Campaigning for Christopher (4 page)

“I hope she was worth it,” he said, his voice cracking as he looked down at his clasped hands.

Lori turned a computer screen to face Christopher and clicked on her mouse. A cued-up news report on YouTube immediately started playing.

“Good morning! I’m Jennifer Grant with
Good Day, Philly
. In shocking news, Christopher Winslow, the zeitgeist congressional candidate from Haverford, Pennsylvania, was—quite literally—caught with his pants down last night. Recent pictures have surfaced that show Mr. Winslow enjoying an abundance of alcohol . . . and the sexual favors of a young waitress at his sister’s wedding. Here with us is Duncan Cavanaugh, press secretary to the incumbent congressman, Republican Laurence Reilly, to comment. Mr. Cavanaugh, I think it’s fair to say that Christopher Winslow
had
become a force to be reckoned with in the past few weeks. But now? What are his chances at election?”

A montage of pictures sailed across the screen—Christopher’s chest covered with lipstick, the damning alcohol bottle under his arm, the braids across his chest that made it look like he was getting a blow job—and he winced, grinding his teeth as he fought the urge to yell out in fury.

“For what?” chuckled Cavanaugh, running a hand through his once-blond, graying hair. “The guy who does the Killarney’s commercials? Pretty good, I’d say.”

The host smiled indulgently. “All kidding aside, sir, what are the effects of such photos on a political campaign?”

“Well,” said Cavanaugh, straightening his face but clearly enjoying every second, “not good, Jennifer. Not good at all. For all his inexperience, the one thing young Christopher Winslow really had going for him was his squeaky-clean image.” He turned away from the host and faced the camera with faux concern. “Not so squeaky-clean now, eh?”

“There are some stirrings online about the braids in the picture belonging to a Native American waitress. And we’ve heard some unsavory sound bites attributed to Mr. Winslow.”

Christopher swallowed. His fists were so tight by his sides, they trembled.

“Oh, sure. I heard what he said. Something about wanting to ‘make it’ with a ‘squaw,’ right? But come on, now. You can’t put much stock in those types of drunken rambles. The boy obviously had too much to drink. I don’t think he’s actually a racist. But looking at those pictures, I sure do worry about young Winslow having a substance abuse problem.”

Jennifer nodded, furrowing her brow as though troubled. “Can we back up to the hearsay about Christopher Winslow’s racist comments? That would be especially surprising, wouldn’t it? Because he has appeared—at least in his public platform—to be a friend to minorities. In fact, he’s the only candidate who supports state and federal recognition of the Lenape Nation here in Pennsylvania, isn’t he?”

Cavanaugh shrugged, narrowing his brown eyes. “This is hardly the right way to go about showing your support for a group of people seeking recognition and respect.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Christopher gasped, then clenched his teeth together, staring at the screen in fury.

Cavanaugh continued, “It’s just a shame. We would have embraced a clean fight, but not much about Christopher Winslow feels
clean
. Not anymore.”

Jennifer nodded, her face awash in disappointment. “It’s been quite a shock.”

Lori clicked the mouse to end the interview, staring daggers at Christopher.

“‘Make it with a squaw’?” snarled Slater. “Racist. Debauched. Scumbag. That’s who you are today, Chris.”

“Take it easy, Slater,” said Lori.

“
You
take it fucking easy,” he said, standing up and grabbing his coat off the back of his desk chair. “Call me if you can figure out a way to redeem this sloppy fucking mess. I’m going home.”

With that, he beelined past Chris without making eye contact, and a moment later they heard the back door slam shut.

“I didn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .” Christopher’s brain wasn’t working right, and he felt light-headed. He lurched forward to the nearest chair and eased into it, still facing his staff. “I don’t remember what happened. I swear I don’t.”

“Come on, Chris,” said Preston gently. “You can’t play that card.”

“But it’s the truth,” said Chris. “I remember her bringing me a drink, and I remember wanting to talk to her. But honest to God, Pres, I don’t remember much of anything after drinking that glass of whiskey. When I woke up, I was half naked on Margaret’s couch.” He looked at his older brother beseechingly, embarrassed by the confused, furious tears that burned his eyes. “You were
there
last night. I was
not
that fucked-up.”

“So, what, Chris? Pocahontas slipped something in your drink?” asked Lori. “That’s what I’m supposed to tell the press?”

