The Immigrant’s Daughter (13 page)

Sam hugged him.

“Never mind the display. Come around and stuff some envelopes.”

“You two are serious about this, aren't you?”

“Look around you,” Freddie said. “Does it look like a joke?”

“You really think you can win?”

“We know we can win.”

“Nobody else does.”

“For Christ's sake, Sam!” Freddie exclaimed. “Which side are you on?”

“I try to be objective.”

Somewhat later, driving Barbara across the district to Fremont High School, Freddie said, “I shouldn't have shot my mouth off at Sam.”

“That's all right,” Barbara said. “He can use a kick in his backside. On the other hand, I think you're angry about his leaving Carla.”

“I won't deny that. I like Carla — always have.”

“Talk to him about it. It was a mutual thing. Don't keep things inside of you. Talk to me. You didn't like that TV interview one damn bit, did you?”

“Not much, since you put it that way.”

“Why?”

“Because you're way out ahead. You can't do that. You talk about an atomic exchange that will end life on earth — all life. People just don't believe that.”

“Three scientists I spoke to, over at Stanford, do.”

“Then they have to say it. You talk about what's going on in Central America and how we knocked over the democratic government of Guatemala in ‘fifty-two and how Kissinger did the same thing with the CIA in Chile three years ago, and that's all right if people read the
L.A. Times
carefully and balance it with other things. But the average voter doesn't, and in your district he probably never sees the
L.A. Times
unless he's a teacher or some other similar type, who'll vote for you anyway, and if you're going to mention the
L.A. World
, the same thing applies. That stuff went over all right when the Vietnam War was running, because that was such a pile of deceit and bloody crap that the public was ready to believe anything about the CIA antics. But what matters here are the bread-and-butter issues, the price of food and gasoline, the Social Security mess, the ERA, unemployment, energy, things they can see and touch, a federal day care program, crime — these are the nitty-gritty. Now I think Carter's going to get elected, because I think most people are beginning to believe what Johnson said about Jerry Ford, that he can't walk and chew gum at the same time, and Carter's made a top priority thing out of dumping on Washington. It's popular. Blame the nonproducing bums down there. Whip the hell out of them. Call up Watergate. It doesn't make much sense, but the citizens love it because they're always on the short end while Washington eats steak every day —” He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. “I've said too much, haven't I? I wouldn't blame you if you kicked me out on my butt right now.”

That was her first impulse. She was heartsick and filled with anger. How did he dare talk to her like this, a kid whose nose was hardly dry? But as she listened to him, she realized that he made sense, that he was not such a kid and that he had been around and paid his dues and seen things and places. When he finished, instead of bursting out, Barbara closed her eyes and sat quietly and thought about what he had said.

When she didn't speak, Freddie said hopelessly, “I never wanted to see you in this position. I love you. We all love you. But now you're in it.”

“That's right. I'm in it. What you say is true. Thank you, Freddie.”

She had gotten it out. I think I'm growing up, she said to herself. And it's about time.

Four

T
hey had hired, on Moretti's recommendation, a young man named Mort Gilpin as fund-raiser. He was a well set-up fellow, with a beard; he wore three-piece suits and he came off as knowing everyone in the Bay Area who had a bit of extra money to put into a political campaign. The first week, he brought in twelve thousand dollars. He told Freddie that this was only a token of what he would do, and Freddie was impressed.

“I like her,” Gilpin said to Freddie. “That's why I'm in this, believe me. For an old girl like her to sound off and get around the way she does —”

“Just hold it,” Freddie told him. “You don't talk about her like that, and don't push anything when you talk to her.”

“As long as I bring it in.”

“Work through me,” Freddie said.

But it was on the basis of what Gilpin did that Freddie went out on a limb and bought eleven thirty-second spots, prime time, on the local independent TV station, for a hundred thousand dollars. It was a tremendous bargain, as he told Barbara, because while this independent station did mostly reruns, they had picked up some worthy stuff from Thames TV in London and at least six of the spots would frame the imported TV shows.

“But we don't have a hundred thousand dollars,” Barbara said worriedly. “Or do we?”

“I put down ten percent, which nearly cleans us out, but it's coming in. Gilpin is doing a fabulous job.”

“He's like so many of the young men around the party,” Barbara said. “Talks very fast, keeps quoting statistics and graphs and demographics and appears to be absolutely unaware that the voters we deal with are living people.”

“The wave of the future,” Freddie said.

“Heaven help us.”

“But don't underestimate Mort. He's good.”

The advertising agency that prepared the commercial spots depressed Barbara even more. The script called for her to be talking to a group of students, six male, four female, seated as for a seminar around a long table. “Which, of course, will be in our studio. But the effect will be absolutely valid.” Like Gilpin, they talked fast, quoted figures and suggested that she take a half hour with the script. “No great study,” they assured her. “We know how busy you are, Miss Lavette. We do a tiny piece at a time — for a total of thirty seconds, including establishment and close-up. So there's really nothing to memorize.”

They handed her the script. They had asked that she wear a gray suit, if she had one, with a white blouse. She had one. She sat in her gray suit in the cold, smelly, air-conditioned studio and read the script:

MALE STUDENT:
I'm graduating this semester, Miss Lavette. I'm getting married and I have tuition debts. Will you vote to raise taxes?

LAVETTE:
I see no necessity to.

FEMALE STUDENT:
Are you for the ERA?

