Always Read Free Page B

never tell anyone this because they would never understand, but a small part of me would like for us to lose tonight. I know the notion is maniacal, and I feel ashamed even admitting it to myself when you think of the historical relevance and social implications, but that’s how I feel in my heart.
    I hate sharing my husband with the world, and I don’t think that’s necessarily a selfish emotion. Having him burned in effigy and talked about like a dog in the papers and on the news shows every day is not something I look forward to. Add to that the fact that if we should win, for the next four or possibly eight years I will not be able to sleep peacefully knowing there is someone somewhere just flunking of ways to assassinate—no, let’s call it for what it is, kill —him.
    Saying JFK was assassinated takes the sting off what happened. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was killed in front of the world, and having my husband subjected to that possibility is something I dread.
    I assured Henry that I was over the scare of what happened in the parking lot in Omaha, but I will never forget it. I will never see him pack his bags and leave, and take it for granted that I’ll see him again. If the security officer had been a fraction of a second slower, there would be no Henry Louis—I don’t want to think about it. Damn those tears. So if he loses tonight, maybe, just maybe, we can fall in love. Again.
    If Teddy were not a politician, I am sure he would be a history professor, because he is enamored by the subject. I once heard him tell a reporter how important 1968 was to the fight for civil rights. When he thinks of ’68 he thinks of the race to the moon, Muhammad Ali, and McCarthy. Ironically, when I think of ’68, the first thing to cross my mind is TV dinners. Weird, huh? I told Teddy that once, and I bet he still gets a laugh out of it.
    I was not socially aware then. I did not watch the freedom riders get hosed down the streets of Selma like litter. I hadno idea that Brezhnev, Khrushchev, and Kosygin were names of people I should know, and while I hate to admit it, my family and I didn’t even watch the King funeral processional on TV. In the Shaw household, having pro-colored thoughts was looked upon as harboring contraband. You just didn’t do it.
    Looking back on my childhood, I realize we were raised Brady Bunch-Leave It to Beauer-suburban white. I think we watched Get Smart or something the night King’s body was returned to Atlanta.
    My dad was an interesting character. He was well educated, but inside he felt his skin was his sin. He used bleaching cream every morning just as most people used toothpaste. He used so much of it, it left his fingertips red and the skin on his face raw in places. As I grew older, I felt sorry for him because what he hated most was not who he was, but what was done to him by society, yet he never understood that. I think—well, I know—that is what attracted me to Henry. Henry always had a clear idea of himself and what he wanted, and people had to accept him on those terms.
    In the late sixties I formulated my mission in life. It was simple. I would move to New York City and become incredibly rich. Doing what? I had no earthly idea whatsoever. All I knew was that I wanted a brownstone on the lower west side, a hideaway somewhere on the coast with a view of the Atlantic ocean, and a Fleetwood Cadillac.
    I had a sister by the name of Kathleen and my younger brother is named Myles. I love them both equally, but Myles and I are a lot closer. I don’t think Kathleen ever forgave me for doing the unforgivable. That is, being born. She is eight years older then me and was the only child for years. Then I came along and screwed up everything.
    My parents used to go to this retreat for the firm’s associates and their spouses every August and March in Southern California, and they would leave us home with her. She was a mean bitch. I