November Surprise (12 page)

“I understand,” I say. “I keep thinking about it all too.
And I can’t stop watching the news, yet I hate every newscaster there is right
now, except maybe Jon Stewart, but I don’t think he counts.” Monty smiles, and
I continue. “I wanted to punch Cokie Roberts in the face last Sunday when she
was going on about how Florida wouldn’t be an issue if Gore had won his home
state of Tennessee. So not the point!”

He nods, leans forward, and speaks earnestly. “I would pay
cash money to see you punch Cokie Roberts in the face. I know some people;
maybe it could be arranged.”

“You know Cokie Roberts?”

He shakes his head no. “I work with her neighbor’s niece. It
might take a little finagling, but I’ve made a career out of arranging things
and convincing people, so I bet I could get this done.”

“Call me. Just tell me when and where, and I’m totally in.”

He laughs now, and the tension he had been wearing is tucked
away, like a stained shirt beneath a sweater. Monty squeezes my palm and he
grows serious again. “The thing is, we just want justice to be served. What
happened in Florida is not just.”

I look down at our joined hands, and my heart flutters a
little, enough to keep me from pointing out that we don’t
just
want justice; we also want Gore to have won. It probably
wouldn’t be productive to mention that at the moment.

“I simply thought…” Monty trails off for a moment, and he
stares at my fingers, which he is still holding in his hand. He looks up, refocusing
on my face. “I thought our democracy was better than this. Maybe it’s too
obvious… Katherine Harris and Jeb Bush are clearly not on Gore’s side. Still,
military ballots, which are more likely to be cast for Bush, are counted even
if there’s no signature, post mark, or witness, but other ballots, the
questionable ones for Gore, aren’t.”

I let go of Monty’s hand and pick up the menu. “You know
what? I’m starving, and something smells really good. Let’s order dinner.”

“I recommend the chicken parmesan.”

“That sounds great.”

Monty motions the waiter over. We order, and as the waiter
walks away Monty sighs.

“Lucy, I’m so sorry. Seriously, let’s talk about something
else. How has your trip been?”

I tuck my hair behind my ears, both sides. I tried to blow dry
it straight this morning, but by 7:00 PM it’s inevitably escaped whatever
effort heat and styling products had asserted for control, and it’s now
reverted back to its rebellious, curly nature. So much for my fantasy of Monty
running his hands through my hair later this evening, back at his place, when
we’re alone and all talked out.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a relief to be able to talk
about it. All my friends think I’m obsessed and delusional, like I’ve taken
this liberal slant and I can’t see things clearly.”

“You should come work for the ACLU,” he replies. “Most of my
friends actually think I’m too conservative.”

Our eyes meet, and simultaneously we recognize the
ridiculousness of his statement. The corners of his mouth turn up. I return his
smile, relax into my chair, his company, and the evening ahead. If only I could
slow the clock down or simply make time stop.

We drink the entire bottle of wine, linger over dinner, and
even order dessert and coffee. But eventually it becomes impossible not to get
up and exit into the chilly November night. Monty puts his hand on my shoulder
as we walk out the door. “I’ll get you a cab,” he says, and my heart sinks.

We’re standing on the curb, and no vacant taxis are in
sight. I wrap my arms around myself, trying not to shiver noticeably. Monty
notices anyway, and reaches out to take me in his arms. Without a word he’s
kissing me, and suddenly my entire body is warm and delving for a way to get
even closer to him. I wrap my arms around his neck, and we pull each other as
tight as possible. His hand is pressed against the small of my back, and his
other hand has traveled up my spine, caressing my neck, and then his fingers
burrow into my hair. It couldn’t feel any better to me if my hair was as
straight and smooth as silk.

He stops kissing me and pulls away, yet our faces are still
super close.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a jerk,” he whispers.

“I don’t.”

He kisses me again, briefly, and continues talking. “I
always feel like I’m taking advantage of you. Jack’s wedding, calling you when
I did, and now…”

“I don’t mind.” I gently grab his face and pull it down so
his lips are meeting my own, once again. My pulse is pounding and even if I was
capable of common sense or reason at the moment, I’d abandon rational thought for
the feeling of being with him, no question.

