Grass Roots (27 page)

“I hear MacK’s screwing her,” Tom said.

“You’re kidding,” Will said, “He’s got twenty-five years on her.”

“I told you not to underestimate him, didn’t I?”

“Who do you want. Will?” Billy asked.

“I don’t care. Pick somebody fair who’ll pick some body else fair.

Anybody but the lady at the Sunday magazine.”

“I hear she doesn’t like Atlanta, is thinking about going back to Washington,” Tom said.

“Did she get canned?”

“Nobody will admit it, but I know somebody who knows the guy who’s subletting her apartment in D.C., and he’s been told to get out.”

“I hope it’s true. Good riddance.”

“Yeah,” Tom laughed, “but she’ll just be waiting for you when you get to Washington.”

“A nice thought; thanks.”

on the Saturday before the debate. Will got his hair cut and his suit pressed, then he went to headquarters and was grilled by Tom Black, Kitty Conroy, and his father for nearly six hours, until none of them could think of anything else to ask.

“I give up,” his father said finally.

“I can’t stump you.”

“You’re in good shape. Will,” Tom said.

“MacK will have to get awfully lucky to take you.”

“One thing, Tom,” Will said, “I have a tendency to sweat when it’s the slightest bit warm. See if you’ can get the studio refrigerated, will you?”

“I’ll do the best I can, but when the microphones go on, the air-conditioning will go off, so here’s what you do:

keep a fresh handkerchief in the palm of your hand, and when MacK’s talking, give your face a quick pat—don’t wipe, that’ll screw up the makeup, and don’t try to figure out which camera is on, it’ll just confuse you. Chances are, if MacK’s talking, the camera will be on him.”

“Okay. Any other advice?”

“Yeah. Don’t look into the camera when you’re answering questions, look at the questioner, answer him. I know there’s a school of thought that you ought to face the viewer when answering, but I don’t buy it; it’s artificial.

Also, when you sit down, sit on your coattails, so that when you lean forward with your hands on the desk, your suit won’t ride up.”

“I saw that movie, too.”

“Good. Be sure and pee right before you go on. And try not to be too serious. You have a tendency to do that when the questions are serious. You’ve got a sense of humor;

use it. Don’t call MacK Governor, unless he calls you Mr. Lee. If he calls you Will, call him MacK; it’ll keep you on a more equal footing.

I don’t want you referring to papers or index cards; you’re good on your feet, and I don’t want what you say to sound written. For an opening statement, use some stuff from the stump speech—you’ve already taken that far beyond what I wrote. It sounds like you now. That’s all I’ve got. Anybody else?”

He looked around, but nobody had anything.

“Okay, get a good night’s sleep; I don’t want you hoarse tomorrow.”

that night, when the campaign headquarters had finally emptied of volunteer workers. Will settled down in his makeshift bedroom and tried to sleep. Instead, he found himself thinking about Kate, something he had not had much time for recently. He wanted to be angry with her, but all he could feel was desire. They had not slept together since before Christmas, and he missed her beside him in bed.

He supposed she’d seen the stories in the Washington papers about Jack’s suicide, and the subsequent revelations about his homosexuality, but she had not called. He wondered how she could simply stop seeing him after four years, with no explanation and no apparent regrets. It didn’t make any sense to him, and it didn’t make him want her any less, either.

He slept, finally, and his dreams were erotic. will woke with hardly a thought of the debate.

He got through the morning papers, made a couple of fundraising phone calls, and listened with Tom to a proposal from Moss Mallet, head of a local polling operation. They agreed to a statewide poll, their first, immediately following the debate.

On the way to the television station in the car. Will listened to a dozen ideas from Kitty and Tom and agreed with most of them. At the station, they walked into the studio and Will immediately began mopping his brow.

“You’ve got to get it cooler in here,” he said to Tom.

“Damn it, they promised me,” Tom said, disappearing into a glass-fronted booth, where Will could see him gesturing emphatically to a young woman. Shortly, the air-conditioning came on.

“How you doing, Will?” a booming voice behind him said.

“Hello, MacK,” Will replied, remembering to keep on an equal footing.

