Smoke and Mirrors (13 page)

Rosemary's flirtatious smirk turned to a scowl. "Watch your damn mouth, Joe," she snapped, taking the seat next to Kay and putting an arm around her. "I don't trust Philips any more than you do, but it's just possible that I know him a little better. He's
perfectly dependable where his own self-interest is involved. He's had it in for Buzz Bennett ever since Buzz did that ghastly takeoff on him at the Press Club Dinner; I know, everybody is supposed to be a good sport about those things, but Philips—well, let's face it, Philips is not a good sport, and that was a particularly devastating imitation."

Joe's eyes gleamed with reminiscent pleasure. "Yeah. I loved every second of that routine. Of course old Buzz never wrote it himself—"

"No, he hired that young man from Boston U—the one whose Nixon record sold so well. That's not the point, nor does it matter
why
Philips is so supportive. I can use his support and I will, as long as it lasts—which, given Philips' reputation, may not be very long. You may not like it, Joe, and I certainly don't, but the brutal truth is that political analysts like Philips do affect public opinion. They don't exactly distort the facts, but by careful selection and interpretation they can make a saint look like Jack the Ripper and turn a catastrophe into a triumph. "

"Not to mention the equally brutal fact that a lot of idiots believe everything they read in the paper," Joe agreed sourly. "Okay, okay. You're right, I'm wrong. But you know something? I don't hate many people in this business, but I really do hate that son of a bitch."

"You amaze me," Rosemary exclaimed, and the last of the tension dissolved as they all laughed at Joe's look of surprise.

"Did you hear about Buzz's latest?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, it was on the late news," Joe answered, reaching for a cigar. "We heard it in the car coming home."

"We've been working on a statement," Jeff said.

"Good. Let's hear what you've got."

"Hold on a minute, ' Rosemary begged, sagging against the cushions. "Or ten, or maybe even fifteen? I need to unwind before we go back to work. I haven't even had a chance to ask Kay how she's feeling, or say hello to Erin. Hello, Erin. Kay, how's the hand?"

Kay began to talk, recounting in laborious detail all the problems that had arisen that day, and how she had handled them. Rosemary listened patiently, her eyes half closed.

"Anything to eat around here?" Joe asked. "I'm starved; don't
know why it is, but I never seem to get any food at those damn receptions."

"It's because you talk all the time," Nick said.

The same was probably true for Rosemary, Erin realized. She followed Joe to the kitchen, where she found Will filling a plate with cold turkey and salad.

"Hey, leave some for me," Joe said. "You've been noshing all
evening."

"This is for Rosemary," Will said. "I don't suppose she got anything to eat at that bash, she never does."

"How should I know? I'm not her mama," Joe grunted.

"Would she like coffee?" Erin asked, as Joe dived head-first into the refrigerator and began rummaging.

"A glass of milk, I think," Will answered. "Much more healthful."

Rosemary accepted the food with a smile of thanks and began to eat, slowly at first and then with increasing appetite. "Thanks, Will. That was just what I needed. Five more minutes, Joe, and I'm all yours—you lucky devil."

"Not that damned knitting," Joe grumbled, as she reached for the bag.

"Two rows, Joe."

She reached into the knitting bag and then recoiled with a muffled cry, jerking her hand out of the bag and dislodging an object that fell to the floor at her feet. "God! What is it?"

At first Erin thought, as Rosemary must have done, that the small, shapeless bundle was a mouse or some other creature. But it didn't move; it lay where it had fallen until Nick gingerly picked it up.

"It's just a bundle of rags," he announced, relieved. "No, wait a sec. It looks like ..." He turned it over and held it up, and its true character became apparent: a shapeless body wrapped in dusty cloth, a crude painted face, strands of black yarn for hair. . . . It's a doll," Nick said in a puzzled voice. "Cinderella? It's covered with ashes."

Like the others, Kay had leaned forward to stare at the thing. Nobody noticed what was happening until she slid to the floor in a dead faint.

4

Son of a bitch!"
Joe snatched the cigar from his mouth and hurled it across the room. "Down four points!"

The cigar landed on a pile of newspapers. Erin pounced like a cat, only to find that the disgusting object was thoroughly dead.

The others hadn't turned a collective hair. "I wish you wouldn't be so confounded dramatic," Jeff said crossly. He plucked the computer printouts from his superior's clenched fist and smoothed them out. "There's a three-point margin of error and you know we anticipated a slight drop; the last poll was taken right after Bennett's escapade hit the fan. He was bound to bounce back."

