Glen looked worried. “But, Linda has a roomful of them in the hospitality suite, waiting for a statementâ”
“On my way down,” her mother said. “Now, please. I need this.”
“All right, but, do me a favor, and take off the damn watch, okay?” he asked. “If you look at it
during
the debate, it'll beâ”
Her mother nodded impatiently, and pointed towards the exit.
Preston, who was the last one out, paused at the door. “Moses supposes his toeses are roses.”
“Moses supposes erroneously,” her mother said.
Preston laughed and joined the others in the hall. After the door closed, it was very, very quiet.
“Well,” her mother said.
“Simple Ceasar sipped his snifter, seized his knees, and sneezed,” Meg's father said, still standing near one of the windows.
Her mother laughed, checked the mirror one more time, and put down the brush. “Do I look all right?”
“Way pretty,” Neal said.
“Not too thin?” her mother asked wryly. She sat down and clicked on a huge flat-screen television, just in time for them all to hear a solemn anchorperson saying, “Well, you have to assume it's Jay-Jay Griffin's election to lose. I'm inclined to believe that the polls don't really reflectâ” Her mother turned the set off, before he could go any further.
Meg's father came over to stand behind her, squeezing her shoulders. “Relax.”
“I'm fine,” she said. “Meg, let me see if I can do something with your hair. It's a little funny on the left side.”
Meg stood up just enough to be able to get a quick glimpse in the mirror. “Funny-amusing, or funny-strange?”
“Either way.” Her mother picked up the hairbrush, and Meg could see her hands quivering.
“You're going to be great, Mom,” she said.
“I-I don't think so.” Her mother shook her head. “I just don'tâ” She stopped brushing, and looked at her hands. “I think you'd better do it. I'm only going to make things worse.” She paced across the room, pausing in front of Steven. “How's your eye?”
“Black,” he said.
“My macho kid.” She gave him a gentle tap on the cheek, then went back to pacing.
When the knock came on the door, they all jumped.
“It's time, Kate,” Glen said from the hall.
“Well.” Her mother swallowed, and looked at Meg's father, who nodded reassuringly. “Right. Okay.”
“Kate?” Glen said, in his we're-off-schedule voice.
“Well.” She took one final look in the mirror, then strode across the room, stopping only long enough to give each of them a quick, tense hug. “Are we ready? God, I'm really worried about S's.” She opened the door. “Simple Ceasar sipped his snifter, seized his knees, and sneezed. Simple Ceasar sipped hisâ”
Â
THEY HAD BEEN assigned seats in the front row directly across from Mr. Griffin's family: his wifeâBouffant City, a daughter, a son, and a daughter-in-law, all of them husky people with healthy New Mexico tans and strong, determined voices.
“We look like twerps next to them,” Steven whispered.
“Except Dad,” Meg said. “They look likeâpoliticians. You think they took lessons?”
He nodded. “Prob'ly. We look like little kids who watch cartoons.”
Well, as it happened, the three of them had done precisely that earlier, while they were killing some time in their mother's suite. “We
are
,” Meg said.
“Yeah.” He leaned in front of her. “Dad, what happens if we forget and clap?”
Since the debate wasn't a town hall format, the live audience was supposed to be completely silent the entire time they were on the air.
“Reform school,” their father said.
Steven frowned. “Well, what if Mom says something funny?”
Their father grinned. “Laugh as hard as you can.”
Meg looked at him, noticing the tightly clenched right fist. So, he wasn't as relaxed as he wanted them to think.
Stagehands and television technicians were bustling about, testing microphones, filling the glasses of water on each of the two podiums, double- and triple-checking everything. There was more security than she could ever remember seeing, and the fact that there were SWAT officers and bomb-sniffing dogs patrolling made her nervous. Neal, of course, had immediately wanted to pat the first dog he saw, but his handler had politely refusedâmuch to Neal's dismay.
The moderator, and the four reporters who would be asking the questions, came out from backstage to sit down at the semi-circular table facing the two podiums, and everyone in the audience abruptly stopped talking.
“Is it starting?” Neal asked, his voice sounding very loud.
Their father nodded, putting his finger to his lips. As the two candidates walked onto the stage, Neal barely restrained a small squeak of excitement, which almost set Steven off, and Meg had to give them both a quick warning elbow.
