Seven
Seven
JULY 2021
“You’re dropping in the polls,” Mara says. “You’re down five points.”
I lean back in the stiff chair of my campaign headquarters office. It’s one of those badly upholstered chairs in a jarring shade of orange that looks like it belongs in a roadside motel lobby, which is probably where it was before Mara purchased it to furnish our office. I’d rather be sitting in one of those office chairs that spin, because then I could twirl and pretend to ignore the lecture Mara is about to deliver.
Instead, I reply, “That’s to be expected. We knew there would be some dips coming into the fall.”
“Not five points.” Mara shakes her head. “What’s going on with Dean? He hasn’t done many events lately. It’s an issue.”
“You tell me, Mara.” I cock my head. “I wasn’t the one who forced him to do that interview.”
Mara shrugs. “The article wasn’t what I thought it would be. I’ll do a better job vetting the profiles in the future.” It’s a rehearsed statement, lacking genuine remorse. Mara’s priorities rarely reflect the emotions of others.
“Dean isn’t running for office. His presence shouldn’t impact polling,” I complain.
“Everything impacts polling. You wear pink lipstick, there’s a poll. Toughen up,” Mara says with zero sympathy.
I take a deep breath. “I’ll talk to Dean about the events.”
The problem is that he doesn’t want to attend the luncheons and ribbon-cutting ceremonies that Mara schedules. There’s a public-facing expectation for the candidate’s spouse that she’s trying to navigate, but I’m not sure following the standard playbook is going to work anymore.
Ever since the night I found Dean in the kitchen for the photo shoot, things have been different. He’s been peppering me with questions about the election, showing me articles about Grant’s events, and asking for my reactions to Grant’s statements like some reporter in training. Dean wants to dissect my campaign strategy and how I think Grant will respond. There’s an uncharacteristic intensity to Dean and it’s clear he wants to be seen as valuable to the campaign beyond kitchen photo shoots.
I should have spent more time answering his questions, but after long days and countless strategy discussions with Mara, the last thing I want to do is continue those conversations with my husband. I don’t even want to answer the simple question he repeats each night: “What do you think of Grant Alexander?” The more Dean pursues some variation of this topic, the more I withdraw.
I told Dean he should reach out to Mara with his ideas, but that was apparently the wrong response. Because when I try to chat about any topic other than the campaign—the weather, the new coffee shop in town, the latest gossip among the high school teachers—he shuts down those conversations, mumbling, “That’s not important.”
Dean has never clung to antiquated gender notions, but the interview must have pushed him too far. I never asked him to put his career behind mine, but I know that’s been the expectation lately. Maybe he wants a more significant role after hearing one too many “First Gentleman” jokes and recipe requests.
But I crave a break in the intensity of politics and I search for it every night when I come home. Our needs are misaligned, which leads to sparse conversations replacing intimacy with formality. He asks about the campaign and I tell him things are good. He tells me I looked natural holding a baby at a meet and greet and I tell him I rarely feel natural these days. He tells me that he’s here to listen whenever I want to talk. I nod, but the reality is that at the end of the day when I have done nothing but talk to hundreds of strangers, sometimes I want silence when I get home to him. Which isn’t fair.
Mara seems to sense a shift in my mood. “The expectations on female candidates are unreasonable. After the election, we can take shots for every misogynistic moment of the campaign, but right now, we need to focus on the big picture.”
I shake my head. “You’re overestimating my tolerance. If we take that many shots, you’ll have to wheel me out of the bar.”
Mara shrugs. “I’ll be too busy dancing on the tables.”
My eyes bulge. “Mara, you dance?”
“I have a whole personality you will see only after we win this election. Business now. Tequila and patriarchy-bashing later.”
Mara smirks because she knows she’s given me even more motivation to win this election. I can’t wait to peel back her Ann Taylor pantsuit layers and reveal this inner wild child.
“What’s on my calendar for tomorrow?” I ask, smiling.
“A lunch with the service workers’ union.”
“Maybe Dean can join. Will that help?”
“Yes,” Mara says. “But will he be holding your hand or standing on the opposite side of the room?”
“I’ll handle it.” I look out the window. “Let’s discuss the campaign budget.” It’s a topic Mara can’t resist, and I hope it changes the direction of the conversation.
Mara begins rattling off fundraising numbers. I know this is a critical time in the campaign, a lull in public appearances before the fall push. This is when I need to raise as much money as possible. Especially with an opponent like Grant who has seemingly bottomless pockets.
It’s a feeling I’m used to—not having as much as the people around me have—even when the differences are as stark as the career public servant versus the hedge fund magnate. I let those differences bother me once and promised myself never again.
“Wasn’t there some donor dinner in D.C. tonight?” I ask.
“No. There was a dinner with potential donors, but I declined their invitation,” Mara says dismissively.
