The Gentlelady from Texas

by Jon Pyatt

Lucinda Taylor Jackson—or LTJ, as the Capitol Hill press corps called her—watched the January sun slide beyond the horizon from her usual aisle seat on her regular flight from Houston. The winter atmosphere glowed with hues of coral and mint. She never tired of this flight’s approach, and she never missed that exhilarating instant when her aircraft eclipsed the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument, nestled precisely amidst the National Mall in prime locations to salute the Capitol, that temple of democracy where she worked. Even from here, she noticed that beacon of light emanating from atop the ivory dome, which signaled to the American people that Congress was back to work.

A Jackson had represented Houston in the House of Representatives—uninterrupted—for the better part of four decades. First came Hugh, her husband, an oil man who craved public adoration more than the coin from the crude. He had loved to bring home pork projects, those earmarked funds for community centers and freeway ramps that not only bore his name and brought free publicity but also created a perception in the churches, coffee clutches, and beauty shops back home that Hugh was indispensable in Washington. He rose to great seniority on the powerful Appropriations Committee—and would have become chairman, too, she thought—had a heart attack not taken him to an early grave.

Despite his fixation with his own legacy, they had never had children. She could not bear him any sons or daughters. It was her greatest disappointment. Hugh was all she had. Even then, she supposed, she never really had him all to herself. She had shared him with his 735,000 constituents and that unforgiving, unrelenting weekly commute that shuttled him between the Oil Patch and the Swamp. When—as was so often the case with congressional widows—the speaker asked her to run in the competitive special election to replace her late husband, she had agreed. After all, their party had to keep the seat—and Lucinda’s name recognition was as strong as her fervent desire to keep Hugh Jackson’s name alive. She cruised to victory, of course. She had cleared the primary field; the local party chairmen dared not risk the seat by nominating an unknown. And no candidate from the other party could compete with the sympathy engendered by her iconic black pillbox hat. So, she threw herself into her first and only job the way any new widow would. She toiled—just as hard as Hugh did. Even though the speaker hadn’t asked her to run for a second term, she announced early anyway, while public sympathy for her was still high. It’s what Hugh would have wanted for her, she thought. She had taken this flight almost every week for sixteen years since.

It was an exciting day. Every two years, a new Congress washed away the previous sessions like a tide. Renewal. A clean slate. She possessed a sense that anything was possible, even now. Removing her makeup bag from her purse, she freshened her powder and lipstick. She checked her wig in her mirrored compact, pulling it tight at the back where it had ridden up from the seatback. She took last Congress’ congressional pin from the coin purse in her pocketbook and affixed it to her pink St. John knit suit. This time, she allowed her fingertip to trace the gilded pin for an extra moment. She thought about Hugh. As grueling as the job could be, it certainly had its perks: the jolts of dopamine she got when she saw her name or picture in the papers, the staff of twenty that catered to her desires and whims, and the ribbon-cuttings that always served her an all-you-can-eat-buffet of gratitude from those she represented. She thought about tonight’s quorum call. She imagined seeing the Jackson name on the big board. She would be recognized.

The aircraft’s wheels emitted a high-pitched bark upon touchdown, and Lucinda felt the taut seatbelt hug her hips and hold her back, even as her torso lurched forward. She glanced at her phone, mainly out of habit. There were no texts or emails from staff. Good staff were so hard to find, she thought. Anticipate my needs, she had always told them. But she hadn’t heard from them in weeks. There were several new voicemails and texts from the majority leader, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at those messages—not yet, not before the quorum call.

Lucinda’s shell-pink Louboutin heels echoed as she walked purposefully down the terminal corridors. It was her custom to gaze directly forward, even as she allowed her eyes to scan the waiting areas for those double takes, those wide grins or pouty scowls she’d regularly receive from the traveling partisans who recognized her from the cable shows. Often, business leaders from the local chambers of commerce would buttonhole her on the plane or at the gate about their seasonal legislative priority. There was a part of her that was relieved she didn’t see anyone she would need to speak with today. Outside the airport’s arrivals area, Lucinda looked for her scheduler at their usual meeting spot, but she was not there. Perhaps Camille was stuck in traffic, she told herself. She considered calling her but thought better of it. If I’m asking you for something, it’s already too late, she had always chided Camille. She decided she would muddle through without her.

A taxi ferried Lucinda over the Potomac River, past the Jefferson Memorial and the Tidal Basin. Once, when Hugh had served, she flew up to Washington with the other Texas wives to see the cherry blossoms reflected in the basin. Hugh had loved that visit. That’s why she had started an annual tea for the Texas delegation spouses after she’d been elected. It was her annual tribute to him. Now, as the driver pulled over to drop her at the usual public entrance outside a House office building, she made eye contact with her favorite Capitol Police officer. Andre smiled at her, though he appeared puzzled to see her. He jogged toward her when he saw her struggle with her luggage and overcoat, which billowed in the gusting January wind.

