The Candidate's Daughter
Word around Washington, D.C. was that the honorable Senator Arland Winfield was destined for the Oval Office. Many people saw him as the JFK of the twenty-first century. Like Kennedy, he was a personable, handsome young man with an elegant, well-bred wife and two adorable, well-behaved children.
To no one's surprise then, as Arland Winfield approached the end of his second term in the Senate, he was chosen to be presidential candidate Lawrence V. Braddock's running mate. During the campaign, the senator's wife, Catherine Winfield, and their children, eleven-year-old Brittany and five-year-old Tim, were paraded before the press as the "All-America family," and photographs of them at soccer games, church services, neighborhood picnics, Cub Scout meetings and family outings appeared in every major newspaper and magazine across the country.
The presidential candidate made a wise choice in including Winfield on his ticket. His liberal ideals attracted those on the left while his wholesome image as well as his exemplary military record made him less offensive to those on the right. Furthermore, Braddock, who was nearing seventy, appreciated his running mate's youthful image and hoped it would help him get the younger generation's vote in November. And help him it did. The Braddock and Winfield team won in a landslide.
Not surprisingly, Arland Winfield's political ambitions didn't end with the vice presidency. He wanted to succeed Larry Braddock as chief executive when it came time for the president to step down. With this goal in mind, Vice President Winfield kept his family in the public eye.
Fortunately, Catherine, a former Boston debutante, enjoyed being in the limelight. With her beauty and poise, she often appeared on television and graced the covers of family-oriented magazines, and while she was not quite as popular as either Jackie Kennedy or Prince Diana, she nevertheless lived the life of an admired political celebrity. As for the two children, little Timothy was too young to mind the constant intrusion into his personal life, but Brittany, who was quickly approaching the difficult teenage years, didn't handle the added burden of international fame very well.
Unlike her seemingly flawless mother, Brittany was not a picture-perfect daughter. She was twenty pounds overweight, shy, awkward and suffering from a mild case of acne. As such, she wanted to avoid photographers and reporters, but her father insisted the family remain prominent figures in the minds of the American voters. He was also adamant that the children make appearances, no matter how brief, at most of his campaign rallies and fundraisers.
"Where is that girl?" Arland demanded to know as he waited in the foyer of Number One Observatory Circle, the official residence of the vice president of the United States.
"She's had a bit of a problem," Catherine replied. "That new dress I bought her to wear tonight is too tight."
"I'm not surprised. She eats like a horse lately. Why don't you put her on a diet or get her to exercise more?"
"I've tried, darling. But as soon as I turn my back, she stuffs her face with cookies, chocolate bars and potato chips."
Arland shook his head in disgust.
"She used to be such a cute little girl. What happened to her?"
Brittany stood, unseen by her parents, on the landing at the top of the stairs. She looked down at the designer dress she was wearing, one her mother had selected for her. She had only been able to fit into it by wearing a girdle beneath. Even with the uncomfortable undergarment squeezing her stomach, it was a snug fit—like six pounds of sugar poured into a five-pound sack.
"There you are!" Catherine said when she finally saw her daughter on the landing. "Get your coat on and let's go. Your father doesn't want to be late."
Brittany stared down at her mother's perfectly coiffed blond hair, unblemished complexion and slender figure. The teenager's eyes filled with tears and she ran back to her bedroom.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Arland complained to his wife. "Go see what's wrong with her now. I'll meet you out in the car. Please try to hurry."
Despite all Catherine's attempts to coax and then bribe her daughter into accompanying her and her husband to the fundraising dinner, the girl stubbornly refused to go. That night marked a turning point in Brittany's life. Previously a timid, but obedient child, she was to become thereafter a willful, rebellious young woman.
* * *
At the beginning of his third year in office, President Braddock began to buckle under the strain of his job, and following the advice of his doctor, he decided not to run for another term. His second-in-command was secretly delighted by this decision. Less than three weeks after the president made his public statement, Vice President Arland Winfield announced his candidacy.
During the race for the presidency, the Winfield family was thrust even further into the public eye. Catherine Winfield became a media favorite. She was stylish but not too trendy, family-oriented but not matronly, liberal but not overly radical. As though a seasoned politician herself, Catherine played up to the press. Her every word and every action were well-planned and well-rehearsed.
The candidate's son was portrayed as the typical American boy. Tim was often photographed playing Little League baseball, participating in Boy Scout projects and attending Sunday school. Meanwhile, Brittany, although she had slimmed down somewhat and her complexion had cleared up, still represented a serious flaw in the Winfield family's perfect "Brady Bunch" image.
"There must be something positive your public relations team can focus on where Brittany is concerned," Catherine suggested to her husband with frustration.
"Like what?" Arland replied angrily. "That she could win first prize in a Morticia Addams look-alike contest?"
