I regret driving with a mannequin in the front seat of my car in the carpool lane just after we moved to California when Maria dared me to take a risk and stop playing it safe. I regret walking out of the condo one afternoon when the kids were all crying, and I just couldn’t handle it, so I left them all with Mauru and said, “Your kids. Your problem.”
I regret taking the job at WS&X because it led me to where I am today.
When the CWP won the majority of the statewide constitutional offices in 2038, including governor, lieutenant governor, attorney general, treasurer, controller, and superintendent of public instruction, as well as one of two senate seats for California, they also won a majority of seats in the legislature.
I was sad to see Governor Barrow’s governorship end. She’d reached the term limit. It was thanks to her that I’d had six months of maternity leave with the twins, that Mauru had any paternity leave at all, that fewer people ended up on the streets without shelter, and that community college was free in California.
Despite Linda Maywrot’s criticisms of her, how many leaders can boast of such a record, which makes a huge difference in people’s lives? I knew I’d miss seeing Governor Barrow on TV a few times a week, and I’d just miss her being real. Our country felt like it was full of people trying to be upgraded and marketable versions of themselves like automatons in search of their next dollar, which they’d calculated only required this much effort, that much sincerity, and that much morality.
Governor Barrow was nothing like that.
When Jeremiah Trehoviak was inaugurated as governor on the first Monday in 2039, and the CWP had the government trifecta, WS&X threw a party on a Sunday afternoon, which meant we all had to go to work that day.
I need to say it one last time.
I really loved my husband.
Mauru woke up that Sunday with a migraine. He didn’t get migraines often, so he said it might be the stress from work. Class sizes had shrunk with people moving out of state, which put pressure on the school’s budget, so teachers were forced to take on additional responsibilities and were required to participate in the school’s recruitment efforts. There was also talk of abolishing the additional three months of paternity leave.
“Poaching,” that is, attracting students from other schools with offers of tuition reduction, more one-on-one time with teachers, and help with homework, were efforts in whose participation all teachers at St. Martin de Porres were now required to take part.
There were more meetings than there had ever been, and there were meetings about the number of meetings. There were a few resignations in response, but since there were always people who needed work, the positions didn’t stay unfilled for too long.
“If I didn’t love what I did, babe,” Mauru said that morning, “I’d walk out, too. Some jobs choose you, and you have the bug for life. That’s how I feel about being a dad, a husband, and a teacher.”
He kissed me and went to Jon and Nate, who were fighting over the TV remote.
Mauru had voted for Indigo Transom of the California Glacier Party in the primary; a parody of a party more than an actual party, which promised either to tow California to Alaska’s glaciers once a year or to bring the glaciers to California biennially to meet the state’s water needs. Mauru then voted Democrat in the general election.
“Protest votes,” he called them, “till the real deal comes along someday, babe.”
He foresaw that the CWP might win, not only because voters tend to have short memories in American political life, and we forget much of what a particular politician has done relatively quickly, but also because what we deem relevant to our vote has little to do with whether a politician can lead us effectively. It has more to do, instead, with whether the candidate for office is someone who can fit nicely into the entertainment offerings already available to us.
The CWP were all about the show, about throwbacks to the past, about tensions between morality and responsibility, about the Book of Revelation recast in terms of environmental doom, which they repackaged as “the Right Path.”
They had the wealth to which many voters openly aspired, which made voters say that the fundraiser at WS&X, for example, had not cost $45 million, which was a number Andy had thrown out in an unguarded moment, but double that. Therefore, they concluded, Jeremiah Trehoviak’s wealth must be double, if not triple, what had been leaked to the press. Trehoviak also had his own TV channel, radio stations, and he had just purchased the New York Daily Digest, which he’d renamed the Big Apple Morning Herald, recalling, thereby, another artifact of the past with which he intended to unseat the Golden State Herald and other major national newspapers.
There was, of course, the non-issue (now) of Eleena. Eleena had been reduced to a comma in the paragraph on the CWP’s place in California’s history, at most a semicolon, but nowhere near a period or an exclamation point.
