Primary Colors (36 page)

"It's my fault," he said.

What? Richard and I sat down on the lime-green couch. I thought of all the meetings we'd had in this curious, impersonal room, most of them horrible, but none quite so numb and weird as this. It was possible, I realized, that he wasn't yet aware that Amalee had come to visit Susan. In fact, it wouldn't be at all surprising. It would be very much in keeping with the mysterious emotional concavity of their bond: the most blatant transgressions often had to be ignored.

"Dammit," he said, slamming a fist down. "I was so prideful. Henry, you heard me yesterday. I was so smug with him--I could have treated him with more respect. But I was going for the kill. I wanted to humiliate him. You heard that in my voice, didn't you? I didn't need to take it that far. We were going to whip his butt anyway--I could've been gracious, y'know? It would have been smarter. We were going to need him down the road. He's a smart guy--and he was right on the damn issues--you know that, right?"

"But he was a pompous sonofabitch," Richard said, "and he rubbed your nose in it."

I was relieved that we were on this crisis and not the other. Stanton stood, still holding the tie in his left hand. "Yeah, and I rubbed his nose in it right back--but that's not how you win the big ones. You have to be big to win the big ones, and I played it like a flicking county commissioner. Dammit, I wish for once I could just get a clear shot--y'know? This was gonna be it. Tonight. So what do we--no, I know what we do. We take it down until we know more about him." "Take it down?" I asked.

"I tried to reach her at the hospital," he said, moving on, "but she hasn't returned my . . . Can't blame her, canya?"

"What about Paul Shaplen, or Picker?" I asked.

"You want to try?" he asked.

So I tried. I reached Shaplen about four in the afternoon, just before we got on the plane to Chicago. "The governor's really ripped up over this," I said. "He wants to convey his sympathy to Mrs. Harris." "Fuck him."

"C'mon now, Paul."

"C'mon now yourself, asshole. You think she's got any fucking thing to say to the prick who put her husband on life support?"

"On life support?"

"Fuck you, Burton. Some people'll rent out their pigment to any old piece of shit that comes along."

He was magnificent that night. He had me go out, kill the music, calm the crowd. I don't remember what I said, but they were stone quiet when he came out with Susan. Both of them looked awful. All the networks, I later learned, broke into their schedule to broadcast this moment.

"This is a night for prayer, not politics," Jack Stanton said. "We stand here humbled by fate, mindful of God's power, but we must also keep in mind His grace. Tonight our thoughts and prayers are with Lawrence Harris, and Martha, and their children. We have been competitors this season and sometimes spoke in anger, but always from a base of genuine respect. I think the people of Florida, and throughout the South, will understand if I forgo thanking them for their support this night, forgo any talk of victory or defeat, and ask them to join us in a moment of silent prayer."

He kept his head down for considerably more than a moment. When he lifted it, a tear had slid halfway down his left cheek. He wiped it and said, "I am canceling all campaign events until further notice. I hope you understand. And I hope God, in His infinite wisdom, will soothe and heal and bring comfort to Lawrence Harris and his family"

There was a scattering of applause, but Jack Stanton stopped it by putting his hands out, palms down, then raising his right index finger to his lips, "Shhh," he said. "Not now."

I was on the phone with Daisy about midnight.

"I wish I was there with you," she said.

"I wish you were, too. I feel just, I don't know. It's like this whole thing just went off a cliff. We're still in midair, falling."

"Imagine what it would've been like if we lost," she said. "What do you think happens now?"

"I have no idea," I said. "I'm stumped."

There was a knock at the door. "Someone's at the door," I said. "It's probably bins. I better go. I'll call you later."

"If it's bins, it may be a lot later," she said.

But it wasn't him. It was her. She stood there in the doorway, in bare feet, seeming smaller than usual. She was still wearing the plain navy blue dress and Chanel scarf she'd worn on the podium. "Well, aren't you going to invite me in?" she asked, curtly.

"Of course."

She walked in. I closed the door.