Her mother
did
look small up there, but not nervous. Mr. Griffin was more obviously jittery, fiddling around with the microphone, sipping water, and straightening his tie. Her mother looked calm and alert, and maybe a little bit excited, but also cheerfulâwhich couldn't be as effortless as it appeared.
The noisy hush faded to silence as it got closer to airtime. Mr. Griffin was acting very jolly, as though his advisors had told him to come out and be Santa Claus. Her mother looked
a lot
more Presidential by just sitting there looking pleasant. She had wonâor lost, depending upon how one looked at itâthe coin toss, and would be going first in the debate. She stepped over to shake Representative Griffin's hand, and he accepted with a too-solicitous air.
“You look very nice,” he said, sounding like someone who had just met a hideously ugly blind date, but was trying to be polite about it.
Meg imagined her mother saying, “Thank you, you sexist, unscrupulous puppet,” and almost laughed.
“Thank you,” her mother said, sounding very amused. “I can see that we both primped for hours.”
Mr. Griffin's hand went to his carefully groomed head, which looked as if it could survive the most driving rainstorm. This time, Meg did laugh, and was thankful that a lot of other people did, too. She glanced over at the Griffin family, and saw four very tight smiles.
Then, they were on the air. Her mother and Mr. Griffin were being introduced, and Meg could feel her father and brothers sitting as stiffly as she was. A member of the panel was asking his first questionâthe topic for the evening was foreign affairsâand her mother was answering in a clear, friendly voice. Simple Ceasar sipped his snifter, seized his knees, and sneezed. Mr. Griffin was leaning on a casual elbow, hands folded, as though he was neither concerned by, nor interested in, her answer.
“Thank you, Senator,” the reporter said, sounding surprised by the lack of campaign rhetoric in her answer. After he asked his follow-up question, the moderator called “Time” just as her mother was finishing up, and it was Mr. Griffin's turn to respond to the two questions.
“I must say,” his voice was jovial, “with such an attractive opponent, one almost wishes that there didn't have to be time limits.”
The Griffin supporters in the audience all grinned, and a couple of them actually
whistled
; her mother's supporters sat up straight. Worried, Meg looked at her father, who had
both
fists clenched now, and then at her mother, who appeared to be entirely unruffled. Lots of times, debates could be lost for really stupid reasonsâlike, just for example, a candidate checking his watch; which reminded her to look at her mother's wrist, whereâdamn itâshe was
still
wearing hers, despite having been strongly advised not to do so. Although Meg suspected that if Glen hadn't made such a big deal of it, she might have taken it off of her own volition. He had also said that
Mr. Griffin was going to come out swinging, playing up every possible suggestion that a womanâor, at any rate, her
mother
, in particularâwould be inadequate for the job. “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs,” her mother had said, and Glen nodded.
Mr. Griffin ran overtime on the follow-up, and Meg wondered if his campaign managers were backstage committing suicide. Her mother leaned forward, then paused.
“I'm sorry, Representative.” She moved back, very gracious, her expression so friendly that even her worst enemies wouldn'tâquiteâbe able to describe her as being bitchy. “Did you get a chance to finish?”
Now, her mother's supporters grinned, and her mother went into her rebuttal, speaking logically and succinctly, finishing with time to spare.
Meg could almost hear her father's unspoken “Good, Katie, good!” as he strained forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the stage.
Her mother was sitting with one leg gracefully crossed over the other, listening with obvious attention as Mr. Griffin fielded the next question. When it was her turn, she responded with clear specifics, providing a casual underlining of the more general answers he was giving. The panel of reporters seemed pleasedânot something Meg could pin down exactly, but more like a feeling in the air. She turned enough to locate Preston, two rows behind them, and he nodded, giving her a thumbs-up.
Further on in the debate, her mother absently slipped off her blazer, hanging it over the back of her chair, and Meg pictured Glen fainting backstageâand the rest of the high-level campaign people toppling over right after him. A candidate wasn't supposed to be
too
relaxed. But, her mother always said that blazers were masculineâand boxyâand spent more time taking them off than putting them on. Her action didn't go past Mr. Griffin, who, after finishing up his remarks, glanced over and commented that if he'd known this was
going to be casual, he would have worn a sports shirt. Her mother's only reaction was to smile.
“I'm sorry,” she said, with just the right note of endearing self-deprecation, gesturing slightly behind her. “A habit of mine.”
