Part 1It’s not just his face that I hate. It’s also his hands. The way they clutch the digital recorder. I hate the way he has his legs crossed as he speaks. I hate his blazer that doesn’t quite fit right. I hate the stubble that surrounds his face, and his voice, Lord, his voice. It goes up in pitch when he asks a question and it comes down when he explains something. Every phrase becomes a lecture and every question becomes condescending like he’s trying to coax a child to ride a bike.
“Do you ever feel that the conservative media treat you differently than they treat the male candidates?” he asks and I have to force myself to stop from grimacing.
“Not as much as the liberal media,” I reply and he smiles back, the ball returned to his court quickly.
“Please explain,” he says. He leans back in the chair. He waits for me to take the sword and cut my own head off.
“I don’t think the liberal media sees me as a serious candidate. I mean, it’s a little insulting. The conservative media (I put up quotes on either side of my head so he can see my views on that. I wish there was a video crew to catch it) at least accepts me as a viable candidate. Most of the media doesn’t even acknowledge me unless it’s to make a joke. The president himself hasn’t even replied to the questions and proposals I’ve raised-”
“It’s a little early yet, don’t you think?” he interjects and I want to slap him.
“He’s replied to Bob Ackley. He spent half of his last speech taking swipes at Bob’s job plan. I also think the plan has flaws but he hasn’t taken the time to confront any of my campaign’s proposals.”
“And you think it’s because the President doesn’t take you seriously?”
“I think it’s because I’m a woman,” I reply.
He sits up in his chair. He needs to pay more attention now. I can tell he’s realized this thing isn’t going the way he had hoped.
“You blew in with the Liberty Party express-”
“I had been around for years before the Liberty Party came together. They embraced me,” I say, cutting him off and making him look up from his tablet.
“Sure, they embraced you. Where do you think your ideologies and the Liberty Party's ideologies cross and where do they differ?”
This is the second time in the ten minutes that have passed since the interview started that he has brought up the Party. Clay has been very clear that we are walking a tight rope. All polls still show that a majority of voters find the Party extreme and off putting. I’m to keep the party happy and not deny their support but also step out on my own. I have the words ready but I space them out so they sound spontaneous and off the cuff.
“The beautiful thing about the Liberty Party is that it encompasses so many people. There is no clear connection in ideology except that myself and the people in the party want to get America going in the right direction again.”
“Why do you think they embraced you so closely though? I mean, during the last congressional election you were literally dubbed the “Liberty Party Candidate.”
This little jerk. This little freaking worm. He must really think I’m stupid.
“The media coined that. Not me and not my campaign. Now why do I think so many Liberty Party members are among my supporters? I think it’s because they were looking for someone new, someone fresh, an
outsider.”
Clay would be proud of me.
“There’s also the theory that because of the large number of Bob Courtier followers involved in the Liberty Party they have now gravitated towards you.”
I don’t reply, I let him sit there. He watches me and I watch him. The little worm.
“What is the question?” I ask sweetly.
“Sorry, I don’t think there was one,” he replies and opens his mouth into a big toothy grin. Freak you. He looks at his tablet and back at me.
“You did study on James Ryan University in its early years correct? You did study under Bob Courtier there?”
“Yes. Bob was a dear friend.”
“Okay, now just before his death Bob Courtier published the book “From the Mountain Top” in which he described his theories about the government’s control of the population through brainwashing and psychotropic drugs-”
“That was after my time in the university-”
“-and he also went on in the later chapters about how “true” Christians should arm themselves, use violence against abortion clinics, and use violence against the government itself, should it stand in the way of “imposing Christian Law”. These laws were to include the stoning of adulterers, burning of homosexuals and satanic books, the destruction of-”
“This interview is over,” I say and uncross my legs. I smooth out my skirt and prepare to stand up. He looks up from his tablet, feigning shock.
“What do you mean?” he asks stupidly.
“I mean this interview is over. I don’t like the tone of your questioning and I don’t appreciate you bringing up issues that I have addressed over and over again.”
I stand up and he goes bug eyed and innocent.
“I’m sorry but when have you addressed these issues? You have acknowledged Bob Couriter many times as having an influence on your thinking but when have you ever
talked about his ideas or his influence on fringe groups?”
I stand very straight and bring my voice down to the low calming tone that Clay calls my mothering voice.
“I told you, this interview is over.”
We both are still, looking at each other. He seems to think if he can just make the moment uncomfortable enough I will break down and give him a quote. The little worm bastard.
