Mrs. Morgan said, “That’s a very cynical point of view, and I know there are some people who feel that way. But I don’t think that, and I know your mom doesn’t think that. I’ve lived here my entire life, just like you, and I love this dumb little town, and even if it’s not a presidential race, I think it matters very much who wins it. That’s why I’m backing your mother.”
I didn’t say anything.
Mrs. Morgan said, “May I guess what’s bothering you?”
“It’s a free country,” I said.
“It’s been you and your mom against the world for a very long time, and now there are so many other people in your lives. Maybe you don’t want to share her?”
I shook my head. I hated that Mrs. Morgan thought I was so petty. I wanted to tell her what I knew, but I couldn’t betray my mom that way. “That isn’t it,” I said.
“It’s something though?”
I bit my lip. “It’s nothing.”
“All right, Miss Ruby. You come and see me if you ever want to talk. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m very old and I’m very wise.”
I’ve been thinking about it, Fatima. Maybe I should tell Mrs. Morgan the truth? I know it would be betraying my mom, but I also think Mrs. Morgan’s right. If it does matter who runs Allison Springs, maybe people should know who my mom really is.
Your Friend (I Hope),
Ruby
To: “Fatima”
[email protected] From: “Ruby”
[email protected] Date: October 28
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your American Pen Pal, Friends Around the World Pen Pal Program
Dear Fatima,
I decided to ignore your advice. I think a friendship doesn’t mean that you have to always agree with a person or always do what they say, do you?
I told Mrs. Morgan.
It was hard to get Mrs. Morgan alone. When she is at our house, she is always with my mom. I couldn’t take an Uber to Mrs. Morgan’s mansion, because she has five corgis, and I am allergic to dogs. A “corgi” is a “very fluffy dachshund.” A “dachshund” is “a stretched out version of a regular dog.” The queen of England also has corgis and that is why some people call Mrs. Morgan “the queen of Allison Springs.”
I went to go see her at the Allison Springs Cryer, which is the newspaper she owns and which is three streets over from my mom’s office. She has an office there, but a man with a mustache said, “Ha! Mrs. Morgan never comes into the office.” I realized at that moment that I had a new pet peeve. My new pet peeve is people who say “ha” instead of “laughing.”
I did not like his “tone.” I answer the phones for my mom, and I would never say something like that to a client or to a stranger or to anyone else. You would think a grown-up man would understand how to greet people. I said, “Mrs. Morgan is your boss, and you shouldn’t say things like that to strangers.”
The man said, “You’re not a stranger. You’re the kid of Jane Young, the future mayor of our fine burg.”
I said, “What you should say is, ‘Mrs. Morgan isn’t here right now. Would you like me to tell her you stopped by?’ ”
The man said, “Well, sure, I was going to get to that. Also, I’m not her assistant. I’m the editor in chief.”
“But Mrs. Morgan is still your boss,” I said.
“Technically, yes,” he said. He reshaped the ends of his mustache.
“What’s an editor in chief?” I said.
“It’s someone who comes into the office every day,” he said.
I do not like when someone answers a perfectly good question that way.
Finally, I sent Mrs. Morgan a text message (We need to meet ASAP and IN PRIVATE. This Text Is for Your Eyes Only), and she said we could meet at her office in an hour, which means the man with the mustache was wrong. Mrs. Morgan does sometimes go to her office.
At her office, Mrs. Morgan said, “What’s so urgent, Rubes? What’s so secret?”
I opened my mouth and then I closed it. It was hard to say the words.
Mrs. Morgan said, “I’m starving. Do you want to go to Clara’s? Confessions go down better on a full stomach.”
Clara’s is my favorite restaurant, and Mrs. Morgan is one of the owners. My favorite thing to eat at Clara’s is the corn chowder. My other favorite thing to eat at Clara’s is the chicken pot pie. I was hungry, but I was also a little sick. I said, “I would rather do it right here.”
“Do what?” Mrs. Morgan said. Her eyes grew very wide and interested. “What are we doing?”
