Young Jane Young(80)

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask. “Don’t you have any complaints?”

Your mother shrugs. “What do I have to complain about?”

“I don’t want to pick a fight,” you say, “but you used to have a lot of complaints about me.”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “I don’t remember things that way at all.”

“My hair. My clothes. My cleanliness. My —”

“Aviva, you’re my daughter. I had to tell you things,” she says. “If I didn’t tell you things, how would you know them?”

“I go by Jane now,” you say.

“My God,” she says, “could you have picked a more gentile name?”

“There are plenty of Jewish Janes,” you say.

“Maybe I mean boring. Such a boring name. Jane Young. There’s your complaint,” your mother says.

You leave your mother and you go to your daughter’s room to say good night. “Mom, I’m sorry,” Ruby says.

“You’re home now,” you say.

“No,” she says. “He wouldn’t see me. He can’t be my dad if he didn’t want to see me.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you, but he’s right. He isn’t your dad,” you say. “I never even had sex with him. I never —”

“No,” Ruby interrupts. “I was thinking when I was on the plane back. Maybe it doesn’t matter who he is. You’re my mom and you’re my best friend.”

“I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” you say, “but I’ve done my best.”

“I’m sorry for something else, too,” she says. “I was the one who told the newspaper.”

“I know,” you say. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does matter. You might not win now.”

“I might not,” you admit. “But the truth is, I might not have won anyway. When you decide to run for office, the only thing you know for certain is that you might not win.”

“It’s my fault,” Ruby says. She covers her head with her quilt.

“It’s not, Ruby.” You dig her out from under the blankets. “Mrs. Morgan owns the newspaper. She could have run the story or she could have killed it. I told her to run it.”

“Why would you do that?” Ruby asks.

“Because it’s better this way,” you say. “It would have come out eventually. I’m not ashamed of what happened, not anymore. And I’m not ashamed of what I did to improve my situation. And if people want to judge me and not vote for me, that is their choice.”



On Election Day, Mrs. Morgan arranges for you to have the classic polling place photo.

You put on a red suit. You spend no time making this decision. You don’t even consider wearing anything else. The fit is perfect and you know it will photograph well. You’re older now, and you know what looks good on you. Ruby puts on a blue dress, and your mother wears gray pants, a white blouse, and an Hermès scarf. “Red, white, and blue,” your mother observes.

You walk to the polling place, which is at the fire station, a few blocks from your office. You wonder what happens if there’s a fire on Election Day.

Mrs. Morgan wanted you to get a car, but you decided to walk. The weather is cold but sunny and bright. You walk down the street with your mother and your daughter. A few people try to avoid your gaze, but for the most part, people wave at you and wish you luck. You’re surprised by these displays of warmth, but you shouldn’t be. You’ve planned their weddings. You’ve witnessed their most intimate days. You’ve discreetly handed packets of tissues to sobbing fathers, and you’ve held babies born six months after the wedding, and you’ve driven racist mothers-in-law to the airport, and you’ve forgiven bounced checks when you could, and you’ve looked the other way when a bachelor party got out of hand. The point is, they have secrets, too.

When you get to the polling place, a half-dozen photographers are waiting for you. The media beyond Allison Springs has picked up on the story. It’s a juicy one. Sex scandal. Fallen woman. A girl who slept with a politician goes into politics herself. There are second acts in American political life.

“Aviva,” one of the photographers calls. “Look over here.”

“Jane,” calls another. “Over here!”

You turn to one and smile, and then you turn to the other and you smile even more broadly. You smile with teeth.

“Who do you think’s going to win?” a reporter asks.

“It’ll be tight,” you say. “My opponent’s run a solid campaign.”

You leave Ruby with your mother and you go inside to vote.

You usually vote by mail and it seems quaint and oddly intimate to be filling out your ballot in public. Even after you draw the curtain closed, you still feel exposed. The curtain makes you feel more exposed. You’re a Catholic at confession. You’re a teenage girl trying on prom dresses at the mall. You’re a pregnant mother in an open-backed hospital gown, waiting to give birth. You’re the Nurse in a high school production of Romeo and Juliet, standing in the wings. You’re an intern who slept with her boss and everyone found out.

Speaking of which, you dreamt of Aviva Grossman last night. In your dream, she was running for mayor of Miami. You went to her for advice. “Can I ask you something?” you said. “How did you ever survive that scandal?”