Just Plain Nell

The migraine has begun. Someone is wearing perfume that smells like sticky sweet fruitcake. People are rushing in and out, nattering into their phones. The news has been droning in the background for hours.

I just want to close my eyes, shut it all out. No, I want to run from this room, from this house and these people. I never asked for…

“Mrs. Hamlin?” Savannah is staring at me from the caddy corner couch, finger poised over her phone. “Your statement?”

My statement. I know it by heart. Grateful, humble, banal. I am a windup doll, ready for my string to be yanked. “Whatever happens tonight, I am proud of my husband, our team, and the tremendous work they have put into this campaign, just as I am proud to be-”

Suddenly, my baby daughter spits up. Viscous fluid that was once formula dribbles down to her collar. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” I say as I dab a tissue over her soft little chin. She squirms and makes fussy whimpers. Poor kid. She doesn't even know what kind of life she’s been born into.

As if summoned by magic, one of the campaign volunteers appears at my side. I’ve seen her around, getting Sterling his favorite peppermint flat white, but there are so many volunteers I couldn’t possibly remember all their names. She’s young, eager, chomping at the bit for change. Just like the rest of them. “Mrs. Hamlin,” she says. “Would you like me to take the baby for a few minutes so you can finish? I’m good with children.”

I never wanted a nanny. Hiring a nanny seemed so bourgeois, pretentious. Still, as Virginia begins to slip around on my lap like wet soap, I almost wish I had one. Reluctantly, I hand her over to the volunteer. “Thank you…”

“Annie,” she says brightly. Cupping her hand at the nape just under Virginia’s dark curls, she coos, “Come on, Baby Ginger. Let’s take a little walk.”

The mama grizzly inside of me suddenly roars to life. Down, Girl, I command. She’s just a kid. I never consented to my daughter being called “Baby Ginger.” That was the media, and now everyone’s doing it. Even Sterling did it yesterday at breakfast.

Standing in his undershirt and boxers, slippers shaped like giant feet (boy, wouldn’t the media have a field day with that picture), he leaned over her highchair to plant a kiss. “Good morning, Baby Ginger.”

I froze. “Don’t.”

He looked confused. “Don’t what?”

I turned away from the stove where I had been frying sausage links. “Call her that. Our daughter’s name is Virginia.”

“It’s just a nickname,” Sterling shrugged. “It’s cute. Everyone thinks-”

I dumped the links onto a ceramic plate. “I don’t care what everyone out there thinks. In this house, her name is Virginia Joy Hamlin and she’s not a political prop.”

They’ve claimed dominion over every other part of our lives. They don’t get to claim my daughter.

The migraine has wrapped itself from around my temples to my forehead and between my eyes. Still I finish making my press statement and Savannah copies it into her phone. “Now after I run it through AI, I’ll send it off.”

“What’s wrong with it as it is?” I ask. It’s just like the one I gave when Sterling ran for city councilman, and the one I gave when he ran for State Assembly. It’s what they expect. The string comes out, it coils back in. Predictable and easy.

Savannah’s digits are flying around her screen. “We’ll just punch it up a little, give it your unique voice.”

It’s not my unique voice if it’s AI. And anyway, the media doesn’t want my unique voice. They want my cornbread casserole recipe. “I think you should talk to Picillo about this before you-”

“Done!” Savannah says, bright as sunshine. She reads back. “Whatever happens tonight, y’all, I am proud as a peacock of my husband and our team, sweatin’ like sinners in church workin’ this campaign! We’ve rode hard and put away wet, but by this time next year, thanks to the new Senator Hamlin, you’ll be livin’ in high cotton! Bless your hearts!”

I don’t say a word. I don’t need to. “Well, the AI knows that you’re a country girl,” she says. “So it adjusted.”

“I grew up in Kansas, not Hazzard County.” She looks blank, so I guess the reference went over her head. I sigh. “Never mind. Run it by Picillo before you send it.”

She jumps off the couch. “Okie dokie!”

“I mean it, Savannah!” I call after her.

“I hear you!”

More than anything I want to go to my room and crawl under the bedcovers. Stay there for the next six years. But I can’t. I’m expected to be at Sterling’s side when the results come in, smiling and supportive. Besides, this isn’t even our home. Our brownstone is too small to accommodate all the volunteers and press crammed inside. It’s Picillo’s family estate, and it’s massive. I keep expecting Cruella di Vil to come through the door, demanding that the puppies die tonight.

The heat is getting to be unbearable. I feel like I’m suffocating in the swampy humidity, and this nylon dress that the stylist chose for me isn’t helping (sage green. I look like a toad). Someone has left the terrace doors open in a futile attempt to let some cool air in. I can see Picillo leaning over the balcony, smoking a cigar wrapped in oily, black leaf. A cloud of blue smoke hangs around her head as she adds new, tiny white puffs.

Well smoke or no smoke, I can’t take this house for much longer. How can such a giant villa feel so cramped? I decide to join Picillo outside.

