She heard a click, and then flipped her phone shut and set it down on the table next to her bed. She lay atop the duvet and spread her hands out, eventually turning over and letting them explore the cold lump of the empty pillow next to her. Closing her eyes, she began to breathe out a silent prayer, letting familiar words tepidly shape her lips.
The next morning, she got up at 5 AM. She ran on her treadmill as she watched the news, watched some woman's, watched her own face appear at intervals, speaking some strange words. That woman looked good, especially her hair. Joyce let herself smile. These days things were all about permission. This was something Joyce was unaccustomed to. She didn't ask permission to run for mayor. She didn't ask permission when she eloped. God, was that 20 years ago, already? Now she was learning new rules everyday, rules that made no sense. People made fun of her children's names, questioning even that sacred privilege of a mother. Stepping off the treadmill, Joyce looked out the window at the lake in her backyard, "Arizona, what a shithole," she thought. In hours she would be on a plane , another plane, to the unforgiving compound of The Candidate, going to learn another set of rules.
A car picked her up at 7. She sat in the backseat and listened to a faceless 30-something in a suit telling her what she felt about the most recent news out of Pakistan. "How does God let these people stay in power?" she asked.
"Good one," replied the suit. Then he went on talking about the campaign position on Iran.
She let his words float past her, her eyes following them on out the window towards the rich greens and whites of Alaska, God's land, full of his natural bounty. "That's what I believe in," though Joyce. God had given her so much, just like he had to Alaska. Even her youngest child, sweet infant, was a challenge from god. What did Iran have to do with any of this? God's work, that's what she was doing. "Isn't it great?" she said, cutting off the suit's talking point.
"Excuse me?"
"What we're doing for people."
"Well if I didn't believe in it, I wouldn't be here," said the suit with practiced solemnity.
"He doesn't understand," thought Joyce. "None of them do." Steve would. If he were here, if she could spend just an hour with him, without waving and smiling at some lens. If they could talk again, about sports, about hunting, about oil. What she wouldn't give to go fishing and stop pandering to fags and hussies. She closed her eyes and waited for the car to arrive at the airport.
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