The Hopefuls (24 page)

We found out that Jimmy won when
The Texas Tribune
tweeted the news at him. Jimmy got a ding and looked down at his phone, which was in his right hand. “Holy shit,” he said. He held it out to Matt, like he didn't trust himself. “Does this say what I think it does?”

Matt looked down at the phone and then broke into a huge smile. “You did it,” he said. “Congrats, buddy.”

The people right around us were starting to catch on to the news, and Jimmy put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, quieting down the room. “Everyone,” he said, “I'm so thrilled to announce that
The Texas Tribune
has just called the race for me!”

The room broke into cheers then, loud whooping and clapping. Ash came running across the bar and flung herself into Jimmy's arms, in a way that was slightly over the top and made me understand why she'd been so good in pageants. “Oh, baby, I'm so proud of you,” she said, putting her hands on either side of his face. Jimmy kissed her and then spoke to the room again.

“I want to thank each and every one of you. I couldn't have done it without you—I really couldn't—and your support means everything to me. So thank you!” Jimmy raised his glass, and everyone cheered again.

On the other side of the room, Lauren Sybil was still holding Viv and swaying to the music with her like they were dancing, but she kept leaning a little too far to each side and I was keeping an eye on her, hoping she wasn't about to tumble over. I was relieved when Ash's mom finally leaned across and took Viv right out of her hands.

Matt had been accepting congratulations from the people around him, and finally he was free and I was able to give him a kiss. “Congratulations,” I said. “I'm really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Buzzy,” he said, looking not as happy as I would've imagined.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, definitely. I'm thrilled. Just already thinking about the next race. If Jimmy could really win, it would be groundbreaking.”

“Maybe you should try to take tonight off,” I said. “Just enjoy this.”

He nodded, but his face remained serious. Jimmy came over then and lifted Matt off the ground in a bear hug. “Kelly,” he said, “this is fucking amazing. Have I told you that you're a genius?”

“It was all you, man,” Matt said, which I knew he didn't believe, but it was nice to see him being generous. Ash came over to join us, and we stood in a circle, just the four of us, shoulder to shoulder. We were only there for a minute or so—shortly after, Jimmy's phone started ringing with congratulations and he was calling supporters to thank them. But for a moment, he was focused on us and I remember feeling lucky, like we were being singled out as special.

The bartender was setting down rows of shots on the bar, and Jimmy turned and grabbed four of them in one quick movement, handing one to each of us. We clinked them together and held them there for a second, all four glasses touching.

“Are we toasting to Texas again?” I asked.

“No,” Jimmy said. “To us.”

“To us,” we repeated, all tipping our heads back and drinking down our shots in one single swallow.

T
he morning after the primary, Matt woke up early—even earlier than he normally did. But when I felt him get out of bed around 6:00, I assumed he was just going to the bathroom and fell right back to sleep. It wasn't until a few hours later (when I finally got up myself) that I realized he'd never come back. We'd been out late the night before and there'd been more celebrating (and more shots), and my first thought was that he must be feeling sick, but when I peeked in the bathroom it was empty. I zipped a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and went upstairs, where I found Ash and Matt sitting at the table with coffee. Matt had his computer in front of him and was typing away, and Ash was resting her head in her hands.

“Hey, guys,” I said. Ash murmured something back to me that sounded like “Good morning,” and Matt just nodded.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with them. Matt was still typing away, and I reached over to rub his shoulder. “Why were you up so early?” I asked.

“I couldn't sleep,” he said. “I had all these ideas and things I wanted to start getting done. I couldn't lie there anymore.”

“My mom called to say they were bringing Viv back,” Ash said. “Otherwise, I'd still be in bed myself.”

Ash's parents had taken Viv to their house the night before, so that Ash could stay out and celebrate, and she'd done just that. Now she looked like she was regretting it—and also like she might get sick at any moment.

“I thought maybe you guys would take the day off,” I said to Matt, and he looked so serious as he answered. “We can't afford to waste a day,” he said. “We can't afford to waste a minute.”

Jimmy slept until almost noon, and when he woke up, Ash and I were in the TV room, each lying on a couch while Viv played on the floor. What I really wanted to do was to go back to bed, but it seemed unfair (and downright mean) to leave Ash by herself, so I stayed.

When Jimmy finally appeared in the doorway, he was shirtless, wearing an old pair of sweatpants, and his hair was sticking straight up off his head. It was also possible he was still a little drunk. “Holy Moses,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “I really did a number on myself last night.”

Viv made a little squealing noise and then said, “Hi! Hi hi!”

“Hi, baby girl,” Jimmy said, looking down at her and waving. Then Viv looked at him and said, “Uh-oh,” which she said about fifty times a day, but Jimmy laughed and said, “Yep, uh-oh is right.”

“Good Lord, Jimmy. You didn't want to make yourself decent?” Ash closed her eyes like she was annoyed, but really I think she was just tired.

