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“What would you say, then, Senator, to those who insist your push for campaign law reform is simply the beating of a hollow
drum?”
I think I would say, “Aren’t all drums hollow?” What is that even supposed to mean, Herbie? Is it, perhaps, your hollow brain
we should be concerned about?
He wished he could say that, but of course he never would. Even speaking as a dead man walking in politics, he would never.
Wes was reclined on his bed at the Inn Between, ankles crossed, one hand under his head on the pillows and one holding his
phone to his ear. His dress shirt was splayed open, his socks sat on top of his shoes on the other side of the room, and his
hair was still wet and disheveled from his shower. And while some might say that not even bothering to get fully dressed to
speak live to the eight million Americans listening to Press the Nation might be a good indication he had completely checked out, Wes didn’t feel that way at all.
Yes, he’d been avoiding media at all costs for a few days, but not because he no longer had things to say.
He had lots to say. There was a lot he had hoped to accomplish.
There was so much he cared about. So many ways he had planned to make a difference.
But just like he didn’t believe a lame-duck Congress should attempt to alter the fabric of their democracy after the people had voted them out, he didn’t feel right about influencing a national narrative when he knew—and they did not—that he was going to refuse to step up to the plate for them.
But when Herbie Eccleston lobbed the ball at him low and slow, what choice did he have?
“I think you’re referencing the argument of some of my opponents who say I only care about campaign law reform because it
sounds good to the American people.”
“Yes.”
“The argument of my detractors, as I understand it, being that I scoured the polls for the issues that most people agree on
and then wholeheartedly threw my support behind the beliefs of the people.”
“Yes, Senator. To shore up votes. How would you respond—”
“How would I respond to the criticism that during the campaign I have spent time focused on issues that the majority of Americans
have said matter to them, that they actually agree on—and that I agree with them on, too, by the way—and that I believe are
actually within our power to do something about?”
Wes rested comfortably in the discomfort of a couple of extra seconds of dead air and then smiled when Herbie cleared his
throat and said, “Yes.”
“Well, I think I would answer that question with a question: If my opponents don’t care about the things the American people care about, why do they even want to be president?
Or the better question, perhaps: Why in the world would we want them to be?
” Wes rolled over to lie on his side and propped his head up on his hand, supporting his weight on his bent elbow.
“Look, Herbie, for years we’ve been arguing about how much money can be spent on campaign ads, how much money someone can donate to a candidate without disclosing the amount, PACs and super PACs, how taxes work on all those donations.
.. and I’m not going to pretend to understand all the ins and outs of all those rules.
That’s what the lawyers and the accountants are for—and let’s face it, half the time they’re making it up as they go.
But what I do know, and what I understand—thanks, primarily, to listening to the American people—is that while we’re passing campaign reform laws that affect a small percentage of citizens, a whole lot of time is being wasted.
The campaign cycle gets longer and longer, and my critics know as well as you and I do, Herbie—and the American people certainly know it—that we’ve created a system in which we start running our reelection campaigns before the Bible’s put back in the glass case on Inauguration Day.
It’s a monster of our own creation, and it’s time we listen to the people who gave us our so-called power.
And by the way, we’re not actually the ones with the power.
They are. The people who choose us to represent them.
So I just don’t think it’s a bad idea to give the voters what they want from time to time—especially if what they want is for their government to put aside politics as usual and actually govern for a change. ”
Wes pulled his phone away from his ear and glanced at his watch in the moment of silence before Herbie said, “That’s all the
time we have today on Press the Nation . Many thanks to our guest, Senator Wesley Hobbes.”
“Always good to chat with you, Herbie.” Wes heard shuffling in the hallway and sat up and threw his legs over the side of
the bed, adding, “Thanks for having me,” in the second before he ended the call. He threw his phone on the bed and hurried
toward the door.
Every morning Jo freshened up the bouquets she kept in vases on tables around the inn, gathered from flowers she grew in her
greenhouse out back, keeping the entire space bursting with colors and scents that would have otherwise seemed unattainable
in the dead of Colorado winter. Last night he couldn’t get away from her quickly enough. While he didn’t regret the urgency
with which he had handled things, a sleepless night had allowed him plenty of opportunity to reflect on some of the other
choices he’d made. And as Jo Stoddard herself had reminded him countless times throughout his adolescence, if you’re right
but you’re rude, then you’re wrong.
“Hey,” he said, opening the door. “I’m sorry about the way I ran off last night.”
Jo wasn’t beside the door arranging the flowers as he had expected, so he took a step out into the hallway and turned the other direction.
Oh, hello. There was Addie, wrapped in a towel knotted at her chest and another towel around her head, forming a makeshift turban.
“Sorry. You’re not Jo.”
“And you’re not dressed,” she replied, pink crawling across the top of her chest and up her neck like rapidly growing ivy.
Wes looked down at himself. He was mostly dressed. He hadn’t gotten around to buttoning up his crisp white dress shirt just yet, and the button of his slacks was still
undone, but he was fully zipped. Really, by comparison, he was positively Elizabethan. All he was missing was a jerkin and
some wrist ruffs.
“I hate to break it to you, but neither are you.”
Addie’s eyes flew wide, and she pinched the folded spot of the towel with one hand and with the other reached behind her for
the doorknob of the room that had once been their clubhouse. As soon as the door creaked open, she scurried inside. The next
image he saw of her was her tilted head peeking around the opening of the door and the towel falling off her head when she
tilted it just a little too far.
“Sorry. There’s no shower in this room. I thought if I got up early enough... But apparently... Anyway... why are
you up so early?”
“East Coast phone call.” He laughed softly at how flustered she was, then looked down at his shirt and buttoned it up halfway.
Then, after making a show of closing his eyes and covering them with one hand, he took a few steps and knelt to pick up the
hair towel for her. He’d had to peek through his fingers to make sure he was reaching out to the right spot, of course, but
he was pretty sure she would accept the brief glimpse he’d received of her bare legs over the possibility of incidental contact
as the result of a well-meaning but misguided hand.
He placed the towel over her outstretched arm between the narrow opening and stepped back toward his room. “Mind if I ask
what you’re doing here?”
“It’s stupid. My dad and I got into a fight.” She directed a puff of air from her mouth to a wet strand of hair dangling in front of her eyes, but it didn’t budge.
This time Wes didn’t bother covering his eyes, but he didn’t have any trouble at all keeping his focus on those sad brown
eyes of hers as he rushed back over and gingerly tucked the heavy wet lock behind her ear.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know...”
“I was hoping to talk to you about some things anyway. What do you say we both finish getting ready, and then I’ll treat you
to breakfast and we can talk about all the things?” All the things. Okay, that couldn’t happen at the Bean Franklin or anywhere that other people might be. “I’ll make you breakfast, I mean.
Downstairs. Sound good?”
He watched her as her eyes danced to and fro in micromovements. Her brain had always moved so quickly. When they were young,
he’d been intimidated by that. It wasn’t easy for him to keep up. He didn’t understand then that when he said something—anything,
really—she moved beyond the words to begin interpreting meanings that maybe he’d intended but maybe he hadn’t. She would think
ahead to future consequences based on scenarios she’d created, inspired by words he’d never realized carried so much weight.
He’d wondered, more than once in the years since, if things might have turned out differently for them if he’d realized, just
a little bit sooner, that even the couples who really loved each other had to put in the work to understand each other. Just
because they knew each other better than anyone didn’t mean they always spoke the same language.
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