“Don’t call her that,” he muttered automatically, rubbing his hands together.

“You’re
defending
her?” demanded Simon.

“No. I’m not . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know what I’m doing. I swear to God, I don’t know how this happened.”

Preston sighed, blowing out a long breath and standing up. “It’s bad, Chris.”

“Yeah. I know,” said Christopher, his voice breaking as he hung his head and stared at the clenched hands on his lap.

Preston’s large, warm palm landed on his shoulder, and while half of Christopher felt like shrugging it off, the other half felt like burying his head against his older brother’s stomach and weeping. He’d worked so hard—they’d
all
worked so damn hard—just for the whole campaign to be killed by some smarmy photos.

“We could . . .,” started Simon, then paused.

Christopher looked up quickly, a shock of hope widening his eyes. “We could what?”

“We could ignore it,” said Simon carefully. He glanced behind at Lori, who folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes. “We could say that these pictures represent a private moment between Christopher and a friend and they should never have been released. The racial comments are hogwash, negated by Chris’s public platform, especially in regard to the Lenapes. And as for drinking too much? Well, we’ve all been there.”

Lori shook her head. “If it was just the racial comments, I could back it up with his platform. If it was just the drinking, I could say it was a onetime misstep. But both? And you’re not even addressing the sexual misconduct.”

Preston started. “
Misconduct
is a strong word.”

“A minority woman? Waitressing at the hundred-thousand-dollar wedding of his sister?” She sighed and shook her head with disgust. “She was
working
at your sister’s wedding.”

“She wasn’t working for me!” exclaimed Christopher.

“Say that to the press and they’ll have a heyday,” deadpanned Lori.

“Simon,” said Christopher, holding out his hands in supplication. “What do you think? What do we do?”

“If there’s any possible chance you were drugged, I think you need to take a drug test immediately. Once we get the results back, at least we could say this was a setup.”

“The pictures are still out there!” said Lori. “They’ll always be out there!”

“If we could prove Chris was drugged, it would help.”

“It won’t. Nobody wants to touch something like this. It’s sordid.” Lori shook her head, then shrugged in surrender. “But it’s all we’ve got. Can you go get a drug test tonight, Chris?”

Christopher nodded. “I’ll head over to Kindred Hospital on my way home and give a urine sample.”

“And if it
is
positive, we could sue whoever is printing the photos,” said Preston, “because Chris was involuntarily incapacitated.”

“Yeah,” said Lori, her voice sour. “We could whine a whole bunch and get the photos taken down.”

“It still leaves the racial epithets,” said Simon, ignoring Lori. “But hopefully your record will assuage voters’ doubts, and maybe the fact that you were drugged will win their sympathy.”

“Okay,” said Christopher. “At least it’s a plan. I’ll have the test done. I’ll get the results sent over to us tomorrow, and we’ll, uh, we’ll give a press conference. Tomorrow afternoon. Before this thing can spiral out of control.”

“
Before?
Too late,” said Lori.

“Do you have a better idea?” Preston asked her with an edge in his voice.

“A better idea than ‘a waitress slipped him a roofie and had her way with him’?” asked Lori. “No. I don’t. You were already fighting youth and entitlement, Chris. This is a fucking disaster.”

“Lori,” said Christopher, standing up and reaching into his pocket for his keys so he could take a ride over to the hospital. “If you have a better plan, we’re all ears.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Lori, putting her hands on her hips. “Go back in time and make a decision that wouldn’t fuck your campaign six ways to Sunday. Could that be our plan? Because that would be awesome.”

***

Preston offered to drive with Christopher to Kindred and keep him company while he waited to take a drug test, and Christopher wasn’t about to refuse the company. After pushing through a small throng of reporters to get to his car, while saying “No comment” about a hundred times, he and his brother pulled out of the parking lot, headed toward the hospital.

“Chris,” said Preston gently, switching from legal counsel to brother, “you okay?”

“No, Pres,” said Christopher, “I’m not fucking okay. Did you see Cavanaugh on TV? I mean, is it possible to ever recover from this sort of shit? A substance abuse problem? A fucking racist? Oh my God. You
know
that’s not me. Not even close.”

“I know, Chris. I know.”

“And a sexual deviant? Someone who fucks the help for kicks? I swear, it’s making me sick,” he said, taking a hand off the wheel to rub his stomach.

