The Frankenstein Candidate (36 page)

She smiled at everyone and everyone smiled back at her. They could not stop congratulating her. But what had she achieved really? She had glimpsed the truth, but the accolades kept flowing in for all the wrong reasons. Once again, she felt like she didn’t belong here. She didn’t deserve to be here, but not because she wasn’t worthy. For the first time in her life, she felt that she didn’t belong because she was worthy and “they” were not.

Olivia was well known to the high priests of the party, and everyone wanted a piece of her. She had to spend time slipping away in a sun hat or in the bathrooms just to get time to reflect on everything that was unfolding.

With every strained smile, yet another part of Olivia screamed at her. Every handshake felt like it was made in a parallel universe. Every acceptance of praise played in a movie that was being shot as she played her character, Olivia Allen the senator, Olivia Allen the presidential nominee. She wondered when she could get out of character and speak her mind.

Finally on day three, it was Olivia’s turn to speak to the huddled brethren eagerly waiting. Thirty-seven television cameras whirred to record Olivia’s acceptance of the presidential nomination. They said her speech had been redrafted sixty-nine times. Even Olivia admitted that the only way she could do justice to the speech was to read from the written page.

Olivia took her place on the podium. Her assistant made a quick dash across the stage to give her a copy of the great acceptance speech.

My god, she left it behind in a moment of nervousness
, he thought.

She hadn’t forgotten. Olivia took the papers and tore them up.

Wow, what an effective opening, thought the thirty-seven camera operators.

“I am sorry…that speech did get redrafted sixty-nine times,” Olivia said, “and I tore it up because it does not speak my heart. It is time we spoke to America directly from the heart.”

She paused then, but only to gather herself for her momentous revelation. Just ten or eleven of the eight thousand people clapped. That’s all it took for the eight thousand strong to string together two whole minutes of palm-reddening clapping.

“William Young and Quentin Kirby will go down in American history as the men who threw oil into the fire that was destroying our livelihoods.”

More applause followed…boy, she was going for the jugular, they thought.

“The fire was lit thirty years ago by Ronald Reagan. Under the elder George Bush, the fire got out of control. With every successive government, Democrat or Republican, the fire got more and more out of control.”

You could almost hear the senior statesmen catch their breath. Had she just thrown in the word Democrat?

“Yes, our economy is a shambles. As much as I would like to solely blame the Grand Old Party, we are to blame too.”

Victor Howell cringed…what was going on here?

“We didn’t investigate when they said carbon alarmism is not true science. We didn’t take them seriously when they said twenty-five trillion of debt cannot be repaid. Our government is about to perpetrate history’s biggest Ponzi scheme on the citizens of the world. We—”

“What are you doing?” Victor Howell screamed from his front row seat. John Logan, watching the spectacle on his home television, became wildly ecstatic.

Justin Flannery was standing behind his cameraman. It was Olivia’s next outburst that brought him to his orgiastic climax. It was a media moment to beat all media moments.

“It’s my speech, Victor…sit down,” she said, and Justin literally wet his pants.

Olivia had basically thrown down the gauntlet to her own party. She could not accept the presidential nomination today, she said. She was prepared to accept it if the party owned up to its own mistakes and began earnest investigations of the causes of the wreckage. Nothing was to be sacrosanct, she said—everything and everyone was to be scrutinized, with no inference too delicate to be accepted. This was the platform she would be prepared to run on.

She had given the party two weeks to decide—hers and their political future.

She was only sorry for the fact it had come up like this, but she had only just made her decision—and it was absolutely irreversible.

Three days later, at the Moscone Centre in San Francisco, John Logan was nominated unopposed at the Republican National Convention. George W. Bush gave the keynote address, and the smirk never left his face. Even the sick President William Young could not resist a dig. John Logan could not stop smiling.

Going into the Democratic convention, Olivia Allen led the polls 50-30 against John Logan, with Frank Stein and the undecided taking 10 percent each. After the Democratic convention, Olivia’s rating dropped to thirty points.

The drop disguised something far more ominous. Democrats had left her in droves. She should have dropped from fifty to under ten, but for the fact that the apolitical, the apathetic, the cynical, the undecided, and the plain old nonvoters had come out of the woodwork to support what they saw as a warm, compassionate, and truthful person.

Sidney Ganon officially withdrew his concession speech. By the end of the first week of Olivia’s two-week deadline, it became increasingly likely that the party would throw itself behind Ganon.

