November Surprise (11 page)

“That’s okay,” I say. “I forgive you.”

“For what?”

I exhale with exaggerated exasperation. “Waking me up,
yelling at me, and comparing me to Judy Woodruff.”

“I didn’t compare you to her. If I had, you’d know that I
think you’re far sexier.”

I feel my cheeks flush at his compliment, and I can’t help
feeling pleased even though I know he’s punchy, sleep deprived, and I shouldn’t
take anything he has to say seriously.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’d tell you that you’re far more
attractive than Tom Brokaw, but I hate it when people return compliments for
compliments. It always sounds so empty.”

“I don’t mind empty compliments. Do you really think I’m
hotter than Tom Brokaw?”

“Totally.”

“Good,” he says. “Why aren’t
you here?” His question is rhetorical, and I don’t answer. Instead I stretch my
legs out and lie down on my couch. My eyes are pointed toward the ceiling now,
instead of at the television. For the first time all day, I feel comfortable.

A week later we still don’t know who is president. I have
heard nothing from Monty since our early morning phone call on the eighth, and
although I’m not surprised, I feel like I planned a picnic for a beautiful day
in February, and now I’m bummed that it’s actually cold out.
Anyone could have seen that coming,
I
tell myself. Get over it.

What’s worse is I have my second appointment with Dr. Rudolf
to look forward to this afternoon.

“Lucy, did you call the mayor’s office and clear the plans
for Teen Week?” My boss, Naomi, is standing at my desk and staring down at me;
her eyes are squinted up like she has a headache. Naomi is super-tall and she
used to model around twenty years ago, back in her late teens/early twenties.
She has a lot of nervous energy, so I find it hard to imagine her ever standing
still long enough for the pictures to be taken. She’s gorgeous though, which
makes her intimidating when you first meet her, but I’ve known her for close to
ten years, so I’m past that. Now she’s like a good friend who gets to tell me
what to do.

“Not yet,” I respond.

She grabs my stapler and starts to open it and close it,
open and close it. “Well, could you do that today please? Before you go.”

“Actually, no. I have my second appointment with Dr. Rudolf
this afternoon. I have to leave in a few minutes.”

Click goes my stapler. Click again as she swings it open and
shut, open and shut. I resist the urge to swipe it from her only because she is
my boss.

“Dr. Rudolf? Isn’t he great? Tell him I say hi.”

I grunt out a sarcastic little laugh and she raises her
eyebrows at me.

I respond to her silent question. “He’s not nice! You told
me he wouldn’t yell at me, and he totally did! ‘You’re in trouble!’ he kept
saying. Over and over! And his nurse rolled her eyes because she had to suction
my mouth so much. They were silently making fun of me for having so much drool.
It was awful! Now I’m stuck going there, and he’s going to give me several
fillings, and possibly a root canal.”

“Wow. Your teeth must be in really bad shape.” She’s
swinging my stapler now, and I stand up and snatch it from her.

“You’re going to break my stapler.”

Naomi holds both hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry. Is
something else wrong, Lucy? You seem really tense.”

I suppose I am. After a week of being glued to the
television, radio, and internet, trying to find whatever news coverage I can,
and hearing about Florida recounts, hanging chads, and the biased leadership of
Florida Attorney General Katherine Harris, my endurance for this election saga
is beginning to wane. Add to that my increased confusion over whether or not I
should call Monty since he hasn’t called me, and my growing dread at this
afternoon’s appointment with Dr. Rudolf, I think
tense
is an appropriate description for myself.

“This has been a challenging week.”

Naomi nods her head. “Have you stepped away from the news
coverage?”

“Of course!” I inhale deeply and make a conscious effort to
keep my voice lower and steady. “I’m not always watching the news…”

“I don’t mean when you’re at work,” says Naomi. She points a
well-manicured finger at me. “You are obsessed. It’s time to gain some
perspective.”

“I have perspective, Naomi. I don’t need any more.”

“Lucy, other than when you’re sleeping, showering, or
sitting at your desk, how often have you had the news turned off?”

