No Safe Place (56 page)

“But where do you stand?” Bob Kerrey shot back. “That’s the question. What’s your answer?”

Kerry paused for a moment. “
Someone
should have the courage of your convictions, Dick. I’d veto the bill and tell the American people why. Because it’s both homophobic
and
unnecessary—”

Frank Wells leaned forward—taut, unable to restrain himself. “
I
know that, Kerry. We
all
do, in this room. But Joe Six-pack thinks ‘the gays’ are out to turn his son the quarterback into a cross-dresser. Even if you win this primary, the GOP kills you with this in the general election. There’s a difference between moral leadership and driving off a cliff—”

“So now
I’m
Dick Mason,” Kerry said, and hooked a thumb toward Senator Kerrey. “I thought
Bob
was Dick.”

The former senator from Nebraska, knowing his ex-colleague well, did not smile. Kerry’s gaze at Frank was cool, and to Clayton, his tone had the strained patience Kerry used when reining in his temper.

“Let’s take a break,” Clayton said.

By the tacit conspiracy of everyone in the room, Kerry knew, he was being given a few minutes’ reprieve, to keep from becoming too frayed. But it did not surprise him when Kit, her expression tentative, approached him. Kneeling by the chair, she murmured, “Frank’s right, you know. With all respect. And appreciation.”

Tilting his head, Kerry looked at her with genuine affection. Kit did not have to mention the ironic subtext of her advice—
the moment two days before the crucial Florida primary, when Kit had approached him in the campaign plane and requested a seventy-two-hour leave of absence.

Her timing could not have been worse. Kerry had lost the early primaries and was trailing here. Everyone agreed that another loss would end his hopes: to Kerry, the mere question had felt like a betrayal.

“Why?” was all he could say. “Getting your résumé out?”

She glanced around the plane, then summoned the nerve to look at him again, quite steadily. “It’s personal.”

Kerry said nothing. His silence, he knew, spoke for him.

Her own gaze flickered. Quietly, she said, “I have a partner. There’s been a bad diagnosis, and now there’s going to be surgery.”

It took Kerry a moment to understand; that Kit had a personal life was something that, in his preoccupation, he had never considered. “Partner,” he finally answered. “As in ‘domestic.’”

“Yes.” Kit’s voice was hushed, almost choked. “She’s having a mastectomy, Kerry. It’s a surprise—to me, and to Bev. We just found out this morning.”

Beneath her professional air, Kit was, Kerry saw, quite bereft, made even more vulnerable by her admission of something that—even now—might make her a political pariah to candidates who feared a backlash. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course, go. Come back when you can.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, eyes briefly closing in relief. When they opened again, she asked with hesitance, “You didn’t know, did you?”

“No.” Kerry smiled faintly. “About things like this, I’m usually the last to know. I hope it’s because I don’t give a damn.”

Kit smiled as well. But her eyes held both sadness and appreciation. “I
always
knew,” she answered. “And I always knew it was a problem.”

“Not to me,” Kerry answered.

On the day of the operation, Kerry had managed to find out where Bev was, and send her flowers. It was the day of the Florida primary …

Now, in California, he and Kit were in the last days of the last primary, trying to win it all.

“Well,” Kerry told her dryly, “the Pilgrims came here nearly
four hundred years ago so we’d never have to talk about sex again. It’s a great tradition, sure.”

“And still alive.” Kit’s face was serious. “When it comes to job discrimination, people are getting better. But there’s still a lot of fear about adoption, or gays in the military, or Social Security benefits. And gay ‘marriage’ terrifies them even more. I
know
that—whatever I might wish for.”

For a moment, Kerry looked around them—first at the “soundstage,” then at the gaggle of handlers. “You know what Dick Mason is,” he said at last. “He’s the symbol of a whole generation of politicians who are so handled, so removed from what got them started, that they no longer have an idea of their own. Every issue seems equally important, and equally fatal to their chances to survive.” His voice softened. “Some of the people here forget—if they ever knew—that I’ve been around politics since I was ten. Every senator and congressperson who voted against the Defense of Marriage Act was reelected. Plus, five percent of the Democratic voters in this state are self-identified as gay, and their lobbies are loyal and hardworking. There are times when telling the truth is merely brave, Kit—not suicidal. And bravery is something people respect.”

