There was no reason for Sara to feel anxious about the presidential debates that were coming up, as September drew near, with its shock of orange leaves and autumn chilliness. After all, she'd been trained for this. She'd faced Bagwell before, and she believed the very sight of his face – not to mention the strong smell of the perfume he wore, Angel – would be quite efficient in fortifying her in moments of doubt. That she would have to win not just because she wanted to be President, but because she could never tolerate for someone like Theodore Bagwell to be hers.
Yes, all things considered, Bagwell was exactly the sort of man that would be ideal for Sara to face on the battlefield.
A vain, women-hating bigot that had been gifted with charisma – a proof of just how far America could go when it was goaded on by a tyrant who knew his way around words.
"You're going to win," Kellerman told her, many times, not with encouragement but as a statistical prediction. "You know your stuff better than he does. There isn't a weak spot in your program, so he won't be able to make you look green – and when that'll fail," he assured, on a tone of warning, "he will try to make you look womanly. Expect it. Use it. Expose him as the chauvinist pig he is."
In these moments, Sara actually felt she liked Kellerman better than she'd ever suspected until the campaign started.
When the time came, Sara stepped on that television set with her composure intact. Her smile was serious, pleasant, not large enough to inspire frivolity. Of course, she could not afford to be afraid.
(Fear is for the weak and, so would Theodore Bagwell hint, for women)
Michael, however, wasn't armed or armored as Sara was to defend himself against anxiety, and he was actually shaking when he watched her walk to that podium, adjust her mike, and stand perfectly calm, a few feet away from the Republican candidate, who was smiling a wider smile, who was counting on winning the country's affections, not only their minds.
The platform looked surreal, to Michael – so absolutely blue, it was no wonder they called the shade presidential. For the woman he loved to be standing there was terrifying – as if she were freely dangling amongst the clouds.
"Nervous, Mike, are you?"
Michael started when Lincoln sneaked up behind him – he wasn't going to watch the debates, he said. Had better things to do than 'to watch those fools trying to humiliate each other'.
"No," Michael lied, and wordlessly accepted the beer his brother dropped into his hand, which was hanging limply from the arm of his chair. "Can you blame me for hoping we're finally going to get somebody decent in the white house?"
Lincoln shrugged his shoulders. "Guess not." Then he added – something he'd repeated a considerable number of times over the past few months, almost as if to test his brother's patience. "I would totally fuck her."
"That's sexist, Linc."
"Isn't sex always sexist?"
"No. Just because it has the word 'sex' in it doesn't mean it's the same thing."
"Well," Lincoln shrugged again. "You know me. Words."
Then he was gone, and Michael could concentrate on the debate, which was yet to begin.
Bagwell was looking trim in a black suit and blue tie, his hair sleek and carefully combed. Sara had gone for a dress, red, which Kellerman had winced at – "Why not something that looks a little less sinful?" He'd suggested. "White?"
"I'm not a bloody saint."
"They don't have to know that."
"Hillary wore white. For all the good it did her."
"Hillary had a libidinous husband. She couldn't afford to pass for a saint."
But there had been no changing her mind. Sara wanted to wear red, not because it had been the color of power since ancient Rome, or because the dress was so becoming, that it hinted success, almost perfection – she knew she was ever stunning in that dress, but it wasn't even because beauty was a weapon sharper than most.
It was because red was the color she'd been forbidden to wear as a girl, that her father would hiss at when he'd see it on her, from the bottom of the stairs, as she'd get down from her bedroom.
Whether it was clothes or lipstick didn't matter.
"Go wash that off."
"Dad, it's –"
"Just go and change, Sara."
Yes. That was what really determined her choice of clothes.
Red was the color worn by powerful men. For women, it was the color of prostitutes, sinners, adulterers. And Sara felt it was high time they should get representation.
There was no easy start, no phase of introduction. Sometimes, that happened, but Sara hadn't really thought today would be the case. From the first question, from the moment Sara's eyes crossed Bagwell's across the blue platform, she could feel the heat of hate between them, knew they were both wild animals trying to make their way to the top of the jungle.
Of course, he got her about wanting to stop the war in Syria. This country and its military, Bagwell argued, needed a strong hand. Reducing investment in warfare would be a terrible idea – America had gotten where it was today because it was a Giant, with a people whose hard work and dedication were beyond compare. Now was no time to slacken, or to allow it to be corrupted by the tremendous inflow of illegal immigrants he assured crossed American borders each day.
Sara was calm under assault, and very firm in her responses –
"I'd like to know whose America you're describing, Senator Bagwell. Because the one I'm trying to represent is no giant. Giants collapse, didn't you know? They tend to have unsteady foundations. What I'm looking to represent is people. People who don't want to bomb civilians in a faraway land because the nation's too proud to admit they're making things worse. People who'd rather have money placed in our school system, to get started on fixing the unimaginable inequalities that plague American education. People who are tired of being told. People who want their voices heard."
By the end of it, Sara knew defeat hadn't yet crossed the Senator's mind.
It would take a while. The man was too used to winning crowds to realize when he was losing one. Getting away with a charming joke was another thing he knew how to do, but when he called Sara's campaign "nearly a teenage rebellion", no one from the audience gave so much as an awkward laughter – and Bagwell's laughter came out awkward as a result.
All the while, Sara's eyes were set surely on him, her voice unwavering, her smiles unforgiving.
I've got you, her eyes were saying, as he fumbled to win the people's assent once more. Bagwell was the sort of politician who depended on the fickleness of the mob. Until then, he'd found it easy to have it on his side, gathering it around a common enemy: I know who's stealing your jobs, ladies and gentlemen, and it ain't decent American folk.
It was easy for people to follow blind. What Sara asked was harder – thought, participation. But she believed it was ultimately what the people wanted – and what they deserved.
When she and Bagwell shook hands, at the end of the debate, Michael was sweating badly in his living room couch, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand when his vision got blurred.
His gut was twisted with nausea, and he realized how badly he wanted to see Sara.
Except if he could see her, right now, he might want to tell her to stop – everything. To get out of there alive while she still could. These were dangerous, dangerous waters she was swimming.
Sara herself felt unshaken by the event, and checked her cell phone when she got in the car waiting for her at the exit.
There was one unread text from Paul Kellerman.
'You were right to go with red.'
…
End Notes: this chapter was short, but it seemed to stand well on its own so I ended it there. I'll try not to be long with a next update. Please let me know your thoughts as always.