“Hey,” said Preston soothingly. “Calm down. You’re driving.”

“I just . . . I really wanted this, you know? And I would’ve been disappointed if I had lost fair and square. But not this way . . . not this . . .” He paused, looking for the right word, “bloodbath.”

“I hear you. It sucks.” They rode along in silence for a few moments until Preston spoke again. “You know what I keep wondering? Who was she? I mean, this girl last night. This waitress. She slipped something in your drink, led you to the cottage, and took compromising pictures. Why would she do that?”

“Why? To ruin my campaign. Obviously.”

“Yeah, but
why
? I mean, you’re a friend to minorities and to women. You support a minimum wage increase. You support funding increases for domestic abuse assistance. You support civil rights, equal pay, and federal recognition of the Lenapes. I can’t understand why she’d do this. I only saw her for a minute, but she appeared to be a minority, maybe Indian. Definitely a woman. And a waitress. Just based on your platform, it doesn’t make sense that she’d be your enemy.”

Christopher’s lips thinned as he thought about the word
enemy
. He rolled it around in his head, feeling the coldness of it—the rightness of it. No other word could more aptly describe the woman who had drugged him, violated him, taken misleading pictures of him, and . . .

Sold them.

Money.

“She did it for money,” said Christopher with biting conviction. “You can bet whoever arranged it offered her a lot of money.”

“I wonder how much it costs,” mused Preston forlornly as they pulled into the parking garage of the hospital, “to ruin a man’s reputation?”

“I don’t know,” said Christopher, an uncompromising edge to his voice as a cool, comforting hate for the mystery black-haired woman sluiced through his veins. “And I don’t care.”

But when she bought my ruin, she bought an enemy too.

Julianne worked from dawn to dusk on Sunday, first at a baptism brunch, followed by a late-afternoon bar mitzvah. She woke up well rested on Monday and pulled on her walking shoes. Because there were very few parties requiring waitresses on Mondays, Julianne devoted the first day of her week—as often as possible—to being outdoors. She didn’t have a car and couldn’t afford long bus or train rides out of the city, but she’d discovered a surprising amount of green spaces—parks and gardens—in Philadelphia.

The Morris Arboretum and Bartram’s Garden were two of her favorite local spots, though Bartram’s Garden won her heart by a hair. She’d spent the past few late-summer Mondays winding her way through the garden’s nine acres of native plant displays, flowering shrubs, and two-hundred-year-old trees. There were rustic benches in picturesque meadows; large, comfortable stones flattened by glaciers, with vistas of the Schuylkill River and Philadelphia skyline; and lush flowering gardens like nothing in her native South Dakota, where everything was dusty, barren, and poor.

Though she’d had trouble adjusting to the pace and cost of Philadelphia, she’d found a kinship to the land she’d never felt as strongly at Gray Elk, on the tribal lands that were supposed to speak to her blood and bear her soul. Julianne loved many of the Lakota traditions—the language, the annual powwows, the music, legends, and history—but the reservation she’d grown up on was in the poorest county in America, and eking out a halfway-decent life had been a daily and lifelong struggle.

Her mother, who wasn’t married to Julianne’s father when she was conceived, had graduated from the reservation high school against the odds, and doggedly remained single, despite many aggressive admirers. She’d gotten a job in the registrar’s office at Oglala Lakota College, which afforded the mother-and-daughter pair a life considerably better than most of their peers. Yes, they’d lived in a shabby trailer, but they’d shared it only with Julianne’s grandmother, aunt, and two cousins, as opposed to the more sprawling families that surrounded them.

Julianne’s had been a firmly matriarchal household, with a strong role model in her mother, whose income—paltry by Philadelphia standards—had ensured that Julianne had all the basics: food, clean water, soap and shampoo for bathing, reliable electricity, heat in the winter and one old-fashioned air conditioner keeping the trailer cool in the summer. Her mother had been a stickler for annual dentist and doctor appointments at the reservation clinic. She had forbidden Julianne to date until she graduated from high school—a rule enforced more than once with the sharp sting of her palm on Julianne’s cheek when she suspected her daughter of spending time with one of the local boys—and had enrolled Julianne at the college the second she was eligible.

And yet, for all her mother’s ambition, she was skeptical when Julianne had first announced her plans to move East.

Maka Mapiya Kangee had turned to her daughter, confusion marking her weathered and tired thirty-nine-year-old face.

