Part 5: The Temptation of Marsha Bates

Five
The country really does look like a quilt through a plane window. There are the squares of brown, red, and green, perfectly flat below us. The clouds are under us too and it’s strange to be above them, in heaven.
“Mrs. Bates, were you surprised by the reaction your debate performances have had on the polls?”
It’s the bald one that asks this time. His face is thin, just a skull, with a pink layer of skin pulled taught around it.
“Was I surprised? No. I guess not.”
“What about Senator Ackley’s reaction? From the ads his campaign already has going in California it seems he has zeroed in on you as his main hurtle in getting the nomination.”
The pretty one asks this time. She’s young but very serious looking with her hair pulled back in a pony tail. She should let it down. Instead of seeing how pretty she is the first thing you notice is her seriousness. She is the only woman of the pack of reporters that have joined us on the plane. Clay has been able to hold them at bay for most of the flight but then one of the fat one’s started asking when they would have access to me (besides the pretty one and the bald one there are four fat ones) so now I’m being held hostage in the back of this small plane, all six of them with their note pads out, scrawling away and smashed together among the empty seats.
“I think the Ackley campaign wanted to play nice. They didn’t want him to be perceived to be picking on the only woman in the race. But now I think they have to react in some way. We’re not playing nice so why should they?”
The words are straight off the page of Clay’s talking points and one of the fat one’s is nodding and pushing out his bottom lip like he’s impressed that I can be so candid. He’s throwing out a question now but I’m not listening, I’m thinking of Will. I’m able to keep him from my thoughts for minutes at a time, sometimes almost an hour, and then he comes rushing back. I just want to know why. Did I do something, say something? Was he frightened?
“Mrs. Bates?”
The fat one that asked the question is staring at me from where he’s roosted high on the back of one of the seats. He’s sweating, I can see the moisture spotting through the armpits of his blue shirt.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”
“I was just asking if you were aware that you’re going to be on the cover of the new Corner Stone magazine?”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Their web-site says they are going to present an in depth profile of you.”
“Really? I don’t see how. The.....man they sent only interviewed me for about five minutes.”
I almost say worm but I catch myself. It seems like so long ago that I sat down with the little bastard but it most have only been a month or so. The fat one with the sweaty armpits shrugs his shoulders.
“Did you see the skit where Tea Leoni did an imitation of you?” one of the other fat one’s asks.
“On television?”
“On the Saturday Skit Show. They have been replaying clips from it.”
“Who has?”
“The networks.”
I catch him grinning slightly but he pulls it away when I give him the dead eyed look. Freaking Hollywood. They can imitate me and laugh about me all they want. Meanwhile children experiment with drugs and homosexuality based on what those sick people feed them. It will all come back to roost. They will realize God isn’t laughing when they try to mock him too, and there aren’t any films or television shows that come out now that aren’t blasphemous in some way. It’s all part of a sick machine and these people in front of me are part of it.
They continue to ask questions and I half listen and half answer until Clay shows some mercy and brushes them back to the front of the plane so I can rest. He sits down next to me and gives me a water. All we have talked about are polls and the debates since he showed up at the airport and I don’t feel like talking now. He starts to tell me about the early numbers in New Hampshire but I don’t listen. I close my eyes and he finally stops talking. I act like I’m asleep and he moves to another seat.

They have the Ronald Reagan museum covered in flags. It’s red white and blue everywhere, and it doesn’t quite go with my turquoise outfit, which makes me feel even more off than I already do. I have never been here before, and I take my time before going backstage so I can look at some of the thousands of framed pictures on the wall. The President with Thatcher, with Sinatra, with the astronauts, with some Arab leaders of some kind, I don’t recognize their names.
Pam is with me in the hall and she follows very slow and gingerly with a bottled water and a bag containing make up. She hasn’t said much since we left Iowa. I think it’s because she can sense something wrong with me, unlike the rest of the staff. She’s been with me a long time, since right after my first congressional race, and she’s a sweet girl despite her weight problem and split ends and the way her eyes are too spread out on her face. I want to talk about Will to someone and if I did she would probably be the one. But I won’t. I can’t. There’s no way.