The moderator and all four reporters smiled back at her, and the simple elegance of her silk dress was suddenly more Presidential than the blazer had ever been. The dignity came across even more as she answered the question as if she had never been flustered in her entire life. As she sat down, quite a few people in the audience clapped, and television crew members frowned at them until they subsided. Her mother's expression was, as it had been throughout, utterly benign, and now Meg wondered how she was managing
not
to grin. Broadly.
Mr. Griffin didn't make any more unnecessary remarks, trying to create his own air of gravitas, but it seemed like too little, too late. When the debate ended, her mother initiated a closing handshake with damn near
majestic
confidence and, interestingly enough, Mr. Griffin didn't seem quite as tall as he had earlier.
Game, set, and match to the Senator.
Meg wasn't sure if the cameras were panning to the candidates' families, and it probably wouldn't look that great to be cocky or overconfident, but she grinned anyway, so proud that she was kind of embarrassed. Then, the lights came up, indicating that they were off the air, and Meg saw her father and brothers grinning, too. Her mother, on her way to shake hands with the moderator and the panel members, looked over, giving them a very, very small wink.
Â
LATE THAT NIGHT, after a noisy and crowded celebration in the living room of her parents' suite, Meg went down the hall to the smaller suite she was sharing with Steven and Neal, and checked several different cable channels to see how the press had reactedâ
without
any of the biased spin from her mother's staff. She felt more comfortable watching the coverage privately, anyway.
“The turning point was the blazer incident,” a political analyst
was saying on CNN. “Not only did Mrs. Powers show a remarkable sense of poise, but in the simple act of taking off her jacket, demonstrated the special quality a woman could bring to the office. Mr. Griffin was outclassed from that moment on. I think we were privy to something very special this evening.”
They were already calling it
The Blazer Incident
? She switched to another channelâwhich was taking a similar approach, and was also showing results from polls taken both before and after the debateâand her mother had jumped eight points. She and Mr. Griffin were almost even.
Almost even.
Meg turned off the television, and went over to the window, looking out at Philadelphia. The city where Rocky ran up the steps.
Almost even.
Good God.
HER MOTHER DID very well in the second and third debates, and the pundits decided that the election was too close to call. At school, everyone seemed to be wearing either a Powers button or a Griffin one, and would either grin at her in the hallsâor smirk. Teachers weren't supposed to show political bias, so none of them wore buttons, but Meg could tell from their attitudesâand sometimes, her gradesâwhom they were supporting.
Then, Mr. Bucknell came up with a swell idea. On the Friday before the election, the school would have a mock election andâthe idea got even more swellâMeg and David Mason, the South Senate president, could play the parts of the candidates and give speeches at a school-wide assembly.
So, protestations overruled, Meg found herself sitting on the stage in the auditorium, quite certain that she was going to throw up. Her kingdom, for a fire drill.
Her mother, amused by the whole thing, had insisted that Meg borrow her blazer from the first debate, and now that she was sitting up in front of the entire damn school, Meg regretted giving in. People were really going to think she was a jerk. David Mason was wearing a three-piece suit, and had slicked his hair down to look like Griffin. Even wearing the exact blazer and a similar dress, Meg was pretty sure she fell far short of looking like her motherâbut, she had done her best.
A faint expensive perfume lingered in the wool, and for a second, Meg fell as if her mother were right up there with her. She sat up straighter, deciding that even if all else failed, she would maintain presidential elegance.
“And now,” Mr. Bucknell was saying, from the podium.
Meg closed her eyes, briefly forgetting to be elegant.
“Even though I know they need no introduction,” he said, “I'd like to present Representative John Jasper Griffin on my left, and Senator Katharine Vaughn Powers on my right. Mr. Griffin will make the first statement.”
Hokum. She had allowed herself to be forced into hokum.
There was great applause, along with some catcallsâterrificâand Meg thought she saw camera flashes. Christ, they were even making it look as though the press was there? She was never, everâfor the rest of high schoolâgoing to be able to live this down.
David read his statement, gesticulating and promising that he was going to build up defense, foster democracy aboard, lower taxes, blah, blah, blah. Same old thing. Consciously imitating her mother, she sat with her best posture, her right leg crossed over her left. Relaxed, but not too relaxed. Pleasant, but not too funny. Friendly, but presidential. Maybe she should even sip her snifter, seize her knees, and sneeze.
