Gwendy's Magic Feather

5

AS IS OFTEN THE case in this corner of the world, an earlier meeting is running late, so Gwendy arrives with plenty of time to spare. Nearly two dozen House Representatives are crammed into the narrow hallway waiting to enter Conference Room C-9, so she positions herself by the water cooler in the outer lobby, hoping to review her notes in private. No such luck—it’s been that kind of morning.

“Forget to do your homework last night, young lady?”

She clenches her jaw and looks up from the open folder.

Milton Jackson, longtime representative of the state of Mississippi, is seventy years old, looks ninety, and is the spitting image of what a buzzard would look like if it fluttered down from a telephone wire and slipped on a Men’s Wearhouse suit. In other words, not pretty.

“Of course not,” Gwendy says, offering her brightest smile. From day one at her new job, she recognized that Milton was one of those men who loathed anyone with a positive outlook on life or was simply happy, so she really turns it on. “Just doing some extra credit. And how are you this fine December morning?”

The old man squints at her, as if he’s trying to figure out if it was a trick question. “Ahh, I’m okay,” he finally grumbles.

“Leave her alone, Milt,” someone says from behind them. “She’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”

This time Gwendy’s smile is genuine as she turns to her friend. “I’d know that sweet voice anywhere. Good morning, Patsy.”

“Heya, Gwennie. This old coot bothering you?” Patsy Follett is in her mid-sixties and as cute as she is petite. Even in the stylish high-heeled boots she’s wearing, Patsy stands barely five feet tall. Her bobbed hair is dyed platinum and her make-up is, shall we say, plentiful.

“No, ma’am, we were just talking strategy for today’s meeting.” She looks at the congressman. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Jackson?”

The old man doesn’t respond. Just studies them from behind thick eyeglasses like they’re flying insects splattered against the windshield of his brand new Mercedes.

“Speaking of strategy,” Patsy says. “You still owe me a return call on that education budget, Milt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “I’ll have my secretary get back to you with a date.”

Gwendy glances down at the floor and notices a piece of toilet paper stuck to the heel of one of the old man’s loafers. She carefully reaches out with the tip of her shoe and nudges it free. Then, she slides the toilet paper against the wall so no one else will step on it.

“Or maybe you could just pick up the phone all by yourself and call me back later today,” Patsy says, arching her eyebrows.

Milton scowls and elbows his way toward the front of the crowd without so much as a goodbye.

Patsy watches him go and lets out a thin whistle. “Boy, that ugly mug of his is enough to make you want to skip breakfast. Maybe lunch, too.”

Gwendy’s eyes widen and she tries to hold back a giggle. “Be nice.”

“An impossibility, dear girl. I am cranky as a hornet today.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd and they finally start inching toward the entrance of the conference room.

“Guess it’s that time again,” Patsy says.

Gwendy puts out a hand, gesturing for her friend to go ahead of her. “What time is that?”

Patsy smiles, and her tiny, make-up–laden face lights up. “Time to fight the good fight, of course.”

Gwendy sighs and follows her friend inside.