One of the museum staffers reminds us of the countdown time to the debate and we rush back stage to get ready. We hired a local make up person instead of flying Doris out and the woman talks too much and applies a strange light eyeshadow that doesn’t make my eyes come out enough. I watch Kelly and Birkstand come in together, and then Melvin, and then Hagley who is supposed to be dropping out this week but will be taking up space on the stage anyway. Ackley finally comes in, flanked by four staffers, all smile and orange looking skin. He’s been tanned since the last debate and it’s a TV tan, too much for real life. He searches for me in the room. When our eyes meet he nods and I nod back and I wish I had some sort of fire to bring tonight because I really can’t stand the man.
The audience comes in, the lights are up, and away we go. The moderators ask Ackley about his negative ads towards me and he claims he hasn’t seen them. They turn the question over to me and I repeat the talking point. They dig up a comment I made in passing that he was an elitist and ask him about that. He chuckles and says something folksy. They ask me about it and I repeat a talking point about his time as a CEO and his bonuses. The entire debate goes on like this. There is no life to it, we are all just going through the motions.
Kelly is talking about immigration and I try to look over and pay attention but I am thinking about Will and the fact that he could be watching this on TV. Melvin takes aim at Kelly about his record on immigration and I find myself searching for a way to send Will a message, to show him what he has done to me. I could sit here and fail. I could let the debate go by and not take part. He knows me, he would know what that means.
The moderator turns towards me and asks about Agent Orange and repeats some of the attacks they have made towards me as being homophobic and a hate monger. As she reads from the sheet in front of her I think of the time Will asked me about gays and what I really thought. He had been so wishy washy about it and I’m becoming irritated just remembering. Why question what we have always known? There is right and there is wrong, black and white. The world changes everyday, the status quo is fragile, and when you begin to question what you know is true then the world falls apart around you, does it not? All we know is what God tells us, the world is too confusing already to go against that.
I think about all of this and what I wish I would have told Will something in the motel, something real. The moderator looks up at me from her desk waiting for a response and I look right at the camera and speak to Agent Orange and all progressive bastards directly.
I’m the close minded one? I’m assaulting their rights? My voice rises as I continue and I hunch down over the podium, daring the camera to argue with me. I stand for what God teaches us and will always stand by that. I am a defender of the freedom to believe in what we want and I believe in Jesus Christ who died for the sins of all of us, gay, straight, and all sinners everywhere.
There is loud applause from a certain section of the audience and I look over at Ackley and feel my heart sink. His mouth is twisted, like he’s suppressing a grin, like he’s got me. I don’t care. Freak him, freak these moderators, freak Will, freak the world.

We return to the hotel downtown and I want to go straight up to my room but Clay explains that many of the California team will be here to meet me and I can’t slip away. He is strangely reserved and I know he is unhappy with my performance. He had smiled backstage, said ‘good job’, but there had been none of the usual enthusiasm and I wonder why he doesn’t just come out and say it. We enter the lobby packed with people who applaud as cameras go off and I raise a victory fist and force a smile which almost doesn’t have to be forced.
I’m shaking hands all the way through room and into the hotel bar where the California Team has set up a banner reading Bates 2012. I don’t recognize anyone but I nod and reply, nod and reply, keeping the smile beamed. I’m exhausted by the time I get to the far end of the bar. I desperately search the faces for Clay or Pam and am surprised to come across Frank Wagner, sitting by himself at the corner of the bar, nursing a drink. I almost don’t recognize him without the paintings and stuffed ducks of his living room surrounding us.
“What are you doing here Frank?”
“Fate Marsha. I came out to visit a friend and my star pupil happened to be debating so I stuck around an extra night to watch.”
His voice is soft and tender from alcohol.
“You were in the audience?”
