1. I’m Not My Father

1

I’M NOT MY FATHER

THREE MONTHS LATER

Darren

I t feels a bit like coming full circle, standing outside of campaign headquarters.

My campaign headquarters.

Before I open the door, I have to take in a breath.

“You’d think we were building the H bomb,” I joke half-heartedly as I walk through the rows and desks filled with people. People I’d never met, and here they are making calls, conducting polls, asking for money and vouching for me as a candidate worthy of representing them in the most critical of matters.

Rausch stands nearby in his perfectly pressed suit having a conversation with one of the volunteers. He’s in his element, a comfortableness that I have yet to embrace. There’s a flickering loss of self-confidence, like I don’t belong here, like all these people have put their money on the wrong horse.

I cough into my hand to get his attention.

“Who are all these people?” I gesture to the bullpen, noticing a blue and white banner with the name Walker hanging on the wall. Not to mention the streamers that hang along with it. The smell of coffee and sugary donuts fills the small, packed space.

“Do you think your father knew the names of each volunteer on his staff? He had better things to do.” Rausch leads me into the office at the back that’s separated from the rest of the room by a glass partition. I take a seat behind the desk and twirl a pencil between my fingers as I watch the volunteers.

“I think that we should organize a rally…”

I tune him out.

Over the past few months, the campaign has ramped up from just a couple volunteers to a now-bustling room. I tap my chin with the pencil. My mother spent all her time organizing the volunteers for my father’s campaign. She knew all their names, even if my father didn’t. He relied on her for those things so that he could concentrate on the more difficult matters like how to appeal to voters, determine their wants and needs, reach out for support. Granted, his campaign wasn’t for a small district in Virginia, but this is my starting block.

I’m only slightly aware of Rausch’s voice in the background. “I have you on the schedule to speak at the VFW hall on Thursday. I think…”

“I’m not my father,” I abruptly interrupt him, and he stops talking.

I set the pencil down and look across the desk at him. “It’s not a statewide campaign. The problem with Rory Colton is that he didn’t know people like Ethel or her neighbors and the problems they faced. It made it easier for him to vote down a bill that could have saved them instead of saving the state money,”

Looking back into the heart of the office I say, “It’s a small southern district of Virginia. I need to know people’s names, starting with the volunteers.”

Rausch sits back in his chair, folding his large hands in his lap, and there’s a slight tilt to his lip. “Okay then.”

He stands and I follow as we make our way around the room, while Rausch gestures for each of them to introduce themselves because he doesn’t know all of them either. Angie is the only one I’ve met, a recent Georgetown graduate who was all too eager to take charge of the volunteers.

My smile doesn’t come easily as I shake hands and thank them for volunteering. I’m missing someone. The campaign has been my savior for the past few months to keep me from thinking about her. But of course, I do still think of her, the wound not yet closed, and I don’t know if it ever will.

The small bell at the top of the door jingles, a leftover from the hardware store that used to occupy this space. In walks Ethel Jackson, her crochet bag tucked under her arm. She looks around the space approvingly, her eyes finally meeting mine.

“Looks like a bunch of pomp and circumstance to me,” she says, looking at me skeptically.

“Are you looking to volunteer?” I raise a challenging eyebrow.

“I thought you could use my sunny disposition.”

I can’t help but smile. “Well then, I have a spot for you right over here.” I lead the way to an empty desk near the windows where she sets down her crochet bag, a piece of yarn making its way out of the top like it has a mind of its own.

“Is this the famous Ethel?” Rausch asks.

Ethel places a hand on her hip and looks up at him as he towers over her short, round frame. If I was a betting man, my money would be on Ethel if these two were pitted against each other. “I don’t know about famous, but whatever you’ve heard,”—she pauses and gives him a naughty smile—“it’s probably true.”

Rausch laughs. Apparently, Ethel can win over anyone.

“Where’s that pretty wife of yours?” she asks.

The mention of Evangeline pulls at the edges of my wound, pain ripping through me like a lightning bolt.

Before I can make an excuse, Rausch bellows over the noise. “Angie!” She makes her way over. “This is Ethel, and she would like to volunteer.”

“People say I got a voice like honey, so if you want to put me on the phones, that’s fine by me,” Ethel proposes.

I give Rausch a thankful nod and retreat to my office. The desk is a secondhand one from the nearby school. There are strict rules on how campaign donations can be used. Right now, funds are limited as we start ramping up requests that can sometimes feel like begging. My last name can only carry me so far, and my reputation precedes me.

“Excuse me, are you Darren Walker?” A young man inquires from the doorway.

I nod and he drops an envelope on my desk. “You’ve been served,” he says, and leaves just as quickly as he arrived.