We go back to his place.

Later we’re lying in his bed, staring into each other’s
eyes, and he’s twirling a lock of my hair around his right index finger.

“You’re so pretty,” he says. “How is it possible I never
noticed you in high school?”

I exhale through my nose and touch his cheek. “You did, you
just don’t remember.”

“Huh?”

“It was after you graduated, actually. But I was still in
high school. We were at a bonfire party, and Reggie Hanson was bothering me. You
stepped up and told him to get lost.”

“I did?”

“Uhm hmm.” I lean in and kiss him. “Thanks for that. He was
always such a jerk, and you stood up to him for me.”

He kisses me back. “I have no memory of that. But I’m glad I
did it. If I had known it was you, I would have done a lot more.”

We continue kissing, but after a minute Monty breaks away.
“Reggie Hanson? Isn’t he the guy who got into the hunting accident?”

“What?”

“Yeah. I’m sure it’s him. My mom knows his mom. He was
hunting with a friend, got drunk, and shot himself in the leg. He’s in a
wheelchair now.”

“For good?”

“As far as I know.”

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. I shouldn’t
feel bad. If anything, I should be happy that karma has given Reggie what he
deserves. But the only emotion I can produce is a vague sense of anxiety. If
Reggie Hanson is vulnerable to life’s cruelties, then certainly we all are.

Monty scoots in closer to me. “You okay?”

I turn my face toward him. “Yeah.” I close my eyes, but even
still I see the beauty of Monty’s face, and I can’t deny that right now,
there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I may as well enjoy the moment. Who knows what
tomorrow may bring?

I put my arms around him, and
we settle into each other. He continues to play with my hair as we fall asleep,
and for once, politics are the last thing on my mind.

A few weeks later, December 12th, I’m at home in the evening
when my phone rings. I know it’s Monty before I pick up. Not because we’ve been
in contact, but because I could feel his disappointment today when the Supreme
Court decision came in, as keenly as I felt my own.

“Can you believe it? The counties can’t make the recount
deadline, so they’re not extending the deadline.” he says. “It makes no sense.
The Supreme Court never used to be a political entity. What’s happened?”

“I wish I knew.” I take a sip of my hot tea, and the spot
where Dr. Randolf said I’ll probably need a root canal twinges in pain.
Anything too hot or too cold, which basically includes anything that isn’t the
exact temperature of my mouth, isn’t comfortable any more. One of the many ways
I’m now paying for my complacency.

“And they’re saying their decision should not be used for
legal precedent. It’s the first time the Supreme Court has ever said that.
Ever.”

“Yeah,” I reply softly, “I heard that on the news.” I grip
the phone, wishing I knew what to say. Honestly, I gave up hope a couple of
weeks ago. I guess after I got back to Minneapolis I realized, no matter how
adamantly you believe you deserve a specific outcome, it doesn’t mean you’ll
get it. But Monty has built his entire career on the concept of justice. If he
were to make this same concession it could destroy him.

“Monty, I’m so sorry. I wish there was something…”

“I voted for Nader.” His voice is low, ashamed, and briefly
I think there’s a third party on our line. He couldn’t have just said that.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

I hesitate, wondering how to proceed. “Okay.” I pause, and
the connection between us stays silent. “But Monty, why?”

Monty whooshes out a sigh. “I don’t even like Gore that
much. He kind of seems like a prick. And there was no way he wasn’t going to
win in New York. But my God, what if people in New Hampshire and Florida
thought the same thing?”

“They would have been wrong. Those are swing states. New
York never was.”

“But Lucy, I’m trying to say that I—I didn’t get it.
All of it. The last eight years, even when Clinton was caught with Monica
Lewinsky and nearly kicked out of office, I just lived with this notion that
everything would eventually work out. That nothing was too consequential, and I
could do what I wanted without worrying about the bigger picture.”

I rub my cheek and press my fingers against the skin over my
sore gums. “I think you just summed up the '90s mentality.”

