Chapter 25
twenty-five
Cindy
“The interns have been categorizing letters and calls from constituents. Over the past two days, the majority are falling into the same buckets as our press inquiries.”
My Washington communication director, Nathan, paces in front of my desk. Lizzie is sitting across the room on the couch and Max is on speaker phone from Denver.
“People want to know if you’re sleeping with the vice president,” he sums up.
Lizzie, Max and I all roll our eyes. I can sense Max doing it through the phone line. Nathan grimaces and presses on.
“They also want to know if you’re sleeping with Zack Ryder,” he continues.
I sit forward. “They what now?”
“Did you see that cover spread with the pictures of you two at dinner and at the party earlier this year? The ‘Is she stepping out on the VP?’ headline,” Max says. “They haven’t even established you’re with the vice president and you’re already cheating on him. ”
“Give me a break,” Lizzie scoffs.
“And they want to know if you slept your way to your position,” Nathan finishes.
We all fall silent. I meet Lizzie’s eyes, and we’re on the same wavelength. This one is the career-killer. The reputation that could haunt me the rest of my life in politics if we don’t shut it down immediately.
“No one serious thinks that,” Lizzie says, but it’s a question.
“Martin says the votes are slipping for the marijuana legislation,” Nathan warns.
“Who?” I demand.
“Somebody from Iowa. Apparently they can wrestle marijuana to fit their definition of family values but not a single woman sleeping with someone powerful. No offense, ma’am.”
“If there’s one, there are others,” I say, leaning back in my chair. I’m frustrated that all the waiting around to drum up support is now worthless. All because of a picture of me with a man. “I need to talk to the Freshman Six as soon as possible. Am I losing progressive support along with the more moderate votes?”
“I’ll get it on your calendar,” Lizzie says. “I haven’t heard from them.”
Bad sign. “Let’s do it now,” I say. My chief of staff nods. “This is ridiculous,” I vent as Lizzie starts typing on her phone.
“It is,” Max agrees. “But it sounds like the White House won’t help. They’re not planning to comment.”
Nathan nods. “That’s what we’re doing so far, as well: No comment-ing. But Max and I don’t think we can ride this one out without saying something. So we might as well make a contingency plan.”
“We don’t necessarily have to address the rumors,” Max adds. “We can address the criticism.”
“OK, that sounds good,” I say. Focus on what you can control .
“The only drawback,” Nathan continues. “Is that people aren’t as interested in measured responses as they are wild speculation.”
“Well, a bully pulpit might help,” Lizzie grouses, without raising her eyes from her device. “The White House really won’t say anything? Did you ask them?”
“It was more of a…” Nathan hesitates. He’s the new guy in this group, having taken the position in my D.C. office after Max moved to Colorado. He hasn’t quite won my trust, yet; Max is still my first call for important communications strategy.
“Less a conversation than being told the plan,” Max offers on the phone. Nathan nods.
“I’ll talk to the vice president tonight,” I say. “Find out what’s going on.”
Hopefully. I haven't talked to Alex since the state dinner.
But first, I have to shore up my wavering coalition. I make a series of calls that afternoon, starting with Steven Wilson and ending with the Reverse the War on Drugs PAC.
I have to fake an unflustered example to bolster the courage of my little underdog group of contrarians, channeling my inner Anita Meyer with a matter-of-fact, unflappable voice on the phone. “This is all a distraction,” I say. “Ride it out. Focus on the goal.”
It doesn’t work. Steven is the only outright panicking one, saying “our cause is ruined, no one will take us seriously now,” but the others are distant and noncommittal.
Without being told as much, I sense I’ve been categorized as damaged goods. Hard to be an ally in the war when you’re starting scuffles on the sidelines.
I send my campaign manager a warning about outside money potentially drying up. I tell Steven, “This is a blip. I’ll turn it around.” The weight of that responsibility comes home with me that night. Not wanting to put it off, I drop my bag but don’t change before I dial Alex.
He answers his phone for once. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. After a long day, it’s always irresistible to hear his voice. It makes me feel more secure than I have all day.
“I still rate when there’s a crisis in the Middle East? I’m flattered,” I say with a smile I hope he can hear over the phone line.
“There’s always a crisis in the Middle East. There’s never been a you,” he replies, and we both pause at the sweetest and cheesiest thing he’s ever said to me.
“Anyway,” he continues, with a little laugh. “How bad is it on your end?”
Pacing barefoot in my kitchen, I hesitate. I don’t want to be dramatic about this. My job itself is not threatened and I’m not getting more death threats than usual, as far as I know. “It could be better,” I hedge.
“Yeah. Same. The worst part is they’re saying we shouldn’t see each other for a while. In person.”
“They” are the strategists on his staff, I assume. “I figured. But, Alex, do they really think it will blow over?”
“Well, they think it will settle down long enough that we can make our own decision about whether and how to go public,” he replies.
