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Back to the Convention

Andie Hoffman

    It’s not that I have a problem electing a woman president. I just have a problem electing this woman. These words nearly made my wife ballistic during not one, but two election cycles.
    Today, Jenny looks like anybody’s grandmother. She sits on our screened porch, her feet curled under her on the loveseat. She’s wearing an old pair of Levis and a Rowan University hoodie. Her silver ponytail sparkles in the sunlight. She snuggles Amy, our only grandchild, in her lap. Jenny reads the Berenstain Bears out loud, and Amy tries to follow the words.
    Jenny’s memoir, What Matters, brought in seven figures, allowing us to buy ten acres about an hour and a half outside the district. We had always wanted a place where we could relax on the deck and watch the border collies play. We never realized we wanted kayaks, or even waterfront, until this property found us. We built the place ourselves. There was a brief kerfuffle about that, but my wife’s career had long forced her to sacrifice the joy of doing things for herself. There was no stopping her from personally bringing this dream into reality. Only one family lived on the dead-end street when we chose the property, so most of the neighbors knew what they were getting into before they bought.
    Down the hill, Jenny’s assistant, Pete, stops his brown Equinox at the entry post. Jenny stands to go meet him. She hands Amy to me and motions her head toward the checker board on the table.
    “The suit is fantastic,” Pete says as he bursts through the office door, plastic garment bag in hand. “The forest green will be perfect. Great for your coloring, nice and slimming, very powerful. We are so lucky Chasten was unhappy designing at Hugo Boss. Let’s never lose him.”
    “Indeed,” Jenny says. “I made a few changes to the speech. Can you look them over and get it emailed to Andrew by five?”
    “No problem. Do you need any help with your packing?”
    “We’ll handle our own suitcases. Let me take the suit up to try on.” She unzips the garment bag and touches the fabric of the collar. “Oh, this is a work of art.”
    “Ok, I’ll have the cars ready to leave for Dulles at eight. I’ll ask the cook to pack us a cooler.”
    When we come downstairs at seven the next morning, Pete is already in the kitchen looking sharp yet comfortable. The three of us ride in the second of three tan Suburbans. At 9:45, we pull up to a discreet back entrance at Dulles. The two TSA agents stationed at this door have gotten to know us. We say hello as we walk through the metal detectors. Amy runs to greet us at our gate, where she’s been waiting with her parents, Bernie and Liz. We wait in the lounge until Cory, the head of Jenny’s detail, gets the all clear on his radio, and we board.
    I sit back in the comfy seat and close my eyes. Jenny slips her hand into mine.
    “I really killed any chance you had at a normal life,” she says.
    “I suppose you did, but you also saved me from flying coach ever again.” I remember when it all started.
    *********
    Jenny’s second term as New Jersey’s governor earned her national attention. Drug-related deaths were down, people had successfully moved off public assistance, graduation rates were rising, and more than that - people just seemed to feel good about their state for the first time that anyone could recall.
    She questioned her scheduler one day about her lunch appointment, PF Chang’s with Ed Rendell, “What does he want?”
    “I didn’t ask. I assumed the party chair didn’t need to be asked why he wanted to see you.”
    Ed sat waiting for her at a quiet table in the corner. They exchanged pleasantries. Ed showed her pictures of the grandbaby, talked about his new place, and lamented on the loss of his marriage. Jenny told him the boys were studying engineering at Rowan. She felt accomplished and grateful for the opportunity to serve the people of her state, but her favorite part of her career had been homeschooling her kids.
    “That’s because you understand the kitchen table is where everything that matters happens,” Ed said.
    The waitress set their plates in front of them. Jenny dug into her sweet and sour chicken, and Ed said, “Have you ever thought about running for president?”
    Jenny’s grabbed her napkin. “Of the United States?”
    “Besides having revolutionary policy ideas, you’ve got this charisma that makes people proud of New Jersey, makes them want to do their best.”
    She smiled, “I modeled my style after you when you were mayor of Philadelphia.”
    But Ed’s plans were not to be. Jenny’s complex policies were often grossly misconstrued on social media by people who clearly hadn’t read them. After four years of a wild lean to the right, the country seemed inclined to go wildly left. Jenny dropped out of the race before Super Tuesday. After she finished her term as governor, we returned to our quiet empty nest in Gloucester County.
    *********
    Our plane lands at West Palm. Four Suburbans, black this time, wait to transport us to the hotel. Amy rides in the third car with her parents. It’s 2:00PM when we settle in to our suite of oceanfront rooms.
    Pete pulls back the curtains and Amy squeals with delight. She tugs on Jenny’s arm. “The ocean is right there! Can we go, Grandmom?”
    Jenny looks at Liz, who nods. “Of course we can, little pumpkin,” Jenny says.
    Cory talks quickly into his radio. Jenny pulls her hair through the back of a baseball cap while Bernie and Liz each slather sunscreen on a side of their daughter. By the time we enter the hallway, two agents in khaki shorts are waiting to walk us down a back stairway to the beach. On the ground level, we walk through the steamy hotel laundry room. Jenny engages in a quick exchange with one of the housekeeping staff. I feel my ears turning red. I can hold six programming languages in my head, but I never did get a handle on Spanish.
    Amy runs up and down the beach with each wave, “That one almost got me!”
    I watch the water. The waves lulls me. Today is a day for reflection.
    *********
    Two years into his term, the new president’s policies weren’t getting traction and his health was slipping. At breakfast, Jenny turned her MacBook toward me and played the video of the announcement. He would not seek a second term. Our eyes met and held for a moment.
    I took a sip of my coffee, leaned forward in my chair, and said, “Yes.”
    “Yes, what?”
    “Yes to both. You want to know if you should, and you want to know if I’m in. But you don’t want to ask. So, I’m just answering.”
    After eight years of living at the political extremes, the bulk of the country had grown much more receptive to the value of good common-sense solutions. Jenny liked to get to the root of the problem. What if we fixed the challenges that bring people to our southern border in droves? Free college just devalues public education. How about free Internet instead? Why are so many people turning to drugs? How can we lead them to more satisfying lives?
    We spent eighteen months rolling along in what was actually three Jenny-mobiles. She’d improved her ability to articulate her policies, and they resonated with a wide demographic.
    Jenny’s rallies drew huge crowds, but plenty of people on the fringes were having none of the idea of a female president. A man jumped on stage and assaulted her at a rally in Ohio, leaving her unconscious. I sat beside the hospital bed, waiting for her to wake up, thinking, Damn, and I was all set to be a great sport about selecting china. When Jenny woke up, her eyes went to the IV in her arm. A fleeting expression of defeat crossed her face.
    I knew what she needed from me. I reached for a paper on the bedside table, and said, “Pete dropped off a tentative campaign schedule for next week.” She nodded and took the paper. I added, “Nevertheless, she persisted.”
    The corners of her mouth curled up just a hair. “Hey, what happened to the guy?”
    “Jill Biden took him down before security jumped on stage.”
    “Oh my god. She is one of a kind. Jill definitely needs a role at the White House.”
    *********
    There are three televisions backstage, each with its camera pointed at a different angle. Jenny sees the camera cut to our box, and waves as though we can see her.
    “Stop fussing. I swear, this is as good-looking as I get,” she tells the hair and makeup people. Pete snaps a photo of Jenny and Jacqueline and texts it to Chasten, who is sitting in the Indiana delegation.
    Chasten texts back two thumbs up and replies, “Oh, ladies, if I were straight...”
    A stage crew member dressed in black approaches and says, “They’re ready for you, Madame President.”
    Jenny takes a deep breath, puts on her game face and steps into the spotlight to chants of her name.
    “Hello America and welcome to Florida! It is always wonderful to see you! Tonight it is my great pleasure to tell you about an outstanding epidemiologist named Jaqueline Kramer, whom I have known since her first science fair at the tender age of ten. I find nominating the second woman president more exciting than my own election. It proves it wasn’t just a fluke or a stroke of luck. We took a glass ceiling with 63 million cracks, and we shattered it.”

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