He lets out a choppy little laugh. “The party’s over, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say softly.

“Well, we’re going to fight it,” he says. “This isn’t over.
I’ve been working like mad, finishing up my current cases, so they’ll let me go
down to Florida or Atlanta to work with the Voter Suppression Project. Either
that, or perhaps help file a brief to the Supreme Court stating that Florida
should’ve been able to resolve this through state law.”

He says it isn’t over, but I know it is. So I simply wish
him luck.

Then we both go silent again, until Monty speaks up.

“Lucy, I had a really good time with you last month.”

“Me too.”

“But long distance relationships are—”

I cut him off. “You don’t have to say anything more. I
already know. And I agree.”

“Really?”

Not really. But I’m done fighting battles for now. It’s time
to take the pain. Or, at the very least, numb myself with some Novocain and try
to ignore it.

“Take care of yourself, Monty

“Yeah, you too.” I hear him breathe and fiddle with the
phone. “And who knows? In four years there will be another chance. There are
all sorts of possibilities.”

I know he’s talking about politics now. But somehow, that
makes me feel better than anything else he could have said.

Drew’s lying with his back to me. We’re at my parents’
house. It’s the home where I grew up, in what used to be my bedroom. Now it’s a
generic looking guest room, with a double bed, navy blue curtains, and a square
white dresser.

It’s not the first time we’ve stayed in this room together.
Drew and I have been a couple for over a year; we met shortly after 9/11. We’ve
had a few happy visits here with my parents, who love him as much as I do. But
now I wrap the stiff, barely used navy blue comforter around me for warmth
rather than cuddling up to him, and I feel like something is ending.

“I know you’re still awake,” I say. I consider reaching out
and touching his shoulder blade, but I think better of it.

“I’m talked-out, Lucy. And it’s not the time or place to be
discussing this, anyway.”

I understand what he’s saying. We drove down to Iowa because
Jack and Monty’s father died suddenly of a heart attack. Drew offered to come
with me to the funeral; it’s the sort of thing a devoted boyfriend would do. I
didn’t plan on telling him about applying to out-of-state graduate schools until
after we got back, but somehow the confession slipped out, right in the middle
of trying to console Jack.

After the reception we went back and watched
The West Wing
with my parents, and
pretended like we’re fine. But we’re not.

Drew’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “If we’re going
to break up over this, I think we at least ought to wait until we’re back in
Minneapolis.”

“I don’t want to break up. But I can’t help it if we want
different things.” I could be more specific here. I could tell him that I don’t
want to stay in Minneapolis for the rest of my life and be by his side while he
pursues a political career. I could say that I have plans of my own, and they
require some amount of freedom. But the day has been painful enough, why add
salt to an already stinging wound?

I inch closer to him, but we’re still not touching. “Let’s
just go to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow.”

He silently agrees, and after a while I hear his breathing
become slow and steady. Yet I remain wide-awake, unable to quiet my racing
mind.

Then my phone, sitting on my nightstand, tings. I have a
text message.

“Are you still up?”

The message is from Monty. He went for a walk during the
reception today, and wasn’t back before Drew and I left, so I never said
goodbye.

I text him back.

“Yes.”

After a moment, he texts me again.

“Can I stop over? I don’t have to come in.”

Against my better judgment, I tell him sure. Drew has always
been a heavy sleeper, so it’s easy to sneak downstairs. I find a blanket to
wrap around myself, and then I sit outside, on our front steps, and wait. In
less than ten minutes Monty drives up and gets out of his car.

“Hi, Lucy.” He’s changed out of his dark shirt and tie. He’s
wearing sweat pants and a parka, and a green stocking cap covers his head. He
doesn’t look like himself at all.

“Hi.” I pat the space next to me.

He sits down. We don’t talk right away, we don’t touch; we
just sit there, in the dark, winter night.

“I wasn’t at my best today,” he says. I nod my head. He
argued with Jack, baited Drew, and refused the sympathy of anyone who offered
it. But I can’t fault him; I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent.

“That’s okay.”