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Mom likes her comforts. Her office chair is top-of-the-line ergonomic, fine leather. The desk is no gray metal one from office supply but a rich carved oak antique. There’s a vase of red roses and a picture of Mom with me and Tracy in matching satin-and-velvet Christmas outfits.
There’s also a big basket of gardening tools, gift-wrapped in shiny green cellophane, with a note saying We at Riggio’s Quality Lawns are Grateful for your support.
A couple of tickets to a Broadway show thumbtacked to the corkboard: Allow us to treat you to some quality entertainment in thanks for all you do, from some people named Bob and Marge Considine.
A business card saying Thanks for giving our bid serious consideration, from Carlyle Contracting.
I don’t know campaign rules, but all this doesn’t seem right to me. I’m standing there, with a sick feeling in my stomach, when Tim strolls in, backpack hitched onto one shoulder, cardboard box in hand.
“C’mon, kid. Let’s get ghost before we have to deal with your ma or Clay. Word is they’re on their way here now. Being on the side of the Morally Superior is new to me, and I might screw up my lines.” Once we’re outside, Tim throws his box of stuff and backpack into the backseat of the Jetta, then flips the passenger seat forward so I can climb in.
“How bad is Clay?” I ask quietly. “I mean, is he a sleaze for real?”
“I did Google him,” Tim admits. “Helluva impressive resume for a guy who’s only thirty-six.” Thirty-six? Mom’s forty-six. So he’s young. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s bad. Mom listens to him like he’s the one true frequency, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad either. But…but what’s up with the double agent? This is a tiny race in Co
“How do you think he got so high up so fast?” I ask Tim. “I mean, really—thirty-six? And if he’s this big star in the Republican firmament, why is he taking the time to help out this dinky state senatorial race?
That’s got to be a blip on the radar.”
“I don’t know, kid. He sure loves this stuff, though. The other day this commercial ran for some race in Rhode Island, and Clay’s all over it, calling the office up there to tell them what’s wrong with their message. Maybe it’s his idea of a vacation helping out your ma.” He shoots a look at me, then smirks. “A vacation with a few extra benefits.”
“Would those be from my mom? Or that brunette you talked about?” Tim folds himself into the driver’s seat, turning the ignition and punching in the lighter simultaneously.
“I don’t know what’s up with that. He’s flirty with her, but those Southern guys are like that. He certainly is all over your ma.”
Ick. I know this, but don’t want to think about it.
“But luckily it’s not my problem anymore.”
“It doesn’t go away because it’s not your problem.”
“Yes, Mother. Listen, Clay cuts corners and is all about politics. That’s working out just fine for him, Samantha. Why should he change? No incentive. No payback. In my brief shining moments as a political animal, that’s one thing I’ve learned. It’s all about incentive, payback, and how it all looks. Being a politician is a lot like being an alcoholic in denial.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
The day of the practice SATs, Nan and I bike to Stony Bay High to take the test. It’s August, with heat shimmering off the sidewalks and the lazy whirrrr of cicadas. But once we walk into the school, it’s as though a switch has been flipped. The room is airless and smells like pencil shavings and industrial strength disinfectant, all overlaid with too-fruity perfume and sports deodorant, too many bodies.
Stony Bay High is one of those low, endless, cookie-cutter brick schools, with ugly green shaded windows, peeling gray paint on the doors, and curling red linoleum on the floors. It’s a far cry from Hodges, which is built like a fortress, with battlements, stained-glass windows, and portcullises. It even has a drawbridge, because you never know when your prep school might be attacked by the Saxons.
Public or private, there’s that same school smell, so out of context today as I shift in my sticky seat, listening to the lazy roar of a lawnmower outside.
“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” I ask Nan as she takes her place in the row in front of me, positioning her backpack at her feet.
“Because practice makes perfect. Or at least close enough to get in the low two thousands, which will give us a shot at the college of our dreams. And because you’re my best friend.” She reaches into the pocket of her backpack and pulls out some ChapStick, applying it to her slightly sunburned lips. As she does this, I can’t help but notice that she’s not only wearing her prized blue-and-white Columbia T-shirt, but also the cross she got for her Communion and a charm bracelet her Irish grandmother gave her which has green-and-white enamel four-leaf clovers hanging from it.
“Where’s Buddha?” I ask. “Won’t he feel left out? What about Zeus? A rabbit’s foot?” She pretends to glare at me, lining up her seven number 2 pencils in a precise row along the edge of her desk. “This is important. They say SATs aren’t as big as they used to be, but you know that’s not true.
Can’t be too careful. I’d burn sage, embrace Scientology, and wear one of those Kabbalah bracelets if I thought it would do me any good. I’ve got to get out of this town.” No matter how often Nan says this, it never fails to give me a prickle of hurt. Ridiculous. It’s not about me. The Mason house is nobody’s idea of a refuge.
Confirming this, she continues, “It’s even worse now that Tim’s only working at Garrett’s. Mommy starts all her conversations with him like, ‘Well, since you’ve made up your mind to be a loser all your life,’ and then just ends up shaking her head and leaving the room.” I sigh. “How’s Tim dealing?”
“I think he’s up to three packs a day,” Nan says. “Cigarettes and Pixy Stix. But no sign of anything else…yet.” Her voice is resigned, clearly expecting to find evidence of worse at any moment. “He—” she starts, then falls silent as the side door of the classroom opens and a small beige woman and a tall sandy-haired man come in, introducing themselves as our proctors for this practice SAT. The woman runs through the procedures in a monotone, while the man wanders through the room, checking our IDs and handing out blue notebooks.
The air-conditioning blasts to a higher level, nearly drowning out the beige woman’s monotonous voice. Nan pulls a cardigan out of her backpack and scrabbles around to position a hoodie at the top, just in case. She sits back up, puts her elbows on the desk, leans her chin on her folded hands, and sighs. “I hate writing,” she says. “I hate everything about it. Grammar, usage…blech.” Despite the light tan she always acquires in the late summer, she looks pale under her freckles, only her sunburned nose betraying the season.
“You’re the big writing star,” I remind her. “You’ll coast through this. Lazlo Literary Anthology, remember? The SATs are the minor leagues for you.”
The tall blond man points extravagantly at the clock and the beige woman says “Shhh” and begins the countdown as solemnly as if we are blasting off at Cape Canaveral, rather than taking a practice test. “In ten, nine, eight…” I glance around the room. Everyone, evidently as driven as Nan, has their blue books and their pencils lined up in perfect symmetry. I look over again at Nan, to see her adjust the sleeve of her sweatshirt in her backpack again, allowing me, from my vantage point to the left and back to see the corner of her electronic dictionary peeking out from the light blue edge of her sweatshirt.
She’s staring at the clock, her mouth a grim line, her pencil so tightly held in her fingers it’s a wonder it doesn’t snap in half. Nan’s left-handed. Her right hand rests on her thigh, in quick-draw reach of her backpack.