The Governor's Lady (13 page)

“I’d like for you to read this,” Mickey said, offering the book.

Cooper looked at the title without taking the book:
The Making of the President 1968
. Then she ducked her head and went back to her own volume, a mystery.

But Mickey didn’t go away. “I thought you might find it interesting,” she said, keeping her voice light, “since I’d like for you to go to the convention with me.”

Despite herself, Cooper looked up again. “What convention?”

“The party convention. July. Miami.”

Cooper felt her mouth drop open. Nothing came out for a long time. Finally, she said, “With you?”

“With me.”

Cooper was dumbfounded. But she read the book.

They flew to Miami on a Saturday, just the two of them. Cleve, who as governor would head the state’s delegation, would arrive on Monday, in time for the convention’s first session.

Mickey was a member of the Credentials Committee. She had already attended a contentious committee session ten days before in Washington, and a fight loomed over the seating of several delegations, the big ones being South Carolina and California. She went to great lengths to explain things to Cooper, who didn’t understand most of it but listened attentively because she knew Mickey was trying to pull back the curtain of that shadowy, foreign world of politics and politicians that so absorbed her. She was reaching, making an offer, and Cooper did her best to accept it.

They went shopping. They went sightseeing, taking in the sprawling white-sand beaches, absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of a city that seemed mesmerizingly exotic, a roiling stew of cultures, faces, accents, the air crackling with the added mix of several thousand people from all over the country pouring in for the convention. The lobby of their hotel, the Fontainebleau, was a crush of people, all in motion, all talking, talking, talking. Cooper had never imagined such a place. She was intrigued. So this was what it was like out there beyond her twelve-year-old world. Mickey lavished her attention on Cooper, who felt something opening between them after so long a clash of minds and wills.

And then Mickey disappeared.

When Cooper awoke in their suite on Sunday morning, Mickey was already gone, having left a note saying she was off to a committee meeting, telling Cooper to order breakfast from room service. She sat alone—bored, restless, irritable—through the day. It was late in the afternoon before Mickey returned. They went to dinner downstairs. Mickey knew people. She had a good table. But dinner was a nightmare for Cooper. Mickey was fuming, distracted. She spat the name
McGovern
.
He was taking over everything, she said, his people dictating, pushing the “professionals” aside. Making a wreck of the convention, the party. A steady stream of people stopped by the table, all of them pissed off at McGovern, frustrated by their impotence. Cooper felt sick. She picked at her food, tuning them out. She finally gave up and went back to their room, watched a stupid show on television, went to bed. She was only vaguely aware of Mickey coming in sometime in the night. And the next morning, she was gone again.

Cleve bustled in with his chief of staff and two security men. He spent a few minutes with her, promised to take her to the zoo that afternoon, then dashed away to a meeting of the state delegation. He was back after lunch, and they made quick work of the zoo, Cleve gamely feigning interest, glancing often at his watch. Then back to the Fontainebleau, Cleve and Mickey quickly off to the convention center for the evening’s opening session.

And so it went for two days. Cleve and Mickey came and went, both of them absorbed in the chaotic business of the convention, McGovern, things turned upside down. They snatched an occasional quick meal with her, but they weren’t really there. She watched television, crushingly bored, alone, cut off from anything that held even the slightest interest.

With one exception: Flamingo Park.

One of the local TV stations had a report, pictures of a sprawl of tents, the park turned into a campground for the hundreds of young who had come from all over to celebrate themselves and their candidate, McGovern. “A love feast of the insurgency,” the reporter called it. The police let them be, overlooking a lot. The reporter didn’t explain what they were overlooking. Cooper was fascinated.

Flipping around the radio dial, trying to find something other than convention coverage, she happened upon a station carrying something called the Pacifica Network. The announcers were young, part of the
insurgency (whatever that meant), trying gamely to play the convention straight. And then one of the announcers said, “And now we go to our correspondent at Flamingo Park, Mad Dog Bashinsky.”

Mad Dog was in the middle of it, interviewing the insurgents. They were against the war, for civil rights, for abortion, against the establishment. They were, it seemed, in jubilant rebellion, convinced that their man, McGovern, could change everything. Peace and justice.

And then it struck her:
Jesse!
He would have been their age. She knew beyond doubt that he would have been there, with his sweet, sad smile and his quiet but insistent way of pushing against whatever the establishment was, certainly against whatever Mickey stood for. These young people Mad Dog Bashinsky was interviewing, they were Jesse’s kind. He was everywhere.

She went.

Down Collins Avenue, past the hotels of the old party regulars and their entourages and hangers-on—the Doral (McGovern’s hotel), the Ivanhoe—the sidewalks crowded with people, everything in motion.

And then Flamingo Park—a sea of youth, the air electric and thick with July heat and the same smell she remembered from Jesse’s cigarette in the car. The sounds boiled around her—music, guitars, bongo drums, the steady drone of urgent, giddy talk. In the heat, a lot of clothing had been shed. A young woman ran past, laughing, stark naked. Nobody seemed to pay her much attention. Cooper realized she was overdressed. She took off her shoes, stashed them under a bush. Somebody was passing out McGovern buttons. She took one and pinned it to her blouse.

Then, suddenly, a flurry of movement, people running—a few, then a gathering crowd, headed toward something across the park, she never knew what. She was swept along, jostled. She went down hard, cowered, covered her head with her arms as the crowd surged around her.

Then somebody was kneeling over her. “Are you all right, kid?” She
recognized the voice instantly. Mad Dog Bashinsky.

The crowd moved on. Mad Dog stayed, helped her up. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m okay.”

He had some sort of radio contraption slung across his shoulder, a microphone stuck into a shirt pocket. He looked her over, frowned. “You staying here, kid?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“A hotel that way.” She pointed up Collins. “The Fontainebleau.”

Mad Dog’s eyebrows went up. “What’s your name?”

“Cooper.”

“Cooper what?”

“Spainhour.”

“Where are you from?”

She told him.

Mad Dog’s lips formed an O. “The governor?”

“He’s my daddy.”

He eyed her McGovern button, thought for a moment. “Wanna be on the radio?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Just answer a few questions.”

“Okay, I guess it’s all right.”

“Sure it is.” He pulled the microphone out of his pocket, flipped a switch on his radio thing, spoke into the microphone: “Hey, guys. Bashinsky here. I got something. Kick it to me.”

It took a couple of minutes, but then they were on. He introduced her. And then: “I see you’re wearing a McGovern button.”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Are you for McGovern?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“What do you like about Senator McGovern?” She pondered that. “I don’t know, I guess maybe he’ll do a good job. All these people here think so, don’t they?”

“Yep. And what does your dad, Governor Spainhour, think about it, you being a McGovern supporter?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t told him yet.”

“What do you think he’s gonna say, seeing how he’s not for McGovern?”

“I think he’ll be all right with it. He’s pretty easy to get along with.”

Mad Dog’s gaze swept Flamingo Park. “What do you think about all this?”

She smiled. “I think it’s neat. I’d rather be here than at the hotel