The Immigrant’s Daughter (15 page)

They sat down with Barbara, who freed herself momentarily from the questions, demands and complaints that were being flung at her. Barbara knew that she should have provided for some kind of office in the storefront, but it was too late now to find a carpenter to do the partitioning, and in any case the money could not be spared. Freddie tried to talk to her, and then gave up. Finally they went outside and found a bench in the shade.

“Let Carla be your point person,” Barbara said. “They'll respond more easily, but if you see a woman looking at you, Freddie, the way a lot of women do, pick up and make some points. Not complicated, not too many issues. ERA — first and always. The woman doesn't live who won't respond to it, even if she snorts at first. Federal child care. Education and the cops are local, but you can suggest that people with jobs don't commit crimes. Don't bore anyone. A person bored becomes annoyed. So make it short and sincere.”

“You've changed,” Freddie said. “You never talked like this.”

“Like a pro? Well, I'm trying. So onward and upward.”

It was like nothing they had imagined, even in the wealthiest part of the district. They avoided the out-and-out mansions. They wanted voters who answered doorbells, not butlers or maids. “Still, they might be voters,” Carla said pointedly. “A lot of them are my people.” They saw two gardeners, Mexicans, to whom Carla spoke. “Naturalized,” she told Freddie. “They can vote.” They tried a large house. The maid who answered the door was a Chicana, and after a few words with Carla, she called in the upstairs maid and the cook. Great excitement. She had not registered, the upstairs maid had not, the cook had not, her husband had not. The people who lived there were out. Freddie stood back, listening to the flood of eager Spanish that poured out of Carla and the three servants.

“I like this,” Carla said.

Back, away from the wealthiest homes, four women were playing bridge. This was upper middle, houses that were better than tract houses, yet by no means mansions. The four women were in their forties, attractive, and when the hostess ushered Freddie and Carla in, they put down their cards. Carla let Freddie take the lead position, and after ten minutes, they had to drag themselves away. Freddie let the main issues go by the board and dwelled on one thing: a society that takes adult human beings of wit and beauty and condemns them to days of playing bridge — not that bridge was not exciting and highly intellectual, but there were businesses to be run, bridges to be built, slums to be cleared and a hundred other things that these women were more than capable of. As Freddie's rhetoric soared, Carla thought they would be angry and put off. Unexpectedly, they were charmed and delighted with Freddie and his pitch.

“But exactly what can your Barbara Lavette do for us? We've missed the boat. It's way down the river now.”

“She can stand as surrogate for you, and believe me, fight with all her strength for the ERA and all that goes with it.”

Two blocks away, the door of a stately half-timbered house of the 1930s was opened by a buxom redhead who burst into laughter when Freddie began his pitch. “Sweetheart,” she said, “this is a massage parlor.”

Carla let out a squeal of surprise and delight, but Freddie, unperturbed, nodded and said that masseuses vote, even as beautiful redheads vote.

“That will get you the jackpot, sonny,” the redhead said. “Come on in. Eleven o'clock in the morning is not prime time in this line of work.”

Noontime, they were in the barrio, and at an open shed, hungry by now, they filled their bellies with tacos and burritos, washed down with Mexican beer. Freddie, lying shamelessly, informed all who cared to listen that Carla was a famous star of stage and screen, which increased the numbers of the crowd as word spread. Carla made no demur. The sun had put a flush on her cheeks, her face glowed. She smiled upon all as she spelled out the specifications for registration and said a few words about Barbara.

“You didn't push one damn issue,” Freddie said later. “My Spanish is lousy, but I could follow enough to see that.”

“And your brains are mushy,” Carla said. “Star of stage and screen! What a liar! Issues? Dumbbell, they'll vote Democrat. They're Chicanos and Mexicans. You go and find a Chicano votes Republican. The point is, they don't register and they don't vote, and they say screw the Anglo and his lies and all his garbage about voting, because voting never got anyone anywhere. But they see a pretty Mexican girl, and she tells them a beautiful, good woman is a candidate — maybe they'll register and vote. Who knows?”

Door by door, they went on into the area of the cheap tract houses — as the song says, made out of ticky-tacky and all looking just the same.

“Excuse me, ma'am. Can I tell you a few words about our congressional candidate on the Democratic line? Her name is Barbara Lavette — yes, ma'am, the same Lavette family. This little brochure spells out what she stands for, but if you have time, I mean like a few minutes, I'd like to tell you something about her and why we feel that a woman must represent this district —”

The burning California sun moved slowly across the sky; the temperature rose to a hundred degrees in the shade; and Freddie and Carla doggedly pursued their specified route, made notations in their notebooks, walked a circle of about a mile each time, bringing them back to where they had parked, drove on to the next neighborhood or town or barrio or slum, walked again, rang bells, knocked at doors, made notations.

The afternoon lengthened. It was half past five when they decided to call it a day. They pulled into the parking lot of a Little League playing field, and Freddie went to a cold-drink dispenser under the grandstand, returning with two Coca-Colas. The car was parked in the shade of a big live oak, and at this time of the day, the field was deserted.

“Want to talk about our notes?” Carla asked him.

“Not right this minute. Right this minute I want to drink this bottle of Coke and luxuriate under this tree. Talking about Coke, Aunt Barbara told me an odd story — oh, way back, maybe ten years ago. She was in Assam during World War Two, up at the Tenth Air Force base, and she saw a patrol come out of the jungle. They hadn't met up with any Japanese, according to Aunt Barbara, but they were exhausted, clothes ripped, dehydrated and miserable. Well, there was a Coca-Cola machine at the base, and she put in all the dimes she had and began to distribute Cokes to the kids, and one of them put the cold bottle up against his cheek and began to cry. Can you beat that? What an ad for Coke.”

