After a while, you have lived in Allison Springs so long that people stop asking you questions. You are an institution.
You are with Ruby nearly every one of her waking moments, and you think no two humans on earth have ever been closer. You know everything about her, and you couldn’t love her more. She appreciates a good pun. She loves quotation marks and peanut butter and words. She is not emotionally guarded, which makes her seem childish. She is not childish. The girls at her school don’t like her, and she doesn’t even care. She won’t change for them, though you know she wishes they would leave her alone. You have murderous thoughts toward those girls. She knows how to find things out and she delights in knowledge. She knows who to call for an ice cream truck in winter. You trust her with everything. She is you, but she is not you. For instance, your life is a lie, and she never lies. When she heard the story of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree, she barely understood it. “Of course he told the truth. The chopping down of a cherry tree would be a very big thing to cover up,” she said.
A day will come when you catch her looking at you in a strange, contemplative way. Her head is cocked. Her expression seems to say, I don’t know you at all.
And it occurs to you that you know your child and you operate under the principle that your watchfulness means there is no subject on which you have greater expertise. Yet there are parts of her that are not accessible to you either.
You love your daughter, but you have fewer choices than you once did. Your choices are dictated by her.
Maybe not fewer choices. Maybe it’s that the answers are more obvious, so you don’t pose the questions. Life unspools more inevitably. You keep turning the pages.
Something you don’t predict is how your job makes you privy to the secrets of everyone in town. You are a confessor, and you know the town’s sins. For instance, a bride whose wedding you planned said she was a murderer. The woman reminded you of a newborn fawn. Very slender, large eyes, a bit shaky on her feet.
When she was sixteen years old, she was driving a car that crashed into a tree, and the three girls who were her passengers were killed.
She wasn’t drunk, but she may have picked up her phone to send a text message. She couldn’t entirely remember what had happened. People thought she was lying when she said that, but she promised it was true. “I honestly wish I could remember,” she said. “Because then I would know whether to feel guilty or not.”
She tried to kill herself.
She went to a mental hospital for a while.
She recovered.
She met a man, and then she met you.
You asked her the thing she was most looking forward to about her wedding. She told you she was looking forward to having a new name.
“Is that silly?” she said. “Gosh, I think half the point of marrying him for me is that I’ll officially be someone else.”
ONLY ONCE, IN ten years, are you ever confronted about your past, and it’s by the husband of that woman. You use this woman’s secret to keep the husband quiet.
Maybe this is wrong, but he is threatening your livelihood and your and Ruby’s way of life. The husband is ambitious. He has told you several times that he wants to seek political office.
You say to him, “If you tell people about who you think I am, what would it do to me? Maybe people would care? Maybe they wouldn’t? I’m a private citizen and I don’t need anyone to vote for me for anything, you know?”
THREE YEARS LATER, Mrs. Morgan shows up at your office, without a meeting. “I’ve decided you should be the next mayor of Allison Springs,” she says.
“That’s interesting,” you say. “But it’s not possible.”
“Why? What else are you doing?”
“Lots of things. I have a business. I have a daughter. And if you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a partner.”
Mrs. Morgan insists. “I’m never wrong about these things.”
“I don’t have any money for a campaign,” you say.
“I’m loaded,” she says. “And I have tons of rich friends.”
“I don’t want you to waste your money or your rich friends’ money. I have a past,” you say.
“Who doesn’t? Did you murder someone? Did you abuse a child? Were you a drug dealer?”
“No,” you say. “No, no.”
“Did you go to jail?”
“No,” you say.
“Then it sounds like a youthful indiscretion to me, and no one will care,” she says. “Okay, I’ll bite. What did you do that was so bad?”
“I had an affair with a prominent married man when I was in my early twenties.”
She laughs. “Was it super steamy?”
“It was somewhat steamy.”
“Do you still have hot dreams about him?”
“Occasionally,” you say. “Mainly I have dreams where I calmly explain to him why he shouldn’t be sleeping with a girl half his age.”
“No one will care,” Mrs. Morgan says. “NO ONE WILL CARE. Plus, you’re not running for president, though the standards for that office seem pretty low these days, too.”
“Also, I have a daughter and I’m not married,” you say.
“I know,” she says. “I’ve met Ruby. Lovely girl, Ruby.”
“Why me?” you ask. “I’ve got baggage.”
“Because I like you. You’re smart. You know everyone, and people trust and respect you, and in your line of work, I bet you know where a lot of this town’s bodies are buried, and that’s always a good thing. And I’ve lived here for thirty years, paid my share of taxes here, and I’d like to see a lady mayor before I died.”
You know you shouldn’t run for office.
You know it will compromise Ruby.
You know it will put too much scrutiny on you and your past.
You know if you lose, and the secret comes out, it will likely damage your business and your reputation in the community.
On the other hand, you are thirty-seven years old.
You love being Ruby’s mother, but loving Ruby does not stop you from wanting things for yourself.
