Recipes for Disaster (9 page)

Chuck nudges Arnie again. “Man, there’s your money shot! Why isn’t your camera rolling?”

Even if ours isn’t, every other news camera is capturing Percy’s shock and shame—not to mention all the cell phones in the room.

Percy doesn’t deny the accusation. Nor does he signal the always-present but innocuous Acme security detail that has travelled with him here to Los Angeles. 

Instead, he turns to his wife.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks, toward that enigmatic grimace. “We have a child after all,” she murmurs. “If he's willing to forgive you.” 

Percy holds out his hand to her. She hesitates, but takes it. 

Together, they walk toward his son.

“Will he be tried under the War Crimes Act?” I ask Jack as we head home.

The implosion of Senator Franklin Percy’s campaign has already spread like kudzu, strangling the twenty-four hour news cycle with innuendo, supposition and pundit pontification. 

“It depends on several things. First, a DNA test must prove conclusively that the man is indeed Percy’s son. And considering that the supposed rape took place over thirty years ago, does it fall under the War Crimes Act, which didn’t exist until 1996? Such crimes are defined by the International Criminal Court, but our country doesn’t accept its jurisdiction over our Armed Services.”

“But Percy is retired military,” I point out.

“Which throws another wrench in how it will be prosecuted, if at all,” he reasons. “Another question to be answered is whether the Geneva Conventions put a statute of limitations on rape. And because the man’s mother died at her own hand, Percy can’t be tried for her murder, but certainly any emotional turmoil she had over the rape and pregnancy can be laid at his feet.”

I check my iPhone for any news updates. “CNN just confirmed that Percy has agreed to a DNA test.”

“I thought he might. Interestingly enough, he’s not as upset as one might suspect over this.”

“I thought it odd, too, until I heard Addie call the man ‘our child.’ She wanted him to come home with them.” 

“That won’t mitigate Percy’s actions.” Jack pulls into our driveway and turns off the car. “Of all Percy’s accomplishments, the one that eluded him was fatherhood. I know firsthand why both he and Addie are willing to accept the truth, no matter the consequences.”  He takes his right hand off the wheel in order to place it over mine. “The role I play in your children’s lives filled a big hole in my life. I’ll always appreciate your decision to share them with me.”

“You will always be their father, Jack.”

“Thanks, Donna. I know you mean that from the bottom of your heart. But won’t a time come when we have to tell them the truth?”

“No.” I turn away from him. “Carl is gone. We’ve made sure of that.”

He turns my face toward him. “There are other ways in which the children may find out. Last night, all the time I’m sitting there with Trisha, working on her memento project, I’m thinking to myself, ‘When will she notice that I’m not in any of her pictures?’ If not Trisha, then maybe Jeff will wonder about it. And let’s not forget that Mary was eight when Carl disappeared. Her memories of him may be fuzzy, but someday something may trigger one that doesn’t reconcile with her life as she knows it.”

“We’ve had that test already, Jack! Mary met Carl, and talked to him. She described him as ‘creepy.’”

“Maybe ‘creepy’ was her way of describing a deep-seated memory of him.” He shrugs. “You and I both know that all it takes is a DNA test to shatter the myth we’re living. Percy is proof of that. Donna, I’m just suggesting that we consider why, how and when we’d break the news to the children.” 

“Jack, your presence in their lives, every day, is why you’re their father, not some chromosome test. So are the many little acts of love you do on their behalves.” I tighten my hand in his. “We better get inside. Jeff just texted me that he wants me to make six dozen of my killer peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to hand out tomorrow before the election.”

He nods. “Trisha and I are finishing her project tonight.”

I don’t want to hurt him anymore, but I have to ask. “Are you anywhere on her board?”

That puts a smile on his face. “She saved the wrapper from the very first ice cream cone I bought her. I couldn’t believe it. When I asked her why, she said, ‘Because I’d never seen Mommy so happy than that day.’”

I laugh. “What a perceptive young lady. If you want to keep that smile on my face, why don’t you kiss me now?”

He does. 

She’s right, nothing makes me happier.

Chapter 6

Rubber Chicken Circuit

The endless series of public dinners and luncheons politicians must attend to raise funds and make speeches is called “the rubber chicken circuit,” due to the fact that the main course is usually the domesticated fowl in question, and that more than likely the hotel which serves it, cooked it hours earlier, and then reheated it, giving it a rubbery texture.

“Eating crow” is another political culinary term of note, and sometimes used in tandem with this one—especially in instances when a microphone is left on while the candidate is enjoying a candid moment with a trusted confidante. Saying something like, “Do you think they believed that bunch of hooey?” or exclaiming, “How ‘bout them ta-tas on that gal in the front row … ” will certainly have any politician wishing he’d kept his yap shut, as opposed to putting his foot in it.

Juiciest Roast Chicken Ever

(From Ally Rusu, Sausalito, California)

Ingredients

Large whole Chicken

½ Cup of Olive Oil

1 Cup Vodka

Salt

Pepper

Garlic Powder

1/3 Onion 

Directions

1: Preheat Oven to 350 degrees.