“Yep, watched the whole thing.”
He throws back the rest of his drink, nods at the bartender for another one, then turns towards me.
“What the hell happened?” Frank asks flatly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. What the hell was all that about the gays and God and all that bullshit? Don’t try to tell me you don’t know better. I know you know better!”
I glance around and there doesn’t seem to be anybody watching or waiting for a word and a handshake.
“I said how I feel.”
“You never say how you feel. What the fuck are you trying to do here?”
“Did you not hear the applause?”
He picks up his drink and nods sleepily.
“Yeah, you sit there like a zombie for half an hour and then suddenly wake up with all that fire and brimstone and the Jesus freaks give you a standing ovation. You know that’s not going to get you to the nomination. You know that.”
“It seemed to go fine to me,” I protest.
“Ackley looks like a moderate now, can’t you see that? You win the battle but you lose the fucking war.”
I have nothing to say and sit there perched in the stool as he sucks at his drink. I feel my face getting hot with anger because I know he’s right. Who cares. I don’t even know if this is what I want anymore. All I do want is to be left alone.
“Where’s your intern?” Wagner asks.
I draw in a quick breath.
“Which intern?”
“You know which intern. The boy that drove you to our sessions.”
I get up from the stool and force myself through the crowd without answering. People try to smile and reach out but I barrel on, through all the arms and faces and suits, until I’m at the elevator door, and then I take it up to my room and lock both locks.

I get in the bed and a day and a half passes. The phone rings over and over again until it stops and then the cell beeps and vibrates until the battery dies. Pam comes to the door four times, knocking and calling my name. I don’t answer but I know she knows I’m in here. She shows me mercy when she walks away and I’m grateful for it.
I’m not hungry but I order room service and now a plate of spaghetti and a salad sit by the bed untouched. I lie on the bed and try to sleep but I think of Will and it keeps me awake. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels and I see clips from the debate but keep switching because I don’t want to see it and I don’t want to hear what they have to say. I wonder where Will is and what he is doing. I have a panicked feeling that he may try to call me and this pushes me to plug the cell phone into the wall.
There are several messages; Sandra about the schedule in New Hampshire, one from Don saying he’s already at the hotel there and wondering when I get to Manchester. Clay leaves a quick message saying I have moved up to second place behind Ackley. I can hear that his enthusiasm is back, sparked by my move in the polls, and he explains that he is off to meet with some people to discuss a strategy for South Carolina.
The messages make me more tired and the last thing I want to to do is call any of the people back. I lie there and watch the ceiling as the light moves through the blinds, the Earth rotates. I stay like that until Pam is at the door a fifth time and I know it’s time to leave.

The headquarters in New Hampshire is a thousand times better than our Iowa office. There is a bottom level with new round tables and small booths in the corners for computers. Polished wood stairs lead up to a mezzanine where a conference table sits in wait, long and solid. Sandra is showing us around and I can’t say I missed her while we were in California. Everything is a cheerful boast as she shows off the coffee maker of the all it’s spigots and digital timers. She brings me into my office on the mezzanine and walks in front of the flat screen TV on the wall with hand extended like a plump model on a game show.
I smile and nod but I just don’t care. I want to care but it would take too much effort. I feel like a drug addict must feel when they are cut off from from their drug; the world has lost it’s meaning without Will.
There are three phones on my desk in my office and soon I will be forced to pick them up to beg for more money, faking the enthusiasm that has evaporated from me. I am no longer Marsha Bates, I am her ghost.
I get into the hotel that night and Don is not in the room. I had expected him to be, and the fact that he’s not is a huge relief. I get in the shower and keep the water at cold, the coldest it will go. It cuts into me, I’m shivering. The shock on my body forces me to come out of head.
I get into bed and wait for a sleep that doesn’t come. Anxiety lies on top of the bed with me and I can’t get comfortable. I watch the ceiling and let my mind wander.