Dr. Mardi Tedman had gone back to work a few days before the Democrat national convention. He found it incredibly hard to concentrate. He was afraid of the genie that had been released from the bottle. Requesting an extended leave of absence, Mardi disappeared from work and reappeared of his own volition at Kingsmead Psychiatric. Dr. Bruce Rohl took him in and made an urgent plea for Frank Stein to visit Mardi—he had heard the name so often in Mardi’s short stay that he was convinced Frank Stein could make a positive difference.

Frank had been sitting by Mardi’s side when Olivia, in his view, blossomed, although some may say disintegrated, in full view of a national audience.

Frank persuaded Mardi to take a real vacation in Ocean City, Maryland. Frank himself set up office there to continue his Internet campaign. For additional fees, Bruce Rohl agreed to visit Mardi on a thrice-a-week basis; money was no problem for Mardi’s billionaire friend. The apartment in which Mardi lived was kept free of all pointed objects; full-time nurses paid for by the Stein campaign attended to Mardi’s needs.

“You would still do that for me, Frank?” Mardi asked when he heard of the nurses.

“Already done,” Frank said.

The pair hadn’t sat down together for thirty-one years; one day they had been the best of friends, and for the next thirty-one years, they had only met fleetingly in the company of others. Mardi was still emotionally very unstable. Deep in depression, Mardi was coherent and functioning because Dr. Rohl had him on high dose anti-depressants. Dr. Rohl was happy to release Mardi from hospital because he was no longer suicidal. However, he was only released on one condition: that he was never to be alone, even at night. Two full-time nurses were assigned on twelve-hour shifts, and the only break the nurses got was when Frank came by to talk to Mardi, sometimes for hours at a time. More than anything else, Frank wanted to be Mardi’s friend again.

Mardi was at Ocean City for two weeks. For the most part, Frank and Mardi did not discuss politics. They didn’t even discuss climate change. Often, Frank would just reminisce about high school: his own depression when Susan died, his incredible trauma when his parents died in a car crash. Until Mardi came along, Frank had been the number one geek, but in time, he had become a suave, confident young man.

“If it weren’t for you, Mardi, I don’t know what would have happened to me, to Daniela,” Frank said, opening the jar of fresh orange juice that he brought every morning for Mardi. In addition to his current problems, Mardi was a type 2 diabetic and his sugar levels were even more susceptible to fluctuation now.

Mardi hardly spoke during these conversations.

In the second week, Frank shifted the focus to the good times: Mardi’s scholastic achievements, the joy Frank felt when he stood up to Mardi’s oppressor, Mardi’s genius at inventing, even in high school. They talked about Mardi’s airport carry bag attached to a retractable pedal scooter, the milk carton that changed color as its expiration date approached, the software that could finish any math homework and rewrite it in his handwriting. Mardi was still very much a spectator until Frank reminisced about their double-date experience. Mardi and Frank had been sixteen and never dated before, so the nervous geeks went on a double date with two older girls who they exchanged on their way back. The girls never spoke to them again. Finally, Mardi laughed—for the first time in months.

It was the third day of the second week. Up until then, no amount of ocean walks, spectacular views, strong medication, or digital entertainment had brought a lasting smile to Mardi’s face. Now Mardi was laughing just as Dr. Rohl entered the apartment.

“Thank you, Mr. Stein. Miss Allen would be pleased,” he said.

“Miss Allen?”

“She cares too,” Dr. Rohl said. “I have been asked to give her daily updates.”

“I should have known this. If she cares, why isn’t she here?”

“I am sure that could be organized,” Dr. Rohl replied.

“Frank, you will like her,” Mardi said in a tone suggesting more a command than a hope. “She saved my life.”

Later that day, Frank spoke with Dr. Rohl privately.

“What would you say if I suggested a catharsis, a public cleansing moment?”

“I do not wish to sound ungrateful for everything you have done, Mr. Stein, but how do I know it is not intended to further your political purposes?”

“You don’t. Even I don’t. But all you got to worry about is the effect on your patient. What it does to politics is not your worry.”

“It is a risk. It could go either way. Let me reflect on that overnight.”

“Thank you. When it comes to psychology, I am a simple man, Dr. Rohl. I believe in simple solutions.”

“Please elaborate, my dear fellow.”

“Is it his inner turmoil? Once he goes public with how he sold out—”

“He will lose all the fame and respect he has gained. How’s he to cope with that?”

“I think part of him realizes that he has gained nothing. The world loves a public redemption. There’s nothing quite as—”

“Quite as lovable? True. For some. Still, it could be too early. I will consider it.”