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  I weigh just under one-ten, work out every morning with a videotape from our friend Billy Blanks, and I typically wear my shoulder-length hair in a soft flip.

  My complexion is what one may call cocoa, and my eyes and nose are nothing special.

  I handle the money in our family, and let’s just say we’re financially well off due to investing in a small Florida-based company when I graduated which is now known as Red Lobster.

  I was born in Rome, New York, in the autumn of ’53 and we moved to California for my dad’s job in ’67. He came home one Friday after work and announced to us at dinner that we would be moving, and my mom never stopped sipping her tea.

  My brother, sister, and I looked in her direction, and all she said was, eat your food and stop looking at me. Next thing we knew, she was calling movers, and in a week we were in the station wagon headed toward the Pacific.

  As we rode through the mountains of Pennsylvania, I realized I could never be a woman like that. The kind of woman who would follow orders without question. The sort of woman who would find an unknown shade of lipstick on a shirt and simply put it in cold water or will herself to believe that men always kept phone numbers folded up in their wallet. That was my mom. Quiet. Reserved. Never going against the grain. I knew that could never be me.

  Regarding my name, I’ve never cared for it. It doesn’t seem to flow like other names, such as Eleanor Roosevelt. Her name floats from your mouth like warm air in winter. Or Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy. That’s a name that forces one to say it slowly because one’s lips actually kiss themselves when they form the words. She didn’t have a name. She had a poem.

  On the other hand, mine just does not do it for me. Henry’s brother told him before our first campaign that my name would sound better if I went by Leslie instead of Yvette. He thought that Yvette sounded too ethnic, which is a code word for black. So I went with it. Now even my husband calls me Leslie.

  Henry and I are the same age, and he is the validation that there is a Supreme Being, and that She loves me beyond compare. I know this because no other entity could bring so much happiness to someone like me and I know the sole reason She created me was to love Henry.

  When I think of the good times we’ve shared I feel closer to heaven than earth, but don’t get me wrong, I’m not a “stand by your man whatever the reason” type of woman, but I can say that I have been blessed with him . . . and Henry was definitely blessed with me.

  Henry’s eyes are as dark as sapphires and nearly as unforgettable. All it takes is a little sunlight to make him squint, which does not make for the best photographs, but when you see them clearly, it’s hard to look away.

  The man has never, at forty-seven, had a single gray hair. A producer for Prime Time Live in a preproduction meeting asked him to come clean and tell him what he did to his hair. When he was asked that question, I could see Henry get a little agitated. This same producer asked the other candidates about their stance on China or campaign finance. When he got to us, he asked Henry about hair dye and why he, like Oprah, Bill Cosby, and Colin Powell, was considered to be colorless.

  On the other hand, my hair has been graying slowly since I turned thirty. I did not have a strand of gray hair until the morning of my thirtieth birthday. I looked into the mirror that day and started howling. It was not me looking back. It was Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son, in the flesh. Teddy, which is my pet name for Henry, ran down the hallway into the bathroom thinking I’d hurt myself. When he saw the three strands I’d just plucked, he didn’t laugh, as I am sure some men would have. He didn’t patronize me by saying there were only three strands. He understood. He’s always like that, although at times it’s not readily apparent. Teddy wrapped both his arms around me like a first-time mother holding her newborn, rested his chin on my head as we rocked slowly to unheard music, and said, “I wish you could see you through my eyes.”

  And then, lowering his voice, Teddy said, “I once heard that angels congregate on the shores of the ocean at sunrise. And that the moment is so beautiful, they could actually hear music in the rising of the sun. Leslie, even if I were one day able to witness such a moment, I know it could never compare to the beauty I’ve found in you.” And then he told me, with his voice as soft as church music and just as emotional, to look at myself in the mirror. As I opened my eyes, for the life of me, all I could see was him. But it seems since the day we met, all I’ve ever seen was him.