"You sonofabitch," she said, and slapped use across the face. "You cruel, heartless sonofabitch. Amniocentesis?" She slapped me again. "You motherfucker." She shuddered and suddenly wailed, "Ohhhhhhhhh," and began to sob. She was shuddering and sobbing and she leaned into me, her hands tucked onto my chest, separating us slightly, her head on my left shoulder. I put an urns tentatively around her, patting her back. She lifted her face, mascara-streaked and uncertain, needy for once. She moved her hands out, away, and put her lips on mine. Then she opened her mouth, and I had a decision to make. Oh, shit.

Chapter
VII

Governor Stanton," Don O'Brien asked in his thick, caramel voice. "Can I offer you a Harp?"

"A Diet Coke," Stanton said, "if you've got any."

I was back at the beginning of time. Senator O'Brien raised himself-massive, ursine-from behind his walnut-and-brass desk and went to the doorless closet where he kept the small refrigerator. The little office was dark and denlike. There were soft lights, heavy gold curtains, no views. O'Brien, uncomfortable in large and light spaces, had given his formal office over to staff and hidden himself in a sup- port room beyond. There was the desk, which took up about a third of the room; Stanton and I sat in two chairs facing the desk; Dot' Mandelbaum, the senator's young strategist-my former counterpart-sat behind us on the small sofa along the back wall. On the walls were photos of Don O'Brien with every president since Eisenhower, and three others: a laminated cover of Tittle magazine from sometime in the early seventies, featuring a Don O'Brien who looked very much as he did today-white hair, huge red face, bulbous nose and thick lips, but with longer sideburns, his one concession to that inelegant moment in time. There was also a photo of Senator O'Brien-the son of a Southie garbage hauler-receiving his honorary degree from "the Hahvihds." And dominating the room, abov
e t
he sofa where Dov sat, was a portrait of the senator's deceased wife, Fiona, smiling, head tilted slightly, an overpowering kindness emanating from her eyes. Don O'Brien spent every day staring directly at that portrait.

"So what can I do for you, Governor Stanton?" Donny asked, returning to his seat with a Diet Coke for Stanton and a cup of tea for himself.

"I want to ask you for your support."

Don O'Brien threw back his head and roared appreciatively. It was a reference to the senator's favorite political story-how he'd come home from his first, losing congressional campaign and thanked his neighbor Mrs. Aggie Murphy for her support and she'd said, "But, Donny, I didn't vote for you." O'Brien, crushed, reminded her that he'd gone to the store for her and shoveled her walk free of charge for twenty years, so why on earth wouldn't she vote for him? "Because you didn't ask," she said (or so he claimed).

Stanton, of course, realized that O'Brien's support would not be forthcoming that day. Dov and I had negotiated the logistics of this meeting carefully. There would be no statement of support, no photo op. But Donny had agreed to meet with us, which seemed a victory. It meant that Larkin would have to meet with us as well-which was, I was certain, Donny's primary motive: he lived for Lark's discomfort. "Jack, I've been watching you," O'Brien now said, warmly, "and you puzzle me. I watch you on Sunday nights, on C-SPAN-Road to the White House-it's taken the place of Ed Sullivan in my life. It's quite amazing: they'll show you, or Larry or Bart or that pipsqueak Charlie Martin, just shaking hands for a half hour. Can you imagine? Who'd ever want to watch such a thing? Except for the likes of us, of course. So we have our own private network now." He smiled, shaking his head, looking up at Fiona. "Only not so private. Not much we can get away with in private anymore, huh, Jack?"

O'Brien sipped his tea, leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Anyway, here's what puzzles me about you: You are very good at this. That is abundantly clear. The thing that makes you so good is, you really do like them-the folks-don't you? You seem to enjoy yourself with them. That's important-they'll cut you some slack if they think you like them. You give a nice speech, too. But I have never seen
a p
olitician carry so much trouble around with him. You're like that cartoon character-what's his name, Dov?"

"Pigpen."

