“Well,” she said. “Yes.”
He looked at her, with an expression that made her uncomfortable, because she was not sure what his eyes held, and then he looked away.
Blaine was telling Marcia’s friend with the helmetlike hair, “We need to get over that myth. There was nothing Judeo-Christian about American history. Nobody liked Catholics and Jews. It’s Anglo-Protestant values, not Judeo-Christian values. Even Maryland very quickly stopped being so Catholic-friendly.” He stopped abruptly and brought his phone out of his pocket and got up. “Excuse me, folks,
” he said, and then in a lower voice to Ifemelu, “It’s Shan. I’ll be right back,” and walked into the kitchen to take the call.
Benny turned on the TV and they watched Barack Obama, a thin man in a black coat that looked a size too big, his demeanor slightly uncertain. As he spoke, puffs of cloudy steam left his mouth, like smoke, in the cold air. “And that is why, in the shadow of the Old State Capitol, where Lincoln once called on a divided house to stand together, where common hopes and common dreams still live, I stand before you today to announce my candidacy for president of the United States of America.”
“I can’t believe they’ve talked him into this. The guy has potential, but he needs to grow first. He needs some heft. He’ll ruin it for black people because he won’t come close and a black person won’t be able to run for the next fifty years in this country,” Grace said.
“He just makes me feel good!” Marcia said, laughing. “I love that, the idea of building a more hopeful America.”
“I think he stands a chance,” Benny said.
“Oh, he can’t win. They’d shoot his ass first,” Michael said.
“It’s so refreshing to see a politician who gets nuance,” Paula said.
“Yes,” Pee said. She had overly toned arms, thin and bulging with muscles, a pixie haircut and an air of intense anxiety; she was the sort of person whose love would suffocate. “He sounds so smart, so articulate.”
“You sound like my mother,” Paula said in the barbed tone of a private fight being continued, words meaning other things. “Why is it so remarkable that he’s articulate?”
“Are we hormonal, Pauly?” Marcia asked.
“She is!” Pee said. “Did you see she’s eaten all the fried chicken?”
Paula ignored Pee, and, as though in defiance, reached out to have another slice of pumpkin pie.
“What do you think of Obama, Ifemelu?” Marcia asked, and Ifemelu guessed that Benny or Grace had whispered her name in Marcia’s ear, and now Marcia was eager to unleash her new knowledge.
“I like Hillary Clinton,” Ifemelu said. “I don’t really know anything about this Obama guy.”
Blaine came back into the room. “What did I miss?”
“Shan okay?” Ifemelu asked. Blaine nodded.
“It doesn’t matter what anybody thinks of Obama. The real question is whether white people are ready for a black president,” Nathan said.
“I’m ready for a black president. But I don’t think the nation is,” Pee said.
“Seriously, have you been talking to my mom?” Paula asked her. “She said the same exact thing. If you’re ready for a black president, then who exactly is this vague country that isn’t ready? People say that when they can’t say that they are not ready. And even the idea of being ready is ridiculous.”
Ifemelu borrowed those words months later, in a blog post written during the final, frenzied lap of the presidential campaign: “Even the Idea of Being Ready Is Ridiculous.” Does nobody see how absurd it is to ask people if they are ready for a black president? Are you ready for Mickey Mouse to be president? How about Kermit the Frog? And Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?
“My family has impeccable liberal credentials, we’ve ticked all the right boxes,” Paula said, lips turned down in irony, twirling the stem of her empty wineglass. “But my parents were always quick to tell their friends that Blaine was at Yale. As if they were saying he’s one of the few good ones.”
“You’re being too hard on them, Pauly,” Blaine said.
“No, really, didn’t you think so?” she asked. “Remember that awful Thanksgiving at my parents’ house?”
“You mean how I wanted mac and cheese?”
Paula laughed. “No, that’s not what I mean.” But she did not say what she meant and so the memory was left unaired, wrapped in their shared privacy.
Back in Blaine’s apartment, Ifemelu told him, “I was jealous.”
It was jealousy, the twinge of unease, the unsettledness in her stomach. Paula had the air of a real ideologue; she could, Ifemelu imagined, slip easily into anarchy, stand at the forefront of protests, defying the clubs of policemen and the taunts of unbelievers. To sense this about Paula was to feel wanting, compared to her.