I did, sir.”
Bart had always resented this kind of questioning from Harley. It was condescending beyond measure, as though Harley thought Bart didn’t have the intelligence to leave a message on Mark’s voice mail. Bart knew his job and, according to everyone around him except Harley, was performing his duties exceptionally well. But this wasn’t the time to try to adjust Harley’s attitude or to stand up and demand the respect he deserved. There would be time for that later. Someday. Ah, some glorious day!
“Well, keep calling!” Harley demanded. “And leave a long message. Fill up his voice mail. He’ll tire of the games soon enough.”
Harley was pacing now, red-faced and irritated. Bart, always looking for the silver lining in the storm clouds of life, couldn’t help but comment, “Well, at least Stedman’s gotten you up out of your chair, sir. You know what the doctor said about you exercising.”
Harley shot Bart a look that indicated he wasn’t amused.
“We’ve got to rein him in,” Harley said, walking over to the window and looking out. “He’s gonna cost us the election. There’s gotta be something we can do.”
Harley wasn’t demanding anymore. He wasn’t barking or snapping. He was almost begging. Pleading. Tears may have even formed in his eyes, but Bart couldn’t be sure. Bart had picked up Harley’s new contact-lens prescription the previous week, so maybe it was the contacts that were causing Harley’s eyes to water. Still, Bart felt a twinge of father-in-law loyalty. He tried to be sympathetic to Harley’s cause.
“I’m sure there’s a way, sir,” Bart said.
“No matter what we do, they keep climbing in the polls.”
“A temporary bump. That’s all it is, sir. When it comes to Election Day, who’s going to want to waste their vote on someone who only has common sense to offer?”
“Exactly,” Harley said, nodding.
“Well, then, I’m over it,” Harley said. “Josiah may be a good man, but he’s Amish. The country isn’t going to elect an Amish president. They’ll forget all about this crazy idea of Stedman’s soon and realize they’ve got a president to elect. They’ll come back to me. I’m not wasting any more of my time on this foolishness.”
It was a bluff, of course. Deep down, Bart knew Harley was a long way from being “over it.” He only said things like that to pump up his own self-confidence. Bart couldn’t believe someone like Harley Phillips would need his self-confidence pumped up any more than it already was. The Rotunda could barely hold Harley’s ego now.
In a moment of weakness and after too many celebratory drinks, Harley had once admitted to Bart that he couldn’t shake the belief that the only reason he had achieved anything in life wasn’t because he had stood “on the shoulders of giants,” as Isaac Newton had once said, but because he had tripped those giants when they weren’t looking and then climbed up on their backs while keeping them in a choke hold. Bart knew that people always feared losing success that was either unwarranted or stolen from someone else, and that in his heart, Harley Phillips believed he hadn’t honestly earned any of his success, so he was in constant fear of losing it. But when sober, that painful truth was protected behind well-constructed walls of bravado.
In spite of that, Harley did have the ability to compartmentalize — that talent for putting a matter off to the side and saving it to ponder or solve later. Or simply ignore.
“We’ve already wasted too much of my precious campaign time on Stedman’s antics,” Harley fretted. “And over something that’s never going to happen. American voters aren’t going to waste their vote on someone with no experience and no chance of winning. These are the final days of the primary now, and we need to stay focused on one thing and one thing only — winning.”
“You’re doing the right thing, sir!” Bart said. “Let it go.”
“Exactly.”
“Stay above the fray.”
“That’s right.”
“We’ll get Mark’s voters on our own once they realize this Josiah fellow isn’t an actual candidate,” Bart said.
“… if there ever even was a Josiah in the first place,” Harley added.
“We’ll have the last laugh, sir.”
“Yes, we will.”
“We’ll nail the nomination and then sweep the general election!”
“You know, I’m glad my daughter married you,” Harley said, placing his arm on Bart’s shoulder. “You’re a very astute young man.”
“President Harley Phillips, that’s who’ll be taking the oath come January!”
Harley was almost radiant as Bart spoke those words. “President Harley Phillips,” he echoed, beaming.
Bart was certain his own radiance was
taking on more of a greenish tint at the thought of Harley actually winning the election, yet he still went along. “President Harley Phillips! That’s the spirit, sir.”
A cell phone began beeping in Bart’s pocket, but Bart paid it no mind. He knew Harley didn’t like people answering their cell phones in his presence. Harley had told Bart that on many occasions, saying he considered it the epitome of rudeness, even though he often did it himself. Harley didn’t have double standards. He had triple and quadruple ones. So Bart dutifully ignored the call.
But after a few more beeps, Harley said, “You’re beeping, Bart.”
“I know that, sir.”
“Well, answer it.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you, sir.”
“It could be Stedman. Answer it!”
“But, sir, I thought you just said you were over it. That you no longer needed his votes.”
“Answer the call, Bart!”
Bart nodded and then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He glanced at the caller ID and then back at Harley while the phone continued to beep.
“Well …?”
“It’s Mark, sir,” Bart said.
“Well, answer your blasted phone!”
“You want me to answer it, sir? But are you changing your mind about wanting his endorsement then?”
“I’m a politician. Do you know what that means, Bart?”
“You talk out of both sides of your mouth, sir?” The words left Bart’s lips before he could stop them.
“No, Bart. It means we adapt. If Plan A doesn’t work, we move on to Plan B.”
“But Plan A didn’t work, sir, and you did move on to Plan B. That didn’t work either. And now it appears you’re making a U-turn and going back to Plan A.”
“Answer your dadgum phone, Bart!”
“All right. But just to be sure, you do want Stedman’s endorsement if he offers it?”
“Of course, I want it!”
Harley loosened his tie and attempted to massage the bulging veins of his temples. Bart wondered if it was the stress that was getting to his father-in-law or simply years of ignoring his doctor’s orders and not passing on the salt, butter, and redeye gravy he loved so much. Whichever it was, Harley’s neck veins appeared ready to burst.
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