John Paul, from TV

Two weeks before election day in Columbus, Ohio, everybody already knew that John Paul Anderson would win. After all, abortion had become a swing issue and his challenger was saying all the wrong things. Furthermore, several key precincts were majority Black, so it was simple demographics. Perhaps a select few people even knew about the internal scandal brewing in his opponent’s camp, which threatened to topple the nascent campaign and all but gift wrap the seat for John Paul. The actual voting promised to be little more than a display of civic tradition, so assured was the incumbent’s victory. All over the city, people were certain that whatever unseen twists the future held for them, John Paul would encounter no such bumps in the road.

Deborah was not like these people. She knew who would win the election the same way she knew that she was out of breath when she climbed to the top of the stairs. The knowledge was a persistent whine in the back of her brain. Just there, waiting. Something she could avoid for a while, or with luck, for a little longer. One morning she woke up old, too old for a house with a second floor. She didn’t need to think about, she didn’t need to check on it, it just broke through and she knew she had known for a while.

Deborah knew big, TV things. More accurately, she knew what would be on Channel 5 News before they reported it. Since Channel 5 had standards and told the truth, unlike those crooks on Channel 8, this was as good as seeing the future. Like the Fates, she was a remarkable crone that saw life’s grand design, yet she was always forgotten by the youthful hero unless he needed something. Unlike the Fates, she was one instead of three, which was lonelier.

And while her visions were limited to a particular cable broadcast, she was arguably more talented than those thread-snipping witches, as she was an accomplished knitter. Like most days, Deborah was working on her latest project, sitting cross-legged in a wicker papasan chair that was much too firm, Channel 5 segments parading by in the background. Her ancient cocker spaniel, Griselda, lay dutifully beneath the chair, only raising her head to growl softly when a fluff piece featured footage of another dog.

“Hush, now,” Deborah said, “you’re supposed to be resting.”

She offered the dog a heaping spoonful of chunky peanut butter from the jar she kept on the footstool for these very occasions. Deborah preferred smooth peanut butter, but Griselda was a chunky girl so there was really no question of which to buy at the supermarket.

Had someone thought to ask, Deborah could have told them that in just two short weeks, John Paul Anderson would wake up to a rude and unexpected surprise. But no one called on Deborah, so she spent the day working on a sweater for her granddaughter instead. Woolly and variegated, the sweater was bright with splendid oranges, yellows, and reds, the color of plums stewed soft and sweet. Knowing bad news early is a key without a lock, a privilege that offers no advantage.

Channel 5 cut away from the dachshund that could ride a skateboard to return to election coverage. Apparently, the candidates were attending the State Fair today, eager to impress voters with their everyman charm. Watching John Paul, it was hard to believe that he was already doomed. He walked with an easygoing sway, drifting between booths and passersby, squeezing in a quick word or a light touch wherever required. Clean-shaven, with light brown hair cropped short and an expensive suit that wasn’t too expensive, he was a chameleon that could effortlessly pass as eager, composed, personable, or principled as an audience demanded. Deborah liked when he sometimes paused in the middle of an answer and you could just barely make out a flash of mischief behind his wolfish smile. It reminded her of her granddaughter, who like many girls her age, excelled in low-stakes duplicity. He was comfortable, he was fun, and in two weeks, he would be unemployed.

The phone rang. Three shrill rattles before Deborah set down her needles and muted the TV.

“Hi, Ma,” a male voice said. “Do you need a ride to go vote tomorrow?”

In the background, the TV glowed blue with promises of someplace else. Deborah tried to make out the chyron flitting across the screen. EARLY VOTING RETURNS SUGGEST HIGH TURNOUT, ANDERSON SURGING…

“You know I don’t vote.”

“But this one is important, Ma. He doesn’t believe in democracy, Ma. He doesn’t care about your rights. You need to do your part to help secure your granddaughter’s future, Ma,” he blustered.

She knew it was important to do her part in securing her granddaughter’s future. That’s why she was knitting her a sweater.

“Don’t call me if you all you want to do is talk politics.”

“Oh, don’t be like that Ma.”

Deborah waited, hoping not to reopen old arguments, but the line stayed silent. ANDERSON GAINS KEY ENDORSEMENTS AHEAD OF VOTING DAY…ANDERSON: “WE’RE PROUD OF OUR RECORD”…MODERATE RAINFALL AND WINDS IN EXCESS OF 30MPH FORECAST FOR EARLY AM…

Finally, she heard a sigh rise above the white noise feedback that always crackled on the aging landline.

“So how are you doing, Ma?”

“Oh, you know. Getting along. But the doctor says my osteoparalysis is getting worse.”

“Uh huh. Taking care of yourself, right?”

“Doing what I can. I know you’re busy though, I won’t keep you. Give the little one a kiss from grandma, you can tell her I’ll have a surprise for her next time she visits.”

Once she started talking, Deborah felt as if she couldn’t stop. Glop on the sweetness and retreat to her papasan.

“Alright, we will see you soon Ma. But think about it, OK? I don’t need a lot of notice if you decide maybe you do want to try voting this time.”

The next two weeks passed in a laborious crawl, but you wouldn’t know it from listening to the breathless newscasters. Political developments came by the bucketful. First, John Paul Anderson flubbed the debate, only to get caught making unsavory comments on a hot mic the very next day. Then just six days before the election, the scandal dogging his challenger entered the public eye, promising an even bigger shake-up to the race. Polling narrowed rapidly, then widened again, while nightly anchors gesticulated and editorials pontificated about the role of democracy in an evolving world.

Less changed in real life. Deborah kept knitting her granddaughter’s sweater while she listened to Channel 5. When Griselda barked, Deborah fed her a spoonful of chunky peanut butter. Deborah continued to plan her day around the stairs; down once in the morning and up once at night to reach her bedroom, making all other business on the second floor reserved for dawn and dusk. Her phone rang once, but it was a wrong number.

Nevertheless, election night did eventually come. Lacking Deborah’s gift, Channel 5 had prepared hours of coverage intended to capitalize on the sense of anticipation that came with a suddenly unpredictable contest. Voting statistics whirred by while talking heads declared absolute victory for whichever candidate currently held a lead. Everyone who appeared on-screen, however briefly, flirted with the possibility of definitively calling the race, teasing viewers with its closeness.

Deborah exhaled and smiled thinly as she guided her needles through the last stitch. She held up the sweater to the light, hoping to see some deeper truth buried in the fibers, something that connected more cleanly with happiness than just knowing. As it happened, she did see something.

“Griselda,” she said, “I think it needs a matching hat.”