“I don’t like the wig,” he replied. “Makes her look old. Otherwise, she’s doing all right.” He sighed. “I mean, no she isn’t. But we’re trying to be hopeful, you know? Anyway, she likes me running the campaign from home. That way she can still feel part of it.” He bent down to pet the dog, which had flopped over and was wriggling on its back. I noticed its collar had rhinestones on it. “Molly’s a good dog. We had a couple of hunting dogs growing up, coon hounds. They were good dogs, too, but this one’s different. This one’s my mother’s dog.”
Nolan took one of my bags, and we went inside, led by Molly. The house was two stories and decorated with simplicity, even elegance. I hadn’t ever been to his family’s farm before, and certain touches—a retro-looking leather sofa, a framed Rothko print—struck me more as SoHo than Missouri. (My urban bias would dissipate in the weeks that followed to the point where, upon returning to New York, I’d find myself bristling at rude waiters and jerking awake at night with every passing wail of a patrol car or ambulance.) The house’s single nod to its rustic location was a cow skull hanging over the mantel.
A dozen or so people of all ages were standing around the living room and looking grave. Nolan explained to me that they’d convened in order to assemble the one thousand yard signs that were due to be delivered that morning—they were already weeks overdue—but he’d just gotten word, moments before I arrived, that the delivery was being delayed again.
“I needed for them to be made locally,” Nolan explained, “but I’m starting to think the manufacturer doesn’t support our campaign.”
“You mean they’re intentionally—”
“Welcome to Missouri politics.” He clapped his hands. “All right, people,” he said to the room, “we have work to do, signs or no signs.”
They divided into canvassing groups and spent a few minutes looking over maps and lists of registered voters. Then they went out to their cars to convince the citizens of District Twelve that it was “all right to vote Albright.” Nolan’s father went with them—after giving me a bone-crunching handshake—wearing a T-shirt that said, “Vote for my son.”
Only after they were gone did Mrs. Albright come downstairs. She had on blue jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. I hadn’t seen her since graduation. I didn’t remember her being a small woman, but she looked small now—shrunken, and tired. The wig wasn’t so bad, though.
She smiled and took both my hands in hers. “It means so much to Nolan to have you here,” she said.
I told her I was glad to come.
“You’re a good friend,” she said. “You always have been. Now fix yourself a snack—I’ll bet they didn’t give you anything on that plane.”
She was right—I was starving. Nolan and I went into the kitchen and Mrs. Albright headed back upstairs. When she was out of earshot I quietly asked, “Do you want to talk about …”
He shook his head. “I’d rather talk about anything else.”
So I asked him about all the canvassing his volunteers were doing. I wanted to know if it actually worked.
“You don’t win elections around here with radio or TV ads,” he said. “Not that we’ve got the money for that anyway. Here, the personal touch is everything. Meeting voters, shaking their hand, hearing what they have to say, telling them what you’re all about. Reminding them that you’re from these parts, and your family is from these parts.” His voice seemed to slow down a notch. I detected the drawl that seeped in sometimes during a college debate. “And it doesn’t hurt to have a secret weapon.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
He laughed. “You, that’s what. The volunteers are dedicated and some of them are even smart, but not one of them can really think, let alone write a good sentence.” My job, he explained, besides helping to keep the volunteers organized, was to crank up the campaign’s publicity effort—writing press releases to all the local papers, letters to the editor, and updates to the campaign’s newsletter. Plus, I’d overhaul any campaign literature that I felt needed it.
He showed me the magazine rack with all the press coverage so far: newspapers, mostly, but a few glossy magazines—Missouri Monthly and the Princeton Alumni Weekly.
On a table in the living room was a computer and laser printer. Nolan opened a file on the word processor. “Here’s my position on every issue that affects our district,” he said. “Take the afternoon and read it all. Tonight, you can ask me anything you don’t understand. But now,” he said, heading for the door, “I have the important job of getting a haircut.” He grinned. “In Missouri, hippies don’t win elections.”
When he left, I opened the Princeton Alumni Weekly to the half-page article about Nolan and sat down at the table with it.