The Rest of Us Just Live Here
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH, in which Satchel, mourning her friends but pressing on feistily, keeps researching her amulet with the card catalogue; the mysterious boy appears in her bedroom one night and his first words are, “I’m sorry”; he tells her he is the Prince in the Court of the Immortals; his mother, the Empress, wants to take over this world, sensing great food here to feed their immortality; they seek to open more fissures, find more permanent Vessels in which to live, but the Prince has fallen in love with Satchel from afar and can’t stand idly by while her world is enslaved; “I’ve come to help,” he says; they kiss.
“And so it is with great pleasure and excitement,” my mom says, standing at the podium, smiling into the bright lights of the cameras, “that I announce my candidacy to represent the people of the Eighth Congressional District of the great state of Washington.”
There’s applause from her supporters and from the party officials gathered around her. She smiles back at us, but just with her mouth, and I realize my dad is the only one of us clapping along. I elbow Mel, and she and I and Meredith start slapping our hands together, looking like the perfect family we totally aren’t. I’m even wearing a suit.
Mom’s satisfied and turns back to the cameras. In truth, there aren’t all that many. There’s one main feed that’ll supply footage to the network affiliates if they want it, one camera from the local independent station that mostly shows reruns, and another supplied by the party itself for internet campaigning. There are some print and web journalists, too, but all in all, I think interested public are outnumbered by politicians and family.
“State Senator Mitchell?” a local journalist asks when the applause has died down.
“You don’t really need the ‘State’ in front of it, Ed,” my mom says, smiling wide.
“What do you have to say about Tom Shurin, your expected opponent?” Ed the journalist continues.
“I say that I welcome a vigorous and clean campaign based on the issues I outlined in my speech,”
my mom says, smiling like a president. You may not like politicians much – I don’t – but she’s good at her job. I can’t remember a single one of the issues from her speech, only the vague sense that she really cared about them. Which she once told me is the perfect result. If you’re too specific, people will purposely mishear you so they can be outraged about whatever thing that usually outrages them.
You want to get them on your side emotionally, apparently, where they ask fewer questions.
They want us a bit dumb and a bit afraid. Which for the most part, I think we are.
“What about the rest of your family, Alice?” a nastier voice says. I recognize it. It’s this woman who runs a bitter-but-annoyingly-significant little blog about how local politicians are morons for not agreeing with everything she thinks. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the tragedies that scuttled your run for Lieutenant Governor.”
I see Mel’s face set in some fairly unfiltered hatred that I hope the cameras aren’t capturing, but my mom doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a normal American family, Cynthia, and just like any family, we try to face our challenges with grace and dignity. I love my children more than anything in the world, and I would never do this if I didn’t have their complete support.”
I wonder if that’s true.
“And,” my mother goes on, her voice actually emotional, “I would take great issue if any press decided to go after my children.” Her voice goes tough, but it’s politician tough, and I wonder again if it’s true. “They’d have one ferocious mama bear to deal with first.”