The next day the headquarters is packed with people. They swirl about in mini whirlpools of activity through out the first level, printing papers, signing papers, making phone calls, clicking mouses. I retreat to my office and sit in the chair, drained of energy. I have not slept and my mind just seems to buzz until Clay comes in the door with a printed list of donors to call. He is upbeat due to a gaffe Ackley made the night before calling Ebonics a false language. The gaffe is taking up most of the news cycles and I wonder if it is a relief to Clay because it cuts down on the amount of times the networks replay me ranting about God at the debate.
“Are you enjoying your office or what?” he asks and I look around at it like I’ve noticed it for the first time. It is big, probably too big.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says “We’ll probably downgrade after the straw poll and there won’t even be time for a permanent office once we get to Florida. That, I can guarantee you.”
“Everything is temporary,” I mutter and he gives me a puzzled look before leaving the room.
The calls go on for hours; I listen to the gibberish and then I make the plea and they mostly agree to send money. Like usual they are excited, mostly angry, and all men. They have different rumors and theories about the president and about Ackely that they report to me secretly through hushed voices. Mostly they involve the president being a muslim and secret agent of some kind, and Ackley is a closeted homosexual that is well know at various airport bathrooms around the country.
Although the office is big it has no windows and when I come out on the mezzanine I am surprised to see the sun going down. I was on the phone for five hours but I had been in a zombified auto pilot, the time has flown away. Sandra is jogging up the stairs looking alarmed. She explains that the local chapter of Agent Orange is staging a protest outside this headquarters now, it’s not safe for me to go out.
“Stay up there!” Clay cries up to me from the ground level “We’ve already told them you're not here. I don’t want them to get a look at you.”
I go back to the office and sit. There is nothing to do, nothing to think, nowhere to put my mind. Clay comes in and informs me he is headed to South Carolina.
“You stay in here until those crazies dissipate,” he says. “I texted you the number of a car service. Call it once the coast is clear and they’ll get you back to the hotel.”
He gives me a reassuring grin and is gone. I sit in the office for over an hour, my mind a buzzing blank. Sandra brings me a cup of coffee before leaving herself but I don’t touch it. There is small leather couch on the mezzanine and I lie down on it. Will finally pushes his way into my thoughts and I feel as if I will never be free of his presence. I had never needed some one's touch before now. I wish I had never met him, I wish things were as they were before we met but there is no going back. Tears fall down my cheeks hesitantly, awkwardly. They are warm and comforting and it allows me to fall asleep.

When I awake the mezzanine is bright, bathed in the dusty light of morning. The office is empty. I get to the restroom, the reflection in the mirror above the sink hideous. The tears spread the eyeliner down my cheeks which then hardened into a purple mask in the night. I scrape and wash it away and try to fix my hair as best I can. I go upstairs to get a pair of sunglasses. When I make my way back down I find a large black man in a security uniform standing near the front doors. I stop short and look at him through the sunglasses.
“I got hired to come down and keep the rif raf away,” he explains and by his disinterested tone I sense that he doesn’t recognize me or wonder what I’m doing there at six in the morning, forgotten by my own campaign.
The coffee they have in the office is generic and decaffeinated to boot, I make my way on to the street and walk the block and a half to a little coffee shop. There are four or five people inside but they are all absorbed in their newspapers and laptops and no one seems to look over and recognize me. I order a large and as the sleepy girl behind the counter goes to get it my hidden eyes scan over the magazine rack they have posted. I come to a copy of Corner Stone magazine and there I am, my photo taking up the whole cover.
It’s a horrible picture. I am looking down into the camera, my worst angle, and someone seems to have used a computer to accentuate my wrinkles and make it look like I have a neck flap. The blue in my eyeliner has been increased so that I resemble an Italian whore from the 1960's. I yank the magazine out of it’s wooden cubby and hold it close to my chest so no one can see. The picture is truly horrible, the headline even worse: “Marsha Bates: America’s Craziest Politician Exposed.”