"Goddamn stupid voters," Joe grumbled. "Memories like sieves and brains like mush."

"I thought we weren't supposed to refer to voters that way," Nick said.

"You aren't. I can say anything I want." But Joe sounded less irate; he took a sip of coffee and recovered the printouts from Jeff. "Could be worse," he admitted, perusing them. "Allowing for the margin of error ..."

Erin had had another bad night. Kay had made light of her collapse: "Faint? Nonsense, I just lost my balance. So stupid of me. . . ." But Erin had felt she ought to leave the door open again, and although Kay had slept like a rock, thanks to the sleeping pill Rosemary insisted upon, she had snored mercilessly. Erin had crept downstairs at daybreak to find Nick and Jeff hunched over the table in the commons room plotting their counterattack on Bennett. She had ignored Nick's unsubtle hints about breakfast, but hunger finally drove her to the kitchen and it seemed rude to cook
for herself and not the others. Joe turned up shortly afterward, so she made bacon and eggs for him too.

"Yeah, it's about what we expected," he said finally. "Southside and the upper Valley. Bennett country. We'll have to make another swing south. Danville, Martinsville, Harrisonburg,
Roanoke ..."

"The TV spots are due to start next week," Nick said.

"Should have been this week."

"You know why it wasn't this week." Nick was on the defensive. "We didn't have the money. Then Rosemary objected to the format—"

"Okay, okay," Joe grunted.

Realizing she was unneeded and probably unwanted, Erin stacked the dishes and went upstairs to see if she could do anything for Kay. She found Kay up and looking for trouble. Her hair straggled down her back and she had thrown a robe around her shoulders. "There you are," she snapped. "I couldn't think where you'd got to."

The criticism and its corollary—that she should have stayed in her room awaiting Kay's commands—was infuriating, but Erin bit back the reply that had sprung to her lips. She mustn't let newly aroused sensibilities affect her judgment. Kay wasn't Nick; Kay could, and probably would, get her fired if she talked back. It was not until that moment that Erin realized, with genuine amazement, how desperately she wanted to keep her job. It involved unpleasant duties like waiting on Kay and putting up with her rudeness, but it also included times like that exhilarating hour the night before, when they had huddled around the table laughing themselves silly and plotting the downfall of Buzz Bennett.

"I brought you some coffee," she said stiffly. Oh. Kay had the decency to look embarrassed. "Sorry I snapped at you; I just hate being dependent on other people. I can't even do my hair by myself, and my room is a mess, and there's such a lot of work to do. ..."

Erin couldn't help thinking that it would have been easier to keep the room tidy if Kay had not been so addicted to little ruffled pillows and framed photographs and countless china, glass, and stuffed ornaments. At her suggestion Kay sat down at the dressing
table and sipped her coffee while she straightened the room. Kay watched her every move and made helpful suggestions. "That cushion with the cat on it goes on the chaise, not the chair. Just push that picture of Mr. Kennedy a little to the right—no, I mean the left. . . . You'd better strip the bed and remake it. I didn't do a very neat job. "

After she had brushed and arranged Kay's hair, Kay graciously dismissed her, and Erin made her escape. The others were hard at work on a tall stack of Sunday newspapers. Knowing she lacked the knowledge to assist in selecting pertinent articles and editorials, she stole the comic sections and retreated to Will's desk. An interlude with "Doonesbury" and "Bloom County" refreshed her. When Kay appeared, she was able to ask, quite pleasantly, what the other woman wanted for breakfast. She knew Kay was about to ask, or order, her to prepare something, and it gave her a small sense of satisfaction to play volunteer instead of servant.

Kay ordered a soft-boiled egg—"Exactly four minutes, Erin, I can't stand runny eggs—" and added, "Rosemary just has juice and coffee and a piece of toast. You might see if there are any of those muffins of Sarah's left. Warm them in the oven, the microwave makes them soggy."

It wasn't only the way she said it, it was what she said! Erin was washing dishes, amid a violent splashing of suds, when Jeff came to the kitchen in search of more coffee.

"Hey, you don't have to do that," he exclaimed. "Just stack them. Or, if you want to be truly noble and acquire Sarah's heartfelt thanks, rinse them and put them in the dishwasher."

"I wouldn't leave a mess like this for Sarah," Erin said.

Jeff put his hand on her shoulder. "I don't know what we did to deserve you. Everything is in such a state of chaos around here, we don't say thanks as often as we should, but believe me, we do appreciate what you're doing—and you."