The bright lights were still there, giving her a headache, and she looked out at the audience, realizing with a deep, sickening thud in her stomach that there
were
reporters out there. Lots of them. Reporters, and what looked like television cameras, andâsomeone had called the press. She glanced over at Mr. Bucknell, who smiled at her and motioned towards the media.
Jesus,
he
had called the press? Great. Absolutely great.
Panicking, she tried to force herself to take a deep breath. In keeping with her mother's style, she hadn't written her speech down, so she had no idea what she was going to say, and David was almost finished, andâshe was going to throw up. It was as simple as that. She was going to throw up, and it would be on television.
And if that happened, she would have to kill herself. Except, if she killed herself, there would be all kinds of publicity, and her mother would lose the election, and it would be all her faultâDavid was
done, and everyone was clapping wildly. Why were they making her run against someone who was so incredibly popular, anyway? It wasn't as though she had
volunteered
for any of this.
“Senator Powers?” Mr. Bucknell asked from the podium.
She nodded, trying to pull her expression under control, reminding herself to be presidential. She stood up, crossingâelegantly? gracefully?âto the front of the stage, blushing as there were quite a few whistles, but making herself keep going. There were some cheers and shouts of encouragement, tooâmostly from the juniors, which she, indeed, found encouraging.
“Thank you,” she said to Mr. Bucknell. Then, she smiled at the audience, noticing with an inner terror that the television cameras were
filming
. Did her mother feel this scared when she got up to speak? Legs shaking, muscles tight, hands perspiring? “Well.” She let out her breath. “I guess I should start off by sayingâ” She paused, taking off her blazer, then smiled. “I'm sorry, they make me tense.”
Everyone laughed, and Meg grinned, draping it over the back of the nearest chair.
“At any rate,” she said. At any rate
what
? “I must say that I've enjoyed the campaignâI've gotten to meet so many marvelous people. My opponent, of course,” she gave David a dignified nod, “people all over the country, half of Iowa,
all
of New Hampshireâ” She smiled when that got a laugh, deciding that maybe this wasn't so bad, after all. It was kind of fun, even. “And I can only say that I've enjoyed it. It'sâ” She paused. “It's a very special country. I mean, it really isâwe should all be proud. There's no other place like it, it'sâwell, maybe it's why I ran for President. This country is so great, and I really wanted to be able to do something toâto make it better. I have ideas, you have ideas, we all have ideas. What we need is
action
. Cooperative action. We need to forget party differences, racial differences, gender differences, religious differences. In spite of everything, we all have something in common. We're all Americans,
every one of us. We need to use it, we need to be proud of it. I know we can do itâI think everyone knows that. But, I want us
to
do it. We can. And we will.” She stopped, out of things to say, and for lack of a better idea, smiled. “Thank you very much.”
To her surprise, people clapped and cheered, and she stood there uncertainly, not sure if she should sit down, or acknowledge the response, orâsitting down would be the best choice. But then, Mr. Bucknell gestured for her to stand back up, and the school band beganâ
quel
hokumâplaying “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” She and David weren't supposed to
sing
, were they? No, they all were supposed to march out. Which wasn't quite as bad as singingâbut just barely.
Everyone else filed out first, the band bringing up the rear. As soon as the auditorium had cleared somewhat, and before Meg could get out, the reporters and camera people came hurrying down to the stage. Alice, a woman from Linda's staff, was right there with them.
“Meg, they would like to ask you a few questions,” she said.
“Yeah, butâ” Meg shifted her weight, very self-conscious. “I mean, I sort of have to go to biology.”
Alice gave her a this-is-
very
-important look.
Meg smiled weakly. “Then again,” she said.
Alice nodded.
Â
AFTER SCHOOL, SHE jittered around until six o'clock, waiting for the local news to come on.
“What's gotten into you, Meg?” Trudy asked, stirring the spaghetti.
Meg shrugged, looking at the clock. Quarter of six. “I thought Dad was going to be home by now.”
Trudy tasted her tomato sauce, and frowned. “All he said was before six-thirty.”
“Six-
thirty
?” Meg said. The news would be over by then.
Trudy snipped some basil from the planter on the windowsill above the sink, and began rinsing the leaves. “If you're that hungry, why don't you have an apple or something?”
