Where the Winners Hide

“Tell her I’m not here.”

Keven Dunlow had won another term as governor, and he was hiding behind a rack of campaign coats. I was standing outside his door with the woman whose kitchen he’d put in his last advertisement.

“She can hear you, Keven.” I didn’t lower my voice. There wasn’t a version of that sentence that improved by being whispered.

Mertle Falk leaned a little harder on her cane and tipped her chin at the gap in the door. “My hearin’ aid works fine, Governor. It’s the house that needs fixin’.”

Rynell Tervin came around the coat rack with a paper cup in each hand and her donor face on. “Mr. Vey... can we move away from the door? Please.”

“Sure.” I nodded at the brass handle. “Open it and we’ll move right on through.”

“Edric.” She dropped her voice and let the cups do the pleading. “Please.”

“We were invited,” I reminded her, and held up the flyer so she could see the seal. “By him. In writin’. You helped me fold these, Rynell. You licked half the envelopes.”

“I know who invited you.” She turned the first cup toward Mertle like it might buy her a minute. “Would you like some water, Ms. Falk?”

“Is it gon’ get me in that room?”

Rynell looked at the cup like it had let her down. “No, ma’am.”

“Then I’ll drink when I get home, baby.” Mertle patted Rynell’s wrist with two fingers, kind and final. “You hold on to it. You look like you need it more than me.”

A man in a dark sweater stood by the elevator pretending not to watch us.

“We came in the front like the flyer said.” Mertle counted it off on the head of her cane—tap, tap, tap. “Sign said garden suite. Garden suite was locked. Next sign said reception, and the lady at reception wanted my room number. Baby, I don’t got a room. I got a temporary unit and a letter.”

“I’m sorry about the runaround, Ms. Falk.” Rynell meant it, and it didn’t help. “The signs were put out last night.”

“Then somebody oughta walk ’em this mornin’. I did—I walked more of this hotel than the folks chargin’ breakfast to it. Up one hall, down the next, past a ice machine twice. Ain’t nobody offered me a chair till I found one myself.”

She caught me eyeing the chairs along the wall. “Don’t you start movin’ furniture, Edric Vey. Ask your friend to come out.”

“He’s not my friend when he does this.” I said it to the carpet, which was easier.

“Then you oughta be able to ask him without all that hurt sittin’ on your face.” She jabbed the cane once toward the door. “Go on.”

Behind the door a plate touched another plate. They were eating breakfast in there.

“Governor”—I raised my voice just enough to carry—“can you step out here a minute?”

The door opened wide enough for Keven to put his head through. He had a piece of toast in one hand and no tie, and he was still in the white shirt he’d worn hugging folks on election night.

“Mertle.” He smiled with his whole face, the down-home one. “C’mon now. You know I wasn’t talkin’ about you.”

“You told him to tell a woman you wasn’t here. Look around, Governor.” She spread her free hand. “I’m the woman he brought to see you.”

He looked at me over her head. I gave him the face of a locked fire door. Nothing on it to pull.

“All right.” The toast went somewhere I couldn’t see, and the accent went with it. “I handled that badly.”

“Then handle it better.” Mertle didn’t move. “You can start by openin’ the rest of that door.”

He came out instead and pulled the door nearly shut behind him.

“Don’t shut it on my account,” she told him. “I already seen the eggs.”

He reached for her hand—carefully, like it might be a test. She let him shake it, but she didn’t hand over the cane to make it easier on him.

“You look well,” he tried, still holding on.

“You put me in a commercial with a wet wall behind me.” She held the handshake a beat longer than he wanted. “You want the good answer, or the one with the wall still in it?”

That got his real laugh.

“I owe you, Mertle.” He let go of her hand at last.

“You owe me an answer, baby. I didn’t come to collect the kitchen.”

“Let’s sit down.” He was already turning toward the little alcove behind reception. “Rynell, could you find us some coffee?”

“Mertle doesn’t drink coffee,” I told him, pulling out her chair.

“I do too.” She swatted my sleeve on the way past. “I just don’t drink that mess y’all bring in a cardboard box. Sit down, Edric. You makin’ me tired... and I ain’t got the tired to spare.”

We sat. The man by the elevator shifted to where he could see all three of us.

Mertle opened the envelope she’d carried under her coat and smoothed the letter flat on her lap with the side of her hand, slow, like she was ironing a collar.

“This come to the temporary unit. Says my house is in the acquisition area. Acquisition. Like I’m a parkin’ lot.” She looked up at him. “You know what a acquisition area is, Governor? ’Cause I had to ask my pastor’s grandson, and he had to ask his phone.”

“It’s a planning word,” he said. “It means a zone where—”

“I know what it means now. I’m askin’ did you know ’fore they mailed it.”

He didn’t answer that.

“I asked ’em for a repair inspection. They sent me that. I asked did takin’ an inspection mean I was agreein’ to sell, and the young man on the phone wanted to know had I considered the advantages of a fresh start.” She handed him the letter. “I’ve had a fresh start, Governor. It came through the back door with a refrigerator floatin’ in it.”