“You’re looking well.” He wasn’t at all, Will thought. He was puffy around the eyes and pinker than usual.

“You look pretty good yourself,” the Governor replied.

“You enjoying the campaign trail?”

“Oh, there’s nothing I like better,” Will came back.

Jesus, he wanted to get away from Dean. He found this artificial bonhomie a strain. He was rescued when a makeup lady came and led the Governor away.

Tom came back into the studio.

“That better?”

“Yeah. I hope there’s time for it to get really cold before we go on.”

He mopped his face again, then a young man came and led him into a makeup room. Pancake was applied to his face, the first time Will had ever had the experience.

He didn’t like it; he was starting to feel uncomfortable.

When he walked back into the studio, the four reporters who would be questioning the candidates were in place, as was the moderator, a woman from the League of Women Voters. MacK Dean took his place at a small desk opposite Will’s. As Will sat down, he got a look at Dean’s image on a monitor and was surprised at how good he looked. His pinkness was now a tan, contrasting with the Governor’s wavy gray hair and gold tie.

It was not until he had seated himself opposite Dean that Will began to be nervous.

He listened absently as the moderator went over the rules, then the stage manager called one minute, and everyone seemed to become absorbed in his notes. Will, who had none, tried to think about his opening remarks but couldn’t concentrate. The air-conditioning went off, the lights went up, and he began to feel the heat.

“Good afternoon,” the moderator said suddenly, “and welcome to the first in what we hope will be a series of debates between the two Democratic candidates from Georgia for the United States Senate: Governor MacK Dean on your left, and Mr. William Henry Lee the Fourth on your right.”

Will tried not to wince at the recitation of his full name.

He hadn’t heard it spoken out loud since he had graduated from law school.

“We will begin with a brief opening statement from each candidate,” the moderator said, “and then they will be questioned in turn by our guest panel.” She introduced the panel, two print reporters from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and the Gwinnett Daily News and two television reporters from local stations. Will took note of Shirley Scott, the tall blond anchorwoman with the dramatic hairdo, who Tom Black had said was sleeping with MacK Dean. She looked up from her notes and smiled professionally at the camera.

“We will begin with Mr. Lee,” the moderator said.

The words came like a clap of thunder to Will. He had won the toss; hadn’t he chosen to go second? Rattled, he swallowed and faced the camera.

“Good afternoon,” he began. The stage manager was waving frantically at him, pointing to another camera. Will found the red light, shifted his position, and stared at the lens.

“Good afternoon,” he repeated, “my name is Will Lee, and I’m running for the United States Senate.” Why the hell had he said that?

Everybody watching knew it.

“For the past eight years, I’ve had the privilege of working at the side of the greatest United States Senator Georgia has produced, the last four of those years as his chief of staff. I know Senator Carr is watching today, and we all bid him hello and a speedy recovery from his recent illness.”

He hadn’t meant to say that; it had just popped into his mind that the Senator would be watching.

“Under Senator Carr, I’ve had what amounts to a postgraduate education in how the United States Senate works, and now I want to put that knowledge to work for the people of the state of Georgia.” A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, then traveled down the side of his nose and to the corner of his mouth. He tried to ignore it.

“I’ve just come from a week of campaigning around the state, and I’m encouraged by the interest the people of Georgia are showing in this race. They tell me they want a strong defense for our nation, and I do, too; they tell me they’re interested in family issues, and I am, too; they tell me they want their government run sensibly and economically, and I do, too.” Where was he going with this? He tried to remember the stump speech and failed.

“Naturally, this program will be brief, and if you’re not satisfied with any answer of mine here today, if you want to know more, just write to me, and I’ll see that you have a prompt reply. Thank you.”

Jesus Christ, had that been a good idea? He didn’t know. It had only just occurred to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Lee. And now we’ll hear from Governor Dean.”

Will saw the face of a relaxed and confident Dean pop onto a monitor screen, and he took the opportunity to run a handkerchief over his face, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to pat, not wipe.

Quickly, he dabbed at his face, hoping he hadn’t done something horrible to the makeup.

“Hello,” MacK Dean said warmly to the camera.