“
Doe key ya lay hey
?”
Where are you going?

“Philadelphia. I’ve been offered a modeling contract,” Julianne responded. “
Txun blays ya huh, txoe kata key ya, ma wah nee.
”
I’m walking toward my future, making good and sober decisions
,
she added.

“You’re quitting college with only a few semesters to go. That doesn’t sound good
or
sober.” Her mother’s disappointed black eyes traced her daughter’s face before she turned away.

Julianne placed a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder. “
Ee yo monk pee shnee
.”
I’m not happy. “I love you,
Ina
. I love
Unci
too. But I want more from life than this,” she said softly, her hands gesturing loosely to the trailer they’d shared since Julianne was born.

“And this is your
more
? Posing for pictures in Philadelphia?”

“It might be,
Ina
.”

“I don’t hear conviction,” her mother said, crossing her arms over her chest and looking shrewdly at her daughter. “Is there strength in this decision? Is there purpose?”

“It will take all the strength I have to leave you. But, I think this is my way . . . out.”

“Modeling,” her mother said, neither approving nor dismissive.

“The modeling is only the means to leave,” she explained, desperately wanting her mother to understand.

“But will you make something more of yourself? More than pictures?”

I don’t know
, she’d wanted to sob, but she straightened her back and lifted her chin, holding her mother’s eyes with her own. “I promise you I will.”

The hint of a smile softened her mother’s face. “I won’t stand in your way.”
Julianne had started to turn away, but suddenly her mother grabbed her and hugged her close, whispering in her ear, “
E wang oh ma nee yea, Wichahpi
.” Be careful when you travel, Little Star.

“I will,
Ina
,” she answered, holding her mother until the older woman broke the embrace and turned away.

Heading for the tiny bedroom she’d shared with her mother for as long as she could remember, she pulled an old duffel bag from under the bed to pack her meager belongings.

She would be eternally grateful that her mother hadn’t held her back, no doubt understanding Julianne’s desire for a different life and recognizing that this could be her only chance. Every Friday evening Julianne called her mother, and although they missed each other, she was further grateful that her mother hadn’t placed pressure on her to return to South Dakota. More than anything, her mother seemed proud of her daughter, ending every phone call with a reminder to be strong and find her purpose. Strength and purpose: the two tenets by which her mother had always lived.

Julianne sighed. As she meandered under the colorful trees of the garden, ablaze now that autumn had arrived, she couldn’t help a feeling of melancholy that accompanied thoughts of moving home. She had come to love this part of Philadelphia, and when she left in two weeks, she would miss it. For a brief moment, she wondered if she should have taken the money for her part in last night’s business, but she quickly hushed such thoughts. By not accepting a dime for her compliance, her conscience was clear. She’d acted with strength and purpose. Her heart was—almost completely—unencumbered.

It had been a dirty business, yes, and she hadn’t enjoyed the actual act of sabotage very much. But her true misgivings stemmed from the uncomfortable pinched feeling in her heart as she remembered Christopher Winslow whispering,
Your eyes are like the night sky. The universe. The heavens and a million stars.

Her Lakota name, which she’d shared with him right before he passed out, was Wichahpi Mapiya, which, roughly translated, meant “little star in the big sky.” It had shocked her to hear him describe her eyes that way. Not just shocked her, but made her falter momentarily in her mission, as though his words were a possible sign from Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, to rethink her decision to purposely smear Christopher Winslow.

And today, in the light of day, with her terrible anger from last night defused, she wanted to feel righteous about her actions—and mostly she did, but some small part of her didn’t. And that part wouldn’t leave her alone.

She had taken Black Hat’s word as truth. But what if Black Hat wasn’t a truthful man? What if Black Hat had had some ulterior motive for hurting Christopher Winslow?

No.
She shook her head, wrapping her arms around her body.

No, Black Hat had told the truth.
Stop second-guessing yourself, Julianne.

She’d seen the video with her own eyes, hadn’t she?

She’d asked Christopher Winslow what things were necessary, and he’d answered “sex,” blithely disrespecting all the things she’d listed, like drinking water and health care and equality.

Not to mention that when Christopher Winslow had mentioned sex, she had
purposely
confirmed that a girl like her was only good for sex, and he’d agreed with her without hesitation,
Of course that’s what I want
.