“Why?”
“It is a bunch of law firm partners in D.C. that are interested in funding key off-cycle elections,” Mara explains. “They pulled together money for a race in Texas and another in Georgia. I thought maybe they’d be interested in spending their money a little closer to home, but I was wrong.”
“They’re not interested in this race?”
“No, they are, but I talked to the Texas campaign manager. It ended up being way too much effort for way too little money.” Mara’s face may not express much emotion, but her hands gesticulate wildly enough to reflect her annoyance. “These guys are focused on hearing themselves talk and feeling important. And they demand a lot of candidate time to achieve those goals.”
“Mara, I don’t think we should be turning down any potential avenues at this stage.”
“I agree. But your time is better spent prepping for the union meeting. There’s no point driving into D.C. and attending a jerk circle when you have no dick.”
I smirk and open my mouth to comment on Mara’s metaphor when she says, “I know. I’m going to end up with an HR complaint. Once we’re in the governor’s mansion—”
I cut her off. “You’ll act exactly the same. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Mara rolls her eyes as she reaches for her laptop. “I want to show you the revised talking points for the union lunch.” As soon as Mara’s computer is turned on, she groans and mumbles, “More of these emails come in every day.”
“What emails?” I ask. Mara is quiet as her eyes continue scanning the screen, and I know she’s not answering my question for a reason. “What emails?” I ask again, dragging out each word in a bossy tone that I reserve for only my most frustrating interactions with Mara.
“Photos, mostly. At first it was innocent enough. Supporters would send pictures from campaign events.”
I watch as Mara scrolls, brows furrowed.
“What kind of pictures are you getting now?” I ask.
Mara hesitates before finally turning her computer around to show me the screen. There’s an email from an anonymous account and the attachment includes dozens of pictures, some of them zoomed in on my legs or shoulders, some taken from far away, but a few that seem disturbingly close.
“How long have you been getting these pictures?” I ask.
Mara winces. “Since the campaign started.”
“And they’re all from the same account?” I hate feeling blindsided, especially by my own campaign.
“No. The accounts are all anonymous, but they’re different. You’ve got quite the fan club.” Mara tries to joke, but she must see the concern on my face, because she stands up and walks to my side.
“I don’t like this,” I say, understating my feelings.
“Me either. I’ll reach out to the state troopers again. We’ll make sure your events have added security.” There’s uncharacteristic compassion in Mara’s voice.
“Okay. Thank you.” I quickly add, “Don’t mention this to Dean.”
Mara returns to her chair, shifting uncomfortably as she says, “He knows.”
“What do you mean he knows?”
“He asked to be included in your security briefings. He’s your husband. I agreed.”
“Mara, I have so many problems with that statement. But first, I want to know why I’m not included in my security briefings.”
“Because it would freak you out,” Mara says quickly. “You need to focus on meeting people, not being scared of them.”
Despite being angry and uncomfortable about the whole situation, a part of me understands this logic. “I want to be included going forward.” My eyes lock on Mara’s. This is not a request.
“Fine.”
“Does that mean, fine, you will include me, or fine, you hope I will forget?”
Mara scrunches her nose and that’s my answer. I’ll be lucky if I get a bullet-point version of meeting notes weeks after they happen.
“I’m your buffer. That’s my job,” Mara says. “If you are looking at creepy pictures, you’re not meeting voters. It works out better if I know everything and you know only what is essential.”
“Fine,” I echo, knowing it’s a waste of time to fight with her.
“Although this picture is good,” Mara says, smiling. “Maybe we should update the website?”
Mara spins her computer around, showing me a picture where I’m bending over a reception line to shake a child’s hand. It’s zoomed in on my chest.
I reach for the laptop, staring at my image on the screen. “Mara, you can see down my shirt.”
Mara shrugs. “It’s a good thing you’ve got nice tits, then.” Mara must see the panic on my face because she quickly adds, “This is common, especially for female candidates. But we are taking this seriously. You will have additional security. Do not worry.”
No matter what Mara says, I’m going to worry. This is the part of the job that I hate. The constant watching that comes along with it, the judgment of even the tiniest choice, and the feeling that my entire being is up for public consumption and debate. Sometimes I wonder if the cost of my dream is too high.
“Are you finished with the talking points for tomorrow? I’d like to get some work done today,” I say, trying to mask fear with annoyance.
Mara’s fingers tap on the keyboard, her eyes darting around the screen as an uncomfortable silence fills the office. Then Mara’s entire body changes, tense anger sweeping across her face. Mara’s eyes dart up to mine, a dagger of judgment, before she returns her focus to the computer screen.
“What now? A naked picture?” I joke. “I swear I’ve kept my clothes on since this election started.”