“That’s an offer.” He held it by one corner like it was warm. “You don’t have to accept an offer, Mertle.”

“Then why does my inspection disappear when I don’t?”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Will you tell ’em that?” She leaned in so he’d have to look at her. “Where I can hear you?”

He rubbed his beard with the back of his knuckles. “I can have somebody contact you.”

“I’ve had somebody contact me.” She tapped the letter in his hand. “Somebody sent that.”

Rynell came back with a little tray, real cups from the hotel kitchen and lemon in the water. Mertle thanked her, then put her hand flat over the sugar bowl when Keven reached for it.

“Sweeten your own.” She slid the bowl out of his reach. “Don’t go fixin’ mine.”

He lifted both hands, grinning. “I remember.”

“You remembered after I stopped you. That’s rememberin’ the stove after the pot done burned, baby. That ain’t the same thing.”

He leaned back, smiling properly now. “You fed me fried fish standin’ up, Mertle. Wouldn’t move your sewin’ off the table for me.”

“Wasn’t ’bout to. You was runnin’ for governor, not for supper.” She almost smiled. “And you asked about my street drain ’fore you asked about my vote. That’s the only reason you got it.”

“I remember the cupboard that wouldn’t shut.” He was laughin’ again, easy.

“The ad people remember the cupboard. I remember the drain.” She tapped the table. “It’s still clogged, by the way.”

“Your inspection oughta be separate from any offer,” he told her. “I’ll find out why it isn’t.”

“And the meetin’?” Mertle didn’t laugh with him.

His smile thinned at one edge. “We’ll have a bigger meeting when there’s a package to talk about.”

“We came for the one you invited us to.”

“This was meant to be informal, Mertle.” He glanced at me for help and didn’t get any.

“It was meant to be open.” I set my cup down so it wouldn’t rattle. “That’s what we sent out. Open listening session, garden suite, all welcome. I wrote the flyer, Keven. I picked the font.”

“We couldn’t do an open room this mornin’. There are security considerations.” He nodded at the man by the elevator like that settled it.

“Then somebody oughta have called the people comin’ to it.”

“We called the delegation.” He said it to his coffee.

Mertle turned her whole body toward him, cane and all. “Who’s the delegation?”

He reached for the letter again instead of answering. “I’ll hang on to this, if that’s all right.”

“No, sir. You can make you a copy.” She held out her palm and waited. “That one’s mine.”

Rynell took the page only after Mertle handed it to her. Keven waited until she’d gone around the corner before he turned to me.

“We’ve got to get the recovery money through while the Assembly’s still sittin’.” He kept his voice low, the voice for staff. “A room full of people askin’ for different things doesn’t help me do that.”

Mertle’s cup stopped halfway to her mouth. “We askin’ for our houses.”

“Some want repairs. Some want out. Some don’t want a contractor anywhere near their porch.” He spread his hands like the problem was sitting in them. “I can’t write one check that does all of that.”

“Then don’t write one check.” She set the cup down hard enough to slop it. “I don’t want you decidin’ what everybody else oughta want, just so it fits in a envelope. Miss Uvette want out. Fine. Let her out. I want my wall dried and my drain cleared. Them ain’t the same envelope, Governor.”

“I’m tryin’ to get you the money.” His voice cracked a little on money.

“I know you are, baby. I’m askin’ what you get to decide after you got it.”

The private door had opened again. Dellen Afton stood just inside it, one hand on his walker and the other holding a napkin to a spot of egg on his sweater.

Mertle squinted. “Ain’t that the man was on the radio all summer callin’ you a danger to public money?”

“That’s him,” I said.

“Hm.” She picked her cup back up. “Danger done got hungry.”

“Keven.” Dellen’s voice still filled a room without trying. “Orlena needs to know whether you’re riding with her.”

He saw us and dabbed at the sweater again. “Morning.”

“Good mornin’, Mr. Afton.” I didn’t stand. “How’s that front entrance treatin’ you?”

He peered at me, then gave a short dry laugh. “Better without a man trying to roll a lectern down it. You arranged me a ramp once, Mr. Vey. I asked if your governor always sent the opposition round the back, and you walked me to the front. I haven’t forgotten.”

“We moved the lectern.”

“You did.” He folded the napkin into a neat square. “I remember everything.”

Keven was already on his feet. “I’ll be right there.”

“I ain’t finished,” Mertle told him.

“I know.” He rested his hand on the back of her chair instead of on her shoulder. “Edric’ll make sure we get another chance.”

“No.” I said it before he could turn away. “I can ask you for another appointment, Keven. I can’t make sure you keep it. Don’t put that on me in front of her.”

He looked at me a long moment, the way he looked at a budget line he couldn’t cut and couldn’t afford.

“Ask Rynell,” he said quietly. “We’ll get it arranged.”

Mertle set her cup on the tray. “Could I get my letter ’fore you go?”

“Of course.” He even sounded like he meant it.

He did wait till Rynell brought it back. I was grateful. Then I was mad at myself for bein’ grateful, like thankin’ the landlord for patchin’ the leak he let run all winter.