“Congresswoman!” Andre said, “You forgot to bring the warm weather with you this time.” Andre studied his clipboard and examined the chart for new, returning, and outgoing members. He found her name among the columns. He did a quick double-take when he saw her luggage, as though he thought the suitcase odd, but he wheeled her bag to the door and placed it on the baggage scanner all the same, just as he might do for any other woman entering the public building. He looked at her again and appeared baffled. “It’s lovely to see you’ve returned—and so soon—and on the first day, no less.”

As Lucinda watched her bag disappear into the mouth of the metal detector, she was nearly knocked over by another member from the other party—a blowhard from New Jersey—who dashed around the metal detector as if he were more important than she. She balked, initially, at the indignity of the metal detector—didn’t they know who she was? But, the more she thought about it, the less she wanted to put up a fuss.

She went up two floors and turned left, as she always did.  Couches, desks, and office furniture clogged the hallway outside her suite as workmen painted walls and replaced carpets inside. Her nameplate was gone. Perhaps, she thought, her staff had decided to upgrade to a better office. She considered leaving her suitcase behind but looked at her watch and decided against it. She couldn’t be late for the quorum call that was always held on the eve of the speaker’s vote. So, she snaked through the underground tunnels to the Capitol—under the exposed pipes layered thick with decades of paint, past the drab subway tile—wheeling her bag on the shiny, polished concrete floor.

The members-only elevator, which she had all to herself, whisked her from the basement to the second floor. The elevator doors parted to reveal the splendor of the Capitol—the marble floors, the picturesque frescoes on vaulted ceilings, and the imposing, polished walnut doors that led to the House chamber. Daisy, the chamber attendant, recognized Lucinda without bothering to look at the laminated list of new, returning, and former members, all of whom possessed the requisite floor privileges to enter the inner sanctum.

“Happy New Year, Congresswoman,” Daisy said, opening the heavy door into the stately chamber.

As Lucinda crossed the wood-paneled threshold to the floor, she stopped in her tracks. She saw the familiar sapphire blue carpet, the polished gold railings, the cornflower silk wall panels in the gallery, and the backlit tray ceiling with a stained-glass eagle at its center. She paused, though, when she imagined engaging with the familiar faces waiting inside. She hadn’t spoken to anyone since the abbreviated lame duck session—that two-week period after Thanksgiving where the Congress takes up all the matters they didn’t want to dispense with before the voters had rendered their judgments. The other members seemed to keep their distance then, offering her a wide berth to match the new fragility they had begun to ascribe to her. Now, as she approached the inner sanctum of the House of Representatives, she felt their energy emanate from within. Their greetings, laughter, stories, and tales swelled into a deafening din, not unlike the hallways on the first day of school. Yet, as Lucinda walked inside, dragging the wheeled suitcase behind her, the joy in those around her seemed to recede. Lucinda walked as if she were ambling inside a daydream. She approached a group of members. Some eyes widened; some looked down. Others turned away or found people nearby for urgent conversations. Wherever Lucinda moved, the light in people’s faces dimmed, smiles tightened, and heads swiveled.

Lucinda took a voting card from her purse and inserted it into the electronic voting machine, but the yellow “present” button failed to light. Maybe the card she had used a few weeks ago wasn’t working anymore, she told herself. These technological hiccups often happened on the first days back, she recalled, so she made her way deeper into the chamber, toward the clerk’s table in the center of the well, near the dais. She was determined to record her presence—even with a paper ballot, if it came to that.

The Chronicle’s Sam Stone had been talking with other reporters in the second-floor gallery that overlooked the chamber when he noticed LTJ milling about on the floor beneath him. It was definitely her, he thought. He could see her clearly in that bright pink suit and heels. He thought her eyes appeared vacant, as if she were sleepwalking. What was she even doing here, he wondered—and why was she dragging a suitcase around on the House floor?

Sam seemed puzzled as he watched her insert a voting card into the electronic voting machine. Unbelievable! He knew this would be a story, so he opened his smartphone’s camera to capture what he was sure would become a bizarre scene. He glanced up to the big board to confirm the names of current members, just to be sure. Then he uploaded the image, tapped out “SCOOP” with his thumbs, and tweeted it out.

Then, he scanned the other side of the chamber, looking for LTJ’s young successor. He hoped he might get a good picture of him, too.

Kurt Kelly had seen LTJ enter the House chamber minutes before. As floor staff for the majority leader, it was Kurt’s job to fix problems before they occurred. He’d been warned by LTJ’s former chief of staff days ago this might happen, so he’d already warned his boss.

“She won’t listen to me,” said her chief, who had already transitioned to working for one of the party’s new members. “Congress is all she knows, bless her heart.”

Kurt was exasperated at the sight of LTJ dragging her suitcase down the aisle. His boss had been trying to call her all day, but LTJ had refused to pick up. Kurt was already making a beeline for the leader when the text arrived with a screenshot of a tweet of LTJ trying to vote. This would go viral, he knew. This was not the look the party wanted to project on its first day.

Kurt discreetly pulled the leader away from a line of well-wishers, showed him the image on his phone, and whispered in his ear. The leader’s head snapped to the left, his widened eyes scanning the bustling room until he locked eyes on the pink target, where he darted to head her off in the center of the chamber.

