It’s a warm, dewy morning outside. I decide to walk the five blocks to Shirley’s real estate office for our meeting. I admire the beautiful riverbanks in the early light, and it hits me: I’ve lost myself.
How did I ever end up involved in politics?
Things were simple once. There was a time when I was a daughter, a wife, a mother, a friend. I won awards for my work serving this town. Besides my kids, that was all I cared about.
Seeing Bernie rise through the ranks to editor at The Dispatch wasn’t exactly what we had planned, but I have to admit it wasn’t the worst thing either. Both of us would have preferred moving to New York City, but we were young. It wasn’t in the cards.
I don’t know if our split had more to do with his dissatisfaction with himself or my dissatisfaction with him. Daddy never felt he was good enough for me, and a part of me had started to believe that, as well.
Then along came Carson and all of whatever he was, Mother and Daddy fawning over him as they did. “A real provider,” Mother would say. “Not like that other husband of yours.”
Carson was never my husband, but I digress.
“And you wouldn’t have to go back to that dreadful county building all the time,” she’d say.
Never mind that I loved my job and the people around me. Again, I digress.
Carson’s pursuit of me was a thrill, I won’t deny it. Twenty years younger, more than $20 million richer.
Then Bernie and that horrid press tour to raise money with the mayor, the ridiculous puff piece about Carson in the paper, and all of what went down on Lindy’s boat – the guns, Bitsy waving her arms giving orders, Sheriff Paul …
What a mess.
I’m not saying that all of that happened because Bernie and I divorced. That would be irrational.
The fact is, however, that we tugged at a thread, then pulled it out … and everything else began to unravel. You can’t tell me there isn’t a connection.
I can see Shirley at her desk through the storefront window, dressed in a power suit and heels. The uniform of a realtor, she likes to say. She looks up. I wave.
–
Having sifted through pleasantries, coffee orders, and clothing compliments, I now sit facing her desk, just as a potential buyer or seller would. The real estate sign on the adjacent desk has just been repainted and is drying.
“We like to keep everything fresh,” Shirley says as she steps around to her computer. “I apologize for the paint smell. Okay, where are we?”
I open my notebook. “We are in debate prep!” I say, chuckling, trying to make light of it, though I know it’s not light. I don’t know the first thing about debates or how to prepare for them.
Shirley nods. “Okay, so what does that mean?”
“I am not entirely sure,” I say, reaching for my coffee. “I imagine we’ll figure this out together.”
Shirley stiffens as she turns in my direction, folding her hands over her desk. “You have no plan?”
Apparently, I’m supposed to have a plan.
“Well, I’ve never done this before, so based on some research, the trick is to go away someplace for a full day … I guess that’s all we have at this point … and role play. I can pretend to be Wanda, you’ll be you … we can get someone, maybe Bernie, to play the role of moderator … do it up like they did on West Wing …”
Shirley stands up. “This is NOT a television show! Where is your brain? I know you’ve had a lot of clean-up to deal with … Carson’s house and all … but you have his money, you have the time … I figured you were perfect for this!”
She turns her back toward me and clenches her chest, obviously emotional, and certainly dramatic.
“Shirley, I had no idea you felt …”
“Well, I do. I don’t know why I agreed to this. You’re the only person who is supporting me right now. My father is worried about the business if I lose, my mother has known Wanda her whole life and will probably vote for her … this just isn’t working, and it doesn’t help that you don’t have a plan.”
I watch as she walks out of the office. A door closes behind me and there is silence. I’m contemplating whether or not to leave when an older gentleman walks into the room.
“Ms. Hughes, I guess?” he says.
I nod. “Yes, call me Elyse.”
“Nate Scott. I own the company.”
“Good morning, Sir. I’m sorry for any inconvenience today …”
He waves his hand and takes the seat where Shirley had been sitting. “Not at all. Have a seat.”
“Is … is everything alright?” I ask with trepidation.
He nods and cleans his reading glasses, then replaces them on his head. “Everything is fine. My daughter will make one hell of a mayor … someday.”
I nod. “I surely hope so, and I will do whatever I can to make that happen.”
“I’m sure you will.”
The door behind me opens and Shirley emerges, fresh powder on her cheeks and lips a rosy red. She glares toward her father.
“A day trip, you say?” she says, looking in my direction. “Where are we off to?”
Gunnar Olafsson