Companion dialog page for Chapter Seven: The Reassignment of Meaning.
The kitchen wakes before the rest of the house.
Coffee gathers slowly in the pot. A lunchbox waits open on the counter. Two school forms rest beneath a campaign invitation printed on heavier paper than either of them deserves.
The Wife reads the invitation twice.
The Husband enters already dressed for the day.
Wife:
They changed the name of the program.
Husband:
Which program.
Wife:
The one attached to tonight's reception.
Husband:
They revise those things every year.
Wife:
The event is the same.
The sponsors are the same.
The people are the same.
Only the words changed.
Husband:
Words change.
Wife:
Sometimes they are changed.
(the children enter before he answers)
Child #1:
Are you coming to the game Saturday?
Husband:
I will try.
Child #2:
You always say that.
The Wife folds the invitation once and places it beneath the school forms.
Wife:
We will be there.
She does not define who she means by we.
The dining room overlooks a golf course that seems untouched by the language consuming the rest of the state.
Sprinklers turn in measured arcs. Coffee arrives in silver pots. Newspapers remain folded beside plates no one intends to finish.
The political wives gather around the same table they have used for years.
Political Wife #1:
They changed the invitations.
Political Wife #2:
They change them every year.
Political Wife #1:
Not the paper.
The wording.
(light laughter)
Wife:
I noticed.
Political Wife #3:
Everyone noticed.
Nobody wants to be the first one to say it.
Political Wife #2:
They are avoiding certain terms.
Wife:
Avoiding them or replacing them.
Political Wife #1:
Softening them.
Political Wife #3:
People hear softer words longer.
A server refills the coffee cups.
Nobody speaks until she leaves the table.
Political Wife #2:
Rainbow is broader now.
Wife:
Broader than what.
Political Wife #2:
Broader than the people who used it before.
Political Wife #1:
Race.
Community.
Shared identity.
Anything that sounds inclusive without requiring the old structure.
Wife:
Then it is not broader.
Political Wife #3:
No?
Wife:
It is reassigned.
The table becomes quiet.
Political Wife #1:
It is easier to redefine something than defend it.
The Wife stirs her coffee without drinking it.
She is no longer listening for opinions.
She is listening for patterns.
The legislative building carries the echo of polished shoes, closing doors, and conversations that become quieter when another person approaches.
The Husband walks beside a Colleague while a staff member follows with two versions of the same speech.
Staff Member:
The communications office changed the second paragraph.
Husband:
Again.
Staff Member:
They want broader language.
Colleague:
Broader carries better.
Husband:
Carries where.
Colleague:
Everywhere.
That is the point.
The Staff Member hands him the revised page.
Husband:
General diversity.
Community cohesion.
Shared opportunity.
Colleague:
Nobody can object to that.
Husband:
Nobody can define it either.
Colleague:
That is also the point.
They continue walking.
Staff Member:
The reception will have donors, press, business leaders, and several former officeholders.
Colleague:
Good room.
Husband:
Good for what.
Colleague:
Depends what needs carrying.
The Husband folds the speech once more.
Not because it needs folding.
Because his hands need something to do.
The Husband eats at his desk while three televisions mounted across the office carry three different versions of the day.
One reports on institutional restructuring.
One reports on another cultural dispute.
One reports on an emerging religious or ideological presence within the state.
None remain on the same subject long enough to explain it.
Colleague #2:
You look tired.
Husband:
Everybody looks tired.
Colleague #2:
That helps.
Husband:
Helps what.
Colleague #2:
Movement.
Tired people do not examine every transition.
Husband:
You make it sound planned.
Colleague #2:
Planning is overrated.
Incentive usually gets there first.
The Husband looks toward the televisions.
A new banner replaces the previous one before he finishes reading it.
Her sister's house smells like cinnamon, furniture polish, and something simmering too long on the stove.
Nothing matches.
Everything belongs.
The kitchen window overlooks a clothesline instead of a golf course. Children's drawings remain on the refrigerator although the children who made them are nearly grown.
It is a house where people have been allowed to become untidy.
The Wife has forgotten what that feels like.
Sister:
You look tired.
Wife:
I have been busy.
Sister:
No.
You have been carrying something.
The Wife smiles.
Not because the statement is wrong.
Because denying it requires less energy than explaining it.
Sister:
When was the last time you came over without checking your telephone?
The Wife looks toward her purse.
She has placed it beside her chair instead of hanging it on the hook she used before campaigns trained every object to remain within reach.
Wife:
I do not remember. Listen, I did want to ask before I forget, will you do me a favor, take this money and buy some gift cards for one of those big online retailers that has everything, I need to have some access to some reading material and trying to keep it out of sight at my home would be futile and troublesome. Buy the kids something fun they will like, too.
Sister:
I will. That's fine. I'll let them know and thank you. Back to where we were....
I do. It was before the first campaign.
A silence settles between them.
Unlike the silences at fundraisers, this one does not require performance.
Sister:
Are the children alright?
Wife:
They are still children. Growing so fast.
Sister:
That is not what I asked.
Wife:
They know the house is quieter.
They know schedules change.
They know their father answers questions before they finish asking them.
Sister:
And you.
Wife:
What about me.
Sister:
You have started looking over your shoulder before you answer people.
The Wife turns toward the window.
Wife: That's why I would like to do some reading over here some days.
Laundry moves beneath the afternoon sun.
For a moment she envies something as ordinary as sheets drying in an Alabama breeze.
Wife:
I do not know where my life became everybody else's business.
Sister:
It did not. Blame your husband (laughs).
Wife:
It feels like it did.
