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Elaine starts putting out feelers ahead of her campaign. She doesn't want to run again unless the numbers show that she has a chance. To that end, Bud takes their sons with him to visit a backwoods pollster named Jubal. Doug is still staunchly against his mother running, but fulfills his role as the dutiful son. He has flashbacks to his mother's first campaign — specifically to the times his father kept screwing things up by talking about vaginas and penises on TV. He remembers his father blaming him for the lost votes. In the present day, he finally has a mini explosion. Much to Doug's surprise, Bud acknowledges his faults. That's when Jubal fesses up and says Bud made an ass out of himself during the campaign on purpose. The polls were not in Elaine's favor. If Bud took the blame, then it would leave Elaine unscathed to run again in the future. It's supposed to be noble, I guess, but it comes across like patronizing bullshit. Jubal's preliminary numbers show Elaine in good standing — as long as she doesn't have Bud with her.
Doug suddenly feels much more enthusiastic about the campaign. He calls Susan and asks her to drop the story he leaked to her at the end of the last episode. She tells him she wasn't planning on running it anyway, but tells him she owns him now. He's going to be her inside source for all the campaign nitty-gritty.
Even without going to print, though, rumors of Elaine's aspirations abound. Garcetti decides that the best way to eliminate her as a threat is to offer her a seat on the Supreme Court. To do that, he pressures the current Justice — an old law school mentor to Elaine — to leave the position. Susan hears about this and runs to Elaine with the story. On the surface, it looks like a gesture of friendship, but it's part of Susan's plan to work her way into Elaine's inner circle. Elaine talks to her mentor about it and gets her to stay on the bench. This is all Garcetti needs to confirm that Elaine is, indeed, planning to run against him. His solution? Send her on a bunch of "low level" diplomacy missions, like dealing with Siberian tigers. She'll probably come back with a pack of Siberian tigers, trained to do her bidding. -- Tippi Blevins
Want more? The full recap starts right below!PREVIOUSLY & ALWAYS
I'm just sick of it all, that's what's going on. I am sick to death of the bullshit, and the egos, and of the men... I am sick of the men. Just one time, just once, I would like to accomplish something in this city without having to spend all of my energy navigating the shortsighted, selfish, self-involved and oh-so-fragile male egos that suck up all the oxygen in this town. It makes me so sick, Douglas. So sick I could puke for days.
...I'm running for President.
2 YEARS AGO THE PROVERBIAL
"People," a journalist suggested, were "starting to wonder" about "Mrs. Hammond" and her "so-called Woman Problem.'" See if you can spot the point where Bud's response goes irrevocably south.
"Nonsense! Elaine Hammond has done more for women than any candidate in the primary. She's championed women's health issues for thirty years, she rallied for Justice Nash's appointment to the Supreme Court and she's been speaking out on domestic abuse since law school. And that's not to mention her work in Illinois -- where by the way she's the governor, Mike, not Mrs.. Now let me ask you a question: Why is it, when most people ask about my wife's Woman Problem, they don't tend to have a vagina?"
A better question: Why, when 50 percent of the population has one, are the dudes in charge so uncomfortable with the word? The only Woman Problem has ever been that they exist.
Advisor Barry: "So the former President of the United States just said vagina on TV..."
Elaine: "Big deal, Barry."
Except you don't need a poll to know that the people in charge -- much less voters -- in America don't want to hear the word. It's like saying the name of the victim over and over in a homicide trial. It makes it human.
Douglas: "Except that in this particular case, he's a known horndog. It manages to remind everybody of what makes him a liability to you now, and why he makes you look weak. They rerun every lascivious thought of you, every time they called you a frigid bitch, every time they imagined you pulling that woman's hair, all the parts of the story they enjoyed most the first time around. A vagina is not just a vagina, it's her vagina."
The question was whether this was a recoverable error or whether Bud was melting down. Was this is about ego, with Bud subconsciously sinking his ex-wife's campaign, or was it just the other side of the coin of his electability and charm? Was he pushing into overdrive to keep Garcetti from his eventual win? Doug assumed (because it's Doug's prerogative to always assume) that his dad was fucking up. Elaine took it breezily, because she'd seen him say worse and do worse. But when everybody was leaving, she held Douglas back.
Elaine: "I need you to wrangle your father."
Doug: "Me and what army of psychologists?"
"Just keep him on script," she said. "He's not out to sabotage me," she said. "Douglas," she said, "You're the only one I can trust." The words he loved most.
ELAINE IS PRESENTING
The Council of Women's Lifetime Achievement Award to Justice Diane Nash, for whose appointment to the Supreme Court (by Bud, it's worth noting) she stumped and for whom she would die if given the chance. Justice Nash was a teacher of hers -- of hers and of Bud's -- in law school, and has been a mentor ever since: "She gave me some of the lowest grades I ever received... though Bud's were worse!"
This is the best part of the speech:
"As the first openly gay person nominated to the highest court of the land, the world expected her confirmation to be brutal. It was. What they didn't expect was that Judge Nash would respond with such grace, wit and intelligence that her hearings turned public opinion her way, and made her confirmation inevitable."
And this is the worst:
"Diane would be the first to tell you that a gulf still remains between the promise of equality for women and the reality for women around the globe. It's 2012."
What they want is a War Between Women. The Mommy Wars, microeconomics expert Ann Romney's working-woman bona fides, retrograde attacks on hard-won reproductive rights, the unbelievably tricky spot conservatism puts its women in -- even on the Left, this angry confusion about whether gay men are "gay" or "men," when it comes to feminism -- it all works to keep the fight away from the actual field of play. The other side of the Bechdel Test is a catfight, it's pornography. Imagine making a single decision without having to account for -- or supplicate -- patriarchy and straight male privilege. You could puke for fucking days.
THE NAME
"Justice Diane Nash" is relevant -- just as "Mrs. Hammond" is not "Secretary Of State Elaine Barrish" or even "Governor Elaine Barrish" or even "Vote Elaine" -- but that's so cumbersome. With respect, I'm going to call her Diane. First names are a sign of affection. Intimacy is a kind of respect; one that these men will never understand.
Diane: "Why do you still give Bud all the credit? It was you who forced my nomination down his throat. You strong-armed him, like you strong-armed Garcetti into sending Bud to Iran a few weeks ago."