I don’t like how far away that decision sounds when he talks about it in such a pragmatic tone. But I’m not sure I want to go public, so it wouldn’t be fair to ask his position on it. Still, I can’t resist probing a little. I didn’t become a member of Congress without asking questions. “And when might that be?”
His laugh sounds a little stilted. “Whenever we want. If we want. Sometime after the legislation passes, I suppose.” He makes it sound like it might never happen. Maybe he expects our entanglement will decrease along with the rumors. Suddenly, I feel much less secure. I’m just a prop. Useful until I’m not .
If only I could see his face, touch his hand. Go back to the lazy mornings we spent in bed together in California, and walking on the beach with the sun giving perfect light as it set—all golden, like a sepia photograph. I don’t like having these conversations over the phone and yet that’s all we have. At this rate, I don’t know when I'll see him again.
Should I break up with him? Now that our relationship and reality have crashed together? It might be the right thing to do. But the things I miss about being with him are the reason I can’t cut him off. I miss how carefully he plans what to make for dinner. The way he will casually touch me on his way past. How we can talk politics without it becoming an argument. That he’s as interested in cuddling as he is inventive sex.
So I don’t argue with the strategy. Distance, although it’s the last thing I want. But I tell him I want his staff to check in with mine daily for the next few days. He agrees.
I dream about being with him that night—being close to him, skin on skin, not even having sex. When I wake up, I make the mistake of checking my social media replies. I want to take the temperature of my reputation. To gauge how long it might be before it’s safe to meet Alex in person again.
My mentions are full of threats of rape and harm. According to social media, I’m a bitch for “seducing” men or a “traitor” to my progressive ideals, or much worse words for a woman who sleeps her way into power. It is all much, much worse than last time I checked my own social media feeds. I sometimes write my own content but I usually let my staff handle engagement.
They’ve clearly been protecting me this week.
Putting my phone face-down on the counter, I sit in my kitchen over a cup of coffee for a long time after I read the comments and search my own name.
I’m going to go to work and do my job. This is one very bad week in what I hope will be a long career, a career I’m betting is interesting enough to write a whole book about.
The pep talk to myself continues through my shower and on the walk to the Capitol: I’m one of the most powerful female members of Congress in my party. I have important goals. I’m healthy and strong. In fact, I have small crow's feet for my age.
Walking between the concrete security barriers, showing my badge and putting my bag through the X-ray machine as I go through security, I try to spin the insults: People think I’m betraying my ideals, so at least I’ve done a good job communicating my principles.
Time to be proactive. At my desk, I call the House Rules Committee chairman’s office myself and ask for a meeting. With Randy as my comparison point, anyone would be less dismissive, but Harold—whose support I need to clear the first legislative hurdle—is slow-walking it through his committee. Now I’m ready to go to war.
Martin and I are shown into Harold’s office, where he’s accumulated a lot more office furniture from the catalog than I have. The room is stuffed with cherry wood and leather.
Harold takes my hand between both of his and asks, “How are you holding up?” That starts the conversation on the wrong foot.
“What’s holding my bill up, that’s the more pertinent question,” I say, smiling to keep from looking irritable. Women accomplish more with aggressive positivity.
He laughs, like I’m joking. “You’ve heard about the Senate bill, of course.”
“Senate bill?” I glance at Martin, who shakes his head. He hasn’t heard, either.
“Sure,” Harold says, sitting back down at his desk. He gestures at the chairs across from him and I reluctantly sit. “Rumor says the Senate Majority Leader told the White House the current bill goes too far and it can’t pass the upper chamber. There’s talk of a new bill in the Senate and the Majority Leader is urging the House to back something similar so we don’t have a long reconciliation process.”
“What’s in the bill?”
“It’s a clean bill, just decriminalization, without any of the additional provisions in yours,” he says.
Martin sits forward. “But the progressives won’t vote for that.”
He turns to me. I can’t return his gaze. I don’t need help to realize what’s going on. I’m being shut out.
“They think they have enough votes without progressives,” Harold says. He shrugs. “That’s what happens when the White House steps in. It’s likely above your pay grade, now, Cindy.”
A burning sensation builds behind my ears. “The White House is involved?” I ask quietly.
“That’s what I’m told. It’d be a lot easier for your bill to pass the House if our members can limit their vote to the most popular parts, and still get cover from the Senate and the White House.” His expression strikes me as patronizing. Like this concept might be a little too hard for me to understand without help. “I’ll schedule hearings and a mark-up session for your bill, but I can all but guarantee that your extra language will be stripped before it makes it out of committee. Welcome to Washington.”
He sits back in his chair, done with his lesson.
My entire body locks up in response to his tone.
“Their version isn’t finalized yet,” Martin says, sitting on the edge of his seat like he can chase down the new bill as it’s coming across the street from the Senate office buildings.
Harold glances at him. His distracted gaze says he thinks it’s a done deal and he’s humoring our objections. “The White House wants it stripped and the Senate party is so unified, I doubt there’s any way to stop them from passing it.”