I said, “I need to tell you something.”
Mrs. Morgan said, “Yes, I gathered that.”
Then, I said it. I told her that my mom was Aviva Grossman. I said, “I don’t want you to lose all your money trying to get my mom elected when she is a liar.”
Mrs. Morgan sighed and then her eyes grew soft and she smiled. “Ruby, I already know.”
I said, “What?”
Mrs. Morgan said, “Your mom and I have worked together for years. We’ve planned more than a dozen fund-raisers. Do you think I wouldn’t have looked up some information about her? It wouldn’t be good business for me not to know. I’m very rich and the way a person stays very rich is by protecting her interests.”
I said, “Why did you push her to run for mayor then?”
Mrs. Morgan said, “Because, my Ruby, I don’t think any of what happened matters.”
I said, “But, Mrs. Morgan! Have you read the blog?”
Mrs. Morgan said, “I have.”
I said, “Won’t the people of Allison Springs think you lied to them?”
Mrs. Morgan said, “We haven’t, Ruby. Choosing what to reveal is not the same as lying. Your mom is Jane Young now—”
I interrupted her. “No, she’s not.”
“Yes, she is, Ruby. And that’s all there is to it.”
I said, “I don’t think it’s right that you should decide what the people get to know.”
Mrs. Morgan said, “That’s leadership, Ruby. But if people find out, your mom won’t deny it, and we will deal with it then.”
I said, “So Mom knows you know?”
Mrs. Morgan said, “Not in so many words. But we have an understanding.”
I had to sit down on Mrs. Morgan’s couch. I said, “I’m so confused.”
Mrs. Morgan said, “You were brave to come to me. I know what a lot of guts it took.” She put her hand on my hand.
I looked at her wrinkled fingers. She was wearing a ring in the shape of a leopard. He was gold and had green eyes made from emeralds, and he probably cost more money than I have in my entire bank account, and that is disgusting. I bet she didn’t even like the ring that much when she bought it. I pulled my hand away. “DON’T TELL ME ABOUT GUTS!” I yelled. “I don’t care what you think of me because you are a liar, just like my mom. I never want to see you again.”
I ran out of the office, past that stupid editor in chief with the mustache, and I went to our town house, and now I’m writing this e-mail.
I’m so disappointed in Mrs. Morgan.
How can she NOT care that my mom was a totally other person?
What is wrong with everyone?
Your Pen Pal,
Ruby
P.S. I went to bed without eating and now I am starving and the only thing I can think about is corn chowder. I probably should have gone to Clara’s with Mrs. Morgan, since I am never eating there again in protest.
P.P.S. Mrs. Morgan is wrong. People have a “right to know” who they are voting for.
To: “Fatima”
[email protected] From: “Ruby”
[email protected] Date: October 31
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your American Pen Pal, Friends Around the World Pen Pal Program
Dear Fati
ma,
I’ve come up with a plan of action. It’s happening so don’t try to “write” me out of it.
1. I am going to Miami to meet Congressman Aaron Levin. If he’s my father, I want to see him and talk to him. If he’s my father, he should know that he has a daughter. If he’s my father, he probably won’t mind if I move to Miami. There is NOTHING for me in Allison Springs.
2. I am going to leave an “anonymous” note for the Allison Springs Cryer about Aviva Grossman. Maybe Mrs. Morgan is right and it doesn’t matter. I think VOTERS deserve to know.
I spent last night researching flights and hotels. It is a little bit harder to travel when you are thirteen.
Luckily, you can do almost anything with a smartphone and a business American Express card and a personal PayPal account and Google and a printer. For example, the airline website has their policies for “unaccompanied minors,” and I had to write a note that said it was “OKAY for me to fly alone and not be met at the gate,” and then I had to forge my mom’s signature. I have been forging my mom’s signature for years, but I have never forged it without her knowing about it.