Elaine: Has no answer for that. She still reads her like a book.
Diane: "And that speech just now. You running for something, lady?"
Elaine: Has no answer for that. We swim with sharks, the both of us.
Diane's partner's name is Corrine. Kor-EEN. That's relevant too.
Diane: "I saw her... for a split second yesterday, she didn't recognize me. That day is coming. And that is the day I just dread."
Elaine: Has no answer for that.
Diane: "Watch out for Garcetti. He's watching you. Getting ready to strike."
Nobody's ever won a primary against the incumbent. It would threaten too many agreements, too many structures, for us to allow that to happen. So many handshakes in dark rooms, so many favors to call in down the line and it would all evaporate. The whole thing would fall apart.
A woman's never won against a man.
AT THE PITCH MTG
Alex calls on Susan: She and Barrish are such 'buds' these days, she'll know. She running for something, Lady?
Susan: "Cocktail chatter. As long as Elaine Barrish is alive and popular, people are gonna be afraid she's gonna run for President. Doesn't mean it's true. That's not the story yet. It will be the story, I'm a political animal, but it can't be the story yet. There's still four episodes left. For now, the story is that Garcetti's watching her. Getting ready to strike."
Georgia puts up a hand -- so timidly, after all she's been through; with all these sharks at the table -- and doesn't put it down.
"I was shopping in Georgetown and noticed there are two bus systems servicing the area. The regular Metro buses and the Georgetown Local circulator. Which I believe is better maintained because only white people use them..."
She takes too long, loses her momentum. Susan watches her, privately at war, and waits for the hammer to drop. "Bitch" is just the word we use because we don't have any other words for it. Because at no time in human history have we actually needed a word for it until now.
Alex: "You don't do investigative pieces, Georgia. T.J. Hammond is opening a nightclub, there's gotta be something in there for the blog. Um, let's get back to sports..."
Back to sports, he says, and Susan bites back a sneer. Georgia leaves and Susan watches her follow, and just for a second she's not Alex's mistress anymore, not even an idiot anymore. Just somebody who hasn't learned the game yet. For a second she hates Alex more than Georgia. And then she's gone.
THE CREDITS ARE
Lovely; the song is an old favorite, "Future Starts Slow," with a great guitar riff that manages to feel a little bit political while also referencing Damages. Another war between women. Another story about bitches. The future starts so slow you could puke for days and it still wouldn't be here yet.
AT DINNER TO ANNOUNCE HERSELF
Elaine's smacking Doug to get off his phone when T.J. arrives, still wary of Margaret but blustering it out, right up front:
"Sorry! I had vendors coming out of my ass. I gotta go back to the club," he says, brattily, daring them to ask. "Mineral water? You're gonna bore me off the wagon!"
He's so brave but it's from such a shitty, secret angle. The best of all the lies they teach you is that you're dirty and everybody else is clean. That there are good twins and bad ones. But that's not the way it works; nobody ever is. Which means that we're all dirty. And if we're all dirty, roughly the same amount, then we're all the same amount of clean.
Elaine and Margaret stare at each other, having each denied him several times and watched his addict ass try to snake around it. There's a part of Elaine that understands why he needs to build something with his own hands -- why he can't be sure he exists, until he has his own legacy. How a life in the Hammond dynasty has turned him into a picture in a magazine, a fetish object. There's a part of them both that's been disappointed enough they're strong enough to deny him, even as they're understanding.
Margaret: "Where'd you get the money, sonny?"
T.J.: "Turns out my celebrity's worth millions, and I'm devastatingly handsome in low lighting..."
True and not true, both at once. Without the capital, without real ownership, he's still just a face; John-John without a George, John-John missing the Bar over and over again. There's so little of him that's permanent, that's a man; the future is coming so slow that it nearly killed him. If I asked you right now who was the older brother, you know what you'd say. It's not that we want our children to fail, exactly. We're just afraid it'll kill us if they do.
Doug: "Mom? Not to rush you, but..."
Elaine: "...Right. Okay. I am considering running for President again..."
Margaret pushes herself back from the table; it's a gesture Elaine knows well. It's one we all know pretty well. It's the sound of T.J.'s life, rushing past. Sometimes with Bud's force, other times with Elaine's grace, but it all sounds the same.
Margaret: "Hate to be the one to burst your bubble, babe, but that ain't news."
Elaine: Can't get the words out -- what this means, where we go -- fast enough to stop her.
Margaret: "Is this the point where you ask us what we think, then you ignore what we say and do whatever you want? Because I for one prefer not to have the New York Post going through our garbage cans, counting our liquor bottles again. And I know the boys don't want to go through the hell we all barely survived two years ago, just so you can be Queen Shit of the United States of Elaineland."
Elaine: "I'll take that as a nay?"
Doug shines, admits he's agreed to be her campaign manager; T.J. thinks she's going to be the best President the family's ever had. That's when Bud arrives. Hale and hearty and full of pithy idiom; unannounced. Doug seethes; it's like just thinking of him made him appear. It was meant to be a secret.
Bud: "Hoo! It's hot as a goat's ass out there tonight!"
THROUGH TO THE KITCHEN
The boys watch their parents chuckling after dinner. It's weird. Weirder for Doug, who remembers it better. Who is carrying, we'll see, more of the burden. He sighs; he pushes back his chair. More wine.
T.J.: "Get me one of those shitty mineral waters while you're up?"
To break them up Doug tells Elaine to stop doing the dishes, but she says it keeps her calm. Bud, of course, steps right in it: "I let you boys grow up soft. Running around the governor's mansion like a couple of princes..."
Bud's big news, dropped just as casually as this sideswipe at their lives as men -- "You're not on the campaign," Doug nearly sputters -- is that he's located the mad pollster, Jubal Jacobs.
"No sense in staging a DNC coup unless you know you can pull it off and Jubal's the only pollster who can read the tea leaves this far out."
Elaine's vague reference to "what Bud did" can only mean something adulterous and his response -- "Well, that was a pack of lies!" -- only confirms it. She agrees to let the "crazy old bastard" with whom Bud lies he's now on "excellent terms," but only if Doug goes along. He's the only one she can trust, you see. The only one that can actually carry the burdens she barely realizes she's handing him. And pretty soon, it's become a fishing trip, so nobody knows why they're really up there. The boys struggle and whine, carping about their responsibilities, but he's got her on the hook and knows they'll follow. Bud takes T.J. away.