She rubbed her arms, frowning at the ground. Nothing about him had particularly impressed her as upstanding and moral in their short acquaintance.

He’s sexist, and he’s a racist
, said Black Hat’s voice in her head, and her inner cavalry roared to life, hooves thundering forward in her breast, ready to fight on for justice.

But a moment later, she heard Christopher Winslow’s slurred voice whisper in her ear,
Your eyes are like the night sky,
and her fickle heart clenched with longing.

She sped up her pace in defiance of it, turning toward the boardwalk, but a cool breeze from the Schuylkill made a shiver run down her back as an image of Christopher Winslow’s half-naked body flashed through her mind.

After he’d passed out, before she could get cold feet, she’d quickly taken off his tie and shirt and unbuckled his pants. Unzipping them, she’d pulled them over his hips as best she could, staring at his bare chest for a long moment. His skin was pale, but his muscles were well defined, and a trail of black hair started between his pecs and extended to his hips, pointing the way to his . . . his . . .

She jerked her eyes away and swallowed, standing up and backing away from his prone form, trembling with fear and anger, nervousness and purpose.

Running into the kitchen, she looked in a cabinet and found several liquor bottles, which she arranged around Christopher Winslow’s body, tucking one under his arm, the spout near his lips. She’d reapplied her lipstick, and leaned down, trying to ignore the fresh, clean-male scent of him as she pressed her lips to the skin of his chest.

Unwed mothers? Not my problem . . . Send them back to Africa . . . I know what I know . . . a single, minority woman needs a kick in the ass . . . more important things than one poor kid in one poor neighborhood.

The damning words—
his
words—from Black Hat’s video circled in her head on an endless loop, strengthening her resolve.

She thought of what her grandmother often said:
There are two kinds of justice—one for whites and one for us.

She thought of all the reports of Indian boys found dead along the border towns of Nebraska, or in Rapid Creek, and how none of those killings ever led to a murder conviction.

She thought of making her mother proud by standing up for her people, and for
all
the people who would be misguided and mistreated by someone like Christopher Winslow.

Pulling his boxers away from his body, she pressed her lips to the fabric and let them snap back lightly against his skin.

But as she wove her hair into a traditional duo of braids, she’d stared down at Christopher Winslow’s beautiful, almost angelic, face. His hair was tousled, his long lashes as black as hers, and his perfect lips were just slightly open. He didn’t
look
like a bad man. He looked perfect.

“But he’s not,” she whispered, reminding herself of their exchange:

That’s what a girl like me is good for, right? Of course that’s what you want.

Of course that’s what I want.

“Just do it,” she snarled, blinking her eyes against the image of his sleeping face and the unexpected burn of tears. Draping her long braids across Christopher Winslow’s torso, she’d taken several selfies with her head in his lap.

Then, keeping herself on task and working quickly lest someone suddenly arrive and surprise her, she jumped up and grabbed the bottles, returning them to the cupboard. Quickly, she unbraided her hair, then headed back to the sitting room, where Christopher Winslow softly snored.

Stirring in his sleep, he took a deep breath and sighed before snoring again.

Julianne swallowed the unexpected lump in her throat as she stared down at her handiwork—at the lipstick stains, which looked stark and garish on his pale, warm skin. She took some cocktail napkins out of her apron and wiped off his chest. Reaching for his shoes, she took off one, then the other.

Then she tucked her phone in her pocket and ran from the cottage.

A blustery breeze from the Schuylkill blew her hair back from her face and made her eyes prickle as she reviewed the events of last night. She couldn’t explain the heavy weight in her stomach, the lump caught in her throat, or the painful burning of her eyes that she couldn’t honestly blame solely on the wind.

Even if he was a terrible person, what she’d done was ugly.

Righteous, but ugly.

She tried to find solace in the word
righteous
, but her mind kept skipping back to his face, to the gentleness of his voice, to the warmth of his eyes, to his genuine smile and the way he’d trusted her, winding his fingers through hers and following her through the woods.

He just didn’t
seem
like a bad person from what little she knew of him.

And therein lay the problem, she realized, with the sort of startling clarity that makes your stomach drop to your toes. She didn’t
know
him. She didn’t
know
Christopher Winslow at all. She hadn’t given him a chance to defend himself. Black Hat had been his judge and jury, and she’d been his executioner, without ever letting him open his mouth.