An envelope from a law office in Arizona.

I know exactly what it is. Like a Band-Aid, I rip the envelope open to expose the wound.

Divorce papers.

Pulling off my tie, I throw it across the room. It flutters through the stagnant air and lands silently on the dirty linoleum floor.

“Don’t forget about the fundraising event this weekend,” Rausch says as he enters my office. He sees my tie on the ground and picks it up. When he places it on the desk he notices the papers.

“You can gloat if you want to,” I tell him angrily, using him as a punching bag. “You got what you wanted, right?” I look up at him, the sting of getting the papers still fresh.

“If you want me to say that Evangeline leaving was the best thing for your campaign, then fine, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about seeing you in turmoil.”

I scoff. “In turmoil? Is that what you think this is?”

“No.” A look of understanding crosses his face like a shadow. “I understand your heartbreak.”

I never thought of Rausch as a person, just a thorn in my side, giving me disapproving looks and lectures about getting my life together. Of course he knows what heartbreak is. No human gets a pass on that in their lifetime, not even someone as impenetrable as Rausch.

“You can think what you want, Darren, but what I said to you before was the truth. I would have done everything within my power to protect her.”

I lift my eyes from the papers. “Well, it seems she didn’t want to be a part of this life after all.” I can’t seem to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

Rausch lets out a breath. “You can sit here and stare at those papers, or you can pull yourself together and win this election.”

“It’s that easy, huh?”

“No. It’s not easy, Darren,” he sighs and resolves to take a seat. “But you can channel those emotions into something productive, because dwelling on it will do you no good.” He looks through the glass partition. “Your father would have loved to see this.” He smiles sadly.

“That’s funny, because I would think he’s shaking his head because I’m running as a Democrat,” I offer a small smile.

Rausch laughs. “I don’t think he would care what party you were running under. It’s the fact that you’re running that would matter the most to him.”

“Why?” I inquire. “Why did it matter so much to him that I follow in his footsteps?”

Rausch shakes his head as if he can’t believe I don’t know the answer. “He didn’t want you following in his footsteps. Politicians are a dime a dozen. But people who can inspire and cause real change are rare.”

I shake my head. “He was the inspiring one, not me.”

“Sure, he had a way of commanding a crowd,” he explains. “But it didn’t come naturally to him. It was something he learned—perfected, like calligraphy.”

I let out a laugh, because only Rausch could use calligraphy as an example.

“But you?” He points at me, getting my attention again. “You don’t even have to try. You’re not following in his footsteps. You’ve already eclipsed him. Why do you think the press were so interested in you? They’ve been chomping at the bit for you to run. Not because you’re Kerry Walker’s son, but because you are Darren Walker.”

Maybe he’s just blowing smoke up my ass, but if I was feeling pressure before, I feel the immense weight of it now.

“Then why don’t I feel like that person?”

“I can’t answer that for you. I only know that your father was so hard on you because he had to work so hard for something that came so naturally to you. And you took it for granted.”

“I don’t know what he saw,” I admit. “I was a fuckup. I would have gotten kicked out of boarding school if it weren’t for his influence with the chancellor.”

“Ah yes,” Rausch taps his fingers against his thigh. “The great square pizza revolt,” he grumbles.

“Pizza should not be square,” I insist.

“Well, convincing your classmates to take over the cafeteria wasn’t the way to handle it.”

“My father was so pissed.” I manage to laugh about it now, but back then I had real fear. I sat in the chancellor’s office with the prospect of being expelled.

“And you don’t think you’re inspirational.”

“I hardly believe that I should be proud of causing a revolt at St. Luke’s,” I scoff.

“Do you think it was dumb luck that you got the entire class to follow you for something reckless and stupid?”

I didn’t think of it that way.

“You could have had any career you wanted in politics, but you chose to lead from my father’s shadow. Why?” I ask.

“Sometimes it’s better to be the kingmaker than the king,” he says with a tilt to his lips.

“So, you’re aware that’s what people call you?” I inquire in surprise.

“I know everything, Darren.”

We stare at each other in silence as I take in the weight of our conversation.

“Darren,” he says, cutting through the heavy silence. “This might not be the right place to…”

“Sorry to interrupt, but the signs came in,” Angie smiles excitedly, holding up a sign with my face on it and the words Dare to elect change , a slogan I reluctantly signed off on. “We need to know where you want the volunteers to start.”

Rausch adjusts his tie and stands. “I emailed the map to Russell the other day.”

“Well, he can’t find it,” Angie explains.

“Emails don’t just disappear,” he grumbles.

He follows Angie to the door but stops to look back at me. His fingers tap against the doorframe before he exits.