big, big hug! Can I give you a big, big hug? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Go ahead,” replied Esme, and Amy Lieb wrapped her arms around her and gave a big, big hug. They were in the mini-foyer of Amy’s mini-mansion.
The Liebs’ house was all about space and light. Massive bay windows filled the walls of every room and allowed the maximum amount of sunlight to wash across the soft grass-green carpeting, creating the illusion that one was outdoors and in union with nature, when in fact one was inside and in union with fiberglass. It always felt a few degrees too warm here. Esme removed her coat and a servant, patiently waiting in the corner, whisked it away to wherever the coats got whisked.
Amy led Esme into the study, where six of Oyster Bay’s civic-minded adolescents were hard at work on the Kellerman campaign.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mrs. Stuart. She’s a great friend of mine and she’s going to be helping us out.”
They welcomed her with the usual hello’s, hi’s, etc., then got back to working the phones and labeling the postcards.
“Can I get you anything, Esme?”
“No. I’m good.”
Amy brought Esme to a table. On the table was a blue binder.
“Our big event is in three weeks and Billy had to pull out. Something about a niece’s graduation.”
“Billy…?”
“Joel.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, but I know you’re a huge music fan so how would you like to choose the band for the fundraiser?”
“Uh…”
Amy opened up the blue binder. “In here are the listings for every band that’s contributed to the Democratic Party in the past six years. I didn’t know how to arrange them so they’re arranged alphabetically. Bands that begin with the word the are listed under “The” but artists are listed last name first. Each page also has contact information, vitals, all that jazz. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the den. I have a three o’clock phone conference with the candidate.”
“You have a three o’clock phone conference with Bob Kellerman?”
“And his campaign manager. We’re the governor’s first stop after his vacation next week. If you’d like to say hi, come on in around 3:10. He’s so approachable.”
“Even on the phone, huh?”
“Especially on the phone! Oh, and Esme, I’m so glad your mind got turned around about this benefit. I know how skittish you were about it. Word travels around, after all. But it wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Amy waved goodbye to her troops and sashayed off to her three o’clock with the probable future president of the United States.
This is my world, thought Esme. She sat down at the table and flipped through the binder. Personal phone numbers for John Mellencamp, Bruce Springsteen, each member of R.E.M. (even Bill Berry). This is my world. Of course, it had been her world for the past seven years really, this planet of prestige and accessibility. She just had kept it at arm’s length. And was it so bad? Amy Lieb was using her power and status not to buy the latest Ferrari or to traipse off to the hippest Mediterranean villa but to help elevate by-all-accounts a decent man to leader of the free world. If anything, it was commendable, wasn’t it?
“You’re that woman, aren’t you?”
This from one of the teeny-boppers, a pert redhead with braces.
“That woman?”
“You know, from the news.”
“Rachel…” Her friend, a bottle-blonde, punched her in the shoulder. “I want to apologize for Rachel. She got dropped on her head when she was a baby. Repeatedly. From great heights.”
“Shut up, Cassie. I’m just asking.”
“And I’m just asking you to mind your own business,” replied Cassie.
“It’s okay,” said Esme.
They both turned to her.
“Yeah, I’m the woman from the news.”
The room fell silent. Obviously the others had been listening, and waiting.
“So you, like, met him?”
Most of the girls, and a few of the guys, sat effortlessly cross-legged on the floor. Esme remembered when she was that flexible. Now she could barely tie her sneakers without her back spitting hellfire. But she was getting better.
“What was he like?” Cassie asked.
“Well…” Esme saw she had an audience. They were young. She wondered if she should water down her account, or perhaps avoid it entirely. She didn’t need late-night phone calls from angry mothers.
“Were you scared?”
“Yes,” Esme answered, without hesitation. “I was terrified.”
“My uncle’s an EMT in the city,” chimed one of the boys. “I overheard him talking to my parents. Last week, in the middle of the night shift, they got a call. Someone found the body of a homeless