Sister:
That is what public life does.
It takes a private thing, puts it in a brighter room, and convinces everybody the light gives them ownership.
Wife:
I think I am beginning to understand something.
Sister:
What.
Wife:
You can survive attention.
Living inside expectation is harder.
Sister:
I do not think that has ever been terribly hard for you, but stop living there.
Wife:
It is not that simple.
Sister:
No.
It is not simple.
That does not make it impossible.
The Sister reaches across the table and takes her hand.
Sister:
Do you still recognize your own house?
The Wife does not answer immediately.
Wife:
I recognize the rooms.
Sister:
That is not the same thing.
Wife:
No.
It is not.
Neither woman speaks again for several minutes.
The silence accomplishes more than conversation.
The ballroom echoes before the guests arrive.
Round tables stretch across polished floors. Name cards move from place to place. Volunteers debate seating arrangements with the seriousness of people deciding something larger than dinner.
Campaigns, the Wife has learned, often depend upon where people sit after dessert.
Committee Chair:
Move the television host beside the donors.
Volunteer:
What about the committee chairman.
Committee Chair:
He will understand.
Volunteer:
Will he.
Committee Chair:
He will pretend to.
Political Wife #1:
The new initiative banner goes behind the podium.
Volunteer:
The rainbow one.
Political Wife #1:
The community one.
Volunteer:
It says rainbow.
Political Wife #1:
It says coalition underneath it.
That is what matters tonight.
The Wife watches two volunteers lift the banner into place.
The word is familiar.
The meaning beneath it has moved.
Across the room, photographers test the lighting.
Everything looks genuine because everything has already been rehearsed.
The Husband stands before the bedroom mirror fastening unfamiliar cuff links.
The Wife enters carrying the necklace that belonged to her mother.
Husband:
You are wearing that one.
Wife:
I usually do when people expect steadiness.
Husband:
You make that sound like work.
Wife:
It has become work.
She straightens his tie without looking directly into his eyes.
To anyone standing nearby, it would look affectionate.
It is inventory.
The new lapel pin.
The unfamiliar cuff links.
The speech folded twice instead of three times.
He has begun carrying himself like a man rehearsing every movement.
Husband:
It is one reception.
Wife:
They are always one reception.
Husband:
The committee members will all be there.
Wife:
And their wives.
Husband:
Yes.
The answer lands more heavily than the question requires.
Music fills the ballroom before conversation does.
Crystal reflects chandeliers. Campaign donors stand beside business owners, judges, retired legislators, public personalities, and people whose names appear more often on contribution records than invitations.
Everyone smiles the same practiced smile.
Senator Collins:
Interesting week.
Husband:
They are all interesting lately.
Senator Collins:
The language is changing.
Husband:
Language always changes.
Senator Collins:
It changes faster when somebody needs it to.
The Husband looks toward the banner behind the podium.
Husband:
It gives people room.
Senator Collins:
Room for what.
Husband:
To hear what they already believe.
Senator Collins:
That will carry well.
Across the ballroom, the wives stand together.
No introductions are necessary.
Governor's Wife:
I like your necklace.
Wife:
It was my mother's.
Governor's Wife:
It reminds people you are dependable.
Wife:
That is usually the point.
Neither woman is discussing jewelry.
Both understand that appearance has become another language.
Legislator's Wife:
Funny how words disappear.
Wife:
They do not disappear.
Legislator's Wife:
No?
Wife:
They return wearing different clothes.
Across the room, the Husband speaks with a Business Leader beneath the revised banner.
Business Leader:
Fine speech.
Husband:
Thank you.
Business Leader:
You gave everybody room to hear what they wanted.
The Husband smiles politely.
He is not certain whether it was praise.
Business Leader:
The public remembers the feeling longer than the paragraph.
Husband:
They remember the symbol.
Business Leader:
Exactly.
If they keep discussing symbols, they stop asking about records.
The Husband nods.
Then wishes he had not.
The Wife steps outside beneath the Alabama night.
Music continues behind the open doors. Laughter drifts across the terrace. From outside, the ballroom appears warmer than it felt within it.
Nothing appears unusual.
Everything has changed.
The Husband joins her.
Husband:
I think tonight helped.
Wife:
For whom.
Husband:
People are moving on.
Wife:
People always move on.
Husband:
Is that not what we needed.
Wife:
You needed it.
Husband:
We are almost through this.
Wife:
No.
Husband:
What do you mean.
Wife:
I think we are only through the first version.
He looks back toward the ballroom.
She looks toward home.
For the first time since the pressure began, they are facing opposite directions.
The children are asleep when they return.
Dress shoes rest beside the doorway. Campaign folders remain unopened on the dining room table. Beside them sit a school calendar, a grocery list, and a church announcement.
Public life.
Private life.
Paper touching paper.
Neither can be separated cleanly anymore.
Husband:
Do you remember when words only meant what they said.
Wife:
I do.
Husband:
I am not sure they ever did.
Wife:
Maybe not in politics.
Husband:
That is not fair.
Wife:
No.
It is not.
He closes the campaign calendar.
She leaves the school calendar open.
Husband:
I do not want the children remembering this part.
Wife:
They will remember something.
Husband:
Then what do you want them to remember.
Wife:
The right things.
Husband:
Which things are those.
She looks toward the hallway leading to their rooms.
Wife:
That somebody in this house still knew the difference between changing a word and changing the truth.
He has no answer.
Outside, cicadas carry the only conversation still willing to continue.
For the first time in many months, neither of them reaches for a telephone.
The silence remains.
Neither tries to rename it.