“I’d like to begin today by welcoming Will to the race. I’ve known this boy most of his life, I guess. When he was in high school, we gave him his first tour around the Georgia House of Representatives, his daddy and I; when he was in college, he worked as an assistant reporter on a committee I chaired in the Georgia State Senate; and when he was doing his postgraduate work with my very old friend, Ben Carr, I was serving as your governor. It’s good to see Georgia’s young people taking an interest in politics, and I’m sure that one of these days Will is going to make a fine elected official.”

The god damned fucking son of a bitch. Will thought, squirming under a heavy load of patronization. He mopped at his face, again forgetting the makeup.

“Through twenty-five years of public service I have always tried to put the people first,” MacK Dean continued smoothly, “and you have always responded by electing me to public office. I hope and trust that, when you have considered the issues in this campaign, and my service to Georgia, you will see fit to elect me once again, this time to our most august deliberative body, the United States Senate. And when you do, you may be sure you will always have a friend in the Senate.”

Will struggled hard to get hold of himself and mostly succeeded. A procession of questions came from the panel to the candidates, and Will tried hard to give detailed and specific answers, while MacK Dean generalized reassured, and postured skillfully. For the better part of the hour, without a break, they went on, while Will struggled to gain the upper hand on at least one question. Finally, there was three-quarters of a minute showing on the clock.

“We have time for just one question from Shirley Scott, of Channel Six News, for Mr. Lee,” the moderator said.

“Mr. Lee,” Scott said earnestly, concern showing in her face, “as you know, there have been reports of your involvement in a ring of homosexuals on Capitol Hill, and I wonder—” Will did not let her finish; he wanted to rise from the chair and strangle the life from her.

“I know nothing of the sort. Miss. Scott,” he said, his voice trembling with anger, “and neither do you. Name your sources.”

Scott managed to look as though she had been struck.

“Why, I-“

“There has been no such report anywhere, to my knowledge,” Will said, “and the moment that any member of the media, including you, makes such an allegation, I promise you I will sue before sundown—”

“I’m afraid our time is up,” the moderator interrupted, alarm in her voice.

“Thank you for joining us, and good day.” Music filled the studio.

Will stood up and started toward the long table where Shirley Scott sat; then he was yanked to a halt by the microphone clipped to his lapel. He jerked it off and continued toward the Scott woman. When he was halfway to her, the stage manager shouted at him.

“For God’s sake, we’ve still got picture!”

Will stopped, and a split second later, the studio lights went dark. He was blind for a moment, then Tom Black was hustling him out a side door.

OH Christ,” Will said, scrubbing the makeup from his face with a handkerchief as Kitty Conroy drove rapidly toward the campaign headquarters.

“What have I done?”

“Just relax,” Tom Black said.

“It’s probably not as bad as you think. You got mad, that’s all.”

“I think your response was appropriate,” Kitty said.

“If I’d had a gun, I’d have killed her on the spot.”

“But I screwed up everything! I forgot my opening remarks;

I was sweating and constantly wiping my face; and the whole time MacK was just sitting there like the Cheshire Cat, spouting platitudes that probably went down great with the audience.”

“Well, maybe you got a little specific here and there,” Tom said, “but that’s okay.”

“You sounded like you knew what you were talking about, anyway,” Kitty chimed in.

“Look, I appreciate your trying to cheer me up, both of you, but it was a disaster.”

“We’ll look at the tape when we get to the office,” Tom said.

“Moss Mallet will be calling us later with the results of his telephone poll, too; that’ll give us a better idea of what the effect was in the electorate.”

Will sat staring out the window, saying nothing. Kitty and Tom exchanged a worried glance. Kitty stopped the car in front of campaign headquarters, and they all got out.

Will dug into a pocket for his car keys.

“I’m not going inside,” he said.

“I’ll call you later.” He strode toward the parking lot, leaving Tom and Kitty staring after him.

Will got the station wagon started and pulled out of the car park faster than he had meant to. He made himself slow down, fighting his panic. Gradually, he calmed himself, and his mind seemed to reject all thought of anything to do with the debate or the campaign. He was surprised, a few minutes later, when he passed through the entrance of Peach tree De Kalb Airport, since he had not consciously driven there.