Sex Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 6)

by T'Gracie Reese

  Silence for a time.

  Alanna again:

  “I suppose what we really want to know, Nina, is, how should the United States proceed in the Middle East? What should be our policy?”

  Again, an immediate answer.

  She had expected this question. And Jackson had told her precisely how it should be answered:

  “I think we should do everything in our power to make the situation better.”

  General nods in the audience.

  A buzzing of contented whispers.

  Jackson said:

  “That’s the perfect answer. Never change a word of it.”

  But now Paul Cox was standing.

  “How do you feel about prayer in schools?”

  She thought about every morning, the bell between first and second period having just rung, a thousand teenagers disgorged into the hall, football players hurling themselves into lockers, the whole crowd stampeding toward her.

  “I pray constantly in school. Every day. Every minute actually.”

  Jackson:

  “Do you think the military is ready for women in combat?”

  She thought of Penelope Royale and immediately answered:

  “No.”

  Edie Towler:

  “How do you feel about the legalization of marijuana?”

  She began to answer.

  “I don’t think that…”

  Then she saw Margot.

  Margot was staring at her.

  Margot’s fingers were wrapped over the back of the chair just in front of her.

  Then Margot half stood up and hissed out into the room—

  “Nina!”

  But Nina could only pause for a time and say, quietly:

  “I think I better come back to that one.”

  Margot said:

  “We’ll talk.”

  And then sat down.

  Edie:

  “What do you think about gay marriage?”

  She thought about Meg Brennan, one time women’s basketball coach at Bay St. Lucy, and about Meg’s companion Jennifer Warren.

  How thrilled they had been when gay marriage had been legalized in New Mexico, and the joy in their eyes after they had returned from there, a married couple at last.

  And she thought about the spousal abuse cases she read about daily, cases in which men beat and often killed their wives.

  Finally she said:

  “It is so hard to stop people from hating each other, that we have no business regulating the various ways they may find to love each other.”

  Silence for a time after that.

  Then Edie again:

  “Nina, how do you feel about abortion rights? Are you pro-choice or pro-life?”

  Again, it was a question she had expected.

  Indeed, she had answered it over and over to herself during the last few days.

  And again, the images flooded back.

  That day in the doctor’s office when he had said, in the same way doctors earlier in her life had said, “Your tonsils are fine,” or “You may have the measles.”

  “Nina, Frank, it pains me to say that you will not be able to have children.”

  And that was that.

  So now to think that a woman could have a child in her womb, a growing child, the child that she and Frank would have given so much, so very much to have and raise…

  …that that woman would wish to have an abortion…

  But all women were not Nina; she knew that.

  And horrible things sometimes happened to women.

  Things that she, being blessed with Frank, would never be able to dream of.

  So that finally she said, simply:

  “I believe our job is not to tell women that they cannot have abortions, but to create a world in which they will not want to.”

  That ended the mock press conference.

  There was nothing else to say.

  Except there was one more thing to say.

  And she said it the next afternoon.

  Jackson had managed to set up an interview for her with the Vicksburg Star daily newspaper. Accordingly, a very professional woman—the reporter—had arrived at her shack, along with a photographer.

  She was asked to sit on her deck, the ocean behind her, and she had prepared herself to answer what she had assumed would be standard questions.

  When there was a knock at the door.

  She answered it to find Olivia Ramirez, mother of Edgar.

  Edgar had been one of Nina’s best students.

  He had also been killed in a tragedy that still haunted Bay St. Lucy.

  “Come in, Olivia!”

  The two women entered the shack.

  “Oh! You have guests!”

  “It’s all right. This is a reporter from The Vicksburg Star. Come out on the deck, Olivia. Sit down in one of these chairs.”

  “I am so sorry to intrude.”

  “You’re not intruding. Here. Sit.”

  She did so, with Nina taking the other chair.

  The reporter and the photographer watched from the kitchen doorway.

  “How may I help you, Olivia?”

  The woman’s hair and eyes were as black as her dress.

  She leaned forward and said, softly:

  “You will go to Washington?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to try.”

  “If you try, Ms. Bannister, our teacher, you will succeed. Always, you succeed.”

  “I will try my best.”

  “Yes. Then, when you go there, I have something that I must beg you to do.”

  “All right. What is it, Olivia?”

  The woman took a deep breath, folded her hands in her lap, and said, quietly:

  “The children.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “From south of Mexico. They come. They are coming, to stay here.”

  “Refugee children, yes, I know. Many of them are coming up from Honduras.”

  “They are no different than my children. No different than Hector, and Edgar, and Sonia. And they are all alone. Hundreds of miles. They walk. Some of them die in the desert.”

  Nina could only nod.

  “I know, Olivia.”

  “The people in Washington, they do nothing. Nothing! What is wrong with these people?”

  “I don’t know what is wrong with them.”

  “You will talk to them?”

