Chapter 5

Early the next morning, they moved the campaign to the San Francisco area. All they took with them was paper and clothing. Unlike circuses, or gypsies, who fold up their tents and pack up their whole world into trunks to transport, or hitch up the wagon that contains everything they need, a political campaign empties the rooms, and the desks and closets, and the filing cabinets, and leaves them behind, knowing that there will be another room, another desk when they reach their next stop. Those more primitive nomads would have watched in astonishment as these new nomads loaded up their taxicabs and rented cars with stacks and stacks of paper, and two or three dozen changes of clothes for the trip to the airport.

On the plane, Becky sat next to her strong, loving husband for most of the way. She leaned against his firm shoulder while he talked to his advisors or listened to analyses of recent polls.

"I came to you last night, but you were so sound asleep I couldn't wake you up," he said when he had a break.

The shy, young wife glanced around. There were a dozen people within easy earshot, surely not the place to discuss such things. "I was very tired," she said.

"I thought you wanted to see me," he challenged.

She could only nod, wanting so much to tell him that she missed him, that she wanted to make love with him, but unwilling to do so in front of all these strangers. "Next time try harder?" she pleaded. "I'll be happy when we can spend some time together."

But it wasn't that night, or the next two. Somehow, it just never worked out that they could be alone together, though Becky had almost nothing to do but wait for him to be free. He thought it was because she was avoiding him. She thought he was staying away on purpose.

There were people everywhere. Every bedroom seemed to be an office too, and as she wandered around through the confusion, she would occasionally come across a meeting going on while someone slept a few feet away, or be sitting in a meeting-she was trying to get involved with the campaign-and have some half-dressed person wander through to the bathroom.

The pretty candidate's wife joined him on platforms, at the head table for dinners, hand-shaking lines at factory gates, and other unromantic places. And their only privacy was an occasional whisper, a squeeze of hands. Becky began to get used to it, the way you get used to a constant noise and after long enough, don't even hear it anymore.

She wondered which ones of the workers had been in the room that night and heard her masturbating. At first she was terrified, and wouldn't even look at anyone who might have been there. But after a while, she relished the idea that some of these people had heard her in the throes of passion, and didn't know it was her. It could be any of the young men swarming over the hotel they had practically taken over for their stay in town.

Mac called her to his office one afternoon, and somberly told her to sit down. The tough little campaign manager seemed to be able to find privacy when he wanted it.

"How do you think we're doing," he asked gruffly.

He was asking her? "Well, the polls say we're ahead. I think we'll win." She liked the sound of that "we" but she still thought of it as Derek who would win or lose, and he always won.

"I wish I could be as sure," the manager said uncertainly.

"Is there some problem I don't know about?" she asked, suddenly afraid.

"Well, our money situation is pretty bad. We need one or two big contributors or else our television spots are just going to have to go." He sighed heavily and plopped his hand on the desk.

"Derek and I have already turned everything we can into cash," the worried brown-haired woman said. "I've even borrowed as much from my family as they can afford. So has Derek."

"I know, I know. You've done everything you can reasonably be expected to do."

"Isn't there anybody else?"

Mac shook his big head, a frown on his ugly face. "There aren't many people with the kind of money we need, and those that have it aren't willing to give it to someone as honest as your husband. They would want to be assured of some favor in return, and Derek just doesn't work that way."

Becky was suddenly proud of her husband, even if he lost.

"There is one old guy," Mac shook his head and chuckled as though to dismiss it before he even started. "Anthony Fischer-very rich, and he isn't asking for any underhanded political favors."

"Well," the pretty wife brightened up. "Will he contribute?"

Mac chuckled again. "No political favors, I said. It seems he's seen you on television and has taken a imagine to you. He says he'll deliver the money we need to you, alone in a hotel room some night."

"I wouldn't mind picking up a package," Becky said. "In fact it would make me feel as though I were doing something useful."

"No, you don't understand, dear," Mac said. "You would go there some night, and he would give you the money in the morning."

The aristocratic Virginian gasped with horror. "Why, that's despicable! Did you tell Derek about it?"

"No, I didn't see any reason to. Under those conditions, the money is not available, so it wasn't worth discussing."

"I could never do anything like that," she said, staring into space. "Derek wouldn't want me to. He'd rather lose the election than have me to that."

"Of course he would," Mac agreed vehemently. "He'd do anything to keep you from being degraded like that, even lose the election, and perhaps ruin his entire career."

"Ruin his career?" Becky echoed. "Even if he loses, it won't ruin his career."

Mac looked doubtful. "I wish I could be as sure," he repeated. "But I've watched Derek, and I've talked to people who are supporting him. I'm afraid that if he loses, it will' undermine his confidence in himself, and that's his most valuable characteristic. I'm not sure he would ever bring himself to run again." He glanced up at the young woman from under his bushy eyebrows. "And the main question people have about Derek is whether or not he can win. Everybody-at least most people-agree that he'd make a good Senator, but they would rather support someone who isn't quite as good, than a good man who can't win. I've heard 'em talk in the famous 'smoke-filled rooms,' and I'm afraid that if he loses this one, they won't put their money on him again."

"It would be wrong," Becky affirmed. "It would be terribly wrong, and immoral." Her cultured southern accent fell quietly in the office. The very idea disgusted her, yet somehow attracted her too. Having sex with a stranger couldn't be very much worse than masturbating where someone can hear you.

"It probably wouldn't be much fun either," Mac said, eyeing her. "Though Fischer is supposed to be a famous lover, like Derek."

"What would Derek do if he ever found out," she mused.

"He'd be furious," the old campaigner admitted. "You see, Derek thinks he can do anything. That's why he can do more than most of us can. And the idea that you had to help him, had to do some unpleasant business that he couldn't do himself, that would rankle him. No, he couldn't be told, even after the election."

"How much would he give for it, for me," the tall, sophisticated woman grimaced at the vulgarity of what she was saying.

"One hundred thousand minimum. More if he's extremely pleased."

"OK, I'll do it," she heard somebody say. It was her! She couldn't believe she had agreed to do such a vile thing. A whore! A common slut. Well, a hundred thousand dollars a night wasn't common, but still.

"I was hoping you would," Mac said gravely. In fact he was almost certain she would. That was his business. "We leave for Los Angeles tomorrow. I should be able to set it up for tomorrow night. The less time you have to think about it the better." In fact all the arrangements were already made, but he knew better than to tell her that.

The chaste wife brushed the wrinkles from her skirt, feeling her hand on her thighs, wondering what it would be like-a stranger.