1. There
is a magic talisman that allows its keeper to read minds. It falls into the
hands of an ambitious politician…
MIND GAMES
The cat by the toaster purred so loudly that Marcie couldn’t
think. Stirring her tea, she left the kitchen and stepped out onto hotel balcony,
looking at the sunrise over the Hilton parking lot below. She might be in
Indiana, or Illinois or Iowa … some “I” state, anyway. She’d lost track of all
time or place on the campaign trail. Her family was far away, having breakfast
in Kalamazoo, Mich., and the only constants in her life these days were her
immediate staff and one spoiled Maine Coon cat.
Actually, Tom had wanted to join her on the campaign trail,
but 3-year-old Tilly had been feverish, and her husband hated politics anyway.
He’d wanted to take Tilly to his parents’ farm north of Detroit, but her
campaign strategist loved the name Kalamazoo, its goofy, small-town vibe and
worked it in whenever possible that Marcie’s family was at their home in
Kalamazoo, Mich.
Tom had sent her a present, though. The package lay on the
kitchen counter and she hadn’t seen it until she poured her tea. Tom loved old
things; their Michigan home was overflowing with rickety furniture and faded
photographs, none of the usual politician furnishings with the fresh flowers on
the mantle. Their mantle was crowded with old clocks, each keeping slightly
different time and ticking in its own flamboyant, stubborn way. Her aide Fred,
the one who loved the name Kalamazoo, also loved the clocks.
“You don’t think it makes me look like a batty eccentric?”
Marcie had asked. She was 43 now, and never would have asked that question even
five years before. Women aged quickly in politics and the public would never
believe the clocks were Tom’s.
“No, the clocks are good, they make you look warm and
homey,” Fred said. “Clocks are big in Pottery Barn catalogs.”
Fred loved Pottery Barn catalogs; privately he wanted to
make her the “Pottery Barn candidate” without anybody but the two of them
actually saying it. Marcie was steeped in science, with degrees in chemistry
and astronomy, and anything Pottery Barn, Fred felt, brought her down to earth.
Well, Marcie thought, then Fred will love Tom’s latest gift.
It was a small clock on a golden chain, lovely, really, delicate. She could
hear the soft ticking as she held small gold disc up to her ear, a low,
motorized purr like the cat’s. She’d have to tuck it under her clothes so Fred
wouldn’t see it. He’d either pronounce it all wrong and never allow her to wear
it, or he’d love it and she’d never be able to take it off. A man of extremes,
that was Fred.
She pulled her reading glasses out of her pocket, the ones
she never could wear around Fred, and looked at the clock more closely. Odd.
Instead of numbers, there were four arrows: up, down, left or right. Great, she
thought. Only Tom would send me a clock that couldn’t tell the time. Since
putting it on, though, she’d felt a low hum, almost like words she couldn’t
quite hear. Then, one word rang out: her own name, and the phrase “… better be
up.”
The knock on the door startled her so badly she dropped the
clock on the balcony floor and hastily picked it up and strung it around the
neck. It was Fred, of course, she knew his knock, and she hurried into the room
and to the door, tucking the clock inside her Silk Blouse of the Day. Marcie
wore nothing but suits and silk blouses these days; her staff delivered racks
of them wherever they went, all with labeled boxes of shoes and accessories and
whisper-thin stockings that kept that secret that her legs weren’t perfect.
“That damn cat needs to go,” she heard Fred say as she
opened the door. Marcie was surprised, Fred never spoke to her in the morning
without an elaborate greeting.
“What’s wrong with Mr. Boo Boo?” she asked. Tilly had named
the cat, when they found it abandoned in their yard with a bleeding ear and
nose, and they all just had to live with it now.
Fred looked startled. “Why, nothing. Good Morning, Dr.
Powers and future Madam President.” That was how Fred always greeted Marcie. He
believed in positive visualizing and beginning the day with the proper internal
identity. “I mean, is the animal all right?”
“He’s fine.” Marcie turned her back and tucked her reading
glasses into her “man bag” like a guilty child. She was forbidden to wear
anything with pockets or carry a purse. Items in pockets created bulges and
purses were too “Queen Elizabeth.” Nothing like comparisons to an 80-year-old
great-grandma to make you feel good about yourself. She was only 43 for chrissake.
Anyway, that meant her personal aides had to carry a small briefcase around for
her constant access, like walking purse holders, except it couldn’t be a purse
because all her aides were men. So Fred had procured a small but manly bag that
aides took turns carrying. Marcie called it her man bag and she knew that her
aides played constant games to determine the loser who had to carry it.
“Why do you always have to have that damn bag?” Fred asked.
“What?” Marcy spun and stared at her aide. This was very
strange behavior from Fred. He never swore and now twice in five minutes? Was
he going senile like those sweet little old ladies with dementia who started
cursing like sailors? Fred was 55, thin and slightly grizzled and got to wear
his reading glasses in a jacket pocket like a normal person. Marcie sometimes
called him her Cassius, with his lean and hungry look.
“I need this bag,” she snapped.