In the final weeks of the election season, the CWP came across as “tough on the issues that matter” and “caring when they need to be.” They now owned a few adjectives in the English language, which, before they came along, had been part of the common patrimony of all speakers of the language: “decisive,” “disciplined,” “necessary,” “powerful,” and “strong.”
Then the adjective they most coveted became theirs when Jeremiah Trehoviak, in the weeks before the election, shed a few tears in a televised debate as he spoke of the camp at San Ysidro: “compassionate.”
The CWP won the gubernatorial election with 57 percent of the vote.
“You know what they say about the third time,” Trehoviak said at the beginning of his victory speech.
As Mauru dropped me off at my job, he looked at me and said, “We’re in this together, babe. Me and you and the kids. We’re in this together.”
“We’re in this together,” I said in return.
Hannah walked up to me, beaming, as I entered the conference room for the celebration that Sunday.
“It’s going really well,” she said.
“I should know,” I responded. “I planned it. Took at least a week to get everything approved, accepted, certified—you name it. Now I can relax and have myself a little drink. I don’t really drink, but today I’m allowing myself a little tequila.”
“I’m talking about Mike and me,” Hannah said. “It’s going really well, especially since we were elected.”
“We?” I said. “You voted CWP?”
“Well, I just wanted to support Mike, you know.”
I took a shot of tequila as Hannah stared at me in surprise.
“I’m letting loose,” I said in my own defense. “You always tell me ‘to live a little.’ This afternoon, I don’t want to be anyone’s mom, wife, or daughter. I just want to have some responsible fun. We’ve all worked really hard, and today’s the payoff. Has Mike’s wife found out about you two?”
“Nothing to find out,” Hannah said. “Greta has her own side thing. Mike told me. She and Jeremiah are together. Everyone at the top does that. Anton is also with Jeremiah, believe it or not, and Anton’s also with Sheila. Sheila’s with Miriam as well. That’s why Mike can allow himself to be with me. It’s a thing with them. That’s what they mean when they say someone’s a ‘First’ or a ‘Second.’ Jeremiah’s always a First. It affects everything from succession in their organization to their personal relationships.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
I laughed in the way that Ambrosia Skiffles memorably says, “made the man know that she thought nothing of him because he was a fraud.”
“Some kind of Right Path, if you asked me. Morals and such,” I said. “This is why you’ll never see me voting, and you’ll never see me getting my hands dirty with politics. Diapers are about as dirty as my hands will ever get. Oh, and my kids’ vomit, which disgusts me plenty, but they’re my kids.”
“Don’t judge me, Janet.” Hannah frowned. “We all do what we need to so that we make it through the day. We’re all fumbling around down here. Don’t judge me. I’
m feeling judged. And you’re supposed to be my friend.”
Hannah looked disconsolate, and she shook her head slightly and sighed.
“I’m, I’m sorry, Hannah. I honestly don’t know what it is today. Mauru’s got a migraine, and things are getting tight for him at work. The twins screamed all the way here. I’m sorry. I’ve seen—or, rather, I’ve read—about people’s lives being ruined over situations like the one you’re in. Think of how high up Mike is in that organization. Greta’s also way up there, and now you’re saying she’s got a thing with Trehoviak, who’s got a thing with Anton. Can you imagine if that got out to the press? Can you imagine? And your name was also mentioned in that mess?”
As if her fiancé had just stood her up on her wedding day, Hannah looked devastated.
“Well,” Hannah said, “Mike and I are taking it slowly. Which is great.”
“Hannah, what does ‘slowly’ mean when you’re the third wheel?”
“It means he’s a gentleman.” Hannah bit her lower lip. “Look at him. He has the most beautiful hands, like a piano player.” [She stared at Mike.] “‘Taking it slowly’ means we haven’t done anything because we’re getting to know each other. A few dinners, a weekend together here and there, but nothing else.”
