Young Jane Young(54)

Embeth laughed her public laugh. Inside, a private joke: There may already be two politicians in this family.

Once upon a time, a question like that might have flattered her. A long time ago, she had harbored such ambitions. She burned with them. She had pushed Aaron forward and then resented him when he actually succeeded. As a politician’s wife, though, she had had her fill of politics. But then, there was no worse job in politics than politician’s wife. Literally, there was no job that paid less – which is to say, nada – and demanded more. At the peak of Avivagate, she’d once attended a women in politics panel on human trafficking, and they’d had a PowerPoint presentation with screening questions to determine if a person was being trafficked. The questions were: (1) Are you paid for your work? (2) Are you never alone? (3) Do other people answer questions for you? (4) Can you leave your house when you want? Et cetera. Based on her answers, Embeth had determined that she was a likely victim of human trafficking.

“I’m not Hillary Clinton,” she told the crowd. “I don’t have the stomach for another election. I don’t have the desire to travel. These days, my interests don’t extend much past leaving my house. I’ll be voting for her, by the way. Who else would I be voting for?”



The library didn’t have a green room, so they had stowed Embeth’s belongings in someone’s dumpy office. As soon as Embeth turned her phone back on, Jorge was calling.

“How was the speech, beautiful?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. “The vote?”

“Still happening,” Jorge said. “He’ll be back late – only an hour or so.”

“Shocking. Remind me why we’re having this party again.”

“He’ll have to go straight from the airport to the hotel, so if you could bring his tuxedo. I’ll be on the originally scheduled flight,” Jorge said.

“Why?” Embeth asked. Jorge and Aaron usually flew together.

“Why pay two change fees? And I don’t want to miss the start of the party,” Jorge said. “Also, I wouldn’t mind a word with you alone, if you have a moment.”

Embeth knew what this was about. The election was next week, and Jorge wanted to leave them. Embeth knew it was time – he had been with them for almost twenty years; no one had served Aaron more loyally – but still, she feared a post-Jorge world. She knew there would be a new Jorge, but she dreaded the opening of her inner circle to a stranger.

“Is the girl with you?” Jorge asked in a low voice.

“Yes, she’s having lunch,” Embeth said.

“What’s she like?” Jorge asked.

“She’s thirteen. She’s a girl. She has curly hair and light eyes. She talks a lot,” she said. “She doesn’t seem like a liar and she doesn’t remind me of Aviva.”

“Thank you, Em. You’re a trooper to take her, and on your anniversary, no less. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“Yes, I am a trooper,” she said wearily.

“Trooper! Trooper!” said El Meté.

“I don’t mind the company, actually. Did you tell Aaron?” Embeth said.

“Not yet. Do you want me to?”

“No. Let’s wait and see what this is first. Why upset him if this is nothing?”

Another call came in.

“I should take this,” she said. “It’s Aaron.”

“How’s your day going?” Aaron asked.

“Fine,” she said.

“Any good stories for me?”

“Someone sent us an angel,” Embeth said. “Like an effeminate, incredibly tacky Jewish angel boy. I guess it’s an anniversary present, but I don’t know who it’s from.”

“How weird,” Aaron said.

Yet another call came in. Tasha.

“I should take this,” Embeth said to Aaron.

“I need to get back to it anyway. I just wanted to hear your voice. Love you, Em.”

“Love you.”

Embeth flipped to Tasha.

Tasha said she had found Rachel Grossman’s number. “She’s Rachel Shapiro now.”

Embeth hung up and dialed Rachel Shapiro’s number, but she did not press call. She put the phone in her bag, and she went out to find Ruby.

Ruby was speaking to Alumna Jeanne.

“Oh my, Embeth, the FGLI program sounds marvelous!” said Alumna Jeanne. “Ruby was telling me about it. I have a niece who would be perfect for it.”

“They’re not doing it next year,” Ruby said.

“Funding,” Embeth said with an exaggerated sad face.

“Maybe I could help with that?” Alumna Jeanne said. “My expertise is not-for-profits.”

“Definitely send me an e-mail,” Embeth said.

The women thanked her for her speech, and Embeth “you’re welcome”-ed until her throat was hoarse and her face hurt from smiling. If a speech had gone well, it always took longer to leave an event than she thought it would. Someone wanted a picture. Someone wanted to tell a story about her own mother. Someone cried. Someone invited her to dinner. Someone pressed a business card into her hand. Someone wondered if her sons were married. The distance from the hall to the parking lot could be a few hundred feet that lasted an hour. Embeth couldn’t be brusque because she needed these women to vote for Aaron, after all.