He sighs and hits stop on the digital recorder. I look in the mirror on the wall behind him and admire the make up Doris did. The strong flesh tone she used on my nose and cheeks brings the green of my eyes out. They’re striking, like they have always been. It’s a waste though, the worm’s magazine didn’t even send a photographer with him.
“I got to ask you though,” he says as he puts the tablet into it’s case. I bring both green eyes down on him cold “I mean, do you really believe all this stuff? Do you really think all that or is it just a platform to run on?”
He’s really going for it. He must think he’ll never have another chance with me again so he’s just throwing it out there, regardless, like a kamikaze. The gall. He’s not even worth opening my mouth for. I smile and he’s lucky. I want to scratch his eyes out.
“Alright, so we never should have agreed to actually have a sit down with these people. But it was over a month ago! I doubted they would even send someone. Then they send this kid and I think, okay, well this could be good. It could be bad but it could be good. It really could be good. I mean Corner Stone readers are between nineteen and thirty five. That’s prime Marsha. Prime!”
Clay Logan is apologizing in his way which means he isn’t really apologizing, he’s just talking. He’s flapping his gums until I get tired and forgive him.
“It’s a really trashy magazine Mrs. Bates. I lot of sex and stuff like that. It’s a music magazine. Who cares?”
Pam is trying to cheer me up but it’s just annoying. I should have never let her start throwing her opinion out. Now she thinks she can speak up when ever she wants and it’s getting on my nerves. She’s an assistant. I should have never let her speak in the first place. Jesus, give me the strength.
“I should have known what they would pull this Marsha,” Clay continues “I should have known. They pull this stuff all the time, trying to trick people into saying something they’ll regret.”
“I didn’t say anything I regret,” I say sharply “I had to keep my mouth shut as that kid went on and on about Bob like he was some kind of lunatic. It made me sick. Bob Courtier was a righteous man, he saved a lot of people’s lives, not to mention their souls. And I had to sit there and nod while he made Bob out to be some sort of terrorist. How do you think that makes me feel Clay?”
“I know Marsha. That magazine is trash and their writers are trash. But they are major. They are mainstream. And if we’re going to be taken seriously on this big stage we’re going to have to sit down with these people. I just won’t leave you alone like that again. I promise.”
I turn my head and look out the window of the car and I can hear Clay sigh in frustration.
“Look, the President was in there two months ago. A cover story. If he’s talking to these people then you need to talk to these people too. That’s the way it is.”
He falls back into his seat and I know he’s right. There was some satisfaction in walking out in the middle of the interview but that is wearing off quickly.
“Are we headed to the rally?” I ask.
“Not right away. We’re gonna stop by your new campaign headquarters first,” Clay replies.
I roll the window down slightly and let the interview, along with my anger and irritation, fly out into the wind and onto the passing highway.
It’s not dumpy exactly, just plain, and emptier than I had expected. They have the posters up along the side wall, the one where I’m standing on “main street”, the barber shop and drug store behind me. The sun is caught by the steeple of the church in the background. The church was photo shopped in later and I’m still amazed by how convincing it is.
There are six desks set up with telephones and sticky pads along the middle of the room and a large conference table by itself to the right. I walk passed Clay and open the door to the private office. It’s tiny, with a desk and a single ugly light beaming down from the ceiling. This office is the most depressing part of the place and this is where I will spend most of my time. I can already tell the nasty ceiling light is going to make my skin look green and sickly.
I close the door and turn back towards the Clay and the new interns, trying to hide my disgust with a smile.
“Marsha, these are the young women I mentioned in the car. They are joining the campaign as of today,” he says and presents the girls to me with an extended arm their way.
He hadn’t mentioned anything of the kind but I offer each girl my hand in greeting and gratitude. Dana Ellis, a skinny dark haired college student, takes my hand first. She’s pretty and grasps it cordially. The next one is blond, Whitney Kellog, barely eighteen and probably from some farm outside the city. She’s overweight and holds my hand in the sweaty flap of her own. She’s slightly cross eyed and I wonder who picks these people. Do they even look at their pictures?
The last one is chubby as well, but cute, with curly brown hair that falls along her mannish shoulders. Clay says her name is Sandra Bean. I see a large crucifix hanging from Sandra’s neck and I nod approvingly.
“Just as you have said God urged you to run I feel that God has asked me to come on board and help you with the campaign,” Sandra says.
I smile and try my best to beam at her. I will keep my eye on Sandra. She has ambition and I will need to keep tabs to see if she has just enough to help in an effective manner or maybe a bit too much to be part of the staff.