I was on the verge of laughter. “Have you been reading Ambrosia Skiffles with your talk of a piano player’s hands?” I asked Hannah. “But, seriously, Hannah. Nothing? You mean no-thing between you at all, like nothing? Nada?”
“He’s a gentleman, and he’s lovely, Janet. He’s the one.”
I grunted and had to stop myself from laughing. Hannah was delusional. He was married and had a ring to prove it.
“Laugh all you want,” Hannah said. “It’s not like we’re getting married or anything. It also gives me the freedom to see whomever I want.”
“I know you’ve done nothing, but is he tested? People who sleep around have never been good news for anyone.”
“There are ground rules,” Hannah said, exasperated. “He has his rules, I have mine, and Greta has hers. So, the first night we had dinner, we laid them all out and came to an agreement. We signed non-disclosure agreements as well, so, um, technically, you don’t know any of this.”
I grunted again. Now she was signing non-disclosure agreements to be someone’s spare wheel?
“Why would you put yourself through that, Hannah?”
“And he’s made me a job offer. If I ever want to go in-house—”
“But we do all of their legal work—”
“Well, almost. They have a small group of about ten attorneys on staff to prep them on a range of issues in Menlo Park.”
“Are you leaving WS&X?”
“No, I like my independence, but it’s good to have options. And you’d miss me a lot if I left. After this conversation, I might not miss you, though.”
“I still don’t get why a married guy would date a woman and tell her he wants to take it slowly. I mean, what’s going on? Who is this guy?”
“A gentleman called Mike Iet. Larry even knows, and he’s OK with it as long as we’re discrete.”
I grunted again.
“You’re talking about Larry of Michelle & Larry fame? Of course, he’s OK with it. The man’s been cheating on his wife since Hudson and Lloyd were toddlers. I should know. I order the gifts.”
Hannah sighed, shook her head, and went to chat with LSD and Lawrence, who were laughing at something.
Larry, Amandine, and Andy recited Scrimmage, offered a toast to “Governor Trehoviak, Anton, Mike, and the CWP.” Music pre-approved by the CWP was played. Mike spoke on the governor’s behalf and apologized that Greta, Anton, and the governor couldn’t make it. Mike looked in Hannah’s direction. She smiled and covered her smile with a cough.
I drank more than I’d ever drunk as a senior at the University of the Finger Lakes when we went to the step-dancing competitions at the end of the year on “Lakes Plaza” and got wasted. Sometimes there’d be a famous entertainer on campus. The last day of the school year was known as “Good Day” among those in the know. Everyone interested in anyone else submitted her or his name to a “coordinator,” who “matched” those interested in each other so that they could have one last “good day” together before graduation.
Larry walked up to me and asked if everything was OK. I told him that it had been such a ride over the past few years that I’d decided to let loose. I hoped I wasn’t embarrassing anyone as I enjoyed my tequila.
“Good to see you relax, Janet,” he said. “You’re always kind of uptight—in a good way, though, but still uptight. And I know you take a tequila shot once in a long while, but that stuff is potent. Take care of yourself. I’ll be watching you.”
I had one or two pigs in a blanket, chatted with a few of the associates, went back to my desk, and checked my schedule for the next day as well as Larry’s, and took a seat. I must have fallen asleep because Hannah woke me up. She’d been looking for me everywhere, and it was almost time to close up shop.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“9:30 p.m.,” Hannah said. “Is Mauru supposed to pick you up?”
“No,” I said. “I told him I’d take a cab home. I’m kind of, um, really tipsy, Hannah. It’s been a while. I’ll be fine, though. I’ll call a cab in a bit because there’s no way I’m going home smelling of booze. I need to brush my teeth and gargle with mouthwash. I’m all boozed up. I don’t want my kids to see me like this.”
I asked what the time was again, and Hannah laughed.
“9:31 p.m.”
“They’re in bed already,” I told Hannah. “I’ll send Mauru a text message. Do I make sense?”