Doug: "I thought we were leaving him out of this?"
Elaine: "You can at least admit that Jubal's... under the radar. Besides, you owe me after what you did."
Susan, he thinks for just a second. The war in the man. But she's just talking about T.J. -- the money, for an addict; much less a nightclub he can go to anytime.
"I thought... I don't know, that maybe if he had something in his life -- something that he was proud of -- that he could stay clean this time."
He's talking about T.J., right? Not Douglas Hammond. Not Elaine Barrish. Not Georgia or Susan. Not Bud Hammond. The future starts slow; it can be hard to stay clean that long. You want to be clean when it does.
ANNE FLIPS OUT
On Doug, big time, considering how clean they've had to stay. How long has he known about this, when was he going to tell her. In the back of her head it's just a whole new way to fuck with their wedding. Mothers-in-law, daughters-in-law. That's a war between women that we use to stave off the implicit facts of heterosexuality, our children having sex. It's just like dads on the porch with their guns; a way to make sex safe and funny and natural. (This is why gay people freak you out: there's not a blur in front of it yet, like there is with straight people. But if you think about life without that blur? Weddings and dating and romance and diamonds and chocolates and babies and Spanx and P90X and condoms... sex is all you people ever talk about.)
"None of it means anything, okay. Dad is convinced that his redneck savant is going to pull some jackrabbit out of a hat. It's not gonna happen. No one has run against their incumbent and won. Not Reagan against Ford, not Kennedy against Carter. And worse? This country is just going to hate her all over again. They'll only see her ambition, not how much she cares."
And you'll fuck it up again, Douglas. And all that hate will be on your back. He promises to come home soon from the Jubal expedition; he wraps his arms around her and calls her Annie and doesn't notice her body changing. He promises it'll all be over soon enough. This Wild Goose chase.
Anne: "I love it when you call me Annie."
Doug: "I know."
Names can be a sign of affection. Intimacy is the highest form of respect.
GARCETTI SITS EASILY
to Diane, in a Presidential receiving room -- maybe the Oval Office? -- and offers a story about his father's Alzheimer's. He is sincere and caring; his eyes never leave her face. His smile never reaches them. It's a well-worn thing he's saying, almost like a quote he heard somewhere. A speech he once gave.
"You know, during the last year of my father's life, he forgot he even had kids. He kept thinking I was his brother Tommy, who was killed in Guadalcanal. It was tempting to play along with him. To pretend I was this uncle that I'd never met. How's Corinn?"
But Justice Diane Nash's partner's name is Corrine. Kor-EEN. It's relevant.
Diane: "And you and I have exchanged maybe a hundred words, before this sudden sympathy."
Garcetti stumbles, as she knew he would, into quite a blunder. Head-on into the breach with this woman already ten steps ahead of him.
Garcetti: "You must want to spend more time with her, before..."
Diane: "...Htt. My retirement is not a conversation you're entitled to, Mr. President. Neither personally nor constitutionally."
He's been watching, waiting to strike. It comes fast when it comes.
"And if I said I was considering Elaine Barrish to replace you? She's your protégé, Diane. It would be like having you on the bench for another thirty years..."
Which is, of course, why the Senate Republicans would block it instantly, but he's thought that one through: "Zelkovic would start a circus, but Pike's reelection hinges on Elaine's core constituency. Shaw uses Pike as a fig leaf, she gets out of committee eleven to seven. We predict 85 votes on the floor... if we act quickly."
"It's either Elaine now or someone more acceptable to the conservatives later," he says. "I'm talking about your legacy, Diane," he says. "About our legacy."
What they want is a War Between Women so nobody can see what they're doing. If they didn't have you hating your body and your strength and your voice all the time -- if you didn't hear them telling you to quiet down and be less proud and be less angry, right there in your own head -- you'd start a fucking riot. The future would start very fast indeed.
A "VERY RELIABLE SOURCE" OF COURSE
Has meanwhile leaked this story to Alex, who summons Susan and presents it to her like a cat with a headless pigeon.
Susan: "Garcetti's pre-emptive strike. Why don't you give it to Georgia? You're still screwing her, right? Most people show preferential treatment to the people they screw. You do the opposite. I find that upsetting."
It's how he stays clean. Think about it.
Alex: "Garcetti's supposedly squeezing Justice Nash off the high bench..."
Susan: "Well, maybe Nash wants out? She's in her 70s and her partner was just placed in assisted care..."
Alex: "Not the story. The story is her replacement. High-level White House source. 500 words by lunch..."
Susan: "Can I stall you on this? How about legal scholars' reactions or..."
Alex: "It's exclusive. up is the Post or the Times and we lose it."
She gets him down to three hours; Assistant Russ points out that this would kill Susan's big story -- "No shit, Russ" -- and tries to comfort her.
Russ: "You know, breaking a Supreme Court nod... that's not such a bad story."
Susan agrees: "No. But it's not the story."
MARGARET WANDERS
Into the kitchen while Elaine's rolling calls, trying to clear Douglas's schedule for the fishing trip and Elaine hangs up to harangue her. First bad idea of the day.
Elaine: "You know, I should be used to it by now, but frankly I was a little shocked by how negative you were last night."
Margaret: "What you were shocked about was that someone in this family dared to tell you the truth. Dougie doesn't have a job without you, T.J. wants to stay on your good side in case he needs a loan -- or bail -- and poor Anne..."
We don't talk about that. Only Margaret notices, because only Margaret knows about that; about what it takes to become a picture in a magazine, when you weren't born there. Paper-thin.
It becomes a war between women. Elaine compares them on motherhood and comes out victorious. Every negative thing she thinks of herself -- or ever has -- comes rushing back and they're all in Margaret's voice. All the way back, to the real murky ugly stuff; the stuff that sounds like a cliché because we've all heard it in our own heads. It's not that we want our parents to die exactly. We just want to move into the house where we keep them. For them to feel safe enough to rest.
Elaine: "You made me wear a padded bra starting in sixth grade..."
Margaret: "...Those trashy Perdue twins were maturing early! I didn't want you to feel inferior..."
Elaine: "I didn't feel inferior until you told me I was."