They have a large stage set up in Moose Park for the rally and I’m surprised to see that there is a video screen outfitted behind it as well. The screen is clear and bright, like the ones they use at rock concerts. I’m overjoyed. There have been rumors that the owner of a large media conglomerate has begun to funnel money into the Party. Clay has mentioned that once he has unearthed who it is and if it’s true I must get in front of this person and have them begin to put all resources towards our own campaign. I await that day and hope God will let me shine at my brightest when the moment counts.
One of my fellow Republican candidates is on stage now, George Patterson from Minnesota. He is the only other official candidate that is scheduled to speak today. He is going on in on in that bland weightless voice of his, dropping undefinable numbers about jobs that no one cares about. I look at his face on the screen and I almost feel bad for him. Like always his eyes look half closed, his words even putting the speaker himself to sleep. His top lip is curled up in a sneering unattractive way. Does he ever watch footage of himself? It’s horrible and he will be out of the race in a matter of weeks.
“Marsha. Hey Marsha!”
A woman in her sixties has noticed me from the crowd. She has a friend with her and they are both waving excitedly over the metal barrier that separates the audience from the back stage area. The woman’s eyes are wide and bright and her sweatshirt has a cartoon of the president behind bars on the front.
“When are you going on!” the woman asks.
“About ten minutes. How are you girls doing?” I call sweetly.
“This guy is killing us Marsha. When are you going to get up there and get this party going?” the woman demands.
“Just a few minutes. Now, Representative Patterson has some great ideas about jobs ladies. Things that go along with the values we care about.”
Since poor George Patterson doesn’t have a chance in God’s green Earth I feel I can scold with good humor and be gracious.
“Oh come on! This old stick in the mud? You get on up there and give the people what they want.”
They both clap for me I and beam back at them but don’t come close enough to shake their hands. I retreat behind the stage where Pam hands me a cup of water and I drink it as Patterson finishes up his remarks. Possibly fifty out of the nearly one thousand people in the park clap.
A talk radio host who’s name I can’t remember comes up after Patterson to introduce me. He starts hinting at who’s next and the crowd begins to cheer right away. He works them into a lather by bringing up the President. He calls the President by his full name including the man’s middle name which has a distinctly foreign sound to it. The crowd boo’s the President. Some hold up signs. Some go red in the face and yell out threats, their rage swelled and ready for me. I feel a pat on the back and find Clay grinning at me with a thumbs up.
I take the stage and the crowd goes into a frenzy, pointing and taking pictures and screaming their lungs out. At the podium, I look back at the giant screen with my face enlarged across it. I’m disappointed to see the back of my head so I turn towards the crowd and wait for them to quiet down.
I begin and drop right into my rhythm. I thank the Liberty Party for having me and Representative Patterson to speak at their special event. Thank you to all my supporters. I remember when America was like this. I remember when America was like that. Now it’s like this. Why? Because of this President and his administration.
I hit all the points: socialist, rumored Muslim, soft on terrorism, soft on jobs, soft on crime, soft on everything, but I do it in the way that only I can. I don’t just stand there behind the microphone and say he’s a secretly practicing Muslim, I bring up Ronald Reagan and his good points and then I bring up that at that time the President was probably visiting his extended family in Morocco. That’s enough. The faces I look out at aren’t dignified or sharp or even very intelligent but they get it. They know what I mean. This man I’m talking about, the one that is leading this beautiful country that God has blessed, is the other.
They call out for me, the cry for me, they scream for me. A chant of “Marsha! Marsha!” starts in the back and then spreads through the whole park, shaking the leaves and scaring the birds from the trees. I feel it inside me and it is beyond adrenalin or nervousness or anything else. It is raw power and I feel it pulse through me, my whole body alive. This is my natural state. This is who I am.
Our staff and some of the staff from the rally go out for tacos at a place downtown not far from the park. I can feel the power wearing off and I’m coming down. Everyone is talking about rumors they have heard about some of the other candidates and it tires me. One of the Iowa Liberty Party staffers starts talking about overcoming his addictions to drugs and alcohol through the Lord and I begin to have difficulty keeping my eyes open. Clay needs to stick around to talk scheduling with some of the other staff so he has Sandra the intern drive me back in her car. She talks on and on about her worries about socialism and the implementation of Islam in America and I nod encouragement until we get to the motel and I’m able to exit the car in relief.
I unlock the door to the room and step inside, slipping off my heels quietly. I can see Don sleeping in the bed, his shock of silver hair peering out just above the blanket. I go into the bathroom to remove my makeup and take a moment to look at the face in the mirror. It is still beautiful. It still is a face you can remember but I can see the age and it’s not helping the beauty, it’s pulling it down and stretching it out.
