Smoke and Mirrors (2 page)

When she was passed over the second time—for yet another man—Erin didn't mention it to Fran, but stored-up resentment boiled within her all week, and by Saturday night she was in a very sour mood.

For a wonder Fran was not going out, or entertaining friends. Erin knew what that meant, and as they settled down in front of the TV, she wondered what masochistic impulse kept her from excusing herself and retiring to her room with a book. Fran was a news freak. She could sit unblinking and absorbed through endless repetitions of the same information, including the weather. First came the local news, then the network news, followed in due course by the late-night news—one program at ten and another at eleven. On weekends the program was varied slightly by the addition of a
number of talk shows and public-information broadcasts, not to mention political specials, of which there were an inordinate number during the fall of this particular election year.

Fran settled down with a tray that held a huge bowl of chili, accompanied by chunks of cheese and half a box of saltines. She was always trying to diet, but on Saturday night before the tube she didn't even try. "I need all my strength to yell at Novak," she explained.

Fran yelled at all of them—Novak, Sidey, McLaughlin, Will. She even yelled at Sam Donaldson, her idol, when she thought he wasn't forceful enough. Once, during one of Fran's verbal attacks on Morton Kondracke, Erin had been moved to protest. "They can't hear you, you know. Why do you waste all that energy?"

Fran wiped her perspiring brow. "It relieves my pent-up rage. Oh, hell, Kondracke, you limp wimp, why don't you tell him he's a carbuncle on the backside of journalism?"

At first Fran couldn't believe Erin failed to share her passion. "Not interested in politics? What the hell do you mean? How can anybody not be interested in politics? These people are running your life. Don't you care what they think—what they do?'

"They never say what they think and they never do what they say they're going to do," Erin said. "What's the point?"

"Huh," said Fran, for once at a loss for words.

Despite her lack of interest, Erin couldn't help absorbing some information. Washington was a political town. It was a trite truism, one to which she would have acquiesced without giving it much thought; but she had never really comprehended what it meant until she had moved to the area. There was only one subject that interested metropolitan Washington more than politics, and that was the Redskins. Mercifully Fran wasn't a football fan. Erin would have seriously considered moving out if she had been forced to watch football as well as political discussions.

Fran polished off her chili and trotted into the kitchen to prepare the next course. Erin slumped lower in her chair and pushed the salad around her plate. She had spent all morning cleaning the apartment; it wasn't her turn to do it, but things had gotten to such a state she couldn't stand it any longer. Then she had accompanied Fran to a newly opened thrift shop in Alexandria. The
store had lived up to its principles by failing to install air-conditioning, and the internal temperature had been in the high nineties. Erin was tired. She wanted to sit and stare mindlessly at something that required absolutely no effort, physical or mental. There was a forties' musical on cable, and Channel 4 had a comedy sitcom about two guys and two girls who shared an apartment, an abandoned baby, and a cute chimpanzee. But the TV was Fran's, and Fran picked the programs, and Fran had chosen to watch a debate on one of the public-broadcasting stations. The District of Columbia had no voting representation in Congress—as its residents were constantly pointing out—but the suburbs of the city were in both Maryland and Virginia, so the congressional races in those states concerned a large percentage of the viewing audience.

Fran returned with a huge bowl of popcorn just as trumpets heralded the celebration of the democratic process. She thrust the bowl at Erin.

"Here. Eat up and pay attention. You'll be voting for some of these characters—Virginia Tenth District congressional race, and a senator."

Erin saw no reason to mention that she hadn't registered to vote. Fran seemed fairly calm at the moment; why stir her up? The popcorn was excellent, a little too salty, but dripping with butter. When Fran went off her diet she went all the way.

