Penance by David Housewright Page B

the past couple of weeks.”
    “I know him,” she said in a voice that made me think she didn’t care much for him.
    “And?”
    “We went out once,” Amy confessed. “He was the older man I told you about.”
    “What happened?”
    Amy lowered her head and picked at her rice with chopsticks. Finally she said, “Let’s just say he didn’t treat me very well and let it go at that.”
    “Did he telephone Representative Monroe a couple times Saturday?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Do all the calls go through you?”
    “Yes, they do.”
    I had to think about that for a minute. “Did you ever meet Joseph Sherman?”
    “Him,” Amy answered without hesitation. “No, I never met him but he must have called a hundred times. He wasn’t very nice, either. He used the ‘F’ word a lot. He kept calling and saying he wanted to speak to Miss Monroe but wouldn’t tell me what it was about, so I wouldn’t put him through; I just took his name and number. I’m very careful about that. You’d be surprised how many crank calls Representative Monroe gets.”
    “I can imagine. Did Sherman ever get through to C. C.?”
    “Oh, yes. Representative Monroe was standing by the desk this one time when he called and she heard me talking to him and she took the phone.”
    “Do you remember what was said?”
    “I don’t know what he said. I couldn’t hear and, you know, I was trying not to eavesdrop.”
    “What did C. C. say?”
    “She said a lot of umm’s and uh-huh’s and I see’s and stuff like that and then she said, ‘Go ahead, call the police, call the newspapers, I don’t care,’ and then she gave me the phone and I hung up and I asked, you know, ’cuz I was concerned, I asked if there was a problem, and she said, ‘It seems like every man in the world wants a piece of me,’ and then she left.”
    “Was she upset?”
    “Not really. She was smiling when she walked away.”
    “When did the conversation take place?”
    “I don’t know. Thursday, Friday … no, Thursday last week. Is that helpful?”
    “Very,” I said, not knowing if it was or not.
    “If there is anything else I can do—” Amy offered, excited at the prospect.
    I slipped a card out of my wallet and gave it to her. “You never know.”

EIGHT

    B ACK AT campaign headquarters, one of the cafeteria tables had been dragged from the wall to the middle of the room and a space had been cleared for a twenty-six-inch Magnavox. The TV was tuned to Channel 2 and already a dozen or more volunteers were gathered around it, although it was broadcasting the final minutes of a national news magazine—their heroine was still a quarter hour away. The other volunteers were working the phones, soliciting donations and reminding supporters to watch.
    There was an energy coursing through the room that I could not define. Tension, anxiety, pure joy; all of the above. Everyone was smiling, everyone seemed to be feeding off everyone else’s adrenaline. I had felt that energy only once before: while walking through the concourse at the Metrodome during the ’87 World Series, before Kent Hrbek launched his grand salami into the right-field seats and every soul in Minnesota realized that this time—unlike four Super Bowls, two Stanley Cups and two presidential elections— this time we would not lose.
    I sat with Amy Lamb on one of the cafeteria tables, watching the screen, our legs dangling over the edge, Amy gripping my arm. There was no romance in her touch. Still, I found myself wishing I had pumped more iron. Louise sat on the other side of me, keeping her hands to herself. I could not determine her age—anywhere from mid-thirties to late-fifties. Her brown hair was streaked with gray and pulled tight into a bun, her eyes were old and her face was lined. She might have been handsome once, but life had not been kind. She glanced at Amy’s hands and then at me. Her expression was not kind, either.
    The moderator, a local news anchor known more for her