The Big Bang (6 page)

Out of over two hundred emails, maybe thirty had actual content: requests to attend fundraisers or rallies. From one of the staff over at Senator Clinton's office came a few additional thoughts on the upcoming Immigration Bill. Karen flagged this one for further review and immediately encrypted it. No way would she be the one who was responsible for letting word of their strategy get out to the press.

Karen's stomach rumbled. She took a bottle of Vitamin Water from a desk drawer, sipped it. She cupped her hand in front of her lips, breathed out through her mouth, then sniffed. She wasn't sure…her breath might have a little vomit tang to it. She checked the clock: 7:45. If she hurried, plenty of time. She grabbed a toothbrush and toothpaste from the same drawer that held the Vitamin Water and walked quickly to the ladies' room.

By 9 am, the other staff had arrived. Tarik, who'd been with The Congresswoman since the beginning, was the first to show up. He was a medium-sized man with thick shoulders and a waist that was going a little soft. He wore glasses and had a look of permanent thoughtfulness. “Morning,” he said from the printer when he saw Karen.

“Good morning,” she answered brightly. If the truth was told, he was the only one of the staff that Karen felt comfortable around. He had a seriousness of purpose that echoed her own. He struck her as sincerely interested in working for their constituents.

Her coffee cup was empty. She lifted it. “You need anything?”

Tarik glanced up over the rim of his glasses. “Yes, thanks.” His eyes returned to the document.

Karen was back in less than four minutes. She handed him a cup of hot water, tea bag already steeping in it. As he took the cup, he noticed her hand trembling a little.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Her pale face was even whiter than usual. “Yes, fine,” she said quickly, then scooted over to her desk, not looking at him.

He heard laughter coming from the back of the office. He placed the cup of tea on his desk, dropped the Immigration Bill beside it, and took a slow stroll back to the canteen.

Kevin was there, with a couple of other members of his posse. Kevin was tall, handsome, well-built, used to being the center of attention. He was also the son of the publisher of
Black Life Today
, the second-largest-selling general news magazine in the inner city. He was an “intern,” although Tarik thought of him as “payback.” Kevin was talking about his weekend's adventures. “This bitch, she was a freak,” he was saying, loudly enough for most of the office and the guard downstairs to hear.

“Can we save that discussion for after hours?” Tarik asked. “Some of us may not want to hear about everything and everyone you did this weekend.”

Kevin smiled brightly at him. It was everything a smile to your nominal superior should be, but Tarik felt the contempt in it. “My bad,” Kevin said. “Just keepin' it real with my homies.”

“Why don't you sit with me today,” Tarik replied levelly, “and we'll do some
real
work on this Immigration Bill. Harriet is the co-sponsor. I think we ought to be ready for anything the opposition throws at us.”

Kevin nodded at the other two men, junior staffers who answered phones and oversaw mass mailings. “Late,” he said, dismissing them. The two men, who'd worked with Tarik for several years and knew the signs of a storm building, slipped away as unobtrusively as possible.

When they were alone, Tarik lowered his voice. “This is not the street,” he said patiently. “People won't take you seriously if you talk like you're still in the hood.”
Not
, he thought,
that
you've
ever been in the hood, you brat
. “And especially, you can't talk that way around little white girls from suburbia.”

Another lazy, disagreeing smile from Kevin. “The white bitches love it. Makes 'em think they're hookin' up with a real ‘banger.'”

“Leave the Mack Daddy at home,” Tarik said, turning. “Let's get to work.”

Karen sat at her desk, flipping through web pages, randomly clicking her mouse. She was working hard at controlling her breathing. The way Kevin had looked at her as he told a story about some bi woman he'd hooked up with. His eyes were on Karen, like she was already his, naked and waiting. There was nothing wrong with being desired, but in her dreams, it had always been a two-way street. She was being desired by someone whom she wanted to be desired by.

