The Hopefuls(65)
I peeked in and saw Jimmy nodding seriously, like a student in a classroom. And this was their dynamic throughout the campaign. It didn’t exactly surprise me—this was Matt in his element, absorbing huge loads of information and then dispersing and explaining it to someone in manageable bites. He even did it with me. On Sundays, we’d spend hours with The New York Times. I tended to favor the Book Review and the style section, and he read just about everything else. But after he’d finish an article, he’d sort of recap it for me—giving me the highlights, answering any questions I had. I figured he liked to talk about the things he’d just read about, that it helped him sort things out in his own head. I don’t think he was doing it because he felt like he needed to teach me—although there’s no denying that I became a lot more knowledgeable about current events after I met him.
And why wouldn’t Jimmy like this arrangement? He agreed with Matt on all the issues he was fighting for. He just let Matt do the research and break it down for him—Matt was like the real-life version of CliffsNotes.
—
Most of the time, Matt and Jimmy were concerned with raising money. Jimmy’s first fund-raising goal (created by Matt) had been to raise $50K by the New Year, which they’d easily done. And while I thought that sounded impressive, Matt told me that compared to the Republican candidates, it was peanuts.
Jimmy had even gone to L.A. for a few days, using all of the connections he’d made while working in the White House. One young actress had a casual cocktail party at her home, invited twenty of her friends to meet Jimmy, listen to his pitch, and give him money. He had a dinner thrown in his honor by a reality TV star, famous only for being pretty and dating athletes. Matt had always thought this woman was an idiot, was annoyed that she was constantly on television, that she got so much attention. “She doesn’t do anything,” he’d say. But they raised more money at that single event than they had in the prior month. And Matt never said a bad word about her again.
The week I got to Texas, Matt was working on a new fund-raising plan for Jimmy. He told me about it one night before we went to sleep, describing the incentives he had created: If you donated two hundred dollars, you’d be eligible for a raffle to win a private dinner with Jimmy; five hundred dollars got you invited to an intimate evening of drinks with him. And for a thousand dollars or more, you and Jimmy could spend the day at the shooting range together.
“Seriously?” I’d asked.
“Seriously,” Matt said. And then like Dorothy before him, he shook his head in wonder and said, “We’re not in DC anymore.”
—
Ash and Jimmy lived less than a mile from Jimmy’s parents and a fifteen-minute drive from Ash’s. Viv was the first grandchild for both families, and they were always stopping by to see her or bring her a present or offer to take her to the park. Every Monday and Wednesday, Ash’s mom, Beverly, took care of Viv. She’d come pick her up in the morning and bring her back right before dinner. She always let herself into the house, pausing after opening the door, calling, “Knock, knock!” before walking in. Beverly was like the sixty-year-old version of Ash, and because of this I felt completely comfortable around her. I’d met her a few times when she’d come to visit DC, and she was always pulling me into a hug—just like Ash, she was overly and immediately affectionate. I didn’t mind it though. It was nice to rest my head against her soft sweater sets, to breathe in her perfume as she held me against her chest and asked me how I was doing.
Jimmy’s mom called often to ask if Viv was available for “a sleepover at Grammy’s.” She was always pushing the four of us to go out to dinner, trying to find a reason the baby should stay with her. Viv had her own room at Jimmy’s parents’ house, complete with a brand-new crib, because as Mrs. Dillon told me, “It just made good sense.”
“I thought I’d have to hire someone to watch Viv,” Ash said, “so I could start to build my Stella and Dot network here, but those women want their hands on their grandbaby so badly we may never have to hire a babysitter again.”
Mrs. Dillon (whose first name was Sue Ann, but who never asked me to call her that) was so friendly it was almost frightening. She had a wide lipsticked smile, and she found a way to compliment me whenever she saw me. “Oh, Beth, isn’t that an adorable top?” she’d say, or “Isn’t that color delicious on you?” I tried to explain to Matt how it was too much, how her compliments in question form seemed almost aggressive (and made me believe that she thought the real answer to all of them was no), but he didn’t understand. Mr. and Mrs. Dillon had us over for dinner at least once every couple of weeks, and they both adored Matt. (And he loved Mrs. Dillon’s baby back ribs so much that I doubt he would’ve noticed if she’d called me ugly right to my face.)
Just like Ash’s mom, Mrs. Dillon had a key to their house, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. “I came home just a week after we moved in to find this in the middle of the table,” Ash said, pointing to a large cast-iron Dutch oven. “There wasn’t even a note. It was just sitting there, and so we had to call and ask her what it was for. Jimmy thanked her for it—he didn’t even think it was weird that she came in while we were gone, and now she does it all the time.”
“Did she say what it was for?” I asked. Ash’s kitchen was well stocked with beautiful things—I couldn’t imagine she didn’t have a similar pot somewhere in there.