“Yeah. Tell that to the kid who’s lying in bed every night, scared shitless, sure the world’s going to explode before he’s even kissed a girl. This letter only made things worse.” He refolded the letter. “That’s when I made a deal with myself. Two promises, for when I became an adult. Number one, I’d make sure that no kid went through what I went through. And number two, I’d help kids make a difference, so they wouldn’t have to lie in bed at night feeling powerless. In return for those promises, I’d stop worrying about the state of the world until I turned eighteen, when I’d be old enough to be taken seriously. That was the deal I struck, the promise to myself that saved my life. And it’s the promise I’m keeping today.”
He looked at his watch, then down at the carpet, then back at me and grimaced. I didn’t want him feeling uncomfortable—his story had moved me deeply, and I nearly confessed my short-lived Carrie Fisher crush.
“When you write your presidential memoirs,” I told him finally, “be sure to include this chapter.”
Nolan slid the letter back into its envelope. He looked at me and smiled politely. “Let’s just win this one first.”
The evening before the election, Evan and Jeffrey flew into town to show their support. When they arrived at Nolan’s house, we said quick hellos and put them to work on the phones. But work got interrupted when Luke, a senior at Northwest Missouri State and one of Nolan’s most dedicated volunteers, came into the house in tears.
“He ran right in front of my truck …,” he was saying to anyone who’d listen. “… It was so dark … I didn’t see …”
Molly.
Mercifully, it’d been quick. By the time we made it outside and down the long driveway to the road, the dog was already lifeless. I hadn’t ever seen a dead dog before. Its tongue really did hang out. We stood over it—Nolan, Luke, myself, and a few of the morbidly curious among the volunteers—not knowing what to do. A minute later, Nolan’s parents followed us outside with a flashlight.
“Maybe I should go home,” Luke said.
Nolan’s mother nodded, her eyes wet. She was shivering. “Maybe you should.”
“Mom …,” Nolan began.
His father shut off the flashlight. “Come with me, son,” he said to Luke, and led him away from the street, toward the shed. They returned with a wheelbarrow.
Late that night, after the volunteers had all gone home and Evan and Jeffrey had left for their motel, Nolan and I took care of some sad business at the edge of the backyard and the corn crop.
The weather had been mild lately, and the ground gave easily. I’d thought we might put the dog into a box first, some makeshift coffin. Instead, without ceremony Nolan lifted the dog out of the wheelbarrow and set it down in the hole. He must have noticed my expression, because he said, “It’ll decompose faster this way.” He scooped up some dirt and let it fall onto the dog in the hole, then offered me the shovel in exchange for the flashlight.
“I’d rather not,” I said. “I know it’s just a dog, but … I’d just rather not.”
“I understand. It’s morbid. I don’t like doing it, either. Though I guess it’s better to be the one with the shovel than the one in the hole.” He added more dirt to the grave until there was a small mound, which he patted down with the back of the shovel.
“Please tell me,” he said, as we walked back toward the shed with the shovel and wheelbarrow, “that this is not an omen.”
I stopped walking. “Nolan, this is not an omen. This was an accident.”
“I just really want to win this, you know? It’s probably a couple of years too early for me to be running. I know I don’t quite have the experience yet, or the name recognition. Or the money.” He glanced back toward the house. “But I really want to win this one. For her, you know what I mean?”
“Of course I do.” I felt as if I needed to say more. “Look, you’ve worked your ass off and run a good, honest campaign. You’re going to be a great politician. The best kind, because you actually give a shit.”
He nodded. “All right. I’m convinced.” We returned to the house.
Twenty hours later, we crowded into the lounge at the Regency Hotel in Stokesville. Under a ceiling of helium balloons, about fifty of us—volunteers, family, friends, and media—watched the TV over the bar, waiting for the returns to come in. Nolan’s mother buzzed around the room in a purple dress, thanking every one and expressing confidence that the state of Missouri had chosen wisely. She looked better than I’d seen her since my arrival. Nolan’s father was being quieter, sipping his whiskey and studying the television.
Nolan had written his acceptance speech, and in my shirt pocket was a list of people he wanted to be sure to thank. Beer and wine flowed freely. On the bar were trays of food—deli sandwiches, a cheese platter, plenty of desserts—and coffee. We were hunkering down for a long night.
We needn’t have been. The polls closed at seven. At seven thirty, the stunningly pretty newscaster said: And in the Twelfth District, Ed Cassidy successfully jumps into state politics with an easy victory over his young rival, Nolan Albright.
She flashed her perfect white teeth.
13
“So do you remember how the night ended?” Jeffrey asked me now.
I remembered Mrs. Albright kissing her son on the cheek and, thoroughly deflated, going off to bed. Mr. Albright walking over to his son, shaking his hand, and frowning.
“You lost,” he said, “but I suppose you did the best you could.”