More of this, half of it stuff Margaret never said or words she said that Elaine heard differently or words Elaine heard that Margaret remembers differently. Ugly, ugly. Matters of class, matters of attention-seeking; your mother was a Copa Girl and you married a Dukes Of Hazzard extra, and over all of this you had to become so hard and so bright and so inviolate, draw deep on so much conviction and cut off so much need that you look in the mirror and even you have to understand why they call you a bitch.
Elaine: "I asked you to hold the Bible for me when I was sworn in as Secretary of State!"
Margaret: "And then criticized my dress."
Elaine: "It was a sequined cocktail gown! In the middle of the afternoon!"
Margaret: "Uh, that Bob Mackie designed!"
Elaine starts screaming about her mother stealing her moment, finally -- finally -- hears herself and goes very cold indeed. "You know, this conversation ceased to be relevant as soon as it began." And -- this is a win, note; this is her winning -- Margaret, the old broad that she is, just sashays on out of there. "You stopped me. I was innocently getting a refill."
Getting the last word is what women do. The men make mistakes, they bumble around, they fuck around, and they throw up their hands and confess they never knew what they were doing. And then the women shake their heads, push back from the table, get the last edge in and they think this is power. This has always been the definition and the limit of women's power, for the same reason that you never win against an incumbent; it's a reason bitch is the only word we have.
Susan calls then, with the news. Shaw and Pike, the fig leaf and all the rest. The circus.
JUBAL LIVES
In a terrible place! A shack, or the shack adjoining a larger, scarier shack. Somehow Bud is just as excited about the fishing part of this fake fishing trip as he is about righting the wrongs of the past and overcoming Garcetti; perhaps he's just focusing on the ornaments of what he's about to do, which is to cross a bridge back toward a man -- at least one -- whose heart he broke.
T.J.: "Why are all of Dad's friends such ugly cultural stereotypes?"
Jubal's old-time prospector's beard and wild hair belie a fierce intelligence and eloquence, but all is overshadowed by the shotgun in his hand. A Secret Serviceman named Sam draws on him easily and the boys are delightedly agog at the standoff that has suddenly developed.
Bud, to the obvious: "That is a hurtful, slanderous accusation! Now listen up, I didn't come here to fight. I came here to offer you a ride on the Big Ticket."
Jubal: "Too bad, you termed out."
Bud: "Not me, shithead. My ex-wife. But only if you say she can win. All right?"
...And then before you know it, he's not only wrangled an insane pollster survivalist, but gotten them a place to stay for the weekend. He's still amazed enough by himself that he's allowed to be proud when this works, even though it always works. That's secretly part of the charm: It's not just about believing that people will do what you tell them, it's not just believing the lie you're telling. It's about still taking joy, that fillip of gratitude, whenever things work properly.
A seduction, a campaign, a reconciliation or a country: He loves, he rejoices in the beauty and elegance of making things work again. There is no sexier quality in a man, much less a leader.
SECRETARY BARRISH SMILES TIGHTLY
When she asks how long before the story runs. She's grateful, sure. But there's always a cost, isn't there. There's a reason -- and somehow Susan knows it -- that she would need to hear this now. There's a favor about to be traded and asked.
Susan: "I can't guarantee it won't get leaked elsewhere first. A Supreme Court nomination is big news, but when it's you, it's... huge."
Elaine nods, so Susan gets braver. Douglas told her about the campaign because he was afraid, and now she's the only person outside the family that technically knows about it. Which means every time she speaks to Secretary Barrish, there's a chance she'll have her back. Intimacy is a sign of respect, but it's also the only sign of trust. Especially among animals.
Susan: "Puts you in a tight spot. If you say yes, Garcetti removes the threat of you running against him in the primary. If you say no, you confirm you're running. Or thinking about it."
Elaine: "Is this the part where you ask me if I'm running for President, Ms. Berg?"
Nope. This is the part where you know I'm begging you to tell me without asking. So I'll know the war is over. This is the part where I know I can trust you and you can trust me too.
Elaine: "...Then why are you telling me this?"
Susan: "I owe you? And I don't approve of what they're doing. Shoving one of the greatest Justices off the bench, using your friendship as leverage... even by White House standards, it's... gross."
Elaine: "...And a little genius."
You're not getting in that way, my dear. Try another door. We aren't going to sit around sucking our scratches and complaining about politics and men and how we have to divide up the oxygen they leave us just to stay alive, because that's how the system has designed itself. That's for the Fourth Estate. I actually have to live here.
Fine. "I'll hold the story off as long as I can," she says. "But when this breaks," she says, "Every reporter in the world will want to know your answer." If we live and die by the same sword, bitch, then you'd better believe I'm the only reporter in the world you're gonna talk to about it.
DOUG'S ON HIS BLACKBERRY
When T.J. hooks a fish; the line is going wild and the sun is getting brighter.
"Ah, good boy!" Bud says. "Good boy," he says. What they call Doug, the good one, the good son -- the good twin, we'll learn -- the good boy and he's getting it right here in the river. While Doug is on his Blackberry, attending to the campaign, Bud praises him for this. For doing the opposite of working, for doing nothing. Less than nothing:
"Now take it slow," T.J.'s father tells him. "Don't rush it." He doesn't listen. Never. Not to that.
"You have to learn to unwind, Dougie," says Bud. He says, "Stress is a killer." We remember things differently.
Bud: "You know, even when I was President, I always took time to smell the roses. You remember those weekends in Camp David? The time that you boys caught that big ole rainbow trout?"
Doug: "I remember your press aide handing me a fish and snapping my picture, if that's what you mean."
Bud snarls at him, gently but with bite in it; he turns and puts his hand on T.J.'s shoulder. Not too hard and not too soft.
"That's it," he says. "Good boy."
They were never just pictures in a magazine. Not to Bud Hammond.
ANNE LOVED T.J. ONCE
It was a long time ago, before the suicide and the spiral down, before the disappointments. Back when he was still young enough that it was cute; when they were all still young enough. "Stress is a killer," he said, and beckoned her on. To surprise Dougie, a surprise party. Because we love him. Because he works so hard.
Doug was the only one his mother could trust and she'd asked him to wrangle Bud after what only the best journalists would have to have called his "Vagina Monologue," so he did his best. You could hear Bud tell him what he's about to do and why, if you listened carefully and if you knew what to listen for. Listen:
"I don't need no babysitter! Now I know you were sent down here by your Momma just because of my female anatomy incident... her numbers ain't soft, they're liquid. They're like diarrhea running down this campaign's leg. Tell you what. You give me a lift to the studio in the morning, we can talk lady-voters to your heart's delight. Good night, son."
