The Immigrant’s Daughter by Howard Fast Page B

Another part of her mind said, Illegals. No votes there.
    â€œI suppose,” she said to herself, “that’s what Tony Moretti would call thinking politically.”
    That evening, Barbara called her son and told him about the old woman and her teeth.
    â€œIt’s a tricky business,” Sam said. “As an illegal, she could run into trouble, and I don’t think there’s any program that fits her.”
    â€œThere must be.”
    â€œIs she a voter, Mom? No, that’s a dumb question. If she’s an illegal, she’s not a voter, and I don’t know why you’re knocking yourself out. Anyway, I’m all for you making this race, so don’t feel I’m making snotty remarks about voters. It just crossed my mind, and I love you, and I think you’ll walk all over this Holt character.”
    â€œThank you, Sam.” She put down the telephone, thinking that Sam was one of the most sensitive and caring persons she had ever known — yet he could treat his mother as if she were a rather superior idiot and had treated his wife as if she did not exist. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, Barbara had become much closer to Carla since the divorce. The day Barbara’s candidacy was announced in the press, Carla had called and begged to be allowed to help. “Barbara, I need this kind of thing. I can talk to Chicanos. I swear I’ll bring you a thousand votes!”
    Barbara had accepted on condition that she pay Carla a salary. Carla had refused alimony or a cash settlement of any kind from Sam, and she had found a job selling cosmetics at Macy’s in San Francisco. That was until: all the jobs Carla had held were until something turned up in the theater. The reviews of her work in Ford’s ‘ Tis Pity She’s a Whore were excellent, but after six weeks the play had closed and the reviews faded from everyone’s memory. Now Carla dumped the job at Macy’s without a tear.
    Freddie did almost the same thing. He turned up at the house on Green Street two days after Barbara’s public announcement and informed her that he had worked out with his stepfather, Adam Levy, a leave of absence to extend until the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November. It was then the third week in August, which meant that he would be away from the winery for more than two months.
    â€œBut you’re running the winery now,” Barbara protested.
    â€œNo, oh, no. I try to give that impression, just as Pop tries to give the impression that he runs it, but the truth is that Grandma Clair runs the works. She always did, you know, even though Grandpa Jake established the image of the tough old man in charge. Well, sure he was in charge, but every important decision was made with Grandma. Pop can get along without me for two months, and if he needs me, I can run out there. On the other hand, your campaign needs a manager.”
    â€œAnd you’re that?” Barbara asked, smiling.
    â€œBetter than anything you can hire for the money.”
    â€œAnd how much is that?”
    â€œPay me a dollar a week,” Freddie said.
    â€œOh, no. You work for me, you work for pay.”
    Freddie shrugged. “All right, if that’s the way you want it. Thing is, you need me. You need someone who is cold and calculating and not taken in by the bullshit that thickens the blood of politicians.”
    â€œFreddie, why do you hate them so?”
    â€œLook around you.”
    â€œBut it can be changed. Believe me, it can be changed. If I didn’t think it could be changed, I couldn’t go on living. You came to your manhood in the sixties and there was some hope then, and I suppose you feel that there’s none left now, none at all.”
    â€œOnly one hope, Aunt Barbara — that we’re not all blown to hell and gone by their bombs. Anyway” — he took out his wallet — “here are the first campaign contributions, the