2: Clean the chicken of all inside bags, and wash well.

3: Slice the onion, in ringlets. Set aside.

4:  Put the chicken in a roasting pan and season generously, inside and out, with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. 

5: Brush olive oil on the inside of the bird’s cavity, then outside as well.

6: Add the vodka and onions to the cavity.

7: Bake, uncovered, for 1 hour and 15 minutes, in the preheated oven.

8: Remove from heat, and baste with drippings.

9: Cover with aluminum foil, and allow to rest about 30 minutes before serving.

“Wish me luck,” Jeff says, as he hops out of my car. He’s recruited Morton to help him carry and distribute his campaign paraphernalia: posters that say, “Equal Rights for All! Vote Jeff for Class President” as well as buttons, and of course my cookies.

At least, those that Morton hasn’t already eaten.

“Break a leg!” Trisha yells after him. 

“Next stop, Babs’ house,” I declare.

Mary and Wendy, who have been whispering furiously in the van’s back seat, freeze. “Um … no need, Mom. She’s gotten another ride to school.”

“With whom?” If that were the case, Babs’ mother, Janine, would have called me. We carpool because Babs’ parents are going through a bitter divorce. Janine gets up early for her shift at our local hospital.

“Just … someone at school.” Guilt is written all over Mary’s face.

The boy—what was his name again? Oh yeah, Blake McAllister.

I stop the car. “Who is it, Mary?” 

The girls exchange glances.

“Mom, don’t be mad, but …”

I hold my breath.

“She’s biking in.”

“But … why?”

“Because I told her I thought it would be best if we weren’t seen together.” Mary shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Mom, nobody likes her at school.”

Trisha frowns. “But 
you
 like her—don’t you?”

Mary shrugs. “I used to. But sometimes people change.”

“Just last week, the three of you were the best of friends,” I point out. “It’s been that way since the three of you started kindergarten together. Tell me, Mary, who has changed, you, or Babs? And if so, how? Why?”

Wendy and Mary exchange glances. Finally Wendy says, “Erin doesn’t like her. She knows Blake thinks she’s cute. If we hang with Babs, we’ll be pegged as losers, too. And we’re not!”

“Mom, you don’t know what they’re saying about Babs! They say that she’s putting out. They write mean things about her on Facebook. They write messages to all the people she’s friended there, and ask if they’re losers, too. It’s not our fault that Babs made an enemy of the most popular girl in school.”

“No, not at all. But it’s also not Babs’ fault that she’s pretty, and that some boy thinks so, too. And it will be your fault if you desert your friend now, when she needs you more than ever. How would you feel if you were the one being deserted?”

In unison, the girls blanch at this thought. 

“I … I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Mary admits. “We’ll work it out.” 

I smile at her through the rearview mirror. “I know you’ll do the right thing.” 

If only she’d smile back.

Instead, she opens her history book and pretends to read.

“It’s always such a joy to visit the great state of California,” purrs Governor Rebecca Davis to her 
Good Afternoon LA!
 host. “The folks here are so warm and friendly!” She points to the bouquet of flowers in her lap. “A little girl gave me this—your California poppies, are they not? Such a bright spot of color! Too bad she’s not old enough to vote!” 

This Southerner, whose honeyed homilies are delivered with icy smiles, is the next candidate entrusted to our care. 

The interview is being taped in her swanky suite, high in the Casa del Mar, a hotel overlooking Santa Monica Beach along its renowned boardwalk. The brilliant blue sky and azure ocean make a wonderful backdrop for the photo op. The protestors who hate Governor Davis must realize this, too, because they stand below the balcony, chanting slogans that mock her policies against the things that affect their lives (a livable minimum wage), liberties (pro-choice), and pursuits of happiness (gay marriage).

We’ve been with her since early this morning. The first stop was a breakfast with a group of ministers from various conservative congregations, all of whom revel in the knowledge that they have a candidate who will advance their agenda. The same can be said for her lunch with California’s largest gun rights advocate group, and tonight’s dinner with the petrochem lobby.

This is one lady who enjoys preaching to the choir. But what waits for her outside the comfy confines of her hotel is anything but that.

The few steps that took her from one hotel lobby to her motorcade to her next stop at her hotel were a daunting gauntlet. Arnie walked ahead, while Jack and Dominic flanked her on either side, Abu was close on her tail, and her prim and mousy press secretary, Susannah Jenner, was, as always, by her side. 

Like little chicks, the rest of her advance team fanned out after them: a pollster, her scheduler, her California precinct organizers, and various and sundry volunteers.

The protesters who screamed and shouted at her are just as alarmed about her as she is about them. It freaks them out that she consistently votes down any attempt at gun control legislation, despite a recent mass shooting at a school in her state. And although the US government has ruled that gay spouses of National Guard members will be provided the same federal marriage benefits as heterosexual spouses, hers was one of the few states that pulled benefits from all spouses rather than comply.