With a start of guilt, she wondered,
Was it because he was African American? Is that what bothered me?
After a few more mouse clicks, she realized the truth, with some relief. It wasn't because Kevin was black…it was because he was a jerk. Disrespectful, vain, arrogant…those attributes in a man of any race, color, or creed would still spell asshole.

She'd be glad when The Congresswoman arrived. Other members of the staff, among themselves, referred to her as Harriet, but in Karen's mind that somehow reduced The Congresswoman, what she stood for and what she did. In public, it was Ms. Stover, or Representative. But never “Harriet.” The UJ (and Js) could call her that, the talking heads, even the AB, but not Karen.

Her breathing was slower now. She was calming down. And, even better, she hadn't scooped up a handful of change and rushed to the vending machine in the basement to stuff her face with Ho Hos. She was all right. But there was a thought she wanted to follow. Oh, yeah, that was it. The media. The talking heads. How casually they used first names. “Bill.” “George.” “Harriet.” As if they knew the people they were talking about…as if they had the right to address them like a co-worker or a college buddy. Most of the media, and especially the losers on the Sunday morning talk shows, what had
they
ever done? They talked. They talked to other people who were talking about other people who were actually doing something. They didn't work hurricane relief, filling sandbags twenty hours a day or unloading crates of food and water. They stood with a microphone in their hand in front of the people who were actually sweating and they
talked
about the people who were working.

And they talked about politicians. They dissected and criticized and commented about the senators and representatives who had taken the risk to run, who had managed to get elected. They were out there, on the floor of the House and Senate, trying to get bills passed, to make people's lives better, no matter how maudlin that sounded. Even if they weren't the ones who would be working in the daycares or hospitals or building the roads that the bills would make possible, at least they were accomplishing something with their talking. The media didn't do anything except…talk.

Her phone chirped at her. She lifted it. “Congresswoman Stover's office.”

A familiar voice. “Ma'am, this is Petersen, in the lobby.” Mr. Petersen. He worked the night shift as a security guard. An older man, with graying hair. He was usually on duty when Karen arrived at work. Over time, she'd learned his name and would pass a few words with him on her way up to the office. She'd even shared a cup of coffee with him on a couple of cold mornings.

“Yes, Mr. Petersen.” This was unusual. She couldn't imagine why he was calling her.

“Ma'am, there's a woman down here that wants to see your boss. Ms. Stover, that is.”

“She's in a meeting. I'd be glad to schedule an appointment with…”

In the background, Karen heard a sharp voice say, “I'm not making an appointment. I want to talk to someone.” Mr. Petersen's voice came back on the line, apologetically. “She would rather see somebody.”

Karen checked the wall clock. 10:30. The Congresswoman wouldn't be here for another hour, at the earliest. She sighed, “I'll speak to her. Is she…?”

“I've already wanded her. She's not carrying anything.”

After hanging up, Karen paused, hand still on the phone. Maybe this was something Tarik should handle. No, she told herself, if she ever wanted to be more than an administrative assistant (a secretary, in blunt honesty); she would have to prove she could handle these kinds of problems. With that knowledge putting a little steel in her spine, Karen strode out of the office.

Walking down the stairs, it occurred to Karen she should have reserved a conference room, somewhere quiet, private, for the discussion. As it turned out, that would have been a waste of time.

In the lobby, there was a thin black woman waiting impatiently beside Mr. Petersen. Karen hadn't thought to get the woman's name before heading down. Mr. Petersen, ever a gentleman, took the lead.

“This is Mrs. Blanchard,” he said politely. To the thin black woman, he said, “This is Ms. Harvey. She works for Congresswoman Stover.”

Karen clicked into Competent Professional Mode. She extended her hand briskly.

“Mrs. Blanchard. Nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Blanchard was about fifty. She wore thick glasses, and something about her face made Karen think of a scarecrow. She was dressed in a modest blue skirt, matching jacket, and white blouse. Her shoes were worn, but polished.

“Miss Harvey,” she said, shaking Karen's hand. Her grip was firm, her knuckles large. She'd done some manual labor in her life.