Do you think he knew? I think he knew. T.J. wasn't the good twin even then, but he was useful. And God knows he loved his Daddy.
Doug came home to a raucous party, T.J. grinning his especially beautiful grin. The one he learned from Bud, the one that says, "You and I both know you're going to forgive me in a minute." He chuckled and leaned in, intimate, pulling off his brother's necktie -- "It's midnight!" -- and then produced, like a magician's final trick, Anne. They cavorted in front of him, giggly as children at midnight to see the shock and the pleasure in him.
Anne: "I told my boss I was driving up to Santa Barbara, picking up some tile for a client. I can't tell if you are happy, or...?"
He was still young enough that it was cute; still charming enough before the disappointments that when he pulled out the E, Dougie actually thought about it. And then thought about the Woman Problem and Bud Hammond on Rachel Silverton in about eight hours and how Bud needed a babysitter, because...
Doug: "No! No, I'm not doing ecstasy with you, T.J. and neither is Anne. Okay?"
She blushed, and grinned. "Too late," she shrugged, with T.J. wiggling around behind her. Anne loved T.J., once. Doug sighed and nearly laughed.
Doug: "How long's it last?"
Four? Maybe five hours? Plenty of time. They began to blur. The future stopped coming. T.J. kissed a boy and then a girl: Made them kiss each other. Pictures in a magazine. Anne and Doug made love, made everything into love and he nearly wept with the beauty of it. You could feel like this all the time; you could feel like T.J. any time you wanted. The sheer joy -- that unrelenting gratitude -- at seeing things work properly. Everything moving, like an engine working perfectly; loneliness replaced with something infinitely better. When everything was intimate and safe, wrapped in her skin -- it was like water; she wasn't just soft, she was liquid -- Doug asked Anne to marry him and she said yes.
DOUGLAS FEELS IT
Before he notices: The line jerking, out in Jubal's river. Taking even this away from T.J. by sheer chance. T.J. bungles his move, trying to help and Doug's phone goes into the river. He screams, like a child; the sky presses in on him and he screams at them.
Bud: "Son, let me show you how to tie a blood knot..."
Those, he knows. "I got it, okay? Just back off! You know what? Just forget it. The whole thing. I gotta get a new phone." He stalks away.
"Oh, Dougie," says T.J.. "Sorry, man," he says. But all he can think about is how much Doug looks like their mother sometimes.
DIANE HAS PREPARED
For what happens now, for Elaine to storm the castle, hoping to tell her what she doesn't already know. Praying to God that one time -- I don't need a goddamn babysitter -- she'll have the jump on her old mentor.
It's not that we want our parents to die, exactly. We just want to move into the house where we keep them.
Elaine: "Why didn't you tell me I was your golden parachute?"
Diane: "I didn't want to get your hopes up. A seat on the Supreme Court, I thought you'd jump at it..."
Elaine: "Can't you see he's playing us against each another?"
Diane: "Of course I can. But forget about the politics for a moment and think. Consider what you could accomplish..."
Elaine: "...Why aren't we talking about what I could accomplish as President?"
It's not that we want our children to fail, exactly. We're just afraid it'll kill us if they do.
Diane: "You'll be a pariah. You remember your last campaign? They branded you as an ambitious bitch. If I hadn't known you I would've believed them."
Elaine: "Do you want a President who would force a Justice like you off the bench? It's ruthless..."
Diane: "Elaine, these last two years have been good for you. Garcetti may be a bastard, but he let you do your thing. Let the world see the heart of that brilliant 22-year-old girl who walked into my law class determined to make this country a better place. If you challenge the sitting President, voters will see your motives as selfish. I know it's not fair, but... ambition looks better on men."
You could puke for days and the future still won't come fast enough.
"I don't care how it looks, I'm doing it because it's right. I learned it from you."
But you didn't learn everything, did you? You didn't get broken enough to fix yourself yet.
Diane: "This isn't Garcetti, Elaine. It's me. Your friend. I'm offering you the chance to spend the rest of your life telling Presidents what they can and can't do."
Having the last word, you mean.
SUSAN
Alex: "Nothing in my inbox, nothing in your hands. Where's my story?"
Susan: "Didn't write it. I need to talk to you. I told Barrish about the leak. I needed to warn her. Just hear me out, Alex..."
Alex: "...I mean, I should fire you..."
Susan: "I needed to give her time to outmaneuver Garcetti. Listen to me, the Secretary is gonna try to unseat Garcetti in the primary. First-person source inside the Hammond family. This is real."
"Tipping her off builds trust," Susan says. "It puts me deeper in the inner circle," she says, "And gives me a front seat to the political story of the decade."
Which she won't, because -- they both realize -- Susan and Secretary Elaine Barrish are very much the same. A burden falls off Alex's shoulders -- was this self-sabotage, was this the Georgia thing, was this Susan being crazy -- and he falls, relieved, into her arms. She's been living at her sister's place since she left him, she admits. And when he asks her to come over to their house for dinner, her mouth says, "Shut up."
DOUGLAS IS STILL PISSY
By the time they get back to Jubal's shack. Bud's sanguine as ever, playing with his tackle; T.J.'s nowhere to be seen. He doesn't need a goddamn babysitter, Bud thinks, but Dougie knows better. Doug, who owes his mother for the money he put down.
FIVE HOURS WAS A CONSERVATIVE
Estimate, as it turned out; Doug woke up serotonin-deprived and anxious, checked the clock, hurriedly pulled on slacks while Anne was still waking up. Well past call time. He shoved T.J. and his lovers aside into a little ball, and sat on the couch beside them, hurriedly clicking at his phone, eyes darting up at the television.
Silverton: "Is it possible that many women don't respect your wife because you haven't respected her?"
Bud: "Rachel, I admit I was wrong. Elaine does have a Woman Problem. I think some girls feel threatened by a woman as intelligent, as accomplished -- and hell yeah, as beautiful -- as my wife. And that's why they feel more comfortable voting for her rival, who's inferior in every single way just because he has a pretty head of hair and a penis."