Meg shook her head. When she got home from school, Trudy had asked how the speech went, and she had said, “Okay.” She was too embarrassed to admit that she was probably going to be on the news, but she did kind of want them all to see it. Even though she would probably look stupid. It turned out that Alice had been there because someone at Channel Four had called campaign headquarters to ask if it was true that the Candidate's Daughter was giving a speech. The reporters had asked lots of questionsâlike had her mother written her remarks for her, and that sort of thing, with Meg trying to be dignified and mature, rather than kicking the floor and blushing a lot. But mostly, she had kicked the floor and blushed.
She wasn't sure if the media presence had influenced the voting, but Senator Powers had won the school election by an overwhelming margin.
“Meg,” Trudy said.
She looked up.
Trudy indicated a wedge of Parmesan on the counter, as she chopped the basil and added it to her sauce. “Would you like to grate me some of that?”
Meg checked the clock. Five of six. “Um, if you want.” She glanced at the television in the corner. “Can I turn on the news?”
“Sure.” Trudy put the set on.
Channel Five. Yeah, Channel Five had been there.
Meg sat down at the table to grate the cheese, watching as the anchorwoman talked about the electionâand the top stories included polls, predictions, interviews, and film footage of her mother in Fort Lauderdale and Kansas City.
“And today,” the anchorwoman said, “out in Chestnut Hillâ”
Meg flushed, as she saw and heard herself on television.
“Meg.” Trudy stared at her. “You're on the news.”
Meg went back to grating cheese. “Hunh,” she said, being as blasé as possible. “How about that.”
Â
ON ELECTION DAY, her mother was in a terrible mood. Meg was in a pretty lousy mood herself, but it was nothing compared to her mother, who was positively
fierce
. Her parents had gone over to the polling place at their church early that morning to vote on national television, but except for that, her mother had stayed in the house. Most of the campaign people seemed to be very happyâeven overjoyedâabout the latest overnight and exit polls, but her mother had snarled something to the effect of “
saying
they're willing to vote for me, and
actually
voting for me are two entirely different things,” and they had all exchanged glances, but tempered their enthusiasm accordingly.
Glen wanted the whole family to check into a hotel in Boston and watch the election returns there, so that they would be in a central location when it was time for her mother to make whatever announcement had to be made, but her mother vetoed that idea, in favor of the five of them watching at home, as privately as possible. After a fairly contentious discussion, Glen gave in, and only a few campaign people stayed behind, along with a significant press pool gathered outside, as well as the Secret Service, of course. Even Trudy left, withâas far as Meg could tellâa very relieved look on her face.
Her mother sent someone out to get her “a trashy novel;
any
trashy novel,” and then took it into her bedroom, closing the door. Possibly even
locking
it.
Meg didn't see her again until late afternoon, when she and her father were sitting in the den, watching endless reports about more exit polls and predictionsâwhich almost all seemed to be skewing in her mother's direction, although a number of the pundits seemed to doubt the veracity of the voters' responses.
“I suppose I'm losing,” her mother said grimly, standing in the doorway.
“The polls haven't even closed yet,” her father said.
“Well.” Her mother glanced around. “Where are the boys?”
“Outside playing soccer,” Meg said.
Her mother frowned at her father. “Isn't it rather dark for them to be out?”
He glanced at the window. “It's barely dusk, and they have three off-duty agents playing
with
them.”
One thing Meg had noticed, right from the start, was that almost all of the Secret Service agents seemed to love sports.
All
sports.
Which was in their favor.
Regardless, her mother left the room and reappeared shortly with Steven and Neal, who looked as if the soccer game had deteriorated into a leaf fight.
“Boys, why don't you go up and take showers,” their father said, “and then, we'll see about some dinner.”
Steven and Neal looked at each other and went upstairs, for once not making any smart remarks. Meg watched them go, kind of wishing that she could think of a plausible excuse to leave the room, too. To go
hide
from the Surly Senator.
“Um, anyone want anything?” she asked. “I'm going to go to the kitchen.”
Her parents shook their heads, and she escaped to the kitchen, where she sat alone at the table, drinking orange juice and eating graham crackers.
When she heard her brothers come downstairs, she followed them to the den, where her mother was more uptight than Meg had ever seen her, moving from one chair to another.