“It's just Beth,” Jimmy said, grinning at me. He flopped himself down on the couch where Ash's feet were, making her rearrange herself so her legs were in his lap.

“Oh, Jimmy, you stink!” Ash said, covering her nose. “You smell like you just took a bath in whiskey.”

“Who's to say I didn't?” Jimmy asked.

We all turned as Matt came into the room then and stood in front of us. “I thought I heard you,” he said, looking at Jimmy. “How does it feel to wake up as the Democratic nominee?”

“It feels great,” Jimmy said. “I mean, I feel like a pile of shit, but the rest of it feels great.”

“I have some things we should go over,” Matt said. “I came to see if I could get lunch for everyone.”

“Oh my goodness, you're a savior,” Ash said. “Please bring French fries. Anything with French fries on the side.”

“Is that okay with everyone?” Matt asked, and Jimmy and I nodded. “Great, I'll be back in a few.”

We were all quiet as he left the room and we listened to him start the car and pull out of the driveway. Finally Jimmy said, “How on earth is he not as wrecked as the rest of us?” I just shrugged and said, “I have absolutely no idea.”

Over cheeseburgers and fries, Matt talked about how now was the time to focus on money. The Republicans were headed to a runoff election, so Jimmy's opponent wouldn't be decided until the end of May. Matt felt that the next three months were crucial, that Jimmy needed to use this time to try to get ahead. Jimmy had mostly relied on his parents' network up to this point, and could probably count on them for some more money, but Matt emphasized that he needed to reach further, to find new people to donate. The rest of us chewed as he spoke. “We really need to ramp up our fund-raising,” he said. “This is push time.”

“Isn't that what you have been doing?” I asked, and Matt gave me a look.

“I think we need to get you on the phone,” Matt said. “Calling people, telling them about yourself, asking for donations.”

Jimmy still looked so tired, like he wasn't even sure what day it was, and I felt like he would've agreed to anything at that point just to end the conversation. He nodded at Matt and said, “Whatever you say, boss.”

The very next morning, Matt set up Jimmy in the office with a list of contacts and gave him a pep talk about fund-raising. “You can do this,” Matt said. “You'll be great. Just remember—this is about money. If we want to compete in any real way, we need to raise money.”

Matt sounded so energized that I half expected him to start jumping around, like a coach trying to psyche his team up before a big game.

For about a week, Jimmy did as Matt said and spent hours calling people and asking for their money, saying the same thing over and over again. And then one day, he started to complain. “I don't come across well on the phone,” Jimmy said. “I'm better in front of people. I need to get out there.”

“You also need money,” Matt said.

“So set up some fund-raisers where I can meet people face to face. I'm going crazy spending all this time on the phone.”

To Jimmy, Matt said, “Look, I know this is frustrating. But it's hard to raise money for a down-ballot race—you know that. We just need to keep plugging away at it. I promise I'll think of some ways to get you out there.” And then later, to me, he said, “Who does he think is going to come to these fund-raisers? He thinks we have hundreds of people ready to come to a black-tie dinner and drop thousands of dollars? Most people don't even know his name. I don't know who he thinks he is.”

This was the first disagreement that Matt and Jimmy had during the campaign. (Or at least the first serious one, that wasn't about what time to leave for a trip or what radio station to listen to in the car.) And it never got resolved—they continued to argue about how much time Jimmy should spend on the phone, every day, both of them repeating themselves, the conversation going in circles. Their fights were so predictable—like a rerun you've seen a million times before, except it wasn't the least bit funny. And I started to notice how it changed things, how it made the air around us unpleasant, always.

When he wasn't trying to raise money, Jimmy was traveling to south Texas to talk to people suffering from air pollution and to north Texas to talk about earthquakes. The traveling wasn't just happening on the weekends now, it was all the time. “We need to reach as many people as we can,” Matt said. “We want them to feel heard.”

Ash and I went on these trips, for moral support and to help out, and Viv came along so Jimmy could hold her and look like a family man. We traveled so many places in the eight months before the election that I often woke up not knowing where we were. We were always packing and unpacking, taking the clothes out of our bags just to wash them and put them right back in. Every day was another city, sometimes two. Just when I was sure that I'd seen all of Texas, Matt would announce a new place we'd be going to—Azle, Reno, Arlington, Denton. There were times we drove four hours for a two-hour event and came back that same day.

Because Viv's car seat was in the second row, I usually sat in the way back by myself. But I didn't mind. It was sort of peaceful there, and I usually just stared out the window and let my mind wander, watching all of Texas go right past me.

At the end of May, Candace Elroy won the Republican nomination for railroad commissioner, narrowly beating out the Tea Party candidate in the runoff. Elroy had spent the past twenty years as a consultant for the oil industry, and they were willing to give her gobs of money to get her onto the Railroad Commission. When we found out she won, Matt closed his eyes and said softly, “Fuck,” which was somehow more disturbing than if he'd screamed or hit something.