He turned to the screen. "Yeah, you heard me right," he said. Bud Hammond said, into the camera, "I said penis."
T.J. apologized. He wasn't always the good one, but he was useful. Loved his Daddy. But so did Doug, back when we were young enough that it was still cute.
Doug: "There isn't a chance in hell now that anyone with an ounce of estrogen is gonna vote for Mom..."
Bud: "Oh now you weigh in, my no-show handler? Why didn't you tell me she was lesbian? She sure seemed like one to me..."
Doug pulled up short, tired of the doddering old fucker act and shoved his father in the chest: "You can't stand that Garcetti might replace you as the face of this party, so you and your massive ego are destroying this campaign!"
If you were listening carefully, you might have heard Bud walk the tightrope; you might have heard him explain that he was saving Douglas and Elaine from each other. It's not that we hate our families it's just that we'd rather hate ourselves than let them hurt. If you were listening on that day, you might hear his explanation. It wouldn't have satisfied you -- Let Barrish Be Barrish; you can't make decisions for women without involving them -- but it might have saved Doug:
"I never needed you to look after me, Douglas, but it'd be nice if you'd been man enough to save your mother from this train wreck! She deserved a bold, earth-shaking, barnstorming campaign that redefined politics and galvanized the nation! And what did she get? A reheated, poll-tested shit sandwich served up by the likes of Barry Harris. And you stood right by and let him. Go ahead, blame me. Blame me for everything like you always do."
"Blame me," Bud Hammond told his son. He was pleading with him. It didn't work. It didn't work properly, the engine that Bud loves best; something broke. Something that still isn't fixed.
MARGARET SMILES TIGHTLY
Because she knows she's got to earn back a serious amount after this latest thing. Her fierce little daughter, stubbing out cigarettes and growling to herself without a single hair out of place. She knew why Elaine loved Bud; anybody could see it, but Margaret could see it best because she'd faced down that glare every day of her wonderful life.
We don't want our children to fail, exactly. We just can't admit that part of us wants them to burn the motherfucker down. Because we couldn't quite manage it ourselves.
Margaret: "You're smoking? Uh-oh, what country isn't going to exist by morning? Or are you celebrating your Supreme Court offer?"
Elaine: "Feel free to come to the State Department and eavesdrop there as well."
Margaret nods and smiles to herself. Elaine doesn't work unless she's got something to hit and she'd never hurt Diane Nash. The wars we have with women who mother our children; that exquisite, particular jealousy. That stinging gratitude. Elaine needs something to hit, and it can't be a woman. That's what the fuckers want.
Margaret: "You know, you keep talking about Diane Nash this, and Diane Nash that... I don't know, she seems like a real downer to me."
Elaine: "Her partner is dying, Mother."
Margaret: "I was talking about the way she dumped all over your plans for becoming President."
Elaine: "Didn't you dump on them first?"
Margaret: "A campaign would just turn everything all upside-down around here, that's why I said what I did. But you're never satisfied, sweetie."
That's when I love you best. Don't tell.
"Even though you hate all that campaign bullshit as much as I do, you'd be miserable if you didn't go for it. And when you're miserable, we're all miserable. So I think we should just bite the bullet and you should go for it."
Not too hard and not too soft.
"...Besides, you look shitty in all black."
Elaine: "Mom..."
Diane: "Hmm?"
Elaine: "...I love your pep talks."
Diane: "Yeah, well."
IN JUBAL'S BARN
T.J.'s not cleaning fish, of course. He's snorting blow. Doug takes him down immediately and the rush of words, words, all the weapons of the addicts, feinting helplessness, attacking from the side, just the cadence and the desperation of a person about to hit the ground, and Douglas lets the words rush past him. He learned this part from Margaret: Not too hard, not too soft, just tired enough that he can yell and just sad enough that he can still take his brother in his arms, shake him until he stops hurting himself.
But not yet. First, he gets the Barrish treatment. Frigid, terrifying: A cage of ice that simply and elegantly says, I just might not love you anymore.
"Get out of here," he says. "We'll discuss my investment," Doug says, "When you're sober." I can make our parents hate you with a single word, any time you want. We'll discuss that secret when you've come down enough to hurt.
Bud: "Boys! Hey! Told ya he was fine."
Doug: "Sure, yeah. He's great. And you didn't screw Jubal's wife..."
Bud, cheaply: "How many times do I have to say it? I did not touch that woman!"
Doug: "That's your genius. It's not a lie if you believe it. Well, if you want to convince yourself that you're not a cheater, Mom can upset Garcetti, T.J.'s just fine, well you go right ahead."
Bud chastens his son -- "you don't have any faith in people" -- just long enough to catch the look in Doug's eyes. It stings worse than his response: "I don't need to take character advice from you." It was always going to come. It comes. Not the whole truth, not the whole future, but it comes and when it comes quick. And you'd better be clean.
Bud: "What's this really about, son? Now what's your beef with me? Come on, spit it out."
"It's not my fault! It is not my fault that she lost! I did everything! I wanted her to win so bad! I did everything I could! You! You lost it for her, not me!"
Every word and the weight on his back gets louder and brighter and lighter. And the entire time, son's fists against his chest, he takes it. Blame me. But this time, he's not whispering and it's not in code. "I know that, son," he says. "It was my fault," Bud says, "And your mother knows that too."
It's not that you want to carry your children on your back, exactly. It's just that there are times when you want to hold them so tightly that they couldn't hurt themselves if they wanted to.
SUSAN TRIES TO BE LOIS LANE
Much of her day, but it rarely works because the thing is always coming. Like right now, she's pulling on her panties in the house where she used to live, tossing off wisecracks, making Alex feel shitty in the precise way he adores and he keeps sliding off into this vague sort of yearning man-sadness that could make you puke for days. If you're going to punish us for shitting where we eat, then why do you keep fucking us? If you don't want your toys broken then why do you keep breaking them?
Susan: "Don't worry, I'll get out in time for you to call Georgia."
Alex: Mute man-sadness.
Susan: "That was ... meant to be a joke."
Alex: "You're not saying that you'll get back with me if I split with her?"
Susan: "Fuck no."
Okay, she wonders, then why Georgia? Why specifically her, the little harmless sweet blogger that lets everybody kick her around. How can you be the man that's in love with me and also be the man that's fucking her? Those are two different men, from where I'm sitting. Because we are two very different women. And if you can't even tell the difference? That speaks poorly of us all.