LAVETTE:
Absolutely. I was a pioneer in the fight for women's rights.

MALE STUDENT:
Offshore drilling. Are you for or against it?

LAVETTE:
Our beaches and ocean water are gifts from God.

FEMALE STUDENT:
Abortion? What is your position?

LAVETTE:
I abhor the thought of abortion, but if the law says the government must support abortion, I will support the law.

ANNOUNCER:
A candidate of integrity and truth. Vote Barbara Lavette for Congress.

Watching her, a copy of the script in his hand, Freddie said nothing. The two men from the agency waited. When Barbara remained silent, one of the agency men said, “Of course, it's flat in a script. You'll be amazed how it will come to life under the camera. We have four excellent actors lined up —”

“It's nonsense,” Barbara interrupted, wondering how she had gotten to this point, why she was sitting here, trying to make some sense out of a puerile bit of scribbling. Was it all to be downhill, all her vows and principles reduced to nothing, the arena in which she chose to battle lions reduced to a cheap electronic trick? Was this all that was left of the noble dream of Democracy that had come into being two hundred years ago?

“Nonsense? Oh, come on, Miss Lavette.”

“Tell me where you got this rubbish.”

“From your position paper.”

“Really? I find no resemblance. There's not a word of truth here. The whole thing is ridiculous” — her anger mounting, her patience finally stretched to the breaking point — “and I want no part of it, and I do not intend to answer questions as fraudulent as the answers.”

Freddie held up his hands and said, “Suppose you leave Miss Lavette and me alone for a few minutes.”

“It's your play.”

When they had gone, she said to Freddie, trying not to sound severe or petulant, “Did you see this?” holding up the script. “Did you see it before we got here?”

“No. And I don't know what to say. I've been rushing things too much, and the days slip away. You're not angry with me?”

“No. I'm annoyed with myself.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don't want actors. I know how necessary TV is. Get me a pencil and paper and I'll scribble thirty seconds of something.”

“Just straight on? You mean, reading a statement?”

“No, I won't read it. If I make a few notes, I can do thirty seconds without reading it. Do you think that's bad — wrong?”

“Aunt Barbara, I don't know what's right and what's wrong anymore. Maybe you should fire me. Sometimes I feel I'm stumbling around in the dark. Sure, do it your way.”

“You fight it out with them, Freddie.”

“Right.”

So in the end, she simply stood in front of the camera and said, “Good evening. I'm Barbara Lavette, Democratic candidate for Congress, and some of you will recall that I ran on the same ticket here six years ago. I lost by a few thousand votes then, but this time I hope to win. What do I stand for? I want our air to be pure, our beaches undefiled by offshore drilling. I am wholly for the Equal Rights Amendment, and I want federal support for child care. I believe that even as a man's body is his own, so a woman's body is her own, and her right to abortion is sacrosanct. Above all, I am for peace.”

It was not easy. There had been other things in there, other positions, but it had to be chopped down to thirty seconds, and she said to Freddie, “This is only just all right. When we do the other nine, I'll deal with one issue in each.”

Freddie felt her performance had been nothing short of remarkable, and even the agency people grudgingly admitted that it might do. Relieved that the day was over, but feeling no better about the campaign, Barbara sat glumly while Freddie drove her back to the shopping center, where she had left her car. It was past five, and the storefront was empty.

“I told them they could bug out at five,” Freddie said. “No meetings tonight and they've been working hard.”

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Barbara said. “I have a few things to do inside. Thanks for your patience.”

“I know I'm a pain in the rump. I don't know any other way to do this.”

“Neither do I,” Barbara admitted.

It gave her an odd feeling to stand alone in the store they had rented. Outside, the shadows were lengthening and the air chilled suddenly. The store was half dark, and on the long tables, as always, piles of envelopes waited to be stuffed with orange-colored inserts. Barbara picked up one and read, “A woman for all seasons — this is Barbara Lavette. She comes to us not simply as a candidate for a seat in the House of Representatives, but as a person with a lifelong dedication to civil rights and —”

“And nothing,” Barbara said. “Who could have written that? I'll never be myself again. Why did I ever get into this thing?”

She sat at the old desk Freddie had rented for five dollars a month and stared at the long shadows that swept across the shopping center. It was the best time of the day, the air cool, the sun-and-shade-patterned breadth of the shopping center washed with the smell of the Douglas firs that were planted around the place. She really had no work there tonight, only the desire to be alone for a while, and her being alone was reinforced by the emptiness of the big plaza. Shopping was over for the moment, and it was still too early for diners at the two restaurants or moviegoers at the twin film house. Not a soul was in sight, and Barbara experienced the fanciful notion that comes to people at such moments, that she was alone in the whole world. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them a few moments later, she was no longer alone. A man stood in front of the store, his hands in his pockets, staring at the storefront and at Barbara. He was a tall, slender man, graying hair, wearing a flannel shirt and gray flannel trousers. He was about sixty, Barbara decided, give or take a year or two, good-looking as such things go, and with a face that was oddly familiar.

He tried the door, which Barbara had locked, and at that moment she realized that this was Alexander Holt, whom she had seen in film and still photographs but never before in the flesh. He now came back to the window to face her at her desk and made motions to indicate that he would like to come in. His grin was pleasant and natural, and in any case Barbara had looked forward to meeting him. She unlocked the door and said, “Come on in, Mr. Holt.”