Lucinda was deep into the well, dragging the suitcase behind her. She paused near the small, round clerk’s table filled with those green, red, and yellow paper voting cards that members sometimes used when they had forgotten their electronic voting cards. As she reached for a yellow card to vote present, as she had done so many times before, the majority leader clasped her hand theatrically, as if he intended to kiss it.

“Lucinda, my dear!” he said. “Here you are!”

“Mr. Leader, Happy New Year,” Lucinda managed. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze, as if she knew he had nothing to say she would want to hear.

The leader grinned broadly as he stared up at the reporters in the gallery, as if to communicate an artificial sense of normalcy. But Lucinda saw in his bared teeth and wild eyes a look of concern that was both menacing and protective. He put his arm around her, steering her away from the voting cards and toward the exit that led to his hideaway.

“Lucinda, what are you doing here?” he whispered. “You’ve not taken my calls or responded to my texts.”

“I haven’t missed a quorum call in fifteen years, Mr. Leader. I’m not going to start now.”

The leader’s ears flushed crimson. Kurt tried to take her suitcase, but Lucinda wouldn’t let go. She clung to its handle, her knuckles turning white on the grip. This was now a scene. Members from across the aisle pointed at Lucinda and gathered around a young Houstonian in a crisp new suit and a fresh haircut, who shielded his eyes and shook his head from side to side.

“Lucinda,” the leader continued, his breath whistling behind a forced smile, “you lost. You have got to see the world as it is. Think about the optics. You’re embarrassing yourself. You’re embarrassing the party.”

But Lucinda stared through him. She managed to twist away from his vise-like embrace and lost a pump in the process. She somehow found herself before the podium, as if she had flittered there the way a moth might light to a flame. The leader looked on, horrified, as she adjusted the lectern height and lowered the microphone, standing on one pink-heeled foot, like a flamingo.

“Mr. Speaker!” Lucinda projected into the microphone.

The room fell silent.

“Mr. Speaker!”

Her voice echoed throughout the chamber. The speaker pro tem, standing before the giant chair on the rostrum, appeared stricken. His eyes, wide with panic, locked in with Kurt’s, but Kurt shrugged. The speaker blushed and beads of sweat collected on his forehead. Then, he looked to the House parliamentarian, whose sole job was to advise on protocol and procedure. The parliamentarian ascended two steps up the rostrum to whisper into the speaker’s ear. Eventually, the speaker nodded, as if he were resigned to the discomfort of what he must say to a member of his own party.

“The gentlelady from Texas,” the speaker said, “is not recognized.” He punctuated his sentence with a loud bang of the gavel.

Half the chamber covered their faces or turned away from the scene, shaking their heads from side to side or whispering to colleagues from behind pathetic expressions. The other half of the chamber first roared in laughter and then stood to applaud. Some members pointed fingers at Lucinda as they mocked and derided her. Others gathered near the young Houstonian, who had doubled over in laughter, his left brow arched in disbelief, his eyes dampened from shame by proxy. Reporters scrambled in the gallery above, trying to get a better view of the action below.

“Mr. Speaker!” Lucinda screamed again. But the sound technicians had already cut off her mic. As the laughter in the chamber swelled to a roar, Lucinda tried again to speak over it. “Mr. Speaker, I will be recognized!”

The speaker banged the gavel again. The room fell silent.

“You’re a LOSER!” shouted a member of the minority. The room erupted in fresh peals of laughter and derision.

“Order!” The speaker banged the gavel repeatedly until the din died. “The gentlelady from Texas is not recognized,” he repeated, banging the gavel once more. “This House will come to order!”

The speaker made eye contact with four secret service agents wearing earpieces in the back of the chamber and made a throat-slitting motion with two fingers. They marched into the well and approached Lucinda from different angles. As the three men and one woman fumbled with Lucinda’s arms and shoulders, she flailed and thrashed about, ripping her jacket lapel in the struggle. Her congressional pin came loose and rolled into the center of the well. Just as the room fell silent again, Lucinda went limp like a popped balloon. She allowed herself to be taken away, as if her will to fight had been extinguished. The agents dragged Lucinda, wig askew, away from the reporters and out the center aisle into Statuary Hall.

When the doors in the rear of the chamber closed behind them, reporters scrambled for the exits. Members stared at one another in disbelief. Some laughed; others appeared shaken. Several women from the Texas delegation rushed out to be with her. But the speaker banged the gavel, the vote and the conversations resumed, restoring a familiar cacophony to the people’s House.

Inside the chamber, all that remained of Lucinda Taylor Jackson was a suitcase, a bent congressional pin, and one pink pump.

BIO: Jon Pyatt writes creative nonfiction and character-driven literary fiction. He is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University's Maslow Family Graduate Program, where he served as the Managing Editor for River & South Review. His work has appeared in The Milk House. Jon has previously worked as a reporter, a domestic violence and child abuse prosecutor, a political operative, and a congressional chief of staff. Together with his husband and two dogs, Jon splits time between Washington, DC and West Virginia's wild and wonderful mountains. For more about Jon, please visit www.jonpyatt.com.