Alex: "By the time I slept with her, you and I had... faded. You remember our first night in Monterey?"
Susan: "Yeah. The night Garcetti named his transition team. Yes."
Alex: "You see, you remember the politics, and I remember how beautiful you looked. Even with your nose buried in your BlackBerry."
Two quick things: Fuck you, that's some Aaron Sorkin shit right there. And number two, what you're saying is I should have your job. You fucking pansy.
Alex, forthrightly enough: "I'm not blaming you, I'm trying to answer your question. It's who you are, the way you chase a story. I mean, that's... You live for it. You don't need love the way you need your work. At least you didn't need mine."
Does that save it? Maybe it does. What we love most in others is what we fear most that we lack. She needs something to hit, in order to function and that thing happens to be the truth. The story. If your best response to that, to that holy function, to that responsibility to the beauty of the engine, is "I need a more dependent girlfriend," then have I got the intern blogger for you. At least until she learns from you -- and it won't take long, my friend; you're an excellent teacher -- that she was never that person at all.
IT'S COZIER, AT A WINDOW SEAT
When Diane and Elaine meet again. What Margaret's done -- what Margaret does -- is show Elaine where the weak places and the bad guys are. She never resented Diane, it was always about making decisions for women without asking them: I can't tell you to retire and be with the woman you love who is dying, because that benefits me. And I really can't tell you not to retire, because that's three PR disasters in one, not to mention a very high chance of disappointing you or your hopes for me or shitting on your legacy.
Garcetti wanted to put us in a bind, he thought he'd start a war between women. He had no idea the bind would come from love. He has no idea how that happens, nor how often. It drove us apart because we loved so much; it pitted my love for you against your love for me. Anyone who's ever been in a family -- hell, anybody who's ever loved -- knows that's a shit-ton more dangerous. Nearly foolproof. And it worked. It always works.
But it makes us stronger, too. And it doesn't take a man to make it happen.
Elaine: "Do you remember my first moot court competition? I was the only 1L you chose and I thought I was pretty hot shit. And then you proceeded to eviscerate my argument, word by word... I had so much flop sweat, I... I thought I was going to float away."
Diane, nodding: "I was extra hard on you. I wanted you to learn to be rigorous and brave and not to give up."
Elaine: "It was a good lesson. I came back the year and we beat Harvard and Yale... Diane, I don't want to be on the Supreme Court. I want to run for President again."
Diane nods, approvingly, and her back goes straight. Shot through with admiration. "All right, counselor. Convince me you're not doing this because it's still a competition to you and you didn't come in first."
"It's different this time. I can't turn away because its 'hard,' I can't turn away because it'll piss people off. I do have deep convictions about what's right and what's true. And unfortunately, Paul Garcetti did not have you for a teacher and he didn't learn to be rigorous or brave. Or to stand up for his convictions. So I have to run again. And yes, I have to win. In two years when I become President, I will name your replacement."
Diane thinks.
"Corinne will be gone in two years."
Elaine nods, disappointed; can't look Justice Nash in the eye for a moment.
"...You'd better win, Elaine."
DIANE NASH WILL
Drag her roller-cart all the way to the street, hauling it herself with her 70-year-ass still in operation. She'll take the car home, to the apartment; she'll take a bath and dress herself in Corinne's favorite color. When you feel your worst, you have to look your best. She'll go to the hospital and sit down; flop-sweat like she'll float away. And Corinne will open those beautiful eyes and say a name.
Maybe Corinne will know her. Maybe she won't. But either way, know this:
The time those heavy double-doors open, Justice Diane Nash will be standing there, ready to tell the President what he can and can't do. She'll sit the high bench in all black and her back will be straight; she will be brave and she will be rigorous. And she'll smile.
Two years is nothing -- the future starts slow, but comes fast -- and then President Barrish will name her replacement. They'll become a part of history together. The victors of just another failed war on women; humble parts of a legacy of bravery and rigor and an engine moving more smoothly and elegantly than it ever has.
JUBAL'S VERDICT
Is that Elaine can win. Simply that. In the end, Jubal says, it's about three trick states: Ohio, Colorado and Virginia -- and even in that state, really just about a few battleground counties. Prince William, Fairfax, Madison...
Bud: "That's my backyard! I'll tie this state up in a nice, pretty bow! But Ohio is going to be tough now, the whole family'll have to press the flesh in the old Buckeye State..."
Doug meets Jubal's eye, and nods: Go for it. Not the whole family, no.
"Voters only like her... without you. It's not that they don't like you, it's just that they think you make her look weak."
Bud glitches out for a moment, like a rotor that can't catch and thinks about blustering through, but finally he swallows it. It feels good for Doug to see this; it feels terrible for Doug, seeing this. Bud nods to himself and decides to toast the news outside, on the porch.
T.J.: "Jesus, did you see his face?"
Doug: "Don't fall for it, T.J.. He brought this on himself..."
Jubal: "Uh, your father would crawl through glass for your mother."
Doug: "My father is a liability, in case you forgot the last election."
Jubal finally explains what Bud loved him too much to ever say. Even though it bound him up in knots, when it finally came down to it. Even though Bud misjudged his dismount and wound up hurting his son worse:
"You mean California? A week before the primary it wasn't even close. Those debates killed your mother. If she sat on her hands, she came off timid. If she punched back, she came off like a bitch. That's the reason Bud called and said to end things before they got ugly. Your father threw himself on the tracks... he knew, if he took the heat for her losing, he might give her the chance to run again someday."
So he went with what he knew. Penises and vaginas. Don't make decisions for women without telling them about it, of course, but at least as far as Doug's concerned, it completes the circuit that started when his father told him he didn't even need forgiveness. It was Doug's fault and then it was Bud's fault... it was the Woman Problem all along. Can the world change that much in four years? Can the future come any faster than that?
YOU HAVE TO BREAK THE WALLS, IN THE END
Between concepts in your head like pride and hubris over here, and confidence and self-respect and charisma over there. The Woman Problem is a People Problem, because we are all trained to think of these as radically different things. But the difference between self-respect and overconfidence is in the eye of the beholder, and arises mostly from fear: Fear of what you'll do, fear of what you'll break or hit or burn down. What they call humility, which is absolutely a virtue, is not real humility. It's a performance you've been trained to give, like a dog, in order to appear safe. Real humility is showing yourself the same compassion that you pretend to show everybody else. And once you practice that, it becomes a lot easier to love the people you were supposed to hate. Starting, again, with you.