Mike walked up and asked if everything was alright. I told him I was “really tipsy” and a little embarrassed. I apologized.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Janet,” Mike said. “It’s a celebration, and you’re part of the family; I already consider you part of the CWP. Everyone’s a little over the top tonight. Larry was dancing with Amandine a few minutes ago, and a few of the associates were reciting Scrimmage by heart. Fun time. I’ve had a few glasses myself. We’ve all been through a lot together. We’ll have our official celebrations in the months ahead. I wish Greta were here to see this, but she’s with Jeremiah and Anton.”
I shook my head at the thought of their threesomes.
“I’ll drive you home, Janet,” Hannah offered. “We’ll remember this, one day, as a kind of girls’ night out—well, at work.”
“Or a friends’ night together,” Mike said. “I can drive Janet home. I’ve met Mauru, Jon, and Nate, and it would be a pleasure to drop by briefly and say a quick ‘hello.’ It’s the least I can do after all of Janet’s work for us.”
“Really?” I asked. “The kids will already be asleep, but that’s the idea. They can’t see me while I’m tipsy. Never a good example. Do I make sense?”
Hannah smiled and asked Mike if he was sure. He nodded, and she squeezed his hand, smiled, and left.
“A gentleman,” she said as she walked away. “My gentleman. See you tomorrow, Janet. I’m going to get some sleep. Need me to help with anything?”
“Housekeeping will be here at 11:15 p.m.,” I said. “They’ll take care of everything. Maybe they’ll make more sense than I do. I still feel a little tipsy.”
I went downstairs to wish everyone a good night and saw Andy dancing with Larry, Michelle, and Hannah.
“Good times.” Mike smiled.
We walked to Mike’s car, he opened the door, and I got in.
I don’t really remember what happened next, but I remember telling Mike—don’t judge me—that he smelled good, “a little musky at this hour,” which I liked. The words just tumbled out of me, and I hate being the poster woman for the truism that alcohol makes people talk frankly, but it does, tequila especially.
I recall apologizing to Mike for being so direct, and I asked him to drop me off at the next traffic light so I wouldn’t embarrass myself any furt
her. I didn’t want to lose my job but, more than that, I didn’t want Mike to have a bad opinion of me because, I told him, he was “a good-looking, thoughtful, intelligent man with great dimples.”
He told me that Greta was out of town and asked if—
“Of course,” I said, cutting him off. “I don’t feel like going home right now. I just want to relax and be pampered.”
I must have burped because he opened the car window and smiled at me.
“No problem,” he said.
I may have fallen asleep in the car.
My mind is blank about what came next.
The next thing I remember is pulling Mike to me and making out with him on his sectional sofa and telling him to “hold me, Mike. I don’t want you to be with Hannah or anyone else. I need you for me.”
He didn’t say a word. He held me, made out with me.
We were intimate on the sofa, in his bed, in the shower, and on the sofa again.
My phone rang.
It was around 11:30 p.m., and Mauru wanted to know where I was and if everything was OK. The kids were all asleep. He loved me. He wanted me to know that.
“Still at work, babe,” I said. “I’ll be home in the next half hour. OK. Me, too.”
I couldn’t look at Mike. He tried to sit beside me, and I moved away. I don’t remember any guilt, just a profound feeling of sadness and relief, which I still can’t explain.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” I said, covering my body. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I’ve liked you from the start, Janet,” Mike said. “I hope this doesn’t seem like me hitting on you inappropriately or taking advantage of the relationship we have professionally. Quite apart from that, I’ve liked you, Janet, and I don’t want you hurting over tonight, over what we’ve just done. I hope that makes sense. Please don’t be sorry.”
He caressed my arm, and I started crying.
“I’m happily married with kids,” I told him.
“I know,” he said as he tried to comfort me. “That first time I came to your home, there was something about you, like you were one of us, like home, you know. There’s nothing more attractive than someone so familiar yet so unavailable. I guess I’ll never be able to imagine you without your family because that’s who you are.”
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