His warm fingers moved to the curve between her neck and shoulder. "Mmmm," Erin murmured. "That's nice."

"You're all tensed up." His other hand found the corresponding muscles on her left shoulder and moved in slow rhythm. "Relax. There. How's that?"

"Lovely."

She was sorry when he took his hands away—for reasons she was in no mood to analyze. When he stepped back away from her she felt oddly chilled.

"Have you ever considered running for office yourself?" she asked, smiling at him over her shoulder.

"Who, me? I've got better sense."

The brief intimacy was gone and neither of them tried to recapture it. Erin thought he looked a little self-conscious. Afraid she would mistake his kindness for something else?

"I'll bring the coffee when it's ready," she said.

"Thanks. '

She made fresh coffee and carried the pot into the commons room just as Rosemary entered. She was wearing a demure dark-navy print dress with a lace collar, a navy hat with a veil, and white gloves.

"What's that in aid of?" Joe asked. "You don't have to get all gussied up for me."

"I had someone a little higher up in mind," Rosemary said, rolling her eyes heavenward. "It's Sunday, in case you've forgotten. I'm going to church."

"Church? Church!" Joe's voice rose. "For Christ's sake, Rosie—"

"Precisely," Rosemary agreed. She stripped off her gloves. "Is there any . . . Oh, thanks, Erin. I hope these louts thanked you properly for feeding them—if it was you, which I assume it was, since Joe can't cook and Jeff won't eat unless someone shoves a plate in front of him, and Nick's culinary talents run to omelettes bulging with unseemly vegetables."

Her attempt to distract Joe didn't work. "You can't go to church," he bellowed. "Have you seen the latest polls? We need to plan another series of speeches—"

"Later."

"Not later, now. There isn't time—"

Goddamn it, Joe!" Rosemary slammed the empty juice glass down on the table. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do! I missed last week and the week before—"

"So what?" So what about my image?" Rosemary's voice was higher in
pitch, but even more penetrating than Joe's. "You're always bellyaching about images. It's important—"

"Not as important as that five-point drop—"

"Four," Jeff murmured.

Erin was the only one who heard him. Rosemary's cheeks were crimson with rage; she looked magnificent, like a miniature Medea. The argument climaxed in a ringing crash as Rosemary picked up the empty juice glass and heaved it into the fireplace.

Silence fell like a pall.

"Well, for God's sake," Joe said. "If you feel that strongly about it, why didn't you say so?"

Rosemary told him to do something that was anatomically impossible. Kay gasped, Joe hooted with laughter, and everybody relaxed.

Rosemary caught Erin's eye. "Excuse my language," she said primly.

"I'll-uh-make toast," Erin muttered, and fled.

Nick followed her to the kitchen. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"What kind of prude do you think I am?" Erin demanded.

"A cute, adorable, innocent kind of prude." He slipped his arms around her and kissed her on the ear.

"Stop that!"

"It's okay," Nick mumbled into her neck. "I'm listening. If somebody comes—"

"I don't care about that. " She wriggled away from him and stood at bay, her back to the counter. "I mean, I do care about having people catch me behaving like an adolescent jerk, but that wasn't— How dare you talk to me that way?"

Nick flung his arms wide and looked hurt. "What did I say?"

"Cute, innocent, adorable ..."

"Ah." Nick tugged thoughtfully at a lock of hair. "Sexism again. And who was it, a short while ago, who yelled when I said she was a feminist? Make up your mind. "

"How about you making up your mind? One minute you talk to me like a human being, you expect some evidence of intelligence—and the next minute you're grunting into my ear and calling me cute."

Nick considered the speech. "You may have a point."

"Huh?"

"Don't look so surprised. I am not impervious to reason, or so damned arrogant I can't admit I was wrong."

"Oh. Well ..."

"It's true I haven't got my emotions straight on this liberation bit," Nick continued. "I mean, injustice to anybody—black, white, or purple; male, female, or other—gets my blood boiling. But when it comes to personal relationships I seem to have trouble figuring out how to behave. Vive la difference, right? Maybe my problem lies in—"

"Oh, Nick, knock it off. I don't want to discuss your psychological problems, I want to make sure Rosemary eats something. And you're standing in front of the toaster."

Nick turned, plucked the toast from the slots, and reached for the butter. "You looked so shocked," he said, chuckling. "When Rosemary pitched the glass into the fireplace. You better get used to scenes like that. She has a quick temper, and Joe gets her madder, faster, than anybody else."

"I don't blame her. It wasn't so much what he said—though that was bad enough—bossy, arrogant man!—it was his tone of voice."