If you can do this thing, if you can figure out that hubris is just a hateful word for the passionate romance you should be having with yourself for the rest of your life -- that your existence is not something you need to earn, or anybody else to validate, or requires any apology at all -- and that the only people who ever try to scare you out of your strength are the ones who fear it. If they can get you sick enough of it -- the bullshit, the egos -- and start to wonder strongly, and inventively, bravely and rigorously, exactly what it would look like to accomplish something without having to spend half the energy navigating the shortsighted, selfish, self-involved and oh-so-fragile ecosystem that's designed to take your oxygen away.
Not too timid, not a bitch. Not too hard, not too soft. And we won't need a word for "bitch" at all, because nobody will need to apologize for existing in the first place and we can breathe.
BUT THE FUTURE STARTS SLOW
And it starts like this:
Doug: "Why didn't you tell me about the Rachel Silverton interview? You did all of it on purpose! You let the country blame you, you let me blame you, Jubal said you..."
Bud: "Well, Jubal doesn't know shit, except when it comes to polling. And if he says I can't be on your mother's campaign that means you're going to quarterback. Now, the first thing you got to do..."
Doug, a boy again: "-- We need to put together a war chest, on the sly, all right? We need donors we can trust..."
Bud: "...That's right, and you be sure to get in touch with Hal Linderson in Colorado. Now, you tell him you want a sit-down, but you don't say why... Max out contributions to Bertoldo's campaign in the fifth in Virginia, discreetly. Use our own Italian wunderkind to upset Garcetti's hold on the Catholics..."
A reconciliation, a campaign, a country: Bud Hammond doesn't really care what shape it takes. He just loves the sound it makes, when he's got it working again.
GEORGIA IS, PREDICTABLY ENOUGH
Weeping when Susan spots her. There's a war within the woman and Susan loses. So she wins.
Susan: "First rule of being a female journalist..."
Georgia: "Don't sleep with your boss? Look, I get it..."
Susan: "No. If you shit where you eat, don't cry about it."
Georgia: "Like I can help it!"
Susan: "Learn to."
Be brave. Be rigorous.
"You want to be taken seriously? Take yourself seriously. Your bus story, it's good. Go fight for it, get it back and then write the hell out of it. Don't let anyone take away your story. Especially if you're blowing him."
Georgia: "Thank you. After everything I've done to you... I can't believe you're still so nice to me..."
Susan: "I'm not so nice, Georgia."
Nobody ever is; there are a million different definitions for war. Elaine calls then, and Russ comes to tell her that she's waiting downstairs. He babbles, at length; he's still young enough that it's cute.
ELAINE BOUGHT LEMONADE ON THE WAY
And hands it to Susan like a cocktail, standing on the sidewalk outside.
Elaine: "I just wanted to thank you in person. You stuck your neck out for me, and that is a rare gesture in this town. You know, it's... it's hard to make new acquaintances in Washington. To meet people you can trust. And for some reason, it's even harder with other women, although it always seemed to me it should be the opposite, right?"
Susan, sickly: "...Yeah."
Elaine invites Susan on one of her "famous power walks" -- what the Secretary of State just calls "a walk" -- and even gets a zinger in there:
Elaine: "Good. That'll give us a chance to catch up before I go to Harbin... It's in this lovely, remote province in northern China, where they have this large population of Siberian tigers..."
Susan, aghast: "He's literally sending you to Siberia."
Yesterday she would have called it "gross." She's learning, too.
Elaine: "And to Indonesia, Japan, Argentina. New Zealand."
Susan: "That is so..."
Elaine: "Predictable, I think, is the word you're looking for. Anyway, see you tomorrow."
Susan: "Madam Secretary..."
Elaine, smiling: "Oh! Far too cumbersome. Elaine."
The name "Secretary of State Barrish" is relevant and so is this. Names are a sign of affection. Intimacy is a kind of respect. Anybody in the family would know, would hear it in her voice. But that's not Susan. And it's never going to be.
Susan: "Just so we're clear. If my... acquaintance... were running for President and I didn't write about it first, no one in this building will ever take me seriously again."
Elaine looks her right in the eye. "I am not running for President," she says. "But I am looking forward," the Secretary of State says, brightly, "To spending more time together."
If she had a heart it would be broken. It's another kind of war, now. Susan says goodbye.
GOODBYE TO ELAINE, SHE SAYS
When Doug calls her to meet again, in their cars, Susan's face is harder, brighter. There were momentary glitches, in the system; they've been righted now. Elaine smiled and looked her right in the eye; believed the lie so well you'd almost have to believe her. He begs her to drop the story, and she lets him twist.
Susan: "I thought you wanted to put a bullet in your mother's campaign?"
Doug: "Things have changed."
Yeah, they fucking have. She took it away from me. And Doug will never know just how much his help is appreciated. Sometimes the good son is the useful one. She gave Elaine so many chances to come clean, to prove it, and the whole time knew she'd break her heart. Do you think she knew? I do. I don't think she knew it, but it was there. Like oxygen.
Doug: "Look, you gotta drop it. I'll owe you big-time..."
Susan: "I was planning on holding it, until the day she announces. Then I give the whole story. Every step. Every move she made while she was the sitting Secretary of State to plot her run in the primary against her boss and former ally, the President of the United States."
Doug draws back a little. Trained enough not to show it, but it's there. It gets worse: "This is how it works, Douglas. I help you by sitting on the story. You help me by giving me everything I need to know about your mother's plan: Strategy, money, allies, everything. You came to me, Douglas. Remember? I'm happy to keep your name out of my reporting, but I own you now."
The future starts slow; the future comes fast. You want to be clean, when it does. But nobody ever is.
JACOB CLIFTON is a freelance writer and critic based in Austin, Texas. He currently recaps Bunheads, Pretty Little Liars and True Blood for TWoP. Jacob can be found online at jacobclifton.com, on Twitter, and on Facebook. IRL work appears in BenBella's SmartPop series of anthologies, and novelette "The Commonplace Book" will appear on Tor.com in October 2012.
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