I think for a moment. She didn’t include going to the
bathroom, but I doubt that time really counts. Besides, since I live alone I
can leave the lavatory door open, and with the volume turned up on my
television it’s completely possible to hear everything they’re saying on CNN.

My shoulders sag. The first
step is admitting you have a problem. “I have to go,” I say. “I’ll give Dr.
Rudolf your regards.”

I get home a little past 6:00. My appointment started
earlier in the afternoon than last week’s had, but it lasted longer since I
needed three fillings. Dr. Rudolf gave me a fluoride capsule where I cracked my
tooth, and he pasted it back together as best he could without doing an actual
root canal.

“I don’t think this will work,” he said. “You’ll probably
still need the root canal. You’ll be very lucky if you don’t. Don’t be so
careless in the future.”

I know he was talking only about cavities, but I start
getting all philosophical. Where would I be if I wasn’t so careless, so
complacent? Several years ago I thought I was invincible, eating sugary candy
and having one night stands with my best friend’s brother, like both my teeth
and my heart would sustain no injuries. And when I heard about George W. Bush,
this rising star in the Republican Party who everyone wants to sit and have a
beer with, I wasn’t worried because life was good, and I had gotten used to success.
Now I’m trying to get Dr. Rudolf’s scolding out of my head, and I’m casting off
all future Tootsie Pops and Starbursts. But I can’t quiet the voice that is
telling me over and over:
It’s too late.
The damage is done
.

I check my voice mail. One new message.

“Hi Lucy, it’s Naomi. I feel bad about Dr. Rudolf, and I
have an idea for how to make it up to you. Give me a call.”

My entire body sags. Calling Naomi often takes a long time,
and I’m not in the mood. I’d rather curl up with some scrambled eggs and CNN,
but she’s my boss, and if she says to call her, I call her.

She answers on the first ring.

“How are your teeth?”

“Fixedth, for now. But the novaciane sthill hasn’th worn
off, tho iths thort of hard for me thoo talk.”

“Right, okay. I’ll keep it short then. What would you
think…” she pauses for emphasis, and when she continues talking her voice has
raised an octave. “… about going to New York with me?”

Naomi has been planning a trip to NYC for several months. We
got a grant to visit and observe some of their more successful community
organizations so we can copy their methods. She’s been super excited about it,
planning both her work and her shopping itinerary.

“I don’ understhan. There’th money for tha?

“We’ll find the money. It’s doable. And Lucy, you seriously
need a change of scenery. What do you think? We’d leave in a couple of days.”

I know Naomi. As generous as she is, I have a hard time
believing she’s offering me this trip out of the goodness of her heart. “Whath
the real reathon you want me to go?”

“I just told you.”

“Tho there ithn’t any other reathon?”

She sighs. “Fine. I just found out that the Bryant Agency is
expecting a full, formal report of our trip, including the minutes of all our
meetings. If we don’t do it, we can never expect to get grant money from them
again. So I need your help documenting everything.”

I close my eyes. Writing reports is the most tedious aspect
of my job. Besides, I have several meetings next week I’d have to reschedule.
And in New York, with Naomi around, it will be hard to watch the news every
waking moment that I’m not working. I open my mouth to say no when the
realization hits me like a rock in the soft spot of my head.
Monty’s in New York.

“I’d love thoo,” I say.

“That’s my girl!” Naomi is nearly squealing. “This will be
so amazing!”

She goes on about what we’ll do, where we’ll stay, getting
me a plane ticket, etc, etc, but I barely hear her because I’m composing the
phone message I’ll leave for Monty in my mind. Or what if he picks up when I
call? Which would be better? God, I hope it doesn’t turn out to be awkward.

“So we’ll talk more tomorrow, okay Lucy?”

I agree and we hang up. And for
once I don’t immediately turn on the news.

On November 20th Naomi and I arrive in NYC, and we spend our
days observing neighborhood programs in different areas of the city. We take
cabs and subways, eat our lunch standing up in crowded bagel stands, discuss
the effects of poverty on community outreach, and the merits of funding youth
arts programs and social programs for senior citizens. We eat dinner in darkly
lit restaurants on our own dime, skipping dessert and usually arriving back at
our hotel by 8:00.