“Freddie, you have such a weakness for bullshit,” Carla said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “But I love you. I certainly love you. I always loved you,” she continued matter-of-factly. “You were the first man I ever went to bed with —”

“The first kid. Dumb kid. We were kids.”

“Did you ever tell May Ling?”

“No — good heavens, no. I always felt it was like incest. We grew up together. You know, I can't remember a time when you weren't there.”

“I don't feel like your sister. Not a bit.” She drew his head down toward her, and then he kissed her and she clung to him with an explosive passion, her mouth open to devour him.

“
Podria amarte
, damn you, Freddie!”

“Jesus God, we're making out in the seat of a car! Carla, we're not kids.”

“Freddie, I'm starving, I'm eating myself up. Don't push me away, you bastard. I got a prior claim. I thought I was pregnant, that time when we were kids, and my father beat the shit out of me. You owe me.”

They moved to the back seat. Afterward, untangling their intertwined knot of passion, they looked at each other in amazement. Freddie kissed her gently. “Maybe —” he began, but Carla cut him off.

“Come on, Freddie. Don't talk about maybe if you had married me. It wouldn't be any better than it was with Sam. Worse. We'd tear each other to shreds.”

Five

T
he
Morning World
took its first poll of the Forty-eighth CD. The paper's first edition arrived in San Francisco early in the morning and was on the stands by eight o'clock. Barbara picked up half a dozen copies on her way to the Forty-eighth, but when she walked into the storefront at Sunnyside, Freddie was standing on his desk, calling for silence from the dozen or so people already there.

“The
Los Angeles Morning World
,” Freddie said, holding up the paper, “today, Wednesday, front page: ‘One of the most interesting congressional contests in the state is playing out in the 48th C.D., where maverick feminist Barbara Lavette is pitted against the Republican incumbent, Alexander Holt. The 48th is traditionally a Republican stronghold, where, it is said, the Republican candidate can phone in his campaign. The only time this very large Republican majority was even shaken was six years ago, when Miss Lavette first accepted the Democratic designation. The then incumbent was subsequently indicted for taking bribes, and the seat went to San Francisco lawyer Alexander Holt. In 1974, Mr. Holt received 87 percent of the votes cast. In the telephone poll taken by this paper yesterday, Mr. Holt received 61 percent. Miss Lavette received 29 percent, with 10 percent undecided. The district will be polled by this paper every Wednesday until Election Day, and we look forward to following this very important race.' Unquote,” Freddie finished.

Applause. Shouts of delight. Friends kissing Barbara. Birdie MacGelsie assuring her, “Pure gold, darling. Next fund-raiser, it's worth a thousand dollars for every percentage point.” And around noontime, a long black limousine containing Tony Moretti, older, heavier, but still with the same deep, comforting voice. He waddled over to Barbara's desk and allowed his bulk to descend carefully onto the frail folding chair.

“Barbara, you got the whole party talking,” he said. “The bookies were making three to one on Holt. They tell me it's slipped to two to one. You've been going to Mass?”

“Almost as good. We've been canvassing. Freddie and Carla have worked out a system, and if we had enough volunteers, we could cover every home in the district. As it is, we hope to reach at least thirty percent. I think it may make the difference, when you add it to the sound trucks, the local advertising and the street meetings. Would you believe that there are three regular weekly newspapers in the Forty-eighth and four more giveaway sheets? We convinced one supermarket to allow us to lay a pile of program broadsides on the bench with the newspapers. I say we, us — but it's the kids who come in on their own who do it.”

“How many volunteers do you have?” Moretti asked.

“We've signed on over a hundred, most of them students, high school and college.”

“No, you're kidding.”

“The truth, Tony. Well, you know, some of them come in for an hour now and then, some give us a day a week, some come in once and don't come back. Tony, we're going to beat Mr. Alexander Holt. We're going to beat him to a frazzle.”

“I hope so, Barbara, I sure hope so. On the other hand, watch him. He's smart and he's ambitious. Have you met him yet?”

“He took me to dinner,” Barbara said, explaining how it had come about. And when Moretti frowned, Barbara put her hand on his and said, “Trust me.”

“He's a charming man, Barbara.”

“Agreed.”

“All right, enough of that. I like what else you're doing — it's the way we used to do it. Know every man, woman and child and what you can do for them, and when the time comes, you have their vote. It's bigger today, too big, but the principle holds.”

“I wish I could do that, Tony. But we don't have enough people and the district's too big. If you could help us —”

“I'm coming to that. It's no secret that the committee has written off the Forty-eighth. They're still writing it off, and when it comes to getting money out of the party, it's squeezing blood from a stone. But after this morning's
World
came up, I called a few members, and they're relenting. I went out on a limb. I told them you're going to win.”

“You really believe that?”

“Barbara, I'm putting sixty years of being a political animal on the line.”

“You're also dropping a big burden on me, Tony. I don't know if I can win. I don't know if I can keep this pace up until Election Day. It's worse than anything I had imagined.”

“You'll keep it up.”

“You said they're relenting. How much is relenting?”

“Ten thousand dollars to start the ball rolling, and that's a nice round sum, Barbara. We don't have money to throw away. I saw your TV commercials. They're straightforward and good. Try to buy some more time. We'll have a check for you tomorrow.”

Astonished by Moretti's gift, Freddie said that they must have seen the light. “It's nothing to write home about but a fat chunk for the party to hand over. They're impressed and they should be. Until now, they haven't come near us.”