Kit’s silent gaze was complex: relief that Kerry, the practical politician, had thought the matter through; worry that her candidate, so vulnerable because of Lara, was too inclined to risk-taking. She touched his sleeve.

“Still,” she said, “tread lightly.”

Nodding, Kerry braced himself for another three hours of debate and second-guessing—the anxiety of others, added to his own.

“We had a visitor yesterday,” Jane Booth said long distance. “Nat Schlesinger.”

“Surprise.” In his hotel room, Nate Cutler sat tethered to his telephone, wishing that he could pace. “Let me guess: The process of invading the private lives of public figures has gone too far. There’s too much gossip, no accountability, and we run in packs. We’re changing the face of politics, and unless we act responsibly, we’ll change the face of this campaign by recycling scurrilous gossip planted by the Republicans, or Mason. Is that about it?”

“Yes,” Jane answered crisply. “You almost sound like you believe it. And it seems to have made an impression on our distinguished publisher.”

“Oh.”

“He wants us to be sure we ‘have the goods.’” Her voice held bitter irony. “Why do they let him go to bad movies about reporters? It’s enough he owns a magazine.”

Nate felt renewed tension—from the threat to their story and from his own ambivalence. If he understood what Lara had told him at dinner, between the lines, Kerry Kilcannon had not wanted an abortion. “So how do the great man’s scruples affect
us
?” Nate asked.

“They don’t—if the story’s good. In the end, our leader wants to be one of us. Just as long as he doesn’t get
paid
like us.” Her tone became businesslike. “We’re trying to get ahold of Kilcannon’s phone records, track down every dinner they ever had, every sighting at funny hours. Everything we find, I’ll fax you by tomorrow morning at six. So you have it when you meet with him.”

“And then?”

“If
she
lies, Nate, that’s one thing. But if he lies about stuff like this, it goes to the integrity of a candidate for President.”

Once more, Nate thought uncomfortably of dinner, his veiled confrontation with Lara. “What if he refuses to answer?”

“At some point, that becomes a story too. If the details start to pile up, calling us sleazebags isn’t going to keep this out of print.” Booth paused a moment. “We’re not through with
her
, either. What do you think she’ll do if we say, ‘Either you answer our questions, in detail, or we’re going to NBC with what we have’?”

Despite himself, Nate felt a chill. “Laugh in our face, for one thing. Because we’d be giving up our exclusive, and she knows it.”

“Tell me,” Jane said evenly, “do
you
think Costello warned him?”

Nate considered the evidence. “Kit was pretty subtle,” he answered. “And so was Kilcannon’s disappearing act. But yes, probably.”

“Then maybe he’s
seeing
her, Nate. Have you considered that?”

“No way,” Nate promptly responded. “Far too big a risk, unless it was passed off as an interview. And then she’d need to have something to show for it.”

“What about late at night?”

“No.” Nate spoke more slowly now. “If nothing else, because of me.”

There was a long silence. “Start watching her,” Jane ordered. “Especially at night. You can always sleep on the plane.”

An hour before the debate, Clayton and Kerry waited alone in a hotel suite, Clayton in his suit, Kerry lying on the couch in blue jeans and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. Clayton could feel his friend’s anxiety.

“Go get him, champ,” he said dryly. “I’m behind you, all the way.”

Kerry examined the ceiling. “Any other helpful remarks?”

“Yeah. If he starts to win, bite his ear.” Watching Kerry, Clayton spoke more softly. “Seriously?”

“Of course seriously.” Raising his head, Kerry turned. “This is pretty much it for us, pal.”

Clayton folded his hands across his stomach. “Just a few things. Like stay calm, within yourself, no matter what Dick says or does. Remember that abortion isn’t just about Lara. Any more than gay rights is about Kit, or race in America about me.”

Kerry’s eyes became hooded. “Or wife beating just about my mother?”

Clayton studied his face. “We can kill him with it, Kerry. We’ve got the court documents. And you know, and I know, that Dick’s behind the leak to Cutler.”

“I
don’t
know that, Clayton.” Kerry looked up at his friend.

“And Dick had twenty years to smack Jeannie around again, but there’s nothing to suggest he ever did. How I wish my father could have changed like that.” When Clayton did not answer, he finished, “Has running for President changed
me
so much that I use this?”