Picillo’s wearing her trademark wool suit, and I itch just looking at it. She’s loosened her tie at least, and her long, silvery-black hair is pulled into a limp ponytail. “The heat in this house has always been hell,” she says by way of greeting. I lean over the railing, trying to gulp down as much cool air as I can. The boa constrictor wrapped around my head loosens its coils slightly. “So how is the man of the hour?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve barely seen him all night.”

No matter what happens, I think, everything’s about to change. Sterling resigned his seat as representative, as required when he announced his senate run, so he can’t go back to the Assembly. Either Sterling Hamlin becomes a US senator in less than an hour, or his political career will be over.

No, it won’t be over, I realize. Even if Sterling loses tonight, to him, it’ll just be a temporary setback. A dropped deck of cards that he’ll pick up and reshuffle, waiting for the next hand to play. And if he wins…“He’s never going to stop,” I say quietly.

“What’s that?”

“Sterling,” I say. “He’s never going to stop until he becomes president.”

Picillo laughs. “From your mouth to God’s ears. I’d be out of a job if he did.” She stops chuckling, searching my face. “Hey, don’t worry about it. So he’s got ambitions.”

“I didn’t marry ambitions,” I say. “I married a pastor. Ambitions moved in later.”

Picillo looks up at the stars. Out here, away from the city, they look close enough to touch. I feel as though I could pluck the ripest one out of the Milky Way and take a big, glowing bite out of it. “Everyone has dreams,” she says. “Even you, Helena.”

Until Sterling took his seat as city councilman, no one called me by my given name. I was Nell, plain and simple Nell. But plain and simple Nell doesn’t sound good in print, so it was back to the birth certificate. Helena Hamlin sounded glamorous and it was conveniently alliterative, perfect for the wife of a fast-rising political star. “Sterling’s dreams always seemed more important than mine,” I say.

Picillo suddenly snubs out her cigar, smothering it on the railing with violence. “Don’t say things like that,” she says. “You’ve got a brain, you’ve got a heart. Don’t lock them away just because the world’s watching him. So tell me.” She looks at me, dark brown eyes blazing with intensity, and now I’m not sure if I’m wilting because of the heat or the power of her gaze. “What’s your dream?”

I haven’t thought of my dream in decades. I buried it long ago. That’s what you do with dead things. But now, my first dream, my first memory, is poking through the topsoil of its grave. “The chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“You know my pops was an egg farmer, back in Kansas,” I say. “I loved our chickens. Growing up, they meant more to me than anything.” Do I sound stupid? I stop to see if Picillo is looking at me like I’m an idiot. But she’s listening, as enraptured as if I’m telling a fairy tale.

“Go on.”

“All I ever wanted was to be an avian veterinarian, going from farm to farm, making sure everyone’s chickens stayed healthy and strong. That was going to be my life.”

“So what happened?”

I can see Pops as clearly as if he were standing on the terrace, his face graying with age under his beard. “They’re killing us, Nell. We won’t last the year…”

“The factory farms came in and pushed Pops out. We lost the farm,” I say. “There was no money for me to go to school. Pops went to our pastor, begged for help. In the end, our church agreed to sponsor me, but only if I went to Bible college. I didn’t have a choice. I went, and then…”

“And then Sterling,” she finished. “Damn. Damn it, Helena. You-” Her phone starts to buzz, and she pulls it out of her suit jacket. “It’s time. They’re about to announce the results.”

I can see a picture of the incumbent on her newsfeed. He’s slick looking, all teeth and dimples and big promises. His wife is on his arm, wafer thin and blonde, the perfect political spouse. Margot Robbie by way of Jackie Kennedy. I look like Grandma Nutt from Candyland, short, matronly, and dumpy, with a mass of brown curls that the stylist flattens every morning into acceptable smoothness.

“We better get to Sterling,” says Picillo. As she puts the phone away, she pauses. “You know, those factory farms are nasty business. No place to raise chickens.” She doesn’t have to tell me. I hate them, from the bottom of my soul. “Someone should do something. Speak out, demand change. Someone like the wife of a US senator, maybe?” She gives me a warm pat on the shoulder. “Something to think about.”

This house is so big and so old, it actually has its own ballroom. A platform has been built in the back, overlooking the crowd of people coming through the doors. There’s a crystal chandelier, probably worth more than the house I grew up in, filling the room with sparkling, gold light.

I can see Sterling already on the platform. He’s confident, but he’s always been confident. It’s what attracted me to him in the first place. Once he knows what he wants, it’s only a matter of time before it becomes reality. And damn what anyone else thinks.

I spy Annie the volunteer, still holding Virginia. “Thanks for your help, Annie,” I say. I don’t wait for her to hand over Virginia but take her back into my arms.

“We were having such a good time!” Annie bends down and gives Virginia a wave. “Bye Baby Ginger, I’ll see you soon!”

Picillo nudges me towards the platform. “He’s waiting for you.”

Somehow, I doubt he’s even remembered me. I’m just another face in this crowd full of adoration and hope. Still, I follow Picillo to the stage, Virginia hugging me like Velcro. Sterling offers me his hand, and as I take it, someone snaps a photo. We’re a picture-perfect family. The Assemblyman, his doting wife, and their precious child. His loyal campaign manager. In a few moments, he’ll make history and we’ll be his witnesses. Sterling wraps an arm around me as he waves. “Smile, Helena,” he whispers.