  A friend heard me quietly call him Teddy, which is something I rarely do in front of others, and asked me why. Because, I told her, they could have Henry. Henry belonged to the world, but Teddy was all mine.

  My calling him Teddy is a curse in a way. I gave him the name because he reminded me of a big, cuddly teddy bear. When he ran for president it got leaked on the Internet that I called him Teddy and he received hundreds of teddy bears from women around the world. As a result, the teddy bear became our unofficial campaign mascot, which he initially felt trivialized the seriousness of his efforts, but I think he soon grew fond of it.

  I must admit, and I would never tell anyone this because they would never understand, but a small part of me would like for us to lose tonight. I know the notion is maniacal, and I feel ashamed even admitting it to myself when you think of the historical relevance and social implications, but that’s how I feel in my heart.

  I hate sharing my husband with the world, and I don’t think that’s necessarily a selfish emotion. Having him burned in effigy and talked about like a dog in the papers and on the news shows every day is not something I look forward to. Add to that the fact that if we should win, for the next four or possibly eight years I will not be able to sleep peacefully knowing there is someone somewhere just flunking of ways to assassinate—no, let’s call it for what it is, kill—him.

  Saying JFK was assassinated takes the sting off what happened. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was killed in front of the world, and having my husband subjected to that possibility is something I dread.

  I assured Henry that I was over the scare of what happened in the parking lot in Omaha, but I will never forget it. I will never see him pack his bags and leave, and take it for granted that I’ll see him again. If the security officer had been a fraction of a second slower, there would be no Henry Louis—I don’t want to think about it. Damn those tears. So if he loses tonight, maybe, just maybe, we can fall in love. Again.

  If Teddy were not a politician, I am sure he would be a history professor, because he is enamored by the subject. I once heard him tell a reporter how important 1968 was to the fight for civil rights. When he thinks of ’68 he thinks of the race to the moon, Muhammad Ali, and McCarthy. Ironically, when I think of ’68, the first thing to cross my mind is TV dinners. Weird, huh? I told Teddy that once, and I bet he still gets a laugh out of it.

  I was not socially aware then. I did not watch the freedom riders get hosed down the streets of Selma like litter. I had no idea that Brezhnev, Khrushchev, and Kosygin were names of people I should know, and while I hate to admit it, my family and I didn’t even watch the King funeral processional on TV. In the Shaw household, having pro-colored thoughts was looked upon as harboring contraband. You just didn’t do it.

  Looking back on my childhood, I realize we were raised Brady Bunch-Leave It to Beauer-suburban white. I think we watched Get Smart or something the night King’s body was returned to Atlanta.

  My dad was an interesting character. He was well educated, but inside he felt his skin was his sin. He used bleaching cream every morning just as most people used toothpaste. He used so much of it, it left his fingertips red and the skin on his face raw in places. As I grew older, I felt sorry for him because what he hated most was not who he was, but what was done to him by society, yet he never understood that. I think—well, I know—that is what attracted me to Henry. Henry always had a clear idea of himself and what he wanted, and people had to accept him on those terms.

  In the late sixties I formulated my mission in life. It was simpl
e. I would move to New York City and become incredibly rich. Doing what? I had no earthly idea whatsoever. All I knew was that I wanted a brownstone on the lower west side, a hideaway somewhere on the coast with a view of the Atlantic ocean, and a Fleetwood Cadillac.

  I had a sister by the name of Kathleen and my younger brother is named Myles. I love them both equally, but Myles and I are a lot closer. I don’t think Kathleen ever forgave me for doing the unforgivable. That is, being born. She is eight years older then me and was the only child for years. Then I came along and screwed up everything.

  My parents used to go to this retreat for the firm’s associates and their spouses every August and March in Southern California, and they would leave us home with her. She was a mean bitch. I remember one day getting into this fight with a girl who called me a nigger and being sent to the principal’s office. Well, he gave me three licks with the paddle and sent me home early. When I got there, Kathleen was already home.