You know it’s not a national office. It’s not president, or senator, or congressman.
You know it’s not what you imagined when you were young.
Still, it seems like a big thing to be mayor.
You aren’t so very different than when you were twenty years old. Despite everything, you still believe in the power of government to effect positive change. And you’ve come to love this town and the people who live in it. You don’t like the idea of Wes West or a person like him becoming mayor. Wes West is a bully. He bullies his wife. He tried to bully you.
Your grandparents believed in public service. They were taken in by this imperfect country, and they believed they owed something to it in return. To take care of something is to love it.
YOUR DAUGHTER FINDS out everything, of course, and she reacts in predictable ways. She says she hates you and then she runs away. She leaves you a note, as if that is supposed to be a comfort. She is so young! She has no idea what can happen in the world.
You try to track her down using her phone, but she is savvy with technology—she is your official Young Person in the Office—and she has her phone turned off.
You remember that you can track her down using her iPad. The iPad doesn’t have GPS, but when it connects with Wi-Fi, her location appears on a map.
The blinking dot pulses like your heart.
She is in Florida.
In Miami.
She has gone to find the congressman.
You call the Miami Police, and you tell them her location.
You are about to leave for the airport, but then you don’t. In the best-case scenario, it will take you seven or eight hours to fly there, and you know someone who is much closer.
You call your mother. You’re in a panic, but as soon as your mother answers the phone, you relax. When your mother is worrying about something, it means that you won’t have to.
>
“Mom,” you say. “I need you to go get Ruby. She’s at the police station.”
“Of course,” your mother says.
You tell her which police station and the name of the police officer she should ask for. You begin to explain what happened, but your mother cuts you off. “We’ll sort it out later,” she says. “I should get going.”
“Thank you,” you say.
“You’re welcome. What else am I doing today?” she says.
“You probably had things.”
“Roz and I are going to the movies. That’s about it,” she says. “This will be better than the movies.”
“What movie?” you ask. You want her to get to Ruby, but for some reason, you are reluctant to hang up.
“The one where the British woman has the bad American accent. Something to do with Jews. Roz picked it. There’s a Q&A. Maybe we can still make it? Does Ruby like that kind of thing?”
“She does,” you say.
“Will you fly down to meet us? It would be good to see you. Grandma asks about you.”
“Give Grandma my love. I think about her all the time.”
“So come down. Come see us,” your mother says.
“I will,” you say. “But I can’t leave town right now.”
“No? Not even to come get Ruby?”
“Would it be possible for you to fly up here with her?” You pause. “The thing is, I’m running for mayor. The election’s next week, and the last debate’s tonight.”
“Mayor?” your mother says. Her voice sounds soft and warm and relieved and filled with awe and pride. Her voice sounds like a firefly looks on a summer night. “Aviva Grossman! A thing like that!”
“I probably won’t win,” you say. “They found out about me. It was only a matter of time.”
“Did you explain to them?” your mother says. “Did you tell it from your side?”
“There’s no defending me,” you say. “I made those choices. I did those things.”
“What did you do? It was sex. He was ancient. You were a girl. It was a bunch of narishkeit,” your mother says. “Everyone in Florida behaved like little babies.”
“Even so.”
“Don’t worry about Ruby,” your mother says. “You have to stay. You have to fight.”
AT THE DEBATE, your opponent leans into the ancient scandal and your double identity. You let him, and you don’t even hold it against him. For the most part, he has behaved admirably. You know the thing about his wife, and you think about using it, but you decide against it. It’s cheap, and she is beside the point. Honestly, who cares what the wife did? Who even wants to be mayor if you have to ruin some woman’s life to do it?
You see her in the audience when the debate is over. She looks at you and she mouths, “Thank you.”
Mrs. Morgan comes up to you.
“How did we do?” you ask.
“It’ll be close,” she says.
“Are you sorry you bet on me?” you ask. “I did warn you.”
“Never! I bet on people, and I particularly bet on smart women. This was your starter election—get your scandal out of the way. Now they know what happened, and they’re used to you. If we lose this one, we’ll run again. We’ll run for something bigger.”
“You’re crazy,” you say.
“Maybe I am. But I’ve got a bigger checkbook than anyone in this town. And the biggest checkbook wins.”
“That isn’t always true,” you say.
“Fine, but the biggest checkbook can always go the most rounds.”
WHEN YOUR MOTHER arrives in Allison Springs with your daughter, you crush them into you. You want to melt their flesh into your flesh. You want to bond your bones to their bones.
You make Ruby go to school. She has missed enough school. “We’ll discuss this later,” you say.
Ruby doesn’t protest.
After you drop Ruby off, you show your mother around town. “Such a pretty town,” she says. “It looks like a movie set.”
You show her your business, what you have built. “So impressive,” she says. “All these people work for you?”
You show your mother to your guest room. “This is lovely, Aviva,” she says. “Frette linen, like a hotel.”
“What’s wrong with you?” you ask. “Don’t you have any complaints?”