Karen, calling on skills she'd honed misdirecting journalists, smoothly took Mrs. Blanchard by the arm, ready to guide her to one side. Off to one side, with no audience, most people settled down and were actually quiet enough to listen to whatever soothing and agreeable noises Karen was making.

Mrs. Blanchard was having none of it. She stood her ground firmly, and for a thin woman, she had weight to her, as if she could control gravity with a simple act of will. Karen, still holding onto the older woman's arm, was pulled a little off balance when Mrs. Blanchard refused to be led.

“Why is Miss Stover against school vouchers?”

Karen felt a little flutter in her stomach. This really was not a discussion to have in public. Mrs. Blanchard looked at her through those thick lenses, her dark eyes demanding an answer. She looked willing to stand there for hours, days, until she got some actual information.

“It's a very complex issue,” Karen began, using a familiar stalling phrase.

“No, ma'am, it is
not
,” Mrs. Blanchard replied distinctly.

“Well…” Karen tried again.

“My children have to go to public school, in downtown. Have you ever been to downtown South Central?” The slight hesitation before Karen answered was all the answer Mrs. Blanchard needed. “Of course not. It's a slum. It's the hood. My children are required by law to attend that public school. It's full of criminals and gangsters. I don't want my children around trash.”

“The public schools are a tremendously important part of the American experience—”

“Her children go to school in Georgetown.”

Ah, this old argument. “They attend a private school, that's true. But they're targets, as children of a government figure. It's really for the safety of her children.”

“Does she have to worry about her kids getting shot when they go to school? I do. If the public schools are such an important part of the American Experience, why don't her kids go, too?”

Karen felt a tiny trickle of sweat begin under her armpit and trickle down her ribs. She could almost feel the drops as they bumped over each rib. Sounding more desperate than she wanted, she repeated, “It's a very complex issue.”

“If I had vouchers, I could send my children to a church school. I wouldn't be afraid for my children all the time. Your boss, she votes against vouchers every time. I pay my taxes, I work hard.”

Now Karen felt the beginning of a headache. Another “I'm a taxpayer” complainer. Mrs. Blanchard went on, “I pay my taxes, but I can't pick the school for my child. I have to send him to your school. It's just like the company store. You get paid scrip, and you can only buy from the company what the company wants to sell you.”

This was going nowhere fast. She reached out to shake Mrs. Blanchard's hand again. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Blanchard. I'll be sure to convey your concerns to The Congresswoman.”

Then Karen turned and fled back to the office.

“Just another ignorant nigger,” The Congresswoman said when Karen told her about Mrs. Blanchard later that day. “She doesn't realize…those private schools don't have to take everybody. All she can think about is her church school. Like the church will save her babies.” Looking at the wall clock, The Congresswoman dismissed Mrs. Blanchard and her concerns. “Time to get down to the Hill. We have to get that bill through.”

Karen had her notes in hand. It was a revision to the compromise Immigration Bill that had been passed late in 2006. According to old wisdom, the Immigration Reform Act of 2006 should have been a win-win: it was a bill that made no one happy. The conservatives had complained that it didn't go far enough to secure the borders and had the taint of “amnesty” contained in its provisions for illegal worker mainstreaming. Karen's more compassionate compatriots felt it was too restrictive and generally anti-immigrant. However, after the conservative wing of the Republican voter bloc stayed home in protest during the 2006 elections, the Democrats swept to an almost veto-proof majority in both houses.

To anyone else, it was dry politics, but for Karen it came down to an exciting fact: they were in control. They were going to be able to redress the wrongs of years past, and one of the major promises they had made was to reform the racist Immigration Bill. Karen, through The Congresswoman, was going to make good on that promise today.

The fundraiser that evening had more the feeling of a victory celebration, rather than merely an entertaining way to hustle money from donors. The crowd around The Congresswoman was thick, and the pressure of congratulatory admirers kept forcing Karen from The Congresswoman's side. Tarik had asked Karen to stick close. “Harriet gets a little full of herself. She thinks she did it all. You'll need to try to moderate her a little.”