"I'm sure all that Gothic clothing and makeup is just a phase she's going through. If we object to it, it will only last that much longer."
"And her conduct at school? What about that? If she weren't my daughter, she'd have been expelled long ago."
"We could always take her out of school and hire a private tutor."
"That would look great! Did you forget that I'm running on a platform that includes improving public schools? How would it look if my own daughter doesn't attend one?"
"Oh, do cheer up, darling. Who knows? Maybe her new therapist will succeed where all the others failed."
"I certainly hope so. I can't imagine Brittany being a part of the first family the way she is now. I could just see her showing up at the annual White House Christmas tree lighting ceremony dressed like it's Halloween!"
As the months passed and three of the four Winfields found themselves caught up in Arland's hectic campaign, Brittany grew further apart from her parents. To her father's horror, the girl became even more rebellious than ever. She hated having her freedom curtailed. She wanted to live like other teenagers did: to hang out at the mall, spend time with her friends and go out on dates. Instead, Brittany was driven to and from school by two Secret Service agents she referred to as Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee—clean-shaven, conservative young men with no sense of humor.
"If I have to be watched by secretive men in black suits, why can't you get Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith?" she complained to her parents.
"That would seem appropriate since you look and dress like a damned alien," her father grumbled, with no thought of the harm his words could do to the teenager's fragile self-image.
While conversations such as this often took place in the privacy of the Winfield home, neither Arland nor Catherine would ever criticize their daughter in public. Family squabbles would hardly make a good impression on potential voters, and his image was all that mattered to them.
* * *
Despite the best efforts of her parents, her therapists and the Secret Service agents, Brittany managed to get into a fair share of trouble. Her conduct at school was deplorable. She swore like a sailor, was caught many times smoking in the girls' bathroom and often stole things from her classmates and teachers alike.
On the eve of the Democratic National Convention, Brittany dropped a bombshell on her unsuspecting mother: "I think I'm pregnant," she casually announced.
Catherine was profoundly shocked by the news. She had foolishly imagined that her daughter was still a virgin.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"I used one of those home pregnancy tests, and it came out positive."
Catherine's legs felt wobbly, and she had to sit down before she fell.
"Who else knows?" she asked in a voice choked with emotion.
"Somehow I knew that would be the first question you'd ask," Brittany said with a laugh ripe with bitterness.
"Don't get smart with me, young lady! I'm in no mood for your shit. Now answer me. Who else knows?"
"No one. I doubt anyone even suspects except perhaps the cashier at Rite Aid where I purchased the pregnancy test. Oh, and Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, my constant companions. They were with me when I bought it."
"I suppose we can trust them to keep quiet. But what about the cashier? Do you think she recognized you?"
"The ditzy blond cheerleader? I doubt she would have recognized the president himself," Brittany said sarcastically.
Catherine sighed. Maybe the situation was not as bad as she had first feared. She saw no point in chastising her daughter. Now was the time for damage control, not punishment.
"We'll keep this between you and me," she said. "Your father has enough on his mind right now with the convention coming up without having to worry about this mess you've gotten yourself into."
"He's going to have to find out sooner or later," Brittany reasoned.
"You and I can handle it quietly, by ourselves. He doesn't ever have to know."
"Handle it?" Brittany cried. "Are you suggesting I get rid of it?"
"Of course. It's the only sensible option. You're far too young to have a baby. My God, you're practically a child yourself."
"The vice president's daughter is having an abortion. What will the Right to Lifers think when they find out?"
"But they won't find out. No one will ever know. I promise."
"There's just one problem. I don't want an abortion. I want to have this child."
"Are you out of your mind? You're only fourteen years old. Having a baby now will ruin your life."
"Wake up and smell the cappuccino, Mother Dear! My life already sucks! There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about opening up the veins in my wrists." Then in an uncharacteristically soft voice, she admitted, "I think becoming a mother would give me a reason to live."
"And what about the poor child? What kind of life do you imagine it would have? You're not even married."
"It will probably have a better life than I did because I'll love it."
"You selfish, ungrateful little brat! No matter what your father and I do for you, you spit in our faces. Your father has an excellent chance of becoming president of the United States, and I won't let you ruin it for him."
"Now who's being selfish, Mom? You don't care about me or my baby. You just want to be the first lady. You imagine yourself like Jackie Kennedy, prancing around in Chanel suits and giving televised tours of the White House."
In a fit of rage, Catherine reached out her hand and slapped her daughter's face.
"Now that would make an excellent headline: FUTURE FIRST LADY STRIKES PREGNANT DAUGHTER."
Exasperated, Catherine stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
"She's WHAT?"
Arland Winfield's voice thundered through the great house.
"Shhhh!" Catherine cautioned. "Do you want the servants to hear you?"