  I was fourteen or fifteen, which would have made her about twenty-three, and she attended a junior college or trade school or something. That day she did not go and was sitting on the couch smoking, which was totally forbidden in the Shaw household. So I just walked in and headed to my bedroom, but before I took one step up the stairs, she yelled, “Where the hell you think you going?”

  “To my room.”

  Without breaking eye contact with the TV, she said, “So you can’t speak when you walk in a room?”

  “Hey,” I said, and continued my march up to my room, still sore from the paddling.

  “Stop!” she screamed without looking in my direction. “Put your book bag down . . . on the stairs . . . and come here.”

  “Come on, Kat, don’t start.”

  She stood up. “Don’t start what? Bisch, I told you to put down that bag and come here. Mom and Dad left me in charge of this house and I’m the boss. What I say goes!”

  I stood there just staring at her and decided the best thing to do would be to go along and get it over with. So I walked back downstairs and stood sluggishly in front of her.

  “Okay, you black bisch! I ain’t gonna have you back-talkin’ me like you do Mom and Dad. You ai got no manners, that’s yo problem now. What time does Myles get out of school?”

  “I dunno,” I said quietly. Then she pushed me backward over the ottoman and my head bumped into the TV. It really didn’t hurt that much, but I was just tired of her, the principal, and that white girl I had the fight with, so I started crying and rubbing the back of my head.

  I saw a glimpse of a black hand, heard swack and saw whiteness. Before the first tear could fall, she smacked me so hard while I was on the ground it hurt my neck more than my face.

  “I done told you, tar bisch, I ai Mom and Dad! I’ll hurt you up in here, girl, you just don’t know. I ai nufin’ to play with. Now, get your little spoiled black smutty ass up in that kitchen and I want it cleaned from top to bottom. I mean everything! If you leave even one speck of dirt in there, your ass is grass, and I’m the lawn mower.”

  Still crying softly, I got up and walked into the kitchen. I noticed there were twice as many plates and glasses as there’d been before I went to school that morning. There was no way she could mess up the kitchen like this by herself. There were cigarette ashes everywhere, sticky dried sugar on the counter, eggs stuck in a frying pan, raw unwrapped hamburger sitting in the sink with flies buzzing around, and garbage that had spilled to the floor. The kitchen smelled worse than the boys’ rest room I had to clean one time when I was on after-school detention.

  I decided to take the course of least resistance and get it all straightened up so I would not have to deal with Kathleen, although I was sure she would make me help Myles clean the yard when he got home as well.

  After a couple of hours you could have shot a 409 commercial in the kitchen. I cleaned the toaster and all the crumbs under it. I cleaned out the refrigerator, including the brown, green, and yellow gunk in the pan beneath it, and even got on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. I really went above and beyond the call of duty because I knew Mom and Dad would be home in two days, and although Kathleen would try to take all the credit, I would let them know that I’d done it all by myself.

  As I put away the last pot, the door swung open so hard my skirt blew between my legs. With her wide nose and thick lips in the air, she looked around for something, anything, to get mad about. She snatched open the fridge, looked under the burners in the stove, inspected the countertops. She even shook the toaster for bread crumbs. Nothing. Then she smiled at me and said, “I told you to wash all the dishes.”

  Looking behind me to where the dishes were neatly stacked, I replied, “I did.”

  Kathleen said, “Move out the way, smut slut.” She walked to the cabinets and pulled out every dish, bowl, saucer, cup, glass, spoon, fork, knife, and utensil and piled them on the counter. She reached under the sink and proceeded to pull out every pot and pan and added them to the silver and white mound. Last but not least, my dear, sweet sister went over and opened the china cabinet and pulled out all of my mom’s fancy china and added it to the stack. Even their wedding china. “You chip one plate . . . and I’ll chip yo black ass,” she said, then smiled as she walked out the door.

  I did not care much for Kathleen after that.

  Later that night something happened that I blocked out of my memory for years and years. Actually, the first time I thought of it was when we were on a campaign bus headed to Gary, Indiana.