O'Brien chuckled. "Pigpen. A permanent cloud of dirt follows him around. It worries me, Jack. A cloud like that doesn't happen by accident. I know, this latest thing-Larry's coronary-isn't really your fault, though the way they keep playing that Izzy Whatchamacallit tape on the news, over and over, doesn't help any. And I know that it's not the way it used to be-everyone gets taken apart these days. We all suffer. They have an eighteen-minute report on Eye-to-Eye, or whatever they call that show, about me, playing golf in the Bahamas with the insurance industry-it doesn't look good. So there's no such thing as security anymore. No more safe seats. It's hard for us to legislate confidently if we're all walking on tiptoe, if you know what I mean. Everyone feels the heat. But what I wonder about you is, do you need the heat? Are you one of those boyos who like danger-a skydiver?-or . . ."

Stanton started to respond, but stopped-intelligently-realizing there was nothing to be said here. "The other Jack-Kennedy-he was like that," O'Brien continued. "A perfect skydiver. He was like one of those Greek heroes who forgets he isn't a god. He was a Mick who forgot he wasn't a WASP. It's okay for the gods to live dangerously. They can come down, rape and pillage, run off with our daughters, turn our sons into sparrows. But if a man mistakes himself for a god, they will find a way to humiliate you. They will have their revenge. Discipline is how we show them reverence. But youjack, seem to enjoy tempting them."

"I've made mistakes," Stanton said.

"Perhaps one too many," O'Brien said.

"Perhaps," the governor said. "But I've learned from them. And I've survived. You may not be thrilled by it-but I'm still here, and I'm not going away. If someone wants this nomination, they will have to come in and take it from me."

"A big if," O'Brien said. "You've driven the stock down, unfortunately. There may be no takers. Not from here, anyway. Larkin-I can tell you what he's thinking. He has made his calculations. It's too late for him to get into many of the primaries-a couple, maybe."

"California," Dov said.

"He won't come in just for California," O'Brien said. "He is a cautious man-right, Henry? He'd want to test his act on a smaller stage first. He likes sure things. Henry used to be his balls." He looked over at me, curious. "This fellow doesn't need those," he said, nodding at Stanton. "So what are you giving him? You loaning him your conscience, Henry?"

Stanton shifted in his seat but stayed calm. "You know, Jack, I don't know if William Larkin would take the nomination if we handed it to him at this point," O'Brien said. "The president is likely to be reelected, whoever runs against him. That would leave Bill looking to be a university president next December. Lousy work. More fundraising than here, and you don't get to cut deals." O'Brien looked for a laugh; Stanton obliged with a chuckle. Donny wrinkled his brow, tossed a dismissive hand. "No, the Lark won't take that chance. He's been here--how long, Henry? Twenty years. Made an elegant move to the leadership-took you by surprise, didn't it?" he said, to me again. "Anyway, we've all been living with Republican presidents for a long time--some real stinkers, too. Another four years of it won't kill us. But we don't want to be embarrassed, either, if you know what I mean, Jack. You make a fool of this party, we could lose some seats in November-might even lose the Senate again. I wouldn't be pleased by that. Have to move all my stuff across the hall."

O'Brien leaned back in his chair, stared up at Fiona. He had said his piece.

"I can win the nomination and beat the president," Stanton said forcefully. I'd been hoping for something more puckish, more clever-Donny was testing him now-but the governor had decided not to take any chances. His toughness was the issue, and he would play this as tough as he could.

O'Brien laughed. "Dov, incumbent presidents beaten this century?"

"Taft, Hoover, Carter."

"Beaten by Wilson, Roosevelt and Reagan," O'Brien said. "So you are telling me, ack, that the incumbent is in a class with the former and you are in a class with the latter?" He laughed again and shook his head. "Tell me another one."

"If not Larkin, who'll take it from me?" Stanton said.

"I don't know," O'Brien said. "But we can always work out something . . . respectable. And we will, if you don't pull this together. I can promise you that. If you come out of California with one delegate less than a majority, you will find yourself back in Mammoth Falls, cutting ribbons and distributing highway contracts, by the end of July."

"And if I do pull it together?"

"I will admire your perseverance," O'Brien said. "In fact, I already admire your perseverance. There are worse qualities a politician can have."