  “Yes. Yes, I will do that. I promise that I will do that.”

  There were tears shimmering in Olivia Ramirez’ eyes, and her voice had begun to crack.

  “There are children at our borders! Are we going to let these children die? What kind of people are we?”

  And with that, Nina leaned forward, took Olivia’s hands in her own, and said:

  “I solemnly promise you. I will take care of these children. Whatever else I do, I will find a million mothers to help me. And if we have to walk down there, and walk back—we will take care of these children.”

  After that, silence for a time.

  Only the growling of the waves and the gentle whirring of the camera.

  Finally, Olivia Ramirez rose, apologized for interrupting the interview, and, still holding Nina’s hand, made her way out of the shack and down the stairs.

  When Nina got back to the deck, she found the photographer folding up his camera.

  “What,” she asked, “is he doing?”

  The reporter was looking out over the deck.

  “Getting ready to go back to Vicksburg.”

  “Why? What about the interview?”

  “Useless. Useless.”

  “Why?”

  “We just got the story of the decade. There’s a Pulitzer, right there in the camera. Now all you and I and Jackson Bennett have to do is go back to work and be sure the country sees it.”

  And they did.

  The tape of Nina’s promise to Olivia Ramirez—along with the tape she had made in the Auberge des Arts—was shown hundreds of times in the fol
lowing weeks.

  No debates were necessary for Nina, and she did not participate in them.

  She had stated her views eloquently, simply, and passionately.

  Now it was the voters’ decision.

  And so it became midnight .

  Then one A.M. on the day after the Special Election to choose Jarrod Thornbloom’s replacement.

  Nina had gone to sleep with her head lying on one of the tables in The Bay St. Lucy Town Hall.

  She was awakened by the firm hand of Edie Towler shaking her by the shoulder.

  It was Edie’s face she saw when she first opened her eyes, and Edie’s voice, solemn and quiet, that seeped into her consciousness:

  “I’m sorry, Nina.”

  “What?”

  “It’s over.”

  “What time is it, Edie?”

  “Just a little after one.”

  “I don’t… I must have…”

  “You dozed off.”

  “Where’s everybody else?”

  “They’re outside.”

  “What happened?”

  “The northern counties. The ones we were so unsure about. They’ve all reported in. Tallies are done.”

  “What happened?”

  Edie simply shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. I have bad news for you.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yes, there’s not much we can do about it.”

  She could remember rubbing her eyes, already sleep-gummed, and looking around the strange gray vacant room, banners hanging like shrapnel after a mass attack.

  “We fought a good fight, Edie.”

  “We certainly did.”

  “What’s that roaring sound?”

  Because there was a roaring sound.

  It seemed to engulf the building.

  “Fireworks, I think. All the yachts in the Bay St. Lucy harbor have formed a ring, and they’re shooting fireworks over the city. If you come outside you can see.”

  And she had gone outside, Edie beside her.

  And she had peered upward at the March sky, now lit garishly in shades of sky rocket.

  “They’re doing this for me?”

  “Indeed they are.”

  “Bay St. Lucy. God I love Bay St. Lucy.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “How much did we lose by, Edie?”

  Edie stared at her.

  “What?”

  “I said, how much did we lose by?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said, ‘I’m sorry, Nina.’ When you woke me, you said, ‘I’m sorry.’”

  “I am.”

  “Then…”

  “No more beachcombing for you. I’m sorry—but we’re going to lose you for a while.”

  “You mean…”

  “You won, Nina. By three hundred and fifteen votes. You’re a member of The House of Representatives now.

  “Well. What do you know about that?” she whispered.

  They sky exploded above her.

  And for the first time she realized:

  Nina Bannister was going to Washington!

  CHAPTER TWO: WELCOME TO WASHINGTON!

  Precisely one week later, she arrived at Dulles International Airport, flown there by a private jet owned by Gulf Coast Petroleum.

  She was met at the foot of the plane’s exit ramp by a tall, thin fortyish man, whose broad smile showed creases around both eyes that had obviously been caused by much sunshine or much happiness.

  Or perhaps both.

  “Congresswoman Bannister!”

  He stepped forward and held out his hand.

  She took it, realizing that a photographer was standing just behind him.

  Shake of the hand!

  Pop! Goes the flashbulb!

  And Nina is officially in the nation’s capital.

  “Congresswoman, I’m Dicken Proctor. I am—well, sorry to say, I was—Chief of Staff for Jarrod Thornbloom.”

  “I know, I know, and thank you for your emails! I’m sorry I didn’t have time to answer all of your questions. It’s just been chaotic. And I want to tell you how deeply sorry I am—and everybody in Bay St. Lucy is—about the Congressman.”

  “I know. It’s unthinkable that something like this could have happened. The Congressman and I were quite close. We had worked together for ten years. I drove him to the airport on the morning of…well, suffice to say, I’m still in shock.”

  “They still don’t know the cause of the crash?”

