Barbara Callahan - The Day After

Prepared to be amused by the non-revelations, I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and opened the folder. Several newspaper photos of me at political galas fluttered to the floor. In one, I was wearing the black organza number I returned to the store. At the time it appeared in the News, I prayed that the salesperson from Bon-Ton didn’t see it.

The single sheet of paper, however, rested in my lap for several minutes after I read it. In a flippant style, Jeffrey Cobb wrote about me as if he were briefing a frat brother about a potential blind date.

Subject: Anne McGill

Age: 37

Marital Status: Single, married to the job

Current Romantic Status: Dead in the water. Ongoing 24/7 platonic relationships with Will Stafford and his cronies. Although attractive in an evil Mary Poppins sort of way (doles out spoonfuls of sugar to our side when she’s really knifing us in the back), she isn’t actively trolling for a relationship. I know that for a fact because I came on to her at a Stafford appearance at my high school in my Tom Cruise persona, which has never failed me yet, but she blew me off.

I sipped my wine and conjured up the memory of Jeff Cobb flashing his orthodontist’s expertise at me as I passed out the senator’s leaflets to the Political Science Club. Who is this guy grinning like an idiot, I thought. Did I know him from somewhere, and if so, how could I forget his radioactive smile? I read on.

Education: Somerton Girls High, valedictorian, 1986; Everett College, 1990; GPA: 3.8; Major: Political Science.

Work Career: Recruited immediately after college by Will (in-at-the-Kill) Stafford as Research Director (a.k.a. Oppo). Affectionately known throughout the state as Machiavellian Mama.

Success Rate: 100 %. Need I tell you guys that we haven’t won a local, state, or national election since she took the job.

Skeletons in Closet: Not even a knuckle. Boring, middle-class suburban upbringing. Mom, Dad (now deceased), and herself. A dog named Pooch (now deceased, how thorough I am!) who did bite the mailman. Hey, maybe we can do a work-up on Pooch. Interview the neighbors and their pets and all the postal workers who delivered to her house.

Extracurricular Activities like Travel to Hot Singles Getaways: Forget it! She has a cozy little cabin in the mountains that she inherited from her parents. Goes there about once or twice a year to renew acquaintances with squirrels and pine trees.

Conclusion: I’ll keep trying. Hey, I’m an underpaid history teacher, band director, and clarinetist (who often does creative riffs so don’t count me out). I thank you for the oppo-tunity to serve the party and get paid for it. Never fear. I’ll find something to put her out of business. Your obedient oppo, Jeffrey Cobb.

I crumpled the paper and threw it across the room, mumbling, “Don’t bet on it, Frat Boy, you’re not cool enough to outwit the Machiavellian Mama.” In need of a refill, I went to the fridge and poured more wine while thinking that I’d skewer that creep. “Jeffrey Cobb, you’re shish-kebab,” I said aloud. Amused, I repeated the silly rhyme all the way back to the sofa until I sank onto the cushions and started to cry.

Okay, I chose my job, knowing full well the land mines I’d have to set to destroy our enemies. For the most part, I believe I have done the public a service, saving them from some really toxic types, but I also admit that I deprived the public of some really deserving types by magnifying their transgressions or making some up. What Jeffrey Cobb doesn’t know, however, is that I have on occasion refused to deliver the dirt on a sympathetic person, such as Matt Myers, who was running for a municipal judgeship. Sure I knew that Myers was seeing his secretary away from work, but I also knew that his wife was a paraplegic to whom Matt had devoted almost his entire life. Myers lost, but not because of me. So, Jeff, you rude dude, I am not a heartless monster.

The phone rang, shattering the maudlin moment. It was Will with his usual terse message: “Tomorrow, eight-thirty, same place.”

Although it’s doubtful that any opponent would have been so foolhardy as to tap Will’s phone, the senator kept his calls short, believing, perhaps, that a network of spies was being paid by the word by the mysterious “They” that dogged him. The command to go to the same place meant the duck pond at Stenton Park.

He arrived before I did, which allowed me to watch him toss breadcrumbs to the ducks, his affection for them his most, and possibly his only, endearing trait. Although charisma-deprived, the sixty-five-year-old senator, short in stature and long in craftiness, had won four elections by presenting himself as Silent Will, a man of few words who could be trusted like his hero Silent Cal Coolidge. Aware that this Duck Pond Summit meant a new assignment, I hesitated by the weeping willow tree, still stung by Jeffrey Cobb’s write-up. After a few seconds, I pulled myself together and approached the senator. Unhappy at being tailgated, Will emptied the bag of breadcrumbs and barked, “You’re late.”

By a mere two minutes, actually, but to Will Stafford, no minutes of his life ranked as “mere.” Without further preamble, he said, “New kid on the block. Just moved back from eighteen years in Colorado. Maintained a residence here, which qualifies him to run for freeholder. Already sent in the paperwork. Registered as a New Visions candidate. Thirty-eight years old. Widower with one child. Good-looking guy. Get something on him quick.”

“Name?”

“Greg McKenna.”

Energized by the anticipation of hunting new quarry, Will tipped his hat and strolled briskly out of the park. Depressed about going after a widower with a child, I stared at the ducks for a while before calling Eve, the computer whiz, on my cell phone. In terse Stafford-speak, I said, “Greg McKenna, thirty-eight years old, Colorado.”

***

Two hours later, Eve tossed a printout on my desk.

“I found only one Greg McKenna and he’s from Glenwood Falls.”

Reluctantly I read the information, then relaxed. St. Peter himself would usher this guy right through the Heavenly Gates.

“You found a real saint,” I said. “Choir director, Boy Scout leader, on-time taxpayer, thirty-five years at the same sporting-goods company. Not a parking ticket nor a complaint about a barking dog.”

Beaming, I reached into my handbag and handed her the usual cash payment.

Eve scowled. “You’re not very sharp today.”

“Oh, did I miss something?”

“Maybe math isn’t your forte,” she answered. “Check out Greg McKenna’s work record — thirty-five years with the same company. He must have started there when he was three years old. Your guy is thirty-eight, right?”

She shoved the money into her backpack. “Some kind of scam is going on, but I have absolute confidence that you’ll snuff it out. Ciao.”

Identity theft, of course. For the first time since reading Jeffrey Cobb’s write-up on me, I welcomed the thought of nailing another opponent. In fact, I intended to have some fun. Before I’d pass this data to Will, I’d schmooze a bit with the fake Greg McKenna at the Meet the Candidates reception the next day.

Feeling downright sadistic — a much more uplifting feeling than Jeffrey Cobb-inspired guilt — I breezed into the Shelton Hotel. As I was checking my coat, Will Stafford tapped my shoulder.

“What have you got for me on that matter we talked about yesterday?”

“Nothing yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Don’t dawdle. I want a full report by Monday.”

Nodding toward the banquet room, he added, “Get some face-time with the Colorado Kid. Over by the nonalcoholic punch bowl.”