“Right,” I say numbly. I could ask him to bury the House version of the bill, effectively killing it. It’s my bill and it’s being stolen right out from under me to become Frankenstein’s bill instead. I don’t have to sit here and let it happen. Let the Senate pass their own bill with no teeth in it, and then I can point to my failed bill and make an example of them for their cowardice, their determination to stick with the status quo.
But the legislation could do a lot of good even if it doesn’t go far enough. This moment, this tough compromise, is what I’ve got to learn to live with to be a lawmaker instead of an activist. Rather than indulging my petty and ruthless side, before I leave, I secure Harold’s promise to schedule hearings soon.
I march back to the Cannon House Office building with Martin in tow—him barely hurrying to keep up, thanks to his long, skinny legs, damn him—furious at being talked down to despite my position. At how my support can be yanked right out from under me over a rumor. At how long and hard I worked to get to where I am only to be told I got here by laying on my back. At Alex, for never taking a stand.
Well, that’s not me.
Back in my office, I sit down at my desk and start writing notes. Then I call Lizzie in and tell her: “I need to give a Floor speech.”
Alex
Easy event, they told me. Nothing controversial, they said.
So I roll into the State Dining Room in the White House and get blindsided by Zack Ryder sitting side-by-side with uniformed officers in the chairs set up in front of the decorative fireplace below the portrait of Abraham Lincoln.
I turn to look at Deena. “Ryder,” I hiss. She takes a step back, surprised. I’ve been volatile lately, prone to irritation, and yes I know it. Every time my staff reacts like this, I regret it, but I can’t seem to stop.
“He’s very popular with the troops,” she replies, eyes wide. “He typically plays military roles. They say it raises awareness.”
Right. I roll my eyes, keeping my back to the room. I’ve seen Ryder play a Marine and he got most of the details wrong. Awareness is what people promote when they aren’t bold enough to take real action. “What’s he lobbying for?” I ask Deena.
She checks her notes. “Health care waivers for veterans.”
Of course Ryder would be on the side I agree with. It’s wishful thinking that the movie star could be the bad guy for once. “So I have to be friendly.”
“It’s the best way to reset the media narrative,” she says. “To be photographed as allies, not enemies.” She nods, barely moving her head, to the pool of photographers set up near the chairs. We’re being watched.
“Right.” Those bullshit stories about a love triangle between me, Cindy and Ryder. Of course the rumors are now my problem. While Ryder made another notch in his dating tally.
“OK, but I’m grumpy about it,” I say, before turning to the room to wave at the mix of media and military families.
“Noted,” Deena says, following me to the front of the room.
The cameras start clicking as I extend a hand to each person in turn, including Ryder.
“Been seeing a lot of each other,” I tell him.
Ryder grins. That’ll be the shot the press runs with from the event: Zack Ryder flashing his movie star smile while shaking hands with the vice president.
“Too much?” he asks.
“Depends who you ask,” I reply, managing to say nothing while appearing to carry on a friendly conversation. I let the cameras take their shot and then release the actor’s hand and turn to the crowd to repeat what Deena fed me before we walked in.
“We’re planning a screening of the new movie this week and I’m looking forward to watching it,” I conclude. I can’t remember what Ryder’s new movie is called. “I think the first lady’s the most excited of all, though. She’s a big fan,” I add, turning to the star. “She wouldn’t mind me telling you that.”
Ryder grins again. “I’ll leave her an autographed picture.”
“I’m sure the president will appreciate that,” I reply dryly.
The crowd laughs. Poor Anita, suffering through “my wife said” jokes from both her husband and his bachelor running mate. I wonder if Cindy realizes committing to me means signing up for a lifetime of being used as a foil in public. A good reason why not to commit. One of many good reasons.
After a few more minutes of small talk for the cameras and a minimum of celebrisplaining on the complicated issue of veteran health care, I leave Ryder and the assistant undersecretary from Veteran’s Affairs to do a Q&A while I go to my next scheduled event.
“Sir, Congresswoman Wight called while you were on camera,” Deena tells me as I’m scanning the brief she put together for the meeting.
“What did she say? Everything alright?” I ask. The press has been demonizing her for allegedly both seducing and cheating on me. It’s sexist bullshit, turning me into the victim of her wiles. I hope she didn’t break up with me via my staff. I’d understand why, if she did.
“She said she’s planning on giving a Floor speech tomorrow and wanted to give you a heads up.” Deena is somehow typing away on her BlackBerry and iPhone at the same time, one in each hand, while balancing a wedge of files under one arm.
“OK. Any other details?”
“She said she plans to denounce sexism.”
“I support denouncing sexism. Did you tell her to call back later?”
“Yes,” Deena says, looking up. “But she said she’d be working late.”
Of course. I have no idea how I’m supposed to deepen or strengthen a relationship without time to talk. If we lived together, it’d be different. We’d at least run into each other once in a while.
I laugh to myself, handing the brief back to Deena. Here I am contemplating moving in with the woman when we’re desperately trying to take it slow. I shake my head, compartmentalizing the topic before I walk into the next room.