The Faithful: a Novel of the 2008 Campaign by Carla Dickens

Author:Carla Dickens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-05-31T01:53:25+00:00

Chapter Eight:

The Empire Strikes Back

Democratic Primaries and Caucuses in Ohio, Texas, Rhode Island, Vermont, March 4, 2008

Vermont: Barack Obama, 59%; Hillary Clinton, 39%

Rhode Island: Hillary Clinton, 58%; Barack Obama, 40%

Texas primary: Hillary Clinton, 51%; Barack Obama, 48%

Texas Caucus: Barack Obama, 52%; Hillary Clinton, 48%

Ohio: Hillary Clinton, 54%; Barack Obama, 44%

Kanesha was in meltdown when she answered her doorbell at 6 a.m. Her face had taken on the slightly ashen look that a black woman has when she doesn’t get enough sleep—or maybe fails to moisturize. Her hair was straining to burst out in a triumphant frizz beneath its layers of processing and shining. Beads of mascara were embedded like grit in her eyelashes. The whites of her eyes were so bloodshot they looked like those ghastly orbs served up in bowls at Halloween haunted houses. Still she didn’t look bad; Kanesha never looks bad. But I didn’t see the bruises. Were they not visible on dark skin?

“What did he do to you?” I demanded. She was trembling in my arms. “If he assaulted you, Kanesha, we’re calling the police. Don’t protect him for the sake of the campaign!”

She leaned back in my arms, looked hard at me and asked: “Thomas, are you crazy?”

“Am I crazy? Am I crazy! I can’t get you on the phone. I come over here not knowing if I’ll have to go to his place next and demand to check the closets for your body—and when you answer the door, you look like you’ve been through a street fight—and you ask if I am crazy?”

“Yes,” she said, pulling out of my arms and clasping her hands tightly in front of her body, probably to stop them from shaking. “You know I’ve been involved in a consensual sexual relationship with Michael. He only spanks me because I ask for it.” Her cheeks flushed, like dusk going into night, making her transcendently beautiful in her dishevelment. “Don’t you understand?” she asked, her full lower lip quavering sweetly. “I left him sleeping peacefully, stole a photo from his apartment and ran out of there.”

“How long ago?” I asked.

“Right after I hung up with you.”

“And you haven’t been answering your phone?” I yelled. Jeez, had she no regard for my feelings? “Didn’t it occur to you that I might be worried?”

“I didn’t think,” she said. She was back in my arms, sobbing on my shoulder. “I couldn’t think about anything except what I’d done to him.”

Oh, damn. Kanesha was in love with Michael Westwood, former (and probably secretly current) Clinton-ite, the pasty white boy/policy wonk. A question was wriggling around in my brain like a larvae just hatched: Could Michael be X? No, no, it had to b—I wanted it to be!—Reggie. I let her cry it out, led her into her bedroom, where I tucked her in and curled up beside her and held her for the three hours we allowed ourselves to sleep. I’d never been that close to a black woman’s booty; and I could see why it would drive a straight man crazy.

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