Keven held out his hand. She studied it like a coupon she wasn’t sure had expired, then took it.

“Congratulations on winnin’,” she told him.

“Thank you, Mertle.” He bowed his head a little, like a deacon takin’ the collection plate.

“Don’t make it the last thing we get to celebrate.”

Then Dellen backed his walker into the private room, Keven followed, and the door shut on both parties at once.

Rynell waited for the latch. “Do you want to come back to the office?”

“Do I have one?”

“You’ve still got a desk.” She tried a smile on it.

“That’s not always the same answer, Rynell.”

Mertle was already reaching for her cane. “I’m goin’ home.”

“I’ll take you.” I was already standing.

“I know you will. I came in your car.” She fished a lemon slice out of her water with the spoon and laid it on the saucer like she was putting it to bed. “Let the girl do whatever work they left her. You can tell me on the ride which one of them doors you thought we was goin’ through.”

* * *

Outside, a volunteer was taking down the campaign bunting for a television crew. A man across the street hollered that we oughta leave the decorations up till the bills came due, and Mertle laughed out loud.

She was in the passenger seat with her cane between her knees when Rynell came down the hotel steps half running in the good shoes.

“Edric. Can you sign this before you leave?”

She had my old blue folio. I’d left it on the reception desk, and she’d clipped a clean sheet on top with the campaign logo printed across the head.

“What is it?”

“Attendance correction for the listening session.” She tucked her hair back out of the wind. “We need it for the venue account.”

I took the folio and read. The sheet described the garden suite as available for scheduled public contact. Under that, a single typed line stated that no public delegation had presented for the session.

Mertle made a noise beside me that a church woman makes when she’s decided not to cuss. “Give her my coffee cup. Let her count that.”

“We were there, Rynell.” I turned the sheet so she could see her own line. “Both of us. You brought us water.”

“I know.” Wind pulled at her good jacket. “It means an organized delegation.”

“Then put that on it.”

“That’s how it came down.” She glanced at the doors behind her.

“Came down from who?”

“Operations.” The word came out small.

“Whose operations?”

She looked back at the hotel. Through the glass, Orlena Dace was holding Dellen’s coat for him.

“It’s not a statement for the press.” Rynell’s voice went down to almost nothing. “They need to close out the room charge. That’s all it is.”

“Were we in the room?”

“You were in the alcove.” She knew how that sounded the second she heard it.

“Then charge ’em for the alcove.” I held the folio back out to her. “I’m not signin’ that.”

“You could cross out the line.” She offered me her own pen.

“I could. Or you could take it back to whoever typed it and tell ’em a public delegation presented, drank their coffee and still couldn’t get a straight answer.”

She took a breath that lifted the blue suit at the shoulders. “Are you putting that in writing?”

“Do you need it?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “I need it. I need somethin’ I can hand ’em that ain’t me sayin’ no.”

I unclipped the sheet, turned it over against the folio and wrote that Mertle Falk and Edric Vey had attended at the governor’s invitation, that the advertised entrance had been locked, and that we’d been met in the reception alcove. Rynell read every word upside down. I signed under it.

She didn’t argue with a single word. That was worse than if she had.

“I’ll attach it,” she promised.

“Keep my correction with it. Not behind it. With it.”

“I will, Edric.” She held the sheet against her chest like it might blow away.

The folio fell open when she handed it back, and a yellow carbon copy worked loose from under the elastic. I caught it a second before the wind could. The county seal showed at the top, over a venue change I’d approved during the campaign. My name was at the bottom of that one too.

Mertle watched me tuck it away. “What’s that?”

“The Civil Rooms paperwork.”

“The meetin’ they moved on us?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I put the wagon in gear and took it right back out again.

She looked out through the windshield at the bunting coming down. “You kept your copy.”

“I keep everything.” It came out prouder than I meant it.

“Well. Maybe keep the part where we showed up today, too.”

I held my hand out the window to Rynell. “Can you make me a copy of what I just wrote?”

Her shoulders dropped a little, like I’d finally asked her for something she knew how to give. “I’ll bring it out.”

We waited with the engine running and the heat pointed at Mertle’s feet. She unwrapped the biscuit she’d tucked in her bag before we left her unit and broke it in two.

“You want some?”

“I thought you weren’t hungry.” I was already reaching.

“I wasn’t hungry for their breakfast.” She laid the bigger half on my closed folio and gave it a little push my way. “Yours got the butter. Don’t you get none on that county seal.”

I ate it while Rynell made the copy. Across the street, the volunteer finally got the last of the bunting loose and stood there on the sidewalk with both arms full of a governor’s name.

Mertle brushed the crumbs off my folio, and the yellow carbon slid out again and landed in her lap.

County seal on top. Venue change in the middle. Edric Vey at the bottom.

She read it twice. Didn’t say a word. Just smoothed it flat the way she’d smoothed her own letter in that alcove, slow, like she was ironing a collar.

“Edric.” Soft. Too soft. “That door they moved on us...”

I kept my eyes on the hotel.

“...who signed the line that left us standin’ outside?”

Nowhere to look. Nowhere to hide.