I rip through the glossy ads and photos to get to the article. “My Time in the Bates Campaign” the headline reads, by Darren Gregorson. Gregorson? That wasn’t the name of the worm from the interview. I skip the first few pages and come to a picture: It’s me, Clay, Will, and Sandra, at some event, I don’t remember what. I look at the caption of the picture and it reads: “Clay Logan, the writer, Rep. Bates, and campaign staffer.”
The writer? I have to look at the picture twice and then look at the caption again before I can piece it together. Will is the writer, Darren Gregorson.
“Did you want the magazine too?”
The girl behind the counter is looking at me with the cup of coffee sitting in front of her. I wonder why she doesn’t wear he hair differently before the floor begins to move and the room is spinning. Darren Gregorson. Will’s name is Darren Gregorson. He is a writer for Corner Stone magazine. I reach out a hand and prop myself up on the side of the counter.
“Are you alright lady?”
I’m seeing spots in front of my eyes and the room is going dark in the corners. The magazine slips from my hand and falls to the floor. The people in the coffee shop are looking over at me, I don’t notice. I’m out on the street, trying to catch my breath, trying to get back to the head quarters. I slam my fist against the door and the security man lets me in cautiously.
“You okay miss?”
I feel as if I have been kicked in the stomach, I lean over one of the tables, expecting to vomit.
“Miss, are you alright?”
The sweat is turning cold all over me and I force myself to the restroom. I turn on the faucet and throw hand fulls of cold water into my face. The shock of the water fights off the darkness that is gathering around my vision and it slows down the spin of the room. Nothing makes sense. How can none of it be real? I am a fool, the most foolish of fools.
I look into the mirror and make my face calm, no make up, just droplets of water sliding along the skin of my cheeks. The end has come. The end of the campaign, my career, my marriage.
I walk out of the restroom and find Sandra walking into the office.
“Mrs Bates? What are you doing here so early?” she asks.
“Take me to the hotel.”
“Right now? But I thought we were having-”
“Take me to the hotel! Now!”
She looks frightened, backing away towards the door. I put the sunglasses back on and follow her to her car in the parking garage. We begin to drive through downtown Manchester and her cell phone is ringing.
“Don’t answer while you're driving,” I command.
“But it’s Clay, I should answer.”
“No, just keep driving.”
She swallows and places the phone in the drink holder between us. It continues to ring. Part of me wishes I had held on to the magazine but I can barley stand to even think about it. How could he do it? How could he have tricked me? I have to control my breathing or else I’ll be sick. I feel parts of my insides shutting down and dying inside me.
We pull up to the hotel and Sandra parks the car in the turnaround. I realize that the world is not a good place, it is a wicked place that will torment you at every turn. I may have always known this, I’m not sure. And if it is the world that torments us then it must be God as well. I realize Sandra is talking and turn towards her.
“What?” I ask.
“I said did you see the article?”
“What article?”
“The one in Corner Stone magazine?”
She knows. She knows and she didn’t say anything.
“No, what did they write?” I force myself to mutter.
She reaches into the backseat and pulls the magazine from her purse. She holds it up for me to see and I look at the grizzled expression and that neck flap.
“I haven’t read it,” she says. “I figure they just put us down.”
They put us down? This poor girl. This poor misguided well intentioned girl. This will break her and everyone like her. I snatch the magazine from her hand and exit the car, all in one motion. I head into the hotel and over to the elevator, my vision dark and enclosed, like a tunnel. I get to my floor and as I head towards the room I stop short. I see Don’s client Ted exiting the door of our room. I pull back around the corner and flatten myself against the wall, like a fugitive.
I peer around the corner and am relived to see Ted headed towards the door that leads to the stairwell. I notice he is buttoning his shirt which frees me from my panic and allows me to wonder: what is Ted doing in our hotel room at seven thirty in the morning? I already know the answer, I have always known it, the events of that morning are allowing me to admit it to myself. There is no time left; no time for hiding, or lies, or putting your head in the sand.