"How the hell did she get pregnant in the first place?" Seeing the look of irritation on his wife's face, he added, "You know what I mean. How did she manage to sneak away from the Secret Service long enough to ...?"
"We're wasting precious time trying to determine how and why she got herself into this predicament when we should be concentrating on how to get her out of it."
Arland sat down in the chair and put his head in his hands.
"What can we do? My career is finished. How will anyone trust me to look after the country, when I can't even keep my own daughter from getting knocked up?"
"Don't be so crude," Catherine said, annoyed by his vulgarity.
"I'm sorry, darling, but I've come so close to becoming president of the most powerful nation on earth, the leader of the free world, and now I'll have to drop out of the race—all because of our daughter's irresponsible behavior."
Catherine sat down beside her husband and took his hand in hers.
"It's not just your life at stake here."
"I know," he grudgingly conceded. "This isn't going to be easy on Brittany either."
"I wasn't referring to Brittany. She's a big girl; she should have known better. As far as I'm concerned she deserves whatever she gets."
Arland stared at his wife with surprise.
"What are you saying?"
"I've worked hard campaigning with you all these years. I've played the part of the dutiful wife and the loving mother. I've had to watch my every word and every action, always having to be careful not to create a political or social faux pas. If you throw in the towel now, it will have all been for nothing. Most people don't remember vice presidents much less their wives. I want to be the first lady. I don't want to vanish into obscurity."
"But what do we do about Brittany?" Arland asked, more than willing to let his wife make the difficult decision.
"I think she should have an abortion, whether she wants one or not."
The following morning, Catherine went up to her daughter's bedroom carrying two cups of mocha latte. She knocked softly and then entered.
"Are you feeling all right?" she asked sweetly.
Day-old mascara left black circles around Brittany's tear-stained eyes, making her look like an extra from Night of the Living Dead.
Catherine handed her one of the lattes.
"Here, drink this. You'll feel better."
"I meant what I said," Brittany cried. "I'm keeping this baby. If you and Dad don't want the disgrace, then I'll go away—to Europe, maybe. No one need ever know."
"Shhhh, sweetheart," Catherine cooed, brushing the long, straggly black hair out of her daughter's face. "Everything will work out. Just relax and drink your mocha. An expectant mother shouldn't get upset. It's not good for the baby."
"You're not mad at me anymore?"
When Brittany looked up at Catherine, the teenager's face seemed so young and vulnerable under her bizarre makeup. In many ways, she was still just a child.
"I'm so sorry, Mommy," she cried, impulsively throwing her arms around her parent. "I know I'm not the daughter you and Daddy wanted. I wish I could be more like Tim."
"I don't want to hear any more of that talk. Your father and I both love you."
Catherine reached for the box of tissues on the night table and handed one to her daughter.
"Now wipe the tears and the mascara from your eyes. Drink your latte, and then we'll talk about the future."
Twenty minutes later, Catherine joined her husband downstairs.
"She's out."
Arland carried his sleeping daughter down to the garage and placed her in the back seat of a rented car. Catherine donned a dark wig and pair of mirrored sunglasses in an elaborate attempt to sneak past the ever-vigilant Secret Service. When she was sure that she wasn't being followed, she headed for Maryland where she had made an appointment with a discreet doctor. If all went well, in a couple of hours her daughter would no longer be pregnant.
* * *
"Where am I?" Brittany asked groggily, as the general anesthetic began to wear off.
"You're at a doctor's office in Maryland," her mother replied.
"Doctor? Why? What happened?"
"Don't get upset, dear. It was all for the best."
A rising terror descended on Brittany.
"You didn't! You couldn't have!"
"I'm your mother. I have every right to keep you from ruining your life."
"Bullshit! You don't give a damn about me, and you never did! You're just a self-centered bitch who thinks only of herself."
Catherine reached out and slapped her daughter's face.
"How dare you talk to me like that? You're nothing but a selfish, spoiled little brat. I wish I'd never given birth to you."
"Thank you, Mother, for showing your true colors at last."
They sat in the doctor's office for another two hours, in silence.
Brittany put up no resistance when her mother led her to the car. Neither of them spoke on the drive back to Washington. Finally, as they neared the vice president's mansion, Catherine handed her daughter a baseball cap.
"Put this on and lower your head," she commanded. "We don't want the Secret Service to recognize us."
Brittany did as she was told.
"How did everything go?" Arland asked nervously when his wife returned.
"Everything's fine," she replied. "And Brittany seems to be taking it much better than I thought she would."
Their daughter suddenly appeared in the room.
"That shows how much you know, Mom. I'm not taking it well at all. You killed my baby. If I could, I would kill you."
"That's no way to talk to your mother!" Arland yelled, coming to his wife's defense.
