Deep breath in. I have someone sending me threatening letters, no money, nowhere to live, no job, nothing. Today was not the day to have a complete meltdown. I could do that later tonight. Where? In my room with the flipping door open so Roman could watch.
Deep breath out. That was a problem for later.
I opened the door and pasted on my best Malcolm-Jacob-Coben-III face. Here we go. It was just another day of hateful people who loved my father. Nothing new about that.
I gave Roman a smile and said, “Okay, we better get up there. Wouldn’t want to keep the Senator waiting.”
He looked at me like I was an alien or something, but said, “No, we sure wouldn’t.”
Roman
That was one of the strangest things I’d ever seen. I stood there as Trey talked to himself. At first, I thought he was praying. His father had been a preacher and was still an extremely religious man. But after watching him for a bit, I realized he wasn’t praying at all; he was practicing deep breathing techniques and giving himself…I don’t know, maybe a pep-talk?
Then he stepped out of the truck, and one-minute Trey Coben had been standing beside my truck, and then the next, it was Malcolm Coben III. It was really quite amazing. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone pretend to be something they weren’t, but it was the first time I’d seen it done like an actor entering costuming as himself and walking out as his character.
I followed him up the sidewalk to the back of the stage they had set up in the park. We had at least an hour before the rally began, and people had already arrived. Most wandered around with Coben Cares and Coben for Senate signs, waiting for things to get started. I’d viewed a few clips from some of the Senator’s previous rallies and he drew a loud crowd, but these people didn’t seem to line up with what I’d seen. “Where are all the ones with the other signs?” I asked.
“Oh, you mean the right-wing neo-Nazi hate groups? They aren’t here yet. But they’ll be here, trust me, they always are,” Trey said, snapping his mouth shut like he realized he’d said something he shouldn’t have. It appeared Malcolm Jacob Coben III wasn’t as supportive of his father’s politics as people thought. Interesting. If he’d slipped up like that before and someone thought he opposed the Senator, that could be what set our letter writer off.
“Anyway, the nice workers at my father’s local campaign office will have set up a table with snacks and drinks for the people helping with the rally, so if you need to grab something to eat to supplement that protein bar, I’m sure there are some muffins or fresh fruit available.”
“No, I’m good, but are you sure you don’t want anything?”
He shook his head. “Thanks, I may after this is over.”
More people arrived over the next hour, and sure enough, the hate groups were there in full force. We stood off to the side while the Senator talked with his advisers and went over his speech, which confused me. Trey had a master’s degree in political science and a minor in public policy. Shouldn’t he be over there advising and talking with the Senator? Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me. “Do you need to go over there to help your father prepare?”
“Who? Me?” he asked, releasing a wry chuckle. “Didn’t they tell you what my job is for my father’s campaign?”
“Malcolm, it’s time. I need you up on stage. Now,” his father interrupted.
“Coming,” he said, as he turned to follow his father. But I grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“No, they didn’t tell me what your job was. What is it?”
He reached up and straightened his tie. Then gave me that blinding fake smile. “To look good and keep my mouth shut. They pay me and everything.”
I stood off to the side monitoring the crowd for anyone who looked suspicious, but I couldn’t get his parting shot out of my head. To look good and keep my mouth shut. That left me wondering what he would say if he was allowed to talk. I kept glancing over at Trey making sure he was okay, and the more I watched, the surer I became that he wasn’t. Not because of the threat of any stalker, but just not okay. More than once, he reached like he was going to straighten his tie but stopped himself. He still wore that very same smile and looked absolutely perfect to anyone who hadn’t seen the real Trey Coben.
As we neared the end of the rally, the people with the more hateful signs had managed to push themselves closer to the front. His eyes moved from sign to sign. He let out a breath and lost his battle with the need to straighten his tie. The Senator called for questions, which I hoped meant we would be done soon. This had been going on for over an hour. One of the reporters tossed a question to Trey asking about environmental regulation, and he very politely deferred it to his father, saying he was more of an expert on that. Another reporter asked Trey if he planned to run for office. He said that he didn’t have any plans to do so, and right there in front of everyone, his father contradicted him and assured them that when the time was right, his son was prepared to follow in his footsteps.
I watched Trey’s face closely, and he didn’t even flinch. To look good and keep my mouth shut. Got it. The Senator thanked all the wonderful patriots for showing up to his rally—because sure, that’s what all those hate groups were, patriots—and started off the stage, but Trey didn’t come to where I stood. Instead, he rushed off the stage on the other side. I pushed through the crowd, following him. He moved around a brick building with a restroom sign on the side, and I lost sight of him. I took a chance that he’d gone in the men’s room and headed in there. I didn’t see anyone, but I heard a retching sound coming from the far stall. “Trey, is that you?”
“Yeah,” a weak voice replied. “I’ll be out in a second.”
A man entered the door, and I glared at him. “It’s occupied,” I growled.
“But I just need—”
“Find another bathroom. I said it’s occupied.” He turned and left. I grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall and wet it, waiting.
There was a flush from the stall, and the door opened. I handed him the towel. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his face. Then he stepped to the sink. And using his hands to catch the water, he rinsed out his mouth. “Sorry about running off, but I didn’t want to puke on camera. I can just imagine that on the front page of the paper.”
“Do you do this often?” I asked, fairly sure I already had the answer.
“After every public appearance. That’s why I skipped breakfast. I hate dry heaves, but they’re less messy.”
“Do you—” I started, but he stopped me.
“No, I do not have an eating disorder. My doctor calls it conditioned anxiety nausea. Kind of like Pavlov’s dogs. I hate making public appearances for my father. I make myself do it. In response, I throw up.”
“So, why do you do it?” I asked, and the fact that he said he hated making appearances for his father, not that he hated making public appearances in general, didn’t escape my notice.
“Have you met my father? Anyway. I should’ve warned you, but each time I convince myself that this time it won’t happen. The doctor says that is part of the problem. I’m so focused on not throwing up, I make myself anxious and throw up. It’s stupid.”