Your mother shrugs. “What do I have to complain about?”
“I don’t want to pick a fight,” you say, “but you used to have a lot of complaints about me.”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “I don’t remember things that way at all.”
“My hair. My clothes. My cleanliness. My—”
“Aviva, you’re my daughter. I had to tell you things,” she says. “If I didn’t tell you things, how would you know them?”
“I go by Jane now,” you say.
“My God,” she says, “could you have picked a more gentile name?”
“There are plenty of Jewish Janes,” you say.
“Maybe I mean boring. Such a boring name. Jane Young. There’s your complaint,” your mother says.
You leave your mother and you go to your daughter’s room to say good night. “Mom, I’m sorry,” Ruby says.
“You’re home now,” you say.
“No,” she says. “He wouldn’t see me. He can’t be my dad if he didn’t want to see me.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you, but he’s right. He isn’t your dad,” you say. “I never even had sex with him. I never—”
“No,” Ruby interrupts. “I was thinking when I was on the plane back. Maybe it doesn’t matter who he is. You’re my mom and you’re my best friend.”
“I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” you say, “but I’ve done my best.”
“I’m sorry for something else, too,” she says. “I was the one who told the newspaper.”
“I know,” you say. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does matter. You might not win now.”
“I might not,” you admit. “But the truth is, I might not have won anyway. When you decide to run for office, the only thing you know for certain is that you might not win.”
“It’s my fault,” Ruby says. She covers her head with her quilt.
“It’s not, Ruby.” You dig her out from under the blankets. “Mrs. Morgan owns the newspaper. She could have run the story or she could have killed it. I told her to run it.”
“Why would you do that?” Ruby asks.
“Because it’s better this way,” you say. “It would have come out eventually. I’m not ashamed of what happened, not anymore. And I’m not ashamed of what I did to improve my situation. And if people want to judge me and not vote for me, that is their choice.”
ON ELECTION DAY, Mrs. Morgan arranges for you to have the classic polling place photo.
You put on a red suit. You spend no time making this decision. You don’t even consider wearing anything else. The fit is perfect and you know it will photograph well. You’re older now, and you know what looks good on you. Ruby puts on a blue dress, and your mother wears gray pants, a white blouse, and an Hermès scarf. “Red, white, and blue,” your mother observes.
You walk to the polling place, which is at the fire station, a few blocks from your office. You wonder what happens if there’s a fire on Election Day.
Mrs. Morgan wanted you to get a car, but you decided to walk. The weather is cold but sunny and bright. You walk down the street with your mother and your daughter. A few people try to avoid your gaze, but for the most part, people wave at you and wish you luck. You’re surprised by these displays of warmth, but you shouldn’t be. You’ve planned their weddings. You’ve witnessed their most intimate days. You’ve discreetly handed packets of tissues to sobbing fathers, and you’ve held babies born six months after the wedding, and you’ve driven racist mothers-in-law to the airport, and you’ve forgiven bounced checks when you could, and you’ve looked the other way when a bachelor party got out of hand. The point is, they have s
ecrets, too.
When you get to the polling place, a half-dozen photographers are waiting for you. The media beyond Allison Springs has picked up on the story. It’s a juicy one. Sex scandal. Fallen woman. A girl who slept with a politician goes into politics herself. There are second acts in American political life.
“Aviva,” one of the photographers calls. “Look over here.”
“Jane,” calls another. “Over here!”
You turn to one and smile, and then you turn to the other and you smile even more broadly. You smile with teeth.
“Who do you think’s going to win?” a reporter asks.
“It’ll be tight,” you say. “My opponent’s run a solid campaign.”
You leave Ruby with your mother and you go inside to vote.
You usually vote by mail and it seems quaint and oddly intimate to be filling out your ballot in public. Even after you draw the curtain closed, you still feel exposed. The curtain makes you feel more exposed. You’re a Catholic at confession. You’re a teenage girl trying on prom dresses at the mall. You’re a pregnant mother in an open-backed hospital gown, waiting to give birth. You’re the Nurse in a high school production of Romeo and Juliet, standing in the wings. You’re an intern who slept with her boss and everyone found out.
Speaking of which, you dreamt of Aviva Grossman last night. In your dream, she was running for mayor of Miami. You went to her for advice. “Can I ask you something?” you said. “How did you ever survive that scandal?”
She said, “I refused to be shamed.”
“How did you do that?” you asked.
“When they came at me, I kept coming,” she said.
You pull back your shoulders. You button your suit jacket. You smooth your hair.
You find your name on the ballot and you choose.
Author’s Note
There is no Allison Springs, Maine, but I can attest to the reality of Boca Raton, Florida: I grew up there.
Bubbe meise means a grandmother’s fable or an old wives’ tale in Yiddish.
Jane’s favorite line is from the novel One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. Roughly, it translates, “Humans are not born forever on the day their mothers have them; life necessitates giving birth to themselves over and over again.”