Mara doesn’t laugh. Not even a fraction of a smile cracks on her face. Mara’s eyes narrow on the screen.
“You look pissed, Mara. What is it?”
Mara doesn’t say a word. She stands and walks to the door, reaching for the handle and shutting it firmly to give us privacy in my small, cramped office. I watch as Mara’s fingers tremble on the door handle before she turns around.
Mara stalks toward me and spins the computer screen in my direction. Her whispered voice harshly spits, “Start explaining. Right now.”
I look up and my heart drops to the floor.
I should have known something like this would happen. I did know. But Grant convinced me otherwise.
On Mara’s computer screen is the girl I used to be, tanned from a summer spent soaking in every drop of sunshine. My face is bare but flushed pink—my long, black hair swept back in a sloppy ponytail. Grant is standing at my side, his arm draped casually around my shoulders. His face is in profile because he has just kissed my cheek—his lips inches from the side of my face, a wide grin spreading from his mouth into the crinkle of his eyes. My face is angled toward his, mid-laugh at whatever joke Grant has just made about how he will never be able to stop kissing me. And our eyes, our eyes are locked on each other, unaware that there is anyone or anything else around.
I remember that day. I remember every single moment we spent absorbed in each other, consumed with the microscopic movements of our bodies together and yet unaware that we were two small people in a giant, fragile world. Especially unaware that someone held on to this picture, waiting until now to establish its existence.
I’m staring at this picture of myself, unable to remain in the present. Because that’s always been the danger of Grant, his ability to make me forget myself as I’m pulled into his orbit. It’s been too many seconds of silence, and Mara’s face hardens with every moment that I’m caught in the past.
I’m disappointed with the quiver in my voice as I ask, “Where did you get this?”
“There is a photo of you and the opposing candidate, as teenagers. A past you have never once mentioned to me. And you’re worried about how your campaign manager got a copy? Because that is Grant Alexander, isn’t it?” Mara snaps.
I don’t answer, because it’s pointless. Even though years have passed, our faces are immediately recognizable. I have no idea where to start, or even what to say.
Mara points at the computer. “This picture came in one of those anonymous emails. Someone knows more about my candidate than I do. Which means we’re both in serious trouble unless you tell me everything right now, so I can figure out whether this disaster can be fixed.”
“I worked for Grant’s mother one summer,” I stammer.
Mara’s eyes narrow. “And?”
She jams her fists into her pockets as she waits for me to continue. But what more can I say? There’s no explanation that could fix the disaster Mara foresees. I hesitate for a moment before deciding that maybe this campaign has taken too many pieces of me already. Maybe my only solution is to keep this one thing private.
“There’s nothing more. I met him one summer decades ago.” I shrug, forcing my body to act as casual as my statement.
“That’s not enough information. I can think of about a dozen follow-up questions and I’m not even a reporter. Start talking.” Mara’s words run together.
“It will go away,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as Mara.
“No, it won’t!” Mara shouts. “These types of pictures do not go away. The full story will come out. You must tell me that story first.”
I shake my head. I’m the candidate. I can control this situation. “Mara, you’re being dramatic. Having a chance meeting with my opponent twenty-five years ago doesn’t destroy a campaign.”
“You’re right. But photographs aren’t leaked about chance meetings. You’re not being smart about this, Tess. You have to tell me everything. Now.”
I hear Mara’s commands, but I don’t comply. Instead, I sit in silence, refusing to give away any more of myself.
“We don’t want this to be your last campaign.” The frustration builds across her face. “The DNC called. If you win, you’re on the short list for opening speakers at the next convention. You know what that means, right? This is the path to the presidency. But one scandal destroys everything.”
“Enough, Mara. Drop it.” My voice is clear and firm. “I’m not telling you anything else. It’s up to you if you still want to work for my campaign.” She may not return, and I make myself numb to that consequence.
Mara stands. “You’re not thinking rationally. And I am too pissed to be in the same room with you.”
Before she leaves, she asks, “Who else knows?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who else knows what happened between you and Grant Alexander?” Mara’s voice is barely above a whisper.
I swallow slowly before answering. “Only Grant.”
I watch as Mara absorbs what this means. Not only have I kept secrets from her, but I've kept them from my husband as well.
“I have to call him,” I say.
Mara nods. “Dean should hear it from you. We don’t know the source. This photo could leak to the papers at any time.”
I shake my head. “No. I have to call Grant.”
Mara’s eyes widen. “If you wanted my opinion, I’d tell you that is a mistake. But I know my advice is pointless.” She leaves my office, slamming the door so forcefully that I doubt she’ll be back.
I sit at my desk. My hand trembling as I dial his number. He picks it up on the first ring, too quickly to give me any time to figure out what to say other than the one thing that terrifies us both.
“Grant, someone knows about us.”