On Thursday evening, my last night in the city, I tell Naomi
I’m seeing an old friend, and I go to meet Monty at an Italian restaurant in
Brooklyn. After a week of slick, polished surfaces and rushing to keep pace on
whatever sidewalk I’m walking down, it’s comforting to enter this place with
red-checkered table cloths, Frank Sinatra music, and vintage photography
hanging on the walls. Monty is already at a table; he and a bottle of wine are
waiting expectantly for me.

His face lights up when I approach him, and he stands up to
greet me. “Lucy, so good to see you!” He pulls me into a hug, and that warms me
even more than the coziness of the restaurant does.

“It’s good to see you too,” I say into his neck. He loosens
his grip around me, and plants a kiss on my forehead. Very big-brother-like.

We sit down. In the year since I’ve seen him he hasn’t
changed much. He still looks younger than his years, and he still has the same
big green eyes framed by long lashes, same warm smile, same easy confidence.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Fine,” I tell him. He nods and simultaneously stares into
my eyes. Like he’s challenging me.

“What?” I ask.

He breaks his gaze, and grabs the wine bottle. “Do you want
some wine? You like Merlot, right?”

“I do.”

He smiles and pours me a glass. “I know it’s not exactly
hip. And in retrospect, I could have had you meet me somewhere much more
sophisticated. But I love this place.”

“It’s perfect. And if you’re anything like your brother, you
don’t care about what’s hip or sophisticated. I’ve always loved that about
Jack.”

“Yeah, me too.” He takes a sip of his wine and leans back in
his chair. I take in his whole appearance: his thick dark hair that hangs just
slightly over his ears, his face that’s become subtly lined with both tension
and laughter, the rolled up sleeves, the loosened tie, and the friendly
strength he seems to effortlessly exude.

“Thanks for coming all the way to Brooklyn, Lucy. I feel bad
that I wasn’t able to meet you before this…”

“I was in Brooklyn today anyway, meeting with some of their
community organizers. It’s really no problem.”

I take a drink of my wine and he stretches his neck, and for
an awkward moment I worry we’ll have nothing to talk about.

“You look tired,” I say.

He looks me in the eyes, again with that intense gaze, and
he shakes his head.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t go on about it tonight. I
really do want to hear about how you are.”

“You wouldn’t go on about what, Monty?”

He slumps a little, then waves his arms up in resignation.
“The election. It’s seriously all I can think about. The fucking election.”

I laugh and he leans in, like he’s about to share some deep,
dark secret. “We’ve been flooded, you know. All sorts of complaints about voter
suppression.”

By “we” I’m sure he means the ACLU. “All the way up here in
New York?”

“Mostly down in Florida, but we’ve of course heard about it.
Did you know Attorney General Katherine Harris purged over 20,000 names from
the registry in Florida? Anyone whose name
resembled
the name of a convicted felon was vulnerable. Innocent people were turned away
at the polls, and of course most of them were poor, black, or both.”

“I’ve heard about that…”

He taps his fingers against the table. “Do you realize where
the ballots with hanging or dimpled chads are most likely to show up? In the
counties where the ballot machines are old and need replacing. Again, the poor,
black neighborhoods were hit. So they’re doing this recount with no consistent
standard for interpreting voter intent, and the Republicans are contesting
every single ballot that doesn’t go their way, so of course there’s no way
we’ll meet the November 26th deadline.” Monty stops talking for a moment and
takes a deep breath, like an underwater swimmer coming up for air. Then he
plunges back into the deep. “And don’t get me started on Palm Beach and their
asinine butterfly ballot! How many people were confused and voted for Pat
Buchanan instead of Gore? We’ll never know, but over 19,000 votes were tossed
out because people voted twice. I can’t stop obsessing over it.”

He lets his eyes roll up so his gaze is now focused on the
ceiling, and he taps his fingers against the table some more, nervous energy
winning the battle to escape. The waiter comes over. “Are you two ready to
order?”

I realize I haven’t even looked at the menu. “Maybe give us
a minute?”

The waiter nods and walks away. I reach out to Monty,
grabbing his left hand, the tapping hand, which both physically calms and
compels him to look back at me.