Kind of Kin by Rilla Askew Page A

down to the
Stockyards for dinner since she didn’t have to go to tonight’s reception, she’d
reluctantly agreed. She would have much preferred to eat at the little Italian
place near their apartment, but Charlie said it would be a good opportunity to
be seen in the afterglow of the six o’clock news. “Seen by whom?” she’d said.
“Anybody,” Charlie said. “Just folks.” She smiled no
thanks at the ancient waitress heading toward their booth with the
iced tea pitcher. The folksy history on the back of the menu said, “Cattlemen’s
Café opened its doors to hungry cowboys, ranchers, cattle haulers and the like
in 1910.” It appeared to Monica that their waitress had been on duty since day
one. Her fellow lawmakers were no doubt picking at cold chicken salad on stale
croissants at the moment. Forking up a dry chunk of iceberg from her salad bowl,
she muttered, “Langley’s probably strolling around the reception hall this
minute, gloating.”
    â€œHe’s probably strolling around wishing he had a
quarter of your press contacts and an eighth of your good looks. Pass the
butter, babe.”
    Tonight’s reception was being hosted by the Family
Planning Council, and Leadership had decided to make a statement by having her
and others on the Health and Human Services Committee bow out. It was
frustrating though, really. The press conference had gone so well. Kevin had
refused to permanently fix her color ( God, no! Six weeks
minimum, darling! It will kill your
texture! ), but she had pleaded piteously until he’d grudgingly
agreed, the little fascist, to shampoo in a temporary tawny rinse. She’d been
wearing her lovely new aqua Hugo Boss jacket, which looked fabulous on camera,
and she had only been stumped for one tiny second by one lousy question, a pushy
reporter from the Tulsa World wanting statistics
about the cost of defending against lawsuits. Fortunately that little exchange
hadn’t made it onto any of the news programs. Charlie had TiVoed all the local
stations, plus the Oklahoma News Report on OETA, and
the clips had been nothing less than stellar. Unfortunately she was going to
have to wait until tomorrow morning at the capitol to bask. “Shitting in high
cotton,” she murmured. “I’ll never cease to be amazed by these people.”
    â€œHow many times do I have to tell you not to say
‘these people.’ ”
    â€œI kept my voice down.”
    â€œBabe, you got to believe me: you never know who’s
tuned in.” Charlie reached across the table for her Texas toast. “You going to
eat this?”
    She shook her head, turned to survey the nearby
booths and tables crowded with businessmen in three-piece suits, ranchers in
string ties, young people on dates, middle-aged couples sharing dessert plates.
At the counter drinking coffee sat a handsome old gentleman in tooled boots,
black cowboy hat, floor-length leather duster. He caught her looking at him and
gave a solemn nod, touched two fingers to his hat brim. Was he somebody? She
couldn’t place him but he certainly looked well heeled. She dipped her head,
smiled warmly, as if she recognized him.
    â€œRepresentative Moorehouse?” A short, dumpy woman
stood at her elbow with a whining, squirming toddler in her arms. “I just wanted
to say how much we all appreciate what you’re doing. Those people hang around
the Home Depot parking lot on Shields every morning of the world waiting for
somebody to give them a job. It’s about time somebody did something. You’re not
my representative but I wish you were.”
    â€œThanks so much. It’s very kind of you.”
    â€œHave you thought about running for Congress?”
    Monica gave her practiced self-deprecating laugh.
“Right now I’ve got a big job to do for the people of the Eighteenth District.
That’s all I’m thinking about at the