Brittany ignored her father, as he had ignored her for so many years.
"But since I can't kill you, I'll destroy your dreams. After I tell the press what you both did to me, Daddy won't stand a chance of getting elected as a dog catcher much less president."
"You're not going to tell the press," Catherine said defiantly.
"You think not? Just how do you plan on stopping me? Will you put a lock on my door and keep me hidden from the public? Don't you think people will begin to wonder and ask questions? The reporters will naturally want to know what has happened to one-fourth of the future first family."
Catherine and Arland exchanged worried glances. If their daughter refused to see reason, then how could they keep her quiet for any length of time?
"Or maybe you'll arrange to have me institutionalized, sent to some private hospital where I'll be sedated or subjected to shock therapy treatments, maybe even lobotomized. Oh, but that won't work either. There are doctors, nurses and custodians in those places. I don't imagine they're all above being bribed, and the press would no doubt pay a pretty penny for my story."
Brittany laughed bitterly.
"I promise you one thing: I'll create a bigger scandal than Monica Lewinsky did."
"Shut up and go to your room!" Catherine screamed. "You heard me. Get out of here. I can't stand the sight of you anymore."
* * *
Catherine Winfield, stunning in a designer outfit worthy of Jackie or Princess Di, sat proudly beside former president Lawrence Braddock on Inauguration Day as her husband took the Oath of Office. Little Tim was nearby, bored, but well-behaved.
Thank God, he's nothing like his sister, his mother thought.
The Inauguration Ball was a tremendous success. Hundreds of senators, congressmen, foreign diplomats, members of the press, entertainers and important businessmen who had contributed large sums of money to Winfield's campaign were present to wish the new president good luck during the upcoming four years.
Ms. Etta Warrick, the critically acclaimed film producer and women's rights activist, approached the new first lady mid-way through the festivities.
"Mrs. Winfield," she said earnestly, "may I tell you how honored I am to meet you?"
"Thank you, Etta. There's no need to be so formal. Why don't you call me Catherine?"
"As you may know," the producer continued, "I, too, lost a child. I was devastated. So much so that I wanted to die myself."
The first lady dramatically lowered her head and brushed an imaginary tear from her eye.
"Oh, please, I didn't mean to upset you," Etta apologized with compassion.
"No, no. I appreciate your sympathy. Really, I do."
"I just wanted to tell you how much I respect your strength and your dedication to your family and to the nation. Despite your great loss, you carried on. I admire that."
"Thank you," Catherine said, as she took her leave of the producer and went to greet one of the Supreme Court Justices and his wife.
Later that night, the new president and his first lady retired to their private living quarters. Arland handed his wife a glass of champagne and proposed a toast.
"To our first night in the White House."
Catherine clinked her glass to his.
"And, hopefully, we'll remain here for the next eight years."
They sipped their drinks, enjoying their moment of triumph immensely.
"You did it, darling," Catherine said. "In a little over two hundred years, fewer than fifty men have made it to this place."
"I owe it all to you, Cathy."
"Don't be silly. You worked hard to get here."
"But I would never have been able to ...."
His voice trailed off.
"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly feeling terribly sad.
"It was either her or us," Catherine said, putting down her drink.
"I know, but ...."
"She was out of control and would have come to a bad end anyway."
"We might have been able to help her. We should have tried harder."
Catherine lost her temper, something she rarely allowed herself to do.
"Damn it! Pull yourself together, Arland. You're the president of the United States, and as such, you'll have to get used to making tough decisions. As commander-in-chief, you'll no doubt have to make choices that might send good men and women to their deaths."
"I realize that, but Brittany was our daughter."
"Yes, and in giving her that lethal dose of heroin, I made the ultimate sacrifice. Let's face it: you were falling behind in the polls. You didn't stand much of a chance of winning the election. But when Brittany died, the public's heart went out to you. You won with the sympathy vote."
"I suppose you're right," he said, suddenly physically and emotionally drained.
Her anger forgotten, Catherine sat down on the bed beside her husband, handed him his unfinished glass of champagne and suggested, "Here, drink this. You'll feel better."
"I didn't mean to sound ungrateful," he said. "I know you only did it for us."
"Hush, sweetheart," she cooed and placed her arm affectionately around her husband's back. "Everything will work out fine. You'll see. Just relax and drink your glass of champagne."
For a second, Catherine saw not her husband's handsome face, but rather that of her dead daughter. Although day-old mascara created dark circles around Brittany's tear-stained eyes, her face looked young and vulnerable under the makeup. In many ways, she had been just a child.
The first lady poured herself another glass of champagne, but its intoxicating bubbles could not wash away the fear and remorse that suddenly gripped her heart.
Salem thinks it would be fun to have a Gothic girl in the White House. Or would it then become the Black House?