It’s his night, his show. I force a smile.

Picillo holds up a hand to quiet the crowd as her voice carries across the ballroom. “The media has called it. Sterling Hamlin has taken the Senate in a landslide!”

The crowd roars. They’re screaming his name. Instinctively, I cover one of Virginia’s delicate ears and press the other to my chest. A cord is pulled and we’re showered with balloons and confetti.

“Congratulations,” I say, although I doubt he can hear me.

Somehow he can. “Congratulate me when we get to the White House.”

I look over at Picillo. This is her victory too. She’ll be celebrating with cigars and top shelf brandy all night. She’s still staring at her phone, but there’s no color in her face. “Picillo?”

She looks at me, then at Sterling. Her voice is shaking as she whispers. “What did you do?”

I see someone in the crowd on their phone. They nudge the person beside them, who also pulls out their phone. More phones come out, faces aglow behind screens. The cheering has stopped.

“What’s going on?” I say.

Picillo shakes her head, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

Sterling is looking at his own phone now. “Just fake news…” He tries to stuff it back in his pocket, but I lunge, snatching it out of his grasp. “Ow! You got me with your nails!”

There it is, the first story on the newsfeed. An anonymous whistleblower…Former Assemblyman and Senate candidate Sterling Hamlin…Embezzling campaign funds…

My body goes numb.

…Hundreds of thousands reportedly spent on his mistress, identified as campaign volunteer and mall kiosk employee, Annie Fritter…

I can’t see anything. All I can feel is my heartbeat, heavy in my chest. Embezzling? Mistress? Mall kiosk?

Someone is screaming. As the world snaps back into focus, I realize it’s Picillo. “WHAT DID YOU DO, STERLING?”

Someone throws a campaign button at the stage. It’s followed by a champagne goblet that smashes into twinkling pieces. Picillo grabs us by the arms, shoving us down the platform steps. “To the back door!”

The mob presses in on us, booing and hissing. Cameras are flashing in our faces. “I want to make a statement-” Sterling tries to say.

“Not a word, idiot!” Picillo barks. She opens the life-saving door and we run inside.

It’s some sort of corridor. “Service door for the servants, back when the family had them,” Picillo explains. She turns on Sterling and begins striking him about the torso with her fists. “How could you! You’ve ruined everything!”

I sink down in a chair that hasn’t been dusted in decades. Sterling’s phone is still clutched in my hand, the ugly words seared on the screen like a scar.

Sterling is trying to fend Picillo off. “All we have to do is issue a denial! It’s just a smear started by Senator Raul’s team! They knew he was losing and-”

“There’s no denying this, you cretino!” Picillo says angrily. “They have your picture!”

I look again. There he is, and there she is. His arm is wrapped around her waist as they stand outside a budget motel. Did he really think those oversized sunglasses would hide his identity? No wonder they got caught. I married a moron.

“AI!” says Sterling. “Anyone could make that picture!”

“But not anyone could make hundreds of thousands disappear from your campaign, Sterling,” I say. He looks at me as if he just realized I was in the same room.

“Helena…” He has the gall to sound wounded. “You don’t think…after everything we’ve been through…”

“You’re going to prison, Sterling,” says Picillo. “There’ll be an investigation, but you’re finished.” She deflates like a punctured balloon. “We were so close. Eight years. We could’ve had the White House. But you’re just another crook, Sterling Hamlin.”

Someone bangs on the door. “Let me in!” I recognize the voice. Annie, volunteer and mistress. My husband’s mistress. “Don’t leave me out here with them!”

“Find your own hiding place, Puttana!” Picillo snarls.

“Oh come on!”

Sterling kneels in front of me, grasping my hand. He didn’t even kneel to propose marriage. “Helena, you’ve got to help me!”

“Me?”

“Get Savannah to issue a statement! Call a press conference! You stand by me! This is all a hoax and a frame up! If my wife believes in me, who can doubt me?” Is he serious right now? His hold becomes tighter. “Come on, Helena, you owe me…”

The words wash over me cold and heavy like a sudden cloudburst.

I owe him?

I owe him?

I owe HIM?

“No.”

He looks taken aback. “What do you mean no?”

I wrench my hand away. Moving Virginia to my opposite shoulder, I stand up. “No.”

“Helena, you’re my wife, for better or worse!” Sterling says. “And right now, I need you by my side!”

“Sterling, I’ve been by your side, for the past sixteen years. Every campaign, every term. But tonight, I’m saying no.” And just like that, the string is cut.

He sits back on his heels, looking like a scolded dog. “So what now?”

What now? I’m free. For the first time in sixteen years, I realize, I’m free. Helena Hamlin can rot. I’m Nell. Plain and simple Nell.

“I think I’ll visit Kansas,” I say. “It would be nice for Virginia to see the countryside.” Sterling doesn’t argue.

Picillo watches me as I walk to the door. “It’s too bad,” she says. “I would’ve really liked to work with you on that anti-factory farm campaign.”

“Well,” I give her a wry smile. “When this mess is over, give me a call.”