I think back to when everything was smooth and pulled taut and I met Don Bates at Christian Future University. He played football and I was on the debate team. I’ve read about “sparks” and heard people talk about it on TV but I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it. Don was the top of his class, everyone enjoyed him, he was popular and I was too. We were the two stars at the school and it just made sense. We were married the summer before I started at James Ryan University.
I wanted a baby. Don told me he had experience from a wild year as a sophomore but I was the one who always initiated. He would try to follow my lead but it seemed forced and I was ashamed, thinking my impulses and desire were from a lack of faith. We tried for the first four years but the Lord never blessed us. We took a series of foster children and raised them in our home, encouraging their faith in God and educating them at home while I continued at Family First. When I made my first run for the county school board we found other homes for them.
Don set up his Christian therapy practice ten years ago in Wisconsin and has been dedicated to it ever since. I am always on his mind and receive his affection but I am not his focus. He dedicates himself full time to the young men and their families that find themselves in the tragic grasp of homosexuality. He has saved souls and carries that weight with him everywhere. I do not resent it, he is not my focus either. Everything I have goes towards the campaign and bringing a change to America.
I put on my night clothes and slip into the bed next to Don. He sleeps soundly and I reflect on the day. There were moments of frustration but over all it was blessed and I feel the campaign picking up speed and energy. I can hear the voice of the crowd from Moose Park and part of me wants to wake Don up so I can be held and bring the last twenty four hours to close. I need something to release the last of the power that still lingers inside of me.
I rest one arm over his torso and touch his neck with the other hand. He brushes my fingers away, stirring, irritated. I roll my body away and grip the pillow. I let him sleep.
The list of names and numbers sit in front of me on the desk and the phone sits to the right of it. Speaking on the phone is not one of my fortes. At times I dread it. With Clay outside organizing the troops I have a chance to simply put it off and sip my tea. The act of begging people for money is wearing me down. I feel that if things continue on the path that is forming ahead of us, there will be no reason for me to beg any longer, God will provide the means.
“Why aren’t you on the phone?”
Clay has stuck in his head and caught me in my own thoughts.
“I’m taking a break. For freaks sake,” I protest bitterly.
“Fine. The food's here anyway. I guess you can come out.”
He smiles at me and I make him wait before returning the grin. He is my protector and my tormentor. He is my servant and my slave master. Others that get close to the campaign find Clay Logan a nuisance, suspiciously soft spoken about his true beliefs, a possible non-believer, never saying Jesus’s name aloud and sometimes crass in his ways. I trust Clay because I understand him. He believes in politics. He is loyal to a winner and he believes in me.
The headquarters is packed and bustleing with activity at nine in the morning. There is a whole gang of volunteers on phones and another group gearing up to do street work being organized by the interns. I pick up a donut from the box and bite into it, conscious of some of the volunteers spotting me in person for the first time and trying to act like they don’t see me. I chew the donut and look around, keeping my face open and inviting. I am different from other politicians. I share your beliefs.
“Mrs. Bates, this is the new intern I mentioned. He flew himself over here from California and arrived last night,” Clay says and I turn around.
The new intern is tall but compact, like an athlete, and he reminds me some what of Don when he was young. He looks about twenty four, twenty five, but when he reaches out to shake my hand he has an air about him that seems older.
“Flew himself? Youre a pilot?” I ask. I know it’s silly but some part of me wants this young man to know that I do have a sense of humor and am not uptight or too serious to make a stupid joke.
“Not exactly,” the intern says and a blush mixes with his smile. He is so young.
“He paid for it himself Mrs. Bates,” Clay says, exacerbated by the foolishness of it all. I can tell Clay needs sleep.
“Will Cedar,” the intern says and we end our hand shake.
“Nice to meet you Will,” I reply and let him have the whole smile and the full beam of the eyes.
“America’s freedom is what she hates! Do not vote for Marsha Bates! America’s freedom is what she hates! Do not vote for Marsha Bates!”
Everyone in the room is startled and looks over at the group of twenty or so people that have gathered outside the head quarters door. They are yelling in unison. A few of them carry signs demanding their right to kill babies. One has a sign with my picture on it crossed out. The volunteers making phone calls give uneasy looks to each other, not sure what to do. Clay and I make eye contact and his look of suprise dissolves to a grin. He yanks his phone from his blazer pocket.
“I’m going to call the cops,” he announces and then gets closer to me to speak in confidence “Believe it or not this is a good sign.”
I do believe him. I can feel the power inside me.
