“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 secrets, 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.”