For the record, I am not stealing money from my mom. I have been very carefully budgeting my trip so that I will not exceed the amount remaining in my bank account, which is $3,770.82.
I also wrote the note for the Allison Springs Cryer. I wrote many drafts, but I decided on:
To the Editor in Chief, Allison Springs Cryer—
GOOGLE “AVIVA GROSSMAN”
—A Concerned Citizen
I thought the part with “a concerned citizen” was very good.
I printed my note, and then I put it in a security envelope, and on the way to the airport, I had my airport taxi stop at the newspaper, and I put it in the mail slot there. I tried not to feel like a terrible person, though it was probably the WORST THING I HAVE EVER DONE.
But then I decided I didn’t care. I felt cold as Maine in January. I felt cold as an ice cream brain freeze. Maybe I am a terrible person. Maybe I am a terrible person because that’s what happens when you are LIED to your whole life.
The taxi driver said, “You’re a little young to be traveling alone.”
I said, “I’m older than I look.”
“How old are you?”
I said, “I’m fifteen.”
The taxi driver said, “I would have guessed eleven.”
I said, “Most people think I look thirteen.”
The taxi driver said, “Hmm. You’re going to miss Halloween.”
I said, “I’m not that into Halloween.” But actually, I LOVE HALLOWEEN. I love dressing up in costumes, and every year my mom and I do a “joint costume.” Last year, for example, my mom and I were Zombie Bride and Groom. And the year before that, we were Hot Dog and Bun. And the year before that, we were the people from Portlandia, which is our favorite show except for The Walking Dead and House of Cards. And the year before that, we were Zombie Bridesmaids. And the year before that, we were an iPhone and an iPad. And the year before that, we were Willy Wonka and the Golden Ticket. And the year before that, we were a waffle and a pat of butter. And I don’t want to tell you any more costumes because I’m almost crying as I type this already. Anyway, with everything that has been happening, I totally forgot it was Halloween and I guess Mom had, too. Do they have Halloween in Indonesia?
“They still have Halloween where I’m going,” I said to the taxi driver. “I am going to South Florida to see my father.”
“Lucky you,” he said. “Weather’s a lot nicer there.”
I said, “I like the weather in Maine.”
“Even in winter?”
I said, “It’s so pretty in winter. Everything is so bright it hurts your eyes. The air is so crisp, your throat feels like straws of ice. My mom . . . My mom’s an event planner, and she says the winter weddings always have the best pictures.”
“You’re a Maine girl is what you are,” he said.
I’m at the airport now. I got through security, no problem. My forgery worked just fine.
Hold on.
Mom just sent me a text: ARE YOU ALREADY AT SCHOOL? WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO FOR HALLOWEEN TONIGHT?!?!?
I replied, 2 Late.
She replied, You can’t be mad at me forever.
I replied, Teacher says to put my phone away.
She replied, I love you, Ruby.
Then I blocked her number from being able to text me again. I’ll unblock her when I get to the hotel in Miami. Once I’m there, she can’t try to stop me from going. That is a “tautology,” but it is also “true.” A “tautology” is “when you say the same thing in different words.” Ms. Reacher says they should be “avoided whenever possible.”
The plane’s about to take off, so I actually do have to shut off my phone.
Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while.
Thank you for trying to help me and for listening to me. I’ve learned so much about Muslim people from Indonesia, and I hope you’ve learned something about nonpracticing Jewish people from Maine. Actually, I don’t know that I would make a good “sample.” Maybe you’re not a good “sample” either. Maybe it is silly to try to learn about cultures from “pen pals.” All you can really learn about is the specific person you’re writing to. I don’t mean to sound down on the “pen pal” program. I’ve loved having you as my pen pal! I couldn’t have asked for a better pen pal than You.
Love,
Your Meaning Twin,
Ruby
P.S. If you give me your address, I will send you an ACTUAL PAPER postcard from Miami Beach.