  I couldn’t sleep the night after I washed everything in the kitchen, so I got out of bed and went downstairs to get some Tang. When I passed by Kathleen’s room, I heard her moaning and groaning and stuff. I knew that her boyfriend had left her a long time ago and I didn’t know of her dating anyone else, so being the average fifteen-year-old, I had to find out more.

  I quietly opened the front door and walked outside barefoot. I remember the grass being wet between my toes because it had rained earlier, but curiosity had already gotten the best of me, so I kept going. When I got outside her room, I noticed the shades were not drawn as usual, so I moved quietly up to her window, shimmying between a few wet hedges. They grew thick on that side of the house, but I was too close to turn back.

  I got about two or three feet away from the window and I could see beer bottles on the dresser and hear the Doors playing on the radio. I moved up a little closer and my mouth opened. I had never seen anything like that in my life. In fact, I’d never even heard my friends talk about such things. I could never imagine two people having sex . . . like this. I walked in on Mom and Dad a couple of times, on purpose, but this was something else.

  Kathleen and our neighbor, a Russian immigrant who was at least as old as our father, were going at each other. Except his face was buried between her legs, and her head was between his. As I stood there, something crawled on my leg and I jumped, and both of them held their heads up. To make it even worse, his head was not the only place where he was bald! I immediately ran in the house and up the stairs into my room. As I lay under the sheets, I was shaking, expecting her to open my door and do God only knows what to me. But she didn’t. She never mentioned it and I never said anything to Mom and Dad.

  The next night she made me and Myles eat frozen TV dinners, saying we had to cut back on “electwisity” as she called it. Myles, who was thirteen, refused to suck on the frozen Salisbury steak, but I didn’t say a word.

  One day, Dad told Kathleen he’d spoken to a friend and would be able to get her into a four-year university. The following week he and my mother took her to visit a college, and when Myles went to Scouts I had the house all to myself for one of the few times I can remember. How would I celebrate this momentous occasion? Would I raid the refrigerator? Would I call my friends over and play some of Kathleen’s Redd Foxx and Richard Pryor LPs she had hid in the basement? No. I went into my sister’s room and found a package of Lucky Strikes.

  I’d always wanted to smoke and had tried i
t a couple of times before. The first time it burned my throat and made me nauseous. The next time I just coughed a lot and felt dizzy. But like anything I wanted, I worked hard at it until I was able to fill my lungs just like the ladies in the movies.

  That afternoon I heated up my own after-school snack, went in the backyard, took out my smokes, shook the bow out of my hair, and placed my cat eye’d glasses on the windowsill. I sat in our fenced-in backyard and felt as beautiful as Ruby Dee in St. Louis Blues. As the California sun shone down on me, I lay on the lounger and felt good about myself. For some reason, smoking made me feel more secure and more confident, and not a day has passed since that afternoon that I have not enjoyed at least one puff.

  Yeah, that’s what I remember about ’68, TV dinners . . . and I guess Lucky Strikes.

  Chicago, Illinois

  Four Seasons Hotel Grand Ballroom

  7:45 P.M. EST

  “Hello, Franklin, and hello, America! This is Judith Finestein in the ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel just off Lakeshore Drive in Chicago, Illinois. The polls just closed on the East Coast forty-five minutes ago, and these canvassers, supporters, and campaign workers have been in the ballroom for about three hours. The last time I can remember this type of euphoria was in seventy-six in Plains, Georgia, when then-little-known James Earl Carter shook the political process and was elected the 39th president of the United States. Initially no one expected him to win, and a couple of months ago no one thought Vice President Ronald Steiner had a plausible reason to celebrate tonight. But after the well-publicized scandal in the Davis campaign coupled with the successful cross-country ‘We’re in It to Win It’ tour, many people are expecting him to pull off a Trumanesque upset and become the next president of the United States. He has momentum on his side, and in a three-man race with the weather conditions affecting voter turnout in many parts of the country, who knows what will happen?