Recipes for Disaster (8 page)

“Help you? Heck, consider me your campaign manager.” She wipes her hands of dust from the box. “But first, some quid pro quo.”

Jeff furrows his brow. “I know what that means. It’s political speak for ‘you scrub my back, and I’ll scrub yours.’”

“Right! Only in this case, we won’t take things so literal. Just seeing my wrinkly old hide would stunt your growth.”

The last thing I need is for my son to hear sexual innuendos from my aunt. “What do you need, Aunt Phyllis?”

“A few helping hands. I got three more boxes in my car. They hold things that belong to you. I’d forgotten about them, until I went looking for my rollerblades”—seeing my eyes grow large, she adds, “Oh, don’t worry! My skating days were over long ago. Let some other fool break a leg. But I sold them on Craig’s List! Got my asking price, too—” 

“Aunt Phyllis,” I interrupt impatiently, “What were you saying about the boxes? How did you get a hold of them?”

“When you were off at college and your father died, I was left to clean out his house. Most of your dad’s belongings were sold in garage sales, before the house itself was sold. But some of these items are keepers—the personal effects of your mother and your father.”

Trisha raises her hand excitedly. “Mementoes!”

Aunt Phyllis nods. “You’ve got it, little one.” She rewards my youngest with a kiss on the forehead. “In fact, Donna, I think there’s even a few items you left behind.”

I nod, but it’s hard for me to say anything because I’m choked up at the thought of what those boxes may hold.

My mother died of cancer when I was only eleven. For the longest time she kept it a secret from my father and me while she prayed against all hope that her doctor would tell her it had gone into remission.

When it didn’t, she still kept silent about her illness. To do otherwise would have shattered the image she had of herself as the ideal wife, perfect mother and consummate homemaker. The thought that she would be the cause of our devastating distress—that she could not be there to comfort us—was more than she could bear. 

She had her wish. She fell into a coma before I knew the real cause of her “women’s problems,” as she called her fatigue and headaches.

She was right about one thing: we broke into a million little pieces. 

Dad crawled into one bottle after another, and lost his liver for the love of Scotch. 

I tried to replace her in his heart, but I couldn’t. I found myself by learning to be a crack shot—and by losing my heart for the love of Carl.

I don’t know what the boxes hold, but even now I’m not ready to open them. What good comes from looking backward? Things are never as we remember.

Just knowing the ghost of my mother can be summoned from dusty corners of a few old cardboard moving boxes has me tearing up. But instead of crying, I do what my mother would have done. I force my lips into a smile and exclaim, “Of course, Jack and Jeff will be glad to help you, Aunt Phyllis. The boxes can be stored in the garage, no problem.” 

Then I shoo Trisha toward the stairs, with the request that she call Mary to dinner.

I know how to hide my true self from others. 

I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

Chapter 5

Whistle-Stopping

Back in the days when political candidates traveled by train, small towns were called whistle-stops. Politicians would use the stop to deliver a quick campaign speech, often from the back of the train, before heading to the next stop. Sometimes they’d stop in several towns in one day, giving the same speech, over and over again.

Today, to accomplish the same goal, they hop on the private jets of their biggest investors to get to the region in question. Then, with a cavalcade of gas-guzzling limos, hummers, or SUVs, they hit many events in neighborhoods that are demographically aligned with their policies. 

In other words, places where they will be welcomed.

To walk into a place where you can face confrontation—and perhaps change a mind or two—is not a photo op; it is a crapshoot that few politicians are willing to take.

If you want a meal for your family that’s  a real crowd pleaser, this tried-and-true dish, originating from Spain, is perfect. It has been pleasing people all over the world for generations:

Picadillo

(From Gayle Morell,  Coconut Creek, Florida)

Ingredients

1 lb. of ground beef

1 tablespoon olive oil 

Cumin, to taste 

Adobo to taste 

Mexican chili powder to taste 

1 large onion, chopped 

 4 garlic cloves, minced

2 (14-oz) cans diced tomatoes including juice (recommended: Original Rotel) 

1/2 cup pimiento-stuffed green olives, coarsely chopped

2 cups rice

1 cup water

Directions

1: Make rice, by the directions.

2: Add olive oil to a pan and when it gets hot, add the onion and garlic.

3: When the onion is translucent, add the ground beef. 

4: Add cumin, Adobo, and Mexican chili powder.

5:  Cook until the meat is no longer pink. Drain any excess fat.

 6: Add tomatoes and olives and allow to sit on low to medium heat until most of the liquid has been absorbed, but some remains to keep the meat moist.

 7: Serve over rice.

The signs all over UCLA’s auditorium read: NO MORE MIDDLE EAST OCCUPATION!

Senator Franklin Percy is standing close enough to Jack that, through my ear bud, I can hear him murmur, “Great! Love that these kids are thinkers! Now, if they’ll come to the polls, I’ll give them what they want. The US has been in too many needless wars.”

“Well, what do you know?” Abu’s whisper also comes in loud and clear.

I’m surprised, too. Considering the senator’s background, the last thing you’d expect is that he’s more dove than hawk. Instead of supporting interminable wars in tribal countries that take too many lives and scar our soldiers for a lifetime, he rails against them. “If we truly want to protect America, start here, at home. Do it from our shores,” he reasons.

His demand is met with a cacophony of applause.

Throughout the various events in Senator Franklin Percy’s California whistle-stop campaign, the candidate never loses the twinkle in his piercing blue eyes, let alone his tight smile or his vise-like grip. His wave is more like a military salute, as are his close-cropped white hair and squared shoulders beneath shoulder-padded suit jackets.

