“I know,” Anton had said ruefully. “It’s the exposure part I’m worried about.”
The truth was, he had opened up an even wider lead against Irving since the article appeared. Barring some unexpected calamity, it was hard to imagine how Irving could close the gap. Each time he challenged Irving’s extremist positions, Anton went up a couple of points in the polls. He was not taking anything for granted—and Brad was skulking around all day, warning the campaign staff not to get cocky—but it seemed as if a Coleman would once again be occupying the Governor’s Mansion.
Being attorney general had made Anton much more aware of what was at stake, how quickly a progressive political legacy could be allowed to unravel, how the decisions that political leaders made had real-life consequences. What happened in the corridors of power could make the difference between an elderly man going to bed hungry or not, or whether a child would find his local community center open or shuttered closed, or whether a woman would be forced to carry a child she didn’t want. His first three months in the AG’s office, he’d felt battered by the sheer number of decisions he had to make on any given day, and he’d had to react to so many competitive agendas coming at him from all sides that it had been impossible to work on any long-term strategy. David had made it clear that he was always available for counsel, but Anton’s pride and his determination to keep his personal and professional worlds as far apart as possible hadn’t allowed him to ask for help. So he had turned to Brad, who had come in for a week, sitting in on meetings, taking notes, observing where Anton spent his time. Anton still consulted the seventeen-page memo that came out of those sessions and got a chuckle every time he read the title: “How to Be Street-Smart and Not Just Another Putz with a Harvard Law Degree.”
One of Bradley’s suggestions was that Anton actually read the letters and emails his constituents wrote to him, rather than turning them over to his assistant. And that he write back to a few each week. It was a recommendation Anton immediately adopted. Even though the number of letters had increased dramatically since he had announced for governor, reading them relaxed him. He would come home after a long day at the office or on the campaign trail and go through the correspondence, because it connected him in the most unfiltered, honest way to the public. People poured out the raw contours of their lives on these pages, spoke of their dreams and aspirations in ways that sometimes made Anton cry. The biracial gay teenager who asked if Anton could pass a law banning bullying at school. The seventy-five-year-old widow looking after her ninety-seven-year-old mother who wrote to ask why assisted suicide was not legal in the state. The successful real estate broker who begged him to reopen her local library if he became governor because that was where she’d studied to get her GED and she couldn’t bear the thought of other children not having the same opportunities that she had.
Anton got up from his desk and made his way to his liquor cabinet to refresh his Scotch. He glanced at the clock. It was past ten o’clock, and after days filled with juggling the duties of his office and the obligations of campaigning, his entire body felt sore. His throat hurt from talking to hundreds of people; his palms were raw from the hand shaking and excessive hand washing. He was sleep-deprived, and as lovely as it was to share a bed with Katherine, some nights he simply wanted to sprawl out on his king-size bed and sleep unencumbered by the rhythms and patterns of another human being, even if that human being had a sensational body and a kind, generous heart. Tonight, he was thankful that she was away on an overnight trip.
He splashed soda water into his Scotch and padded his way back to his desk. The pile of letters would take at least another two hours to read, and there was no way he’d last that long. He flipped through the envelopes, hoping to find a letter written by a kid, because even though they could be the most heartbreaking ones in the lot, occasionally, they were just plain funny, and Lord, he could use some levity tonight.
He struck out. Instead, he picked up a letter that caught his eye because it was addressed to him in pencil. Who the hell writes a letter in pencil? he thought. He turned the envelope over, and the return address read Georgia, which was not unusual—since the People article, he’d been getting fan mail from across the country. Intrigued, he cut it open with the ivory letter opener that he had inherited from Pappy. The letter itself was written in block letters, also in pencil. There was no date.
Dear Baby Boy:
I swear, I never thought I’d see your sweet face again. And then yesterday I went to the dentist because I needed the root canal. My tooth was hurting something wicked and I was so scared that I thought I was gonna pass out in the waiting room but just then a little angel came into my life because I see you looking at me. From the inside of a magazine. It says you gonna be the next Governor. Lord, Anton, you could of just blown me down. I was so excited, even that root canal didn’t hurt, I swear.
I am so proud of you, Anton. With your smarts, I always knew you would be a big success some day. And you always were a beautiful boy and now you this big, handsome man. You’ve changed, but I would recognize you anywhere. How can a mother forget what she made? I don’t know if you ever think of your old Mam but not one day passes without me thinking of you. You did the right thing by choosing that white family over me, Anton. In those days, I had nothing and that’s what I would of given you—nothing.
I prayed for you every day, Anton, that you grow up to be strong and smart and happy. Looks like the Good Lord has answered all my prayers. You always were the answer to my prayers. And now I’m gonna double up and pray for you to become Governor.
I love you, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
Your old Mam,
Juanita Vesper
P.S. Please forgive me for the hurt I caused you.