Gwendy’s Final Task

“If Gwendy Peterson is such a true believer of the good things in this state and country—as she so often claims—then why hasn’t she bothered to bring new life into it? Too busy writing smut and jet-setting around the world?”

As recently as a decade ago, such a despicable ad would have torpedoed any chance of Paul Magowan holding onto his Senate seat. But this was a brave new world, populated by a brand new breed of seemingly shameless GOP candidates.

When Gwendy’s father saw the commercial for the first time during Game Three of the American League Divisional series, he became so enraged he climbed out a first-floor window at the nursing home and tried to call a taxi to pick him up. When one of the counselors escorted him back inside a short time later and asked where he had planned to go, Mr. Peterson responded, “To Magowan’s campaign headquarters to whup his fat ass.”

Gwendy reacted much more diplomatically, at least in pubic, largely because, at the age of 58, she’d already had years to come to terms with the reality of the situation. She’d always adored children and wanted kids of her own one day, even before she’d met Ryan and fallen in love. For years after they were married, they tried with no success. It was the fault of neither. They visited the right doctors and took the right tests, and the results always came back the same: Gwendy Peterson and Ryan Brown were two immensely healthy human beings and according to the rules of medical science, perfectly capable of producing healthy children. But for some reason, despite all the trying—and they tried a lot during those early years—it never happened.

There was a time, not long after the final artificial insemination attempt proved unsuccessful, that Gwendy, alone in the silence of her bedroom, broke down and allowed the tidal wave of grief and anger to crash over her. She’d kicked and screamed and thrown things. Later, after the crying stopped and she’d cleaned up the mess, she called her mother to share the sad news. Mrs. Peterson told her what she always told her: “God works in mysterious ways, Gwendy. I don’t understand why this is happening any more than you do, but we have to put our faith in the Lord’s hands.” And then she added, “I’m so sorry, honey. If anyone in this world deserves to be parents, it’s you and Ryan.”

Gwendy thanked her mom and hung up the telephone. She walked to the bedroom window overlooking the front yard and street below, and watched as a young curly-haired boy pedaled a bright yellow bicycle past their house. She watched until he disappeared around the corner.

“I understand why this is happening,” she said to the empty house around her. “I think I always have and just didn’t want to admit it. It’s because of the button box. I was only a stupid kid, but I took and I took and I took. And now it’s the box’s turn.”

In October 2020, with mail-in voting underway and physical voting sites opening their doors in just under three weeks, Gwendy Peterson and Paul Magowan met at the Bangor Civic Center for a long-anticipated televised debate. For ninety minutes, the incumbent Senator was rude, arrogant, and condescending, the same behavior that had gotten him elected just four years earlier. His challenger was humble, well spoken, and polite. Except for one fleeting moment in her closing remarks, when she turned to face her opponent and said, “And as for my late husband, you sir, may try your very best to disparage his good name and reputation, but you know and I know and every person sitting in this auditorium and watching from home on television knows, that you, Senator Magowan, are not enough of a man to shine Ryan Brown’s shoes or wash the sweat out of his dirty jock strap.”

The majority of the audience in attendance roared their approval and rewarded Gwendy with a standing ovation as she walked off the debate stage. When the new poll numbers came out early the next morning, Magowan’s lead had shrunk to a paltry three points.

But even with such impressive results, Gwendy knew it would take a miracle to overcome a three percent deficit in as many weeks. There were no more debates on the docket, and after the public drubbing he’d taken, little chance that Magowan would agree to add one. Word on the street was that he planned to lay low for the rest of the campaign and lick his wounds until election night when he would resurface and take the stage to accept a surprisingly narrow victory. Gwendy had events planned for every day leading up to the election—sometimes two or three in the same twelve hour block—but even taken as a whole, she knew it wasn’t enough to move the needle three percentage points. They were simply running out of time.