From the senator’s body language, I can tell he has taken to Jack, whose cover puts him front and center throughout the day. Granted, Jack is incognito: his hair is grayed, he wears a mustache, and glasses with video feedback to Arnie and Emma, who are manning a van with the insignia “KKKL-TV” with credentials that identify them as cameraman and producer, respectively.

The missus—Addie Franks Percy—is a thin, wan woman whose smile shifts between faint (if she’s pleased) and benign (if she isn’t). The senator’s staff basically ignores her. The one aide who accompanies her only nudges her into the spotlight when the need calls for it. 

My ID calls me out as the station’s roving reporter, Brenda Stark. I’ve been equipped with a red wig, blue contact lenses, and the typical bland jacket-over-sheath ensemble that is considered just fashionable enough for couch potatoes to find me sexy, but not so hot haute couture that I stand out in the press corps, let alone the bevy of fawning acolytes, the hordes of protestors shouting against his mortgage lending bills, or the curious-but-undecideds.

Thus far, though, the mission has been uneventful. Granted, there were more protesters at the port of Long Beach than the VA hospital, but in both locations, they were kept at a distance, thanks to some sleight of hand by his savvy advance team. 

The UCLA students have turned out to be a rowdier bunch than the Percy campaign anticipated. Percy’s core message—to rebuild the US economy by providing the American people high-paying technology job opportunities in both the public and private sectors—should be just what they want to hear. Apparently no one presumed that students paying for a fairly high tuition in a sluggish economy would turn up their nose at this message.

“Greed is not good,” is chanted in response to the senator’s contention that protecting our financial institutions, at all costs is good for "your parents’ investments in their homes, and in your education.”

“When my parents lost their jobs, they lost their home, too,” one yells from the back of the auditorium. 

“Our tuition costs are sky high,” yells another. “We pay more, and classes are cut because professors are being laid off. It’s time our country put its money where its mouth is—make education free for all!”

Gracious condescension is the last thing a politician will find in a room filled with students who grew up honing their critical thinking skills. And yet, Senator Percy takes it all in stride.

“You’re absolutely right,” Percy agrees. “The Pentagon’s seven-trillion-dollar budget is out of control. It’s a black hole! Past presidents have found it impossible to audit. And yet, with the money we would save there, we’d have exactly that—the best educational system in the country. How badly do you want it? Only you can make change happen. You’ll have to go to the polls to create the change you want.” 

“Awesome,” murmurs the reporter to my right: some guy named Chuck Kessler who writes a blog called Truth Be Known. He points his iPhone in the direction of the protestor in order to capture the kid’s angst up-close and personal, and jostles Arnie to do the same.

“What’s wrong with you guys?” He chides us. “Even in the Yahooville you hail from, this should lead the seven o’clock news.” 

Arnie nods vigorously, then swings into action, pointing the camera and zooming in. I think he’s forgotten the real reason we’re here. At the very least, I hope he’s scanning the crowd for anyone who may look suspicious. 

His eyes roll over me. “Hey, Eye Candy! Make like a reporter and feed your camera man some color.”

I’m about to tell him to make like a guy with two eyes and get the hell out of my face before he loses one of them to my fist when I notice a man, inching his way toward the stage. He’s older than the average student, approximately thirty years of age. Of course, in this day and age of impacted classes, part-time students with chokehold loans and ongoing rounds of teacher layoffs, maybe it’s taken him a decade to get his undergrad degree.

The man is tall, with olive skin and high cheekbones on a round face. His eyes are a startling blue. He wears a loose-fitting jacket over a button-down shirt and sweater vest. He waits patiently in the line in front of the microphone for those who want to ask the candidate a question. 

Thus far, Percy has done a great job spinning his record, changing any question to something he’d prefer to answer, or staring down a heckler. Finally, it’s the man’s turn at the mike. He purses his lips and flexes his hands nervously. Yes, he’s nervous. But why?

“Something’s not right with him,” I murmur into my mic to my mission team. 

“Tracking,” Abu answers, to indicate that he’s within reach of the man, should he turn out to be the shooter.

Emma, who must have taken a facial recognition scan for assessment, responds “No criminal record. He’s not on a watch list, either.” 

This has me breathing easier. On the other hand, a professional assassin might be hiding in plain sight, but wouldn’t be standing in line to take a pot shot at his target. Still, you never know. “Do a cross-reference with the student and staff ID files,” I suggest.

Finally the man reaches the microphone. Despite Percy’s genial welcome and a brisk prod to speak up, the man sighs and stares down at his feet. 

The crowd is getting uncomfortable, and I am, too. 

Slowly, he reaches under his jacket and pulls something out—

At the same time Jack steps in front of Senator Percy, Abu comes at the man from one side, and I come at him from the other—

But he’s not holding a gun. 

It is a black and white photo: worn and frayed, obviously taken a couple of decades ago. He holds it up for the senator to see, then holds it up for the crowd. It shows a woman. She holds an infant in her arms, but she is frowning and tearful.

The man declares, “This is Carmen Diego de la Gregorio, a woman you raped thirty years ago, while you and the others under your command burned down my village in Panama during the United States’ inglorious invasion of my country—the so-called ‘Operation Just Cause.’” He pauses for a moment: “Senator Percy, I am the baby she holds in her arms. I am your son.”

The room is shocked into silence, as is the senator.

But yes, the resemblance is there—in the broad shoulders, and the square-cut jaw.

In those startling blue eyes.

“I am the result of my mother’s shame—and yours,” the man continues. “Her shame over her rape caused her to kill herself, not soon after this picture was taken. I was put in an orphanage, where I … I too was subjected to atrocities. On the other hand, you came home a war hero.” The man’s bright blue eyes glimmer with tears yet to be shed. “Instead, you are a war criminal. You do not deserve to be the president of the United States.”