IV
Angel in the House
Embeth
It had been folly to have an anniversary party a week before Aaron’s reelection. When Aaron had suggested it a year earlier on their twenty-ninth wedding anniversary, Embeth had been in the middle of her second round of chemo and had spent most of the evening with her head over a toilet. “Next year will be different,” Aaron said, lingering in the doorway, trying not to breathe too deeply. He was not the type of man to hold back your hair, but by God, he would bear witness to your suffering. He would try to cheer you, with promises of a party for you and not for donors. Had she ever once said she craved such an event? Her cancer had made him sentimental. That was the only explanation. No, he had always been sentimental. She had known well before she married him that sentimentality was his weakness. “Come on, Em. We deserve a bash for our thirtieth,” he said. “We’ll do it at the Breakers. We’ll invite people we actually like for once. We won’t give a darn who we offend.”
I’m not going to be alive next year, Embeth thought. “We can’t have a party in November,” she said. “You’ll be campaigning.” Embeth retched over the toilet and nothing came out. Worse than throwing up was not throwing up.
“I won’t be,” Aaron said. “I mean, I will be, but who cares? I’ve been a congressman for ten terms. If they don’t want to reelect me because I take a night off for our thirtieth anniversary, screw the goddamn people. I’m going to do this, Em. I don’t care what you say. I’m texting Jorge right now to clear the schedule.”
He must have really thought she was going to die.
But here she was, a year later, alive. Frizzy hair, fuzzy brain, scarred chest, beating, beating, dumbly animal beating heart, alive, alive.
It was 4:55 a.m., and Aaron was wearing a suit and no tie. He had to fly to D.C. for the day. He would be back for the party at 8:00 p.m. The trip could not be avoided. His opponent, Marta Villanueva—blond, boobs, Republican—was putting up a bigger fight than anyone had anticipated based on the size of her coffers (not a euphemism for those boobs), and he couldn’t afford to miss the vote that was happening in the House. Why in God’s name the House had scheduled such an important vote days before an election he did not know. The optics were impossible. Not just for him, but for everyone who was up for reelection. What an altogether, unprecedentedly lousy year this had been. He was sorry to leave the last min
ute preparations to Embeth. He was sorry to leave her, on this, their thirtieth anniversary. Thirty years! Can you imagine? They must have been babies. They must have not even been born yet. He kissed her on the head.
“Go,” she said. “Godspeed. Everything’s planned. There’s not much to do anyway. Nothing I can’t easily do myself.”
“You’re an angel,” he said. “I’m so lucky,” he said. “I love you,” he said. “Happy anniversary,” he said.
She offered to drive him to the airport, but he said she should stay in bed. He had already called a car anyway.
Embeth rolled over in bed and she tried to go back to sleep, but sleep would not come.
If he was going to wake her, she might as well have driven him to the airport. She did not sleep well since the cancer. She was lucky to get three hours a night. In the daytime, she was exhausted.
Embeth closed her eyes.
She had almost drifted off to somewhere near sleep when she heard the flutter of wings, like cards being shuffled.
She opened her eyes.
An emerald parrot with a crimson head flew straight at her and just as its hooked beak was about to hit her in the forehead, the bird alighted on the pasture where her breasts used to be.
“Señora, señora,” the parrot said. “Wake up, wake up.”
Embeth said she needed to sleep, but the parrot knew she wasn’t sleeping. She rolled onto her side and the parrot repositioned himself so that he was sitting on her waist.
“Much to do, much to do,” the parrot said.
“Scat, El Meté,” Embeth said. She did not know how the parrot had gotten this name or what it even meant. Was it Spanish? Why hadn’t she ever learned Spanish? God knows, it would have come in handier as a politician’s wife in Florida than three years of bloody high school Latin had. She was not even sure that El Meté was a he. Her eyes still closed, Embeth swatted at the air, making a windmill with her arm. The parrot flew to the windowsill. “If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be useless today. And I need to be sharp.”
“El Meté help. El Meté help.”
“You can’t help,” Embeth said. “You can help by going away. You can help by letting me get some effing rest.”