Erin reached for her mending and let her mind drift away from the TV as she concentrated on making the stitches neat and tiny. The object was a black lace dress she had rescued from a carton of miscellany at the thrift shop. Fran insisted on dragging her along on her cheapie shopping trips; she had that variety of enthusiastic self-confidence that tries to impose its tastes on unwary friends. Usually Erin managed to resist the two-dollar sweaters ("Real cashmere—those stains under the arms will wash out") and the limp, out-of-style skirts. The stains never did wash out, and the skirts could never be remodeled or mended or revived. But the dress had caught her eye, torn and crumpled as it was, because it was obviously of good quality, and the rents were mendable by someone with her skill at sewing. Besides, it only cost five dollars. The expensive wardrobe her father had given her was beginning to
wear out, and she certainly couldn't afford to replace it. Might as well get used to thrift shops and Sears instead of designer labels.

Fran nudged her. "This is it. The Senate race. Are you watching?"

"Yes," Erin said absently.

The encounter wasn't a debate in the formal sense; a moderator asked questions, which the opponents answered. Erin rather liked the looks of Senator Bennett, the Republican incumbent, but she knew better than to express her views, for Fran's opinion of the gentleman and all his works was outspokenly profane. He was a fine-looking man with a profile that resembled one of the more high-minded Roman emperors. Though he had obviously been schooled in public speaking, enough remained of the soft Virginia accent to make his slow, deep voice very easy on the ear.

His opponent was a congresswoman making her first bid for the Senate. The fact that she was a woman would have been enough to win the loyalty of Fran, a self-proclaimed and defiant feminist. Erin had another, more personal reason for being interested in Rosemary White Marshall. She let her sewing fall to her lap and watched.

Marshall was in her early fifties and, Erin thought, she looked every day of it. Her eyes were her best feature, large, dark, and wide-set, but makeup didn't hide the fan of fine wrinkles at the corners of her lids, or the deeper lines bracketing her mouth. When she smiled, which she did frequently, the lines curved into softer shapes, but her face was that of an affectionate grandma, not a mover and shaker of world events. Who, after all, would want a senator with dimples? Her soft pink suit and the ruffles framing her chin increased the grandmotherly image; she wore no jewelry except pearl earrings and a wide gold wedding band.

I'd have recognized her, Erin thought. She's changed a lot, but the resemblance is there.

At first Bennett dominated the debate; his booming voice sounded forceful and confident next to Marshall's soft alto. He took the offensive, reminding the audience of the worthy causes he had supported and the admirable legislation he had introduced. Among the latter was a day-care bill; and all at once, Marshall, who had been smiling and dimpling at the camera, interrupted.

"Now that's just so sweet," she said loudly.

The inappropriate comment caught Bennett off guard. His brief second of hesitation gave Marshall her chance. Her smile continued to dazzle, but it had turned predatory, lips curled back, teeth bared: Grandma transformed into the wolf.

"So sweet of Senator Bennett and his friends to jump onto the bandwagon. Better late than never, one presumes, but I only wish they had chosen to take this stand five years ago, when I introduced a child-care bill in the House. The companion bill in the Senate was defeated, thanks in large part to the tireless filibustering of Senator Bennett here. He was all in favor of six-hundred dollar toilet seats for the Defense Department, but supporting the needs of America's children—oh, no, that would have been a waste of taxpayers' money! Now, five years later, child care is a national disaster, so desperate that even my myopic opponent has been forced to take notice. Ten and a half million children under six who are cared for by people other than their parents! Neglect, child abuse, physical and emotional torture. ..."

Bennett couldn't defend himself, she never gave him a chance; the soft but surprisingly incisive voice went on and on, barely pausing for breath. The questioner had to interrupt her to explain that they were out of time, whereupon she apologized, with the prettiest smile imaginable. "I just get carried away when I think about children being in danger. As a mother and grandmother..."

Fran was beside herself. "Isn't she great?"

"She dresses nicely," Erin said. "That soft pink—"

"Oh, for God's sake, I wasn't talking about her looks! Didn't you hear what she said? She ran rings around that old fart Bennett. He's the most reactionary, bigoted—"

"How could you tell? I didn't hear him commit himself to anything except God, motherhood, and a strong national defense."