  A shake of the head:

  “Not yet. Given the area where contact was lost. It’s very deep there. They found some wreckage but not the black box. And, of course, no way to recover the bodies.”

  Nina knew nothing to say.

  Dicken Proctor continued:

  “Working for Congressman Thornbloom wasn’t always easy. He could be a difficult man. More so as he got older. But his heart was always in the right place; he fought passionately for the causes he believed in.”

  “I believe that,” said Nina. “I really do.”

  Although, she did not say, I think he may have been losing his mind and getting senile, and last November I voted for a Republican.

  No, that was not the thing to say.

  “Well, I hardly know where to begin in introducing you to Washington.”

  “Anywhere you like.”

  “Come on then. We’ll get your bags and go on outside. We have a car waiting for you. I’ve booked you a room at the Hotel George. It’s not the most expensive hotel on the hill, but it’s one of my favorites. From the higher windows—and you’re on the fourth—you can see the capitol dome.”

  “Great!”

  “When various dignitaries flew into town to meet with the Congressman, I always arranged for them to stay there, unless they specified somewhere else. I think you’ll be comfortable there tonight—then tomorrow we’ll set about getting you a real place.”

  “Lead the way.”

  He did, and the two bags that Nina had checked were soon picked up.

  The limousine awaiting her oozed darkness and quietness and comfort, and she appreciated the touch of the bottle of water sitting primly and coolly in a special holder just in front of her knees as she slid into the back seat.

  The ride into the city was difficult.

  Dicken Proctor was an unending stream of information—information she should have already known, she told herself, but the week following her election victory had gone by so fast—and she knew she should have been paying complete attention to him.

  But Washington was flowing by.

  And she had never been there.

  And there were cherry blossoms everywhere!

  And there—they were approaching the Mall!

  Now they had turned on Constitution Avenue.

  It was all there to her right, flowing by:

  The Lincoln Memorial.

  Beyond that, the Korean War Veterans’ Memorial.

  And over beyond that, the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial.

  And there, there before them, now almost abreast of them—The Washington Monument!

  So how could she listen, how could she talk, ask questions?

  Still, somehow, she did.

  “What will the first days be like?”

  “Very very busy. One good thing is, we’ve already moved into the new office.”

  “I have a new office?”

  “Well, you have a different office. Offices on the hill are a matter of seniority. The Congressman had been in office over twenty years, and so he had a pretty elegant place.”

  “And I?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Sorry. More like a boiler room. But we’ll make out ok.”

  “And as for staffers?”

  “You have eight, plus me. They’re a good bunch. I think you’ll like them.”

  “What do they do? What do I do, actually? Seems stupid to be asking a question like that. I won an election to Congress, and now I have no idea
what to do with myself once I’m here.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Everybody’s confused at first. But the important thing is, get ready to do a lot of eating.”

  “Eating?”

  “Eating. Nobody meets anybody on Capitol Hill unless there’s a plate of food between them. And, of course, everybody wants to meet you. They would anyway, just out of politeness. But that campaign you ran…”

  “Well, actually, it’s the campaign Jackson Bennett ran.”

  “Maybe, but it was still remarkable. At any rate, you’re scheduled to meet tomorrow with the House Minority Leader at ten, and there are other congressmen calling to get in whenever possible. These meetings won’t last long; you just have to say hello.”

  “All right. But afterwards—I mean, what is a normal day like?”

  He smiled.

  My God! There, out the window beyond him, is the Smithsonian!

  “Congresswoman Bannister…”

  “Nina, please. Just Nina.”

  “All right, Nina; I won’t lie to you. A vast majority of your job is two things: answering letters—we get almost a thousand a week, and that’s real letters, not just emails, of which there are five hundred more—and helping to raise money. In the autumn, the main business of Congress is to propose legislation. In the spring, the main business is to generate money, to pay for the legislation. You’re already down for four fundraisers, one of which will require a trip back to Mississippi in two weeks. I’m sorry that I went ahead and said yes to these invitations, but…”

  “No, no, it’s exactly what you needed to do. I’ll go wherever I’m needed.”

  “Excellent. But there’s also the issue of where you’re going to stay. I mean, permanently.”

  “You said in your last email that there were several possibilities?”

  “There are. As you know, Congressman Thornbloom was a widower.”

  “Yes, I knew that.”

  “He lived by himself for the past eight years in a rather elegant townhome in Georgetown. But that has, in the last few days, been put on the market. We assumed it would have been somewhat difficult for you to live there.”

  “True.”

  “I’ve had several calls from your supporters, though––one of whom is a Ms. Daring.”

  “Barbara.”

  “Yes, the CEO of Gulf Coast Petroleum. She says that I’m to help you find a truly first rate-place, and not to worry greatly about the rent. So there are several things we can look at tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. I don’t need much—I’m used to living in a two-room shack overlooking the gulf.”