“Of course you do, Dr. Powers,” Fred said. The funniest look
came over his face and he shook his head.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Tip-top,” he said, pulling out his phone. “It’s 6:43.”
That meant nothing to Marcie, who never knew where she was
going or what she was doing or when she needed to be there. Fred had arranged
her wakeup call, and she always popped up right away, no matter how tired she
was, so she would have a minute or two to herself before the day began. She
zipped up the bag and handed it to Fred.
“Shit, I have to carry this,” he said, which was true, it
was just them and Mr. Boo Boo.
“Well, you won’t let me carry anything,” Marcie pointed out,
shrugging on her jacket and buttoning it up. Fred was apparently cracking under
the strain and she decided to play along. She actually liked the swearing, it
reminded her of Tom. Of course, Fred looked nothing like Tom, who’d been a
football quarterback in college and still maintained his broad, intimidating
figure. Plus, Tom had never worn that startled deer look that Fred was wearing
now. Her aide opened his mouth, shut it again, and meekly took the bag.
“Donor breakfast with entrepreneur Vinlas Morgan at 7; meet
and greet with Girl Scout president at 7:30, staff meeting at 7:45, photo op
with celebrity chef Colette Caramel at 8:15 …”
“Why are you telling me this?” Marcie asked as she crossed
to pet Mr. Boo Boo goodbye. She never liked knowing her schedule ahead of time;
it was too depressing. She and her staff went over the day’s, week’s and
month’s priorities every evening and the schedule reflected that. The schedule
was the execution and she didn’t need the execution in her head.
“Telling you what, doctor?” Fred asked, hitching the bag on
his shoulder and opening the door for her.
“I don’t need to know what I’m doing at 8:15, she said.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Fred protested.
“But you …” Now Marcie opened her mouth and closed it again.
She was still hearing the schedule in her mind, in Fred’s voice, on a
relentless loop: “luncheon with Indiana Patriots for Safe Streets at noon,
national security briefing at 12:45 …” but Fred’s mouth wasn’t moving, he was
just looking at her with concern now, as the voice churned on. “Stop it!” she
snapped at him.
“Doctor?” He stared at her baffled, the droning schedule
suddenly halted. “Are you all right?”
His mouth definitely moved that time. “I’m fine,” she said
carefully, watching him closely.
He nodded and turned to lead her down the hall and she could
hear, muted now, the schedule starting up again: “Presentation of donor
campaign pins at 3:05 …”
She followed, her head spinning. He wasn’t saying the
schedule out loud, but it was his voice. “Fred?” she asked.
He turned and looked at her calmly, mouth closed, but she
clearly heard his voice say, “What the hell is it now?”
“What were you thinking about just now?”
“Great, you sound like my goddamn wife,” said his voice, but
his mouth didn’t move. Then it did. “Just running through today’s schedule, Dr.
Powers.”
“You were thinking about my schedule,” she said.
He nodded. “Of course,” he answered and turned to walk
again. “Crazy bitch this morning.”
“Fred!” she cried, outraged. Her aide turned and stared at
her. “Did you call me …” She stopped. Of course he hadn’t. In the 20 years
they’d known each other, he’d never sworn in her presence. Either he was
cracking up or she was.
“Dr. Powers?” he asked.
“Nothing, go ahead,” she said, purposefully slowing her
pace. The droning schedule resumed, but she noticed that the further Fred
strode down the hall, the man bag bouncing, the softer the voice grew.
Then she heard another voice, behind her, a deeper voice:
“STARGAZER approaching elevator, clean sweep, only IRONMAN
ahead …”
Marcie turned to see her Secret Service agent, Dan, looming
up behind her. Usually he was a silent, bulky presence with empty eyes, why was
he muttering under his breath all of a sudden?
“IRONMAN?” she asked him. “Is that Fred?”
“Yes ma’am,” Dan said crisply.
“It must be the muscles,” she said mischievously. Fred’s
scrawny arms had no muscles to speak of.
“Golf, ma’am,” Dan said.
Ah, that made sense. Fred was an obsessive golf player,
always jamming with other aides about nine-irons and drivers and titanium
clubheads. A clever Secret Service name, and likely a gentle dig, too.
IRONMAN was waiting at the elevator. “Christ, it’s almost
7,” he said. “She must be there precisely on the dot, not early – she must be
in control – but not late, he’ll take exception.”
“Who?” Marcie asked.
“Vinlas Morgan, founder of Planful.com. He’s considering a
big contribution, but wants to hear your stance on net neutrality and the level
of regulation in the web service economy.”
The elevator door opened and Marcie, Fred and Dan slipped
inside. Dan was counting, low, under his breath. Why was he doing that? But she
couldn’t ask, because Fred was still talking about Morgan.
“What’s Planter.com?” she asked
“Come on, get it into your head,” Fred said. “Planful.com
provides time management experts to plan your day for you, set priorities and …”
Marcie blinked. Something was definitely up with Fred. He
was never rude.
The elevator door opened to a gaggle of reporters and Marcie
staggered back, overwhelmed by the screaming voices in her head.