"Hell, everybody's in favor of a strong defense. Marshall has fought Pentagon waste and overspending for years. Bennett gets hundreds of thousands in campaign contributions from military contractors; you think he's about to bite the hands that feed him by questioning their bills?"

"I think a person's appearance is very important," Erin said, reaching for her sewing.

"If you aren't the most ..." Fran stopped and then went on, grudgingly, "You're right, actually. Politics is more appearance than substance these days. You can bet her staff has calculated every nuance, down to the diameter of her earrings. I guess the results must appeal to the greatest number of potential voters, but I'd like to see her show a little more pizzazz—funky earrings, a plunging neckline."

"I don't know anything about politics, but I know enough about clothes—and about people—to know that would be disastrous. She's not a young girl. Older women should dress conservatively, like ladies. I admit that pink is a little bland. With her coloring she could wear more vivid shades—turquoise or bright coral. It would come over better on television too, I'll bet."

"Maybe you ought to write and tell her all about it," Fran said sarcastically. Her fingers scraped the bottom of the bowl, gathering the last stray kernels.

"Maybe I will," Erin said. Sometimes Fran's superior manner rankled. "Mother's been nagging me about getting in touch with her. "

If she hoped to impress Fran, she succeeded. The latter's eager questions made it easy for her to appear cool about the relationship—which wasn't, in her private opinion, worth bragging about. Her mother and Rosemary White had once been close friends; "but it was years ago—they were in college together." The correspondence had deteriorated into little more than an exchange of Christmas cards and family photos, but Rosemary had written a lovely letter of condolence after the death of Erin's father.

"Written? In her own hand?" Fran asked breathlessly.

"You don't type condolence letters."

"I do. When I write them at all." Fran considered the matter. "My God, this is exciting. Why didn't you tell me you knew her?"

"I don't. And I don't understand why you're so thrilled. She's just another politician. Washington is full of them."

"She's not just another politician. She's a comer. No question about it. With a little luck she could be the first woman President. Not now—maybe in ten years. If she wins this fall ..."

"According to McLaughlin and Novak, she hasn't a prayer,"

Erin said. "All the commentators I've heard seem to favor the other candidate, Mr. Bennett."

"Popularly known as Buzz the Buzzard," said Fran. "You haven't read the latest polls, I guess. It's true that when she first agreed to run, nobody gave her a chance. Bennett's entrenched, he's been in the Senate for fifteen years. But after the flap about him and that girl ..."

"I heard about it," Erin admitted. "But I didn't think it would make much difference. Everybody seems to be doing it."

Fran grinned. "You're more cynical than I thought. No, honey, everybody isn't doing it, and the ones that do do it are careful not to get caught. Buzz got caught with his pants all the way down to his ankles, and he'd been so damned self-righteous about his moral virtues that it hit him harder than it would have hit someone else. Then there's his wife. She's very popular with his constituents—the sweetest little old honeypie you'd ever want to meet. ... Oh hell, let's not talk about that, let's talk about Rosemary. She's my idol—"

"I thought your idol was Sam Donaldson. "

"It's his eyebrows," Fran said dreamily. "They do something to me."

Erin had no comment to make on this but she wouldn't have been allowed to make it in any case. Fran sat bolt upright. "Hey. Hey! There's your answer!"

"Answer to what?"

"Your job problem. The campaign is heating up and she's still the underdog; she'll want all the people she can get. Why don't you ask her to hire you?"

"Her? Who?" Erin stuttered. "Her? You must be crazy. Why should she give me a job? I don't know anything about politics, or running a campaign, or—

"You could give her advice on how to dress," Fran said, grinning. "No, but seriously. You're a crackerjack typist, and not entirely devoid of brains. That combination is rarer than you might suppose."