Right away, she started out-fund-raising Jimmy, almost to a laughable degree, and while it was probably impossible to even think about catching up with her, Matt was determined to try. One day, after reading about a fund-raiser she'd held, Matt looked like he was going to cry. “Strangers are giving her money without her even having to ask for it,” he said, and I imagined Candace Elroy walking down the street while random people threw cash at her.

Matt was haunted by Candace Elroy. He thought about her more than he thought about anything or anyone else, all day, every day. Once, I swore he said her name while he was sleeping.

Most of it was about the money—Elroy had enough to hire a large staff. She had a scheduler, a campaign manager, a fund-raiser, a speechwriter. For Jimmy, Matt was all of those things put together, and his only help came from Katie and from other volunteers. He was outnumbered. Each time Elroy hired new people, Matt pored over their bios—they all had years of experience in their fields. After she hired the speechwriter, Matt looked defeated. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can't compete with that,” he said. “I don't know how to do any of this shit. I'm just making it up as I go. Fund-raising is the only thing I really had experience in, and that was for a presidential election. It's not the same at all. The rest of this? Managing a whole campaign? Writing speeches and press releases? I have no idea what I'm doing.”

“That's not true,” I said. “You're a great writer. You've done an amazing job so far. Just because you've never done these things before doesn't mean you're not good at them.”

“That's exactly what it means,” he said. That was the only time he ever admitted exactly how this campaign made him feel. He was failing just by waking up each day, running a race with his legs tied together, no chance of catching up.

Candace Elroy also had a private plane at her disposal, borrowed from her father's company, a fact that was always mentioned at least once during one of our long car rides. One day, when we'd spent over ten hours driving, I said, “I bet she has one of those really small planes. The kind that are super scary to fly in because it seems like they could fall right out of the sky. We wouldn't want to be in a plane like that anyway.”

Everyone in the car, even Jimmy, who was driving, just turned to look at me, and then turned back without saying a word.

I felt horrible for Matt. I really did. He was struggling and there was nothing I could do to make it better. I tried to be supportive, to talk to him about how hard this must be, to reassure him that he was doing all he could, but often it felt like I was making things worse. Once, I said, “It must be so frustrating to put everything into a race and still be losing.” He turned to me, like I was stupid for thinking such a thing, and said, “It's not like this is a surprise. We always knew this would happen.”

He was so angry that he couldn't even remember what he was angry about. He shut down in a way I'd never seen before, acting like a sullen teenager, not looking at me when I'd talk to him, grunting in response. Often, I'd say something to him and he'd pretend not to hear me, hoping that I'd go away if he ignored me long enough. I didn't know how to deal with this, so mostly I'd just stand there and say, “Matt,” over and over, until he'd looked up from whatever he was doing, already annoyed by my presence, and finally answer me. “What?”

Ten years earlier, Matt and I had gone to South Africa for our honeymoon. He'd been dying to go to Cape Town and thought a safari would be amazing. I agreed, because I didn't really care where we went—our honeymoon, I assumed, would be amazing no matter where we were.

The flight to Cape Town was over twenty hours and I barely slept. Still wired from our wedding weekend, I sat awake on the dark plane while Matt snored beside me. We'd both taken Ambien, but it didn't work for me—I'd woken up after only about thirty minutes, feeling nauseous and disoriented. When we landed, I was so exhausted that I had trouble walking through the airport. Everything was so loud and bright and I kept tripping over my feet.

“I'm so tired I can't see straight,” I said to Matt.

“I told you to sleep on the plane,” he said, like staying awake was a poor choice that I'd made. I walked behind him trying not to fall, stepping where he stepped, keeping my eyes on his feet.

That night, I crawled into bed, took another Ambien, and closed my eyes, hungry for rest. But three hours later, I sat up in the dark room, my heart racing, my mouth dry. I looked over at Matt and for a few minutes didn't recognize him, had no idea who was lying next to me. Finally, my mind cleared and I remembered: That is my husband, I'm on my honeymoon. And then I tried (unsuccessfully) to go back to sleep.

We were in South Africa for fifteen nights, and I spent most of them staring into the darkness and wanting to cry, because more than anything, jet lag is lonely. During the days, I'd nod off at lunch, beg Matt to go back to the room in the afternoons for a nap. Once, I laid my head down on the table in a restaurant like a child, not caring what anyone around me thought.

“Maybe I have a resistance to Ambien,” I told Matt.

“I don't think that's the problem,” he said.

It was the worst during the safari. At night, the noises around us made me shiver, and the days made me feel like I was losing my mind. I'd look at the animals—so large, so beautiful, so frightening—and I'd tell myself to pay attention, to appreciate that I was seeing a lion, an elephant, a goddamn hippopotamus. But I was so tired that my eyes pulsed, light danced in my peripheral vision, and all of it felt unreal, like watching a nature documentary on PBS.