"He's noted for it," Nick said. "He's been fired by more candidates than any other guy in the business. He's brilliant, but he gets people's backs up. Do you want to go to church?"

The abrupt change of subject caught Erin by surprise. "Not especially."

"The church is worth seeing. It's an historic building that Ed Marshall helped to restore and reconsecrate. He's buried in the cemetery there."

"Oh, really? Is it the traditional family burial ground?" I don't think so." Obviously Nick had never given the matter much thought and didn't intend to do so now. He added, Rosemary tries to go every week. Makes a great impression on the voters."

Don't you people ever do anything without calculating its effect on the voters?"

Rosemary's reasons for going to church are her own business," Nick said. "But sometimes good politics simply consists of doing the right thing. Did you ever think of that?"

"No."

"Think about it then. Honest to God, Erin, a person can get too cynical!"

"Sez who? Does she visit her husband's grave?"

"I don't know. Why don't you come along and find out?"

"Maybe I will. I'll ask Kay if it's all right."

Kay pondered the question as solemnly as if she had been asked to pronounce on some issue vital to national policy, but Rosemary interrupted her discussion with Joe long enough to nod approval. "A sweet innocent young girl will add a nice touch, won't she, Joe? 'Rosemary Marshall Helps American Youth Find Jesus. . . .'
“

"Smart ass," Joe said amiably.

Suspecting that Rosemary's remark had been intended as a tactful hint as well as a dig at Joe, Erin selected a demure Laura Ashley print with a high neck and long sleeves. In lieu of a hat— an article of clothing she did not possess—she pinned a black satin bow onto her head. When she joined the other women on the porch, Kay looked her over from head to foot (low-heeled plain black pumps) and indicated she would pass. "I don't suppose you have a handkerchief. Young women never seem to carry handkerchiefs. Here, I brought an extra."

She always has to find something to correct, Erin thought, accepting the linen square. But this time Kay's criticism didn't irritate her; it was reminiscent of all the grandmas and maiden aunts she had ever met, more amusing than annoying.

Nick, looking immensely dignified in a three-piece gray suit, drove up in one of the cars and got out to help the women in. Kay and Rosemary sat in the back; Erin joined Nick in the front seat. The car was an Oldsmobile—nothing flashy like a Cadillac or Lincoln, Erin thought cynically. Image, always the image.

Nick drove impeccably, back straight, both hands on the wheel, eyes front. When he spoke it was out of the corner of his mouth. "You look terrific. That's a pretty dress—if you don't mind my sounding like a sexist pig. "

"If you don't know the difference between an acceptable compliment and a sexist remark, you'd better start learning," Erin retorted in the same undertone. "You look adorable yourself. I rather thought you'd appear in a chauffeur's uniform, though."

"Heaven forfend," Nick said piously. "We're just folks, we don't go in for fancy touches like that. Did you ever hear the story about the jar of caviar that defeated an incumbent senator from North Carolina? His opponent waved it at the voters and bellowed, " 'Cam eats Red Russian fish eggs that cost two dollars! (Weren't those the good old days?) Do you want a senator who's too high and mighty to eat good old North Carolina hen eggs?' '

Erin's laughter was echoed by Rosemary's; leaning forward, the congresswoman said, "Tell her about Vic Meyers, Nick."

"Who was he?" Erin asked. "Should I know?"

"Not really," Nick said. "He ran for mayor of Seattle back in 1932. But he carried on the wildest political campaign of all time. He used to drive around town on a beer wagon, making speeches at street corners; once a wheel came off, and Vic fell out of the wagon, along with two kegs of beer. Whereupon he yelled, 'Drink is my downfall; vive le downfall!' '

"I'd love to do something like that," Rosemary said wistfully. "Tell her about the Gandhi stunt, Nick."

"No time, we're almost there, ' Nick said. "It wouldn't look right for us to arrive at church howling with laughter."

The church was as attractive as Nick had promised, and under ordinary circumstances Erin would have admired the rural setting, the simple dignity of the small red brick building and slender white spire, and the quiet graveyard sheltered by overhanging boughs of oak and maple and pine. As they made the turn and the church came into view, Nick let out an exclamation. "Something's happened. Rosemary, did you—"

"No. Stop here, Nick."

He had no choice. The crowd at the gate had spilled out into the drive and a van with prominent blue lettering blocked the way. Almost as prominent, in the forefront of the spectators, was a young man carrying a video camera with a portapak slung over his shoulder.