I enter the room and there is Don, sitting on the bed with a cup of coffee, staring out the window, wearing the robe that the hotel provides. He turns towards me and the look of contentment evaporates, his face stiff with shock and fear.
“I thought you had gone to South Carolina?” he says and blinks stupidly.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask.
He continues to blink before placing the coffee cup on the bed side table and coughing into his fist.
“What? What are you talking about honey?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Of course I do. You know I do.”
I look at him full on and it is like I have caught him in the act, like I walked right in on him and Ted doing what ever it is they do. There is no satisfaction in this. It is fitting that it be this day, fitting that everything comes apart at once.
“I believe in God too,” I say “He’s punishing me.”
“For what?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.
I look down at the magazine in my hand, at my face, manipulated to look ugly. I am not ugly. Not on the outside at least.
“I think you should read this Don.”
I drop the magazine on the bed and leave the room. The carpets and walls are closing in, suffocating me. I take the same door Ted did and climb the stairs down, the breath catching in my throat, making me gag. When I get to the lobby it is more crowded, people checking in and out. I spot Sandra sitting in one of the chairs, reading the Corner Stone magazine with my face on the front. She got another copy, of course she couldn’t help it, not after I snatched it from her. There is a strange look on her face as her eyes scan the pages and I turn away, stepping out into the turnabout.
Even the air outside is thick and hard to breath. I spot what could be reporters getting out of a car fifty feet away and in desperation I try the door on Sandra’s car and get inside. I sit in the backseat and realize here will be no where to run. The campaign will end, maybe that very day, then I will have to go back to Wisconsin and fight for my seat in congress. Or do I fight? Deny all I can? Maybe I let go, except it for what it is and fade away. I would be different if I were a man. Bill Clinton survived but he never recovered. Newt Gingrich married the woman that he cheated on his sick wife with and now walks around with that judgmental expression on his round face. It won’t be the same for me.
The driver side door opens and Sandra is inside with me. She closes the door and sit there, saying nothing. I look at the back of her neck and the way her hair hangs over the top of the seat. I realize I’m not breathing and pull the air in through my nose, the sound deafening in the silent car.
“It doesn’t feel good to be betrayed,” she says.
This is the first of what will be million apologies, maybe more. This is the most awkward because I don’t know what I’m going to say. There is nothing to say. I have no excuse, I did what I wanted to do.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“What are you sorry about?”
She turns around in the seat and looks at me strangely.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” I tell her.
“It’s not your job to screen the interns Mrs. Bates. Clay or someone in the staff should have looked into Will’s background.”
I look into her face and try to make out what I’m seeing. I had expected anger, shock, but all I see is mirrored confusion
“Did you read the whole article?” she asks.
“Bits and pieces,” I lie.
“It’s just stupid. He talks about how he thinks you stretch the truth and that you play people’s fears. It’s just offensive.”
My coat and jacket are sticking to my back against the seat and I notice the people I had tagged as reporters are making their way passed us on the turnaround. They’re are business men, sharing a laugh as they enter the hotel.
“You read the whole thing?” I ask.
“Yeah, for a cover story it’s pretty short.”
“What else does it say?”
Sandra let’s out a frustrated sigh.
“Nothing. Mostly he makes fun of the supporters saying their ignorant and hateful. It’s the same old liberal crap. But it hurts because I actually liked Will, I thought he was a good guy. And then this-”
She stops short and I look passed her, through the windshield. There is a sense of relief inside me that is so vast that I would release it with tears if there were any left to give. It's not that I haven't been exposed, it's knowing I'm not crazy. By leaving it out he's shown it was real.
“What’s on the agenda?” I ask automatically.
“A video feed interview for the web-site and then a luncheon with a Christian Charity," Sandra is scrolling through her phone "It’ll probably take an hour to get out there so we should get going.”
She starts the car and we pull onto the street. There is park on the next block and huge American flag is flapping at the top of a pole posted in the center.
The End