“It’s a question of
how
you use it, Kerry. I’m not saying feed it to the tabloids—yet.”

Kerry rubbed his temples—the sign, Clayton knew, of the headaches he sometimes got when his energy reached bottom. “Before we leave,” Clayton admonished, “eat a candy bar.”

Kerry gave no sign of hearing. “My mother called,” he finally said. “Three days ago, after the abortion clinic shooting came up, and I got myself in trouble by using the dread word ‘life.’ Do you know what she asked me? Whether I wanted her to tell the press how I saved
her
life by beating up the old man.”

Beneath his quiet words, there was an undertone of wonderment, of pain. “And you said no,” Clayton responded.

“Of course, and as gently as I could. But what have we come to that even
she
knows to ask the question?” Kerry lay back again. “Oh, she also feels guilty about how I grew up, and wants to make it up to me. But it’s too late for that, and not the right place.”

Clayton’s tone, though muted, was hard. “And Jeannie’s not your mother. She’s the wife of a man who’s trampling on someone else you loved—and, I think, still do. You owe no debts there, except to Lara. And yourself.” Pausing, Clayton asked, “What happens when, in the middle of this debate, you suddenly realize that it
was
Dick all along? What do you do then?”

Kerry was silent a moment. Then he turned to Clayton again. “Go ahead,” he answered. “I’m listening.”

In the press bus to the studio, Lara checked her watch.

Forty minutes to go. Two rows down and across the aisle, Nate Cutler sat with Lee McAlpine. In profile, he looked tense, ascetic, preoccupied, like a cloistered monk desperate for salvation. She devoutly hoped that what he was inflicting on her, and on Kerry, was exacting its price from Nate himself. Next to her, Rich Powell asked, “Taking bets?” She turned to him.
“Not on this, Rich. All I think is it won’t
be dull. Mason didn’t want these rules for nothing—he’s going after Kilcannon with all he’s got.”

Rich frowned. “But what would it be?” he asked.

Surrounded by the Secret Service, Kerry and Clayton arrived at the studio.

It was like all TV studios, Clayton thought, cheap, sterile, and brightly lit, smaller than it appeared on-screen. The audience—Asian, Latino, white, African American, men and women, young and old—was a carefully selected cross-section of Los Angeles. The moderator, a longtime anchorman in the city, was talking with Dick and Jeannie Mason and, of course, their blond-haired children. They were three young adults, really—two boys with a girl in between—all seemingly quite stable, normal, and at ease with both their mother and their father. In itself, Clayton knew, this might give Kerry pause about using what he knew. As Kerry shook hands with the Mason kids, Clayton could sourly imagine the photographs in tomorrow’s
L.A. Times
—the lone candidate versus America’s next First Family.

To Clayton, these moments were another hollow ritual of politics: the candidates making idle chat, pretending that this was their idea of fun, that they were not so gripped by tension that each body part felt screwed on too tight, that they had not come here, figuratively, to cut each other’s throats.
Oh, well,
Clayton thought, and headed for Mason’s campaign manager, Bill Finnerty, ready to fulfill his role in the charade.

A shambling white-haired Irishman from the Boston school of bare-knuckle politics, Finnerty stood behind Jeannie Mason. As Clayton approached, Jeannie gave Kerry a brief hug and kiss. With a sheepish grin and a roll of her eyes, she murmured, “God, it’s all so phony, isn’t it? Reminds me of sorority rush.”

No wonder, Clayton thought, that Kerry liked her. With a genuine smile, Kerry answered, “It’s not too late for the two of us. We can just drop out and leave Dick to his own devices.”

Jeannie smiled back. “Tempting, Kerry. But I’ve sort of gotten used to him. As bad as this can be.” Her expression turned serious. “Good luck, though. As far as I’m concerned, the country could do worse than either one of you. Deep down, Dick thinks so, too.”

Was this just a graceful remark, Clayton wondered as he passed them, or a subtle suggestion that Kerry might yet be her husband’s choice for Vice President? It could be either; whatever else Jeannie Mason was, she was a clever woman, a full partner in her husband’s career. But Clayton already knew Kerry’s answer—the presidency or nothing.

“Hello, Bill,” Clayton said, shaking Finnerty’s hand. “How’s tricks?”

Above his thin smile, Finnerty gave Clayton a quick, speculative glance. “Just dandy. Your man ready?”