Mirror Image

about Mandy. What possible bearing does she have on the campaign issues or the election?”
    “None. People are just curious.”
    “Screw curious. She’s my daughter. I want her protected.”
    “Maybe she’s too protected.” Avery’s husky voice sharply drew Tate’s eyes to her.
    “Meaning?”
    “Now that they’ve seen me,” she said, “they’ll stop pestering you with questions about me and concentrate on the important issues.”
    During her convalescence, she had kept close tabs on his campaign by reading every newspaper available and watching television news. He had blitzed the primary election, but the real battle was still ahead of him. His opponent in November would be the incumbent senior senator, Rory Dekker.
    Dekker was an institution in Texas politics. For as long as Avery remembered, he had been a senator. It was going to be a David-and-Goliath contest. The incredible odds in Dekker’s favor, coupled with Tate’s audacious courage against such an impressive foe, had sparked more interest in this election than any in recent memory.
    On nearly every newscast there was at least a fifteen-second mention of the senate race, and, as Avery well knew, even fifteen seconds was an enviable amount of time. But while Dekker wisely used his time to state his platform, Tate’s allotment had been squandered on questions regarding Carole’s medical progress.
    “If we don’t keep Mandy under such lock and key,” she said carefully, “their curiosity over her will soon abate. Hopefully, they’ll get curious about something else, like your relief plan for the farmers who have been foreclosed on.”
    “She might have a point, Tate.” Eddy eyed her suspiciously, but with grudging respect.
    Tate’s expression bordered between anger and indecision. “I’ll think about it,” was all he said before turning his head to stare out the window.
    They rode in silence until they reached campaign headquarters. Eddy said, “Everybody’s anxious to see you, Carole. I’ve asked them not to gape, but I can’t guarantee that they won’t,” he warned her as she alighted with the chauffeur’s assistance. “I think the goodwill would go a long way if you could stick around for a while.”
    “She will.” Giving her no choice, Tate took her arm and steered her toward the door.
    His chauvinism raised the hair on the back of her neck, but she was curious to see his campaign headquarters, so she went peaceably. As they approached the door, however, her stomach grew queasy with fear. Each new situation was a testing ground, a mine field that she must navigate gingerly, holding her breath against making a wrong move.
    The doors admitted them into a place of absolute chaos. The volunteer workers were taking calls, making calls, sealing envelopes, opening envelopes, stapling, unstapling, standing up, sitting down. Everyone was in motion. After the silence and serenity of the clinic, Avery felt as though she had just been thrust into an ape house.
    Tate removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Once he was spotted, each volunteer stopped his particular chore in favor of speaking to him. It was apparent to Avery that everyone in the room looked to him as a hero and was dedicated to helping him win the election.
    It also became clear to her that Eddy Paschal’s word was considered law, because while the volunteers looked at her askance and spoke polite hellos, she wasn’t subjected to avidly curious stares. Feeling awkward and uncertain over what was expected of her, she tagged along behind Tate as he moved through the room. In his element, he emanated contagious confidence.
    “Hello, Mrs. Rutledge,” one young man said to her. “You’re looking extremely well.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Tate, this morning the governor issued a statement congratulating Mrs. Rutledge on her full recovery. He commended her courage, but he called you, and I paraphrase, a bleeding-heart liberal that Texans should be wary of. He cautioned the voting public not to let sympathy for Mrs. Rutledge influence their votes in November. How do you want to respond?”
    “I don’t. Not right away. The pompous son of a bitch wants to provoke me and make me look like a fire-breathing dragon. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Oh, and that ‘pompous son of a bitch’ is off the record.”
    The young man laughed and scurried toward a word processor to compose his press release.
    “What does the current poll show?” Tate asked