Waltzing at Midnight (8 page)

“Where’s Rosalind?” she asked authoritatively.

“Hello,” I said, stepping out from the table. “I’m Jean, Rosie’s campaign manager. Can I help you?”

“I am Dr. Patel,” said the woman, her accent subtly English.

“And I’m here to see Rosalind. Ah, I see she’s in her office.”

The woman brushed rapidly past us and let herself into Rosie’s office, shutting the door immediately behind her. Faye looked at me, startled.

“Do you know who that is?” I asked.

“Yes,” Faye replied, and with dramatic emphasis and a flourish of her arm, she said, “That is Dr. Patel!”

Faye then giggled at herself and I laughed obligingly.

“I only know her by reputation,” I said. “She’s a huge contributor to Rosie’s campaign. I think she’s a pediatrician. Has an office in that new medical building over by the hospital.”

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Faye nodded thoughtfully, then said, “I guess I won’t be running into her at Wal-Mart anytime soon then. I’d better get to work, Jean. See you later.”

After about fifteen minutes, Rosie and Dr. Patel emerged.

“Nothing to worry about, dear,” Dr. Patel was saying. “Let’s get together as soon as this is over for dinner or something. Why does it always have to be business?”

“You’re right, Chandra,” Rosie said. The two of them hugged one another familiarly, and then Dr. Patel glanced briefly at me before walking out.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“She’s just checking on her investment,” Rosie said. “Wanted to see the bottomless pit that she threw all that money down, I guess. Of course, she knew the risk and agreed from the beginning that we shouldn’t go public with my sexual orientation. Chandra’s a good friend. She was concerned about me, actually, how I’m holding up. And she wanted to know how they found out. I wish I knew.”

After Rosie returned to her office, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. Tina was at her desk, silently doing something on her computer. No one else was there. Even the television was turned off. We no longer wanted to hear the news, apparently.

I ate my lunch while working the newspaper crossword. Rosie came out of her office around noon, saying to Tina, “I’m going over to the printer’s to pick up an order.” This would be an order for her advertising business, as Rosie had shifted her attention away from the campaign now and back to her regular work.

“Do you want me to go?” Tina asked.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll get lunch on my way back.” Rosie turned to me and glanced at the crossword puzzle, which was almost completed. “You’re doing that in ink?”

“I always do.”

“Wow!” She shook her head. “Those things are way beyond me. You’ve got to know far too many obscure words.”

“I guess,” I said. “But I’m sure you know a lot more obscure words than I do, with your knowledge of arts, literature, languages 5

and all that.”

Rosie smiled crookedly at me. “Bildungsroman,” she said. It was a challenge.

“Coming-of-age story,” I said calmly, pleased with myself.

Rosie laughed and nodded approvingly at me. “You want anything while I’m out, Jean?”

I shook my head. I finished the puzzle and my sandwich, my mind preoccupied with the disaster that this campaign had become. Clark had been right. The voters felt cheated. I had even spoken to a couple of gay men who were still undecided, citing Rosie’s denial of her sexual identity as a disappointment. They were young men and their experience of living as homosexuals had to be vastly different than Rosie’s had been at their age. But I was in no position to argue this case. I was unqualified and didn’t pretend to fully understand either her rationale or theirs.

When Rosie returned with a box from the printer and a paper bag from Burger Barn, she walked straight over to me and said,

“Trompe d’oeil.”

Her pronunciation was so perfectly French that I hesitated because my knowledge of terms like this was strictly as they were written. “A trick of the eye,” I said, after visualizing the phrase,

“an optical illusion, like in a painting.”

“Ha!” she said, gleefully. “So you don’t know obscure words, huh?”

As though she had somehow tricked me, Rosie strode into her office in triumph. I smiled to myself as I opened the mail. And, then, quite suddenly, like one of those lightbulbs over a cartoon character’s head, I had an idea. I jumped out of my chair and rushed into Rosie’s office. She was eating her hamburger while watching a demo commercial on her DVD player. She pressed the pause button on the remote control as I entered.

“
Coup de main
!” I said.

Rosie looked puzzled, unsure how to play this game. “Okay,”

she said tentatively. “Surprise attack?”

I nodded, excited. “Mike Garcia.”

Rosie put her hamburger down. “What about him?”

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“Would he be a good mayor?”

Rosie shrugged. She seemed annoyed with me. She didn’t want to think about the election. “I don’t know. What difference does it make? He doesn’t have a chance. He’s farther behind than I am, even after all of this.”

“But what’s your opinion of him?”

“He seems okay. He’s honest, smart. He doesn’t have any experience, really, but with the right people around him, he’d be effective, I think. His political views are agreeable. At least he probably wouldn’t run the city into the ground like Kiester is doing.”

“Why’s he doing so poorly, then?”

“He doesn’t have a lot of money. He doesn’t have the name recognition either Kiester or I have. In this kind of race, people focus on the two most popular candidates and don’t pay any attention to the others. And, as far as politics goes, his stand on most of the issues is similar to mine, so he isn’t offering a real alternative.”

“Then why didn’t the votes you lost go to him?”

Rosie sighed. “I assume the voters just didn’t think of it. Like I said, it’s been a two-person race. Kiester and I have spent all of our time and money attacking each other. We have completely neglected Mike, so nobody else has noticed him either.” Rosie narrowed her eyes at me. “Jean, what are you thinking?”

“Let’s get him elected,” I said.

She stared. She said nothing. Then, seeming to understand what I was saying, she shook her head. “Oh, no, Jean, it’s crazy.

There’s no time left.”

“Your primary concern is getting Kiester out, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sure, but…”

“Then let’s put Garcia in. I know we can do it. People don’t really like Kiester. They liked you. They have probably taken their votes to Kiester very reluctantly. Show them they have another choice.”

“Are you suggesting I drop out of the race and endorse him?”

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“No, no, that’s not what I’m proposing. I don’t think that would do it. I’m suggesting sucking Kiester’s support away, to you where possible, to Garcia where possible. I’m suggesting a ferociously aggressive strike against him, a consolidated strike that will hit him so hard he’ll be down for the count before he even knew he was in the ring.”

“A cooperative effort?” A flicker of a smile came to Rosie’s lips. “Yes, exactly.”

“Hmm. Now that is an intriguing idea. Oh, Jean, it’s impossible. If we had more time, maybe.”

“We can try. We don’t have to just give up and play dead.

There’s a little fight left in you, isn’t there, Rosie?”

She hesitated, then looked at me slyly. “You’re really something,” she said. “Okay, Jean, you’ve got it. Arrange a meeting with Garcia tonight. I want you there. And nobody else can know about this. Tell Foster we’re back on for the interview as planned.

We may still have a couple of tricks up our sleeve, after all.”

Rosie was flushed, motivated, herself again. I was elated.

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We met Mike Garcia and his manager, George Appleton, in my living room to avoid detection. Amy and Jerry went out to dinner at my bidding so we’d have the place to ourselves. This was the first time Rosie had been to my house, and it was all very exciting because it was clandestine and because it was my own plan they were going to discuss. Everyone was there on time at seven. Garcia was a handsome young man with dark eyes and a firm, clean-shaven chin.

“So what’s this about?” Appleton asked Rosie once we were all settled. He was clearly on guard.

“We want to join forces with you against Kiester,” Rosie said bluntly. “I want to help Mike win the election.”

The two men did not hide their amazement. “Why?” Garcia asked.

“Because I’ve lost my chance at it. You haven’t.”

“But I’m way behind,” he said. “I’m behind you, Rosie.”

“I know. But we can change that. At least Jean thinks we can, and I trust her instincts.” Rosie glanced at me and the look she 62

gave me washed over me like a warm bath. She looked back at the two men and leaned toward them. “Tomorrow I’m going to tape an interview with David Foster. In it, I’m going to confirm the rumor, give them what they want to hear and the only thing they care about now. I expect that to prompt the gay community to come out on my side. Right now, they’re lukewarm about me because I haven’t come out in public.”

Garcia and Appleton sat transfixed. Rosie had them in her spell. “They’ll swing instantly behind me,” Rosie continued.

“Gays and lesbians are more politically active than many groups, unlike, for instance, Latinos. That’s another issue we need to address. You’ve got to get the Hispanic community to the voting booths. Only fifteen percent turned out in the last local election. When you consider that we have a forty-three percent minority population here, their potential strength, if they vote, is enormous. We’ve got to get them to the polls. If we can do that, you win. It’s as simple as that.”

“Rosie,” Garcia said, looking suddenly boyish, “I don’t have any money.”

“I know that, Mike. That’s why I’m going to be campaigning for you too. My staff is your staff. In the interview tomorrow, we’ll get David Foster to ask me something about you. I’ll say you’re a decent fellow. I can’t exactly appear to endorse you, but it will have the same effect. It will get people looking at you. And then we both attack Kiester. I’ll draw back some of my support in the time that’s left. You’ll draw the rest, and together we’ll bury him.”

Garcia and Appleton looked at each other wordlessly.

“You do want the job, don’t you?” Rosie asked.

“Yes, yes, I do. I just never thought I had a chance.”

“You do, Mike. You’re the long shot who’s going to come from behind and sweep the race.” Rosie shook his hand warmly.

She was beautiful—buoyant and vibrant. She flashed me a brilliant smile.

The following day we went to the television studio. I was nervous. So was she. The set was furnished with a chair for the 63

guest, a chair for Foster, a coffee table containing a water pitcher and glasses, and an artificial plant. Rosie went in for makeup before the show and came out a few minutes before airtime, looking splendid in black slacks, a conservative tan jacket and a print blouse. Before taking her chair, she winked in my direction.

There was no audience, just the crew. The interview would be taped and aired later, before the local news. I had already spoken to Foster and prepared him. It had been no problem getting Rosie’s cancelled time slot back once I explained what we wanted to do. Foster promised to take it easy on Rosie. He could afford to, as he was getting such a scoop—Rosie would be coming out on his show.

As the cameras hummed, he introduced her and began to chat about the course of the election. She sat with her legs crossed, looking relaxed. How did she do it? I was so nervous that I’d pushed my thumb through my Styrofoam coffee cup without even being aware of it until the coffee started running across my hand.

“Your popularity has declined dramatically,” Foster said,

“since speculation about your sexual orientation surfaced. In the only public statement you’ve made on the subject, you refused to address it. That has led, predictably, to further speculation that by not denying the rumor, you’re confirming it. Would you like to comment?”

Rosie turned to face the camera. “Unfortunately for me and unfortunately for the citizens of Weberstown, that issue has taken precedence over the real issues in this campaign. I haven’t changed my opinion that it’s irrelevant, but a lot of people disagree. They seem to think that my reticence to discuss my sex life is a form of deceit.”

“So you’re seeing this as a matter of trust between you and the voters?”

“Yes. I believe people understand what’s important for our city, that they’ll vote fairly and intelligently if they feel trust.

Because I need and want that trust, I’m now prepared to address the issue of my sexual orientation.”

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David Foster looked into the camera and raised his eyebrows, a rather comical expression meant to lock the listeners’ attention.

Then he turned back to Rosie. “So you admit that you’re gay,”

he said.

“‘Admit’ is a poor choice of words. I’m not ashamed. Yes, I’m a lesbian. It happens to be one fact about me. I regret very much that it has become the focal point of my campaign because it really has nothing to do with being mayor.”

“Some people would disagree with that statement, Rosie.

They point to your association with such people as Catherine Gardiner, whose politics are extreme and unpopular.”

“My friendship with Catherine occurred many years ago and I never shared her politics. I know that some people equate homosexuality with a certain set of political views, but my politics are strictly my own. They’re no one else’s agenda. My values are the same as other Weberstown residents.” Rosie was insistent and sincere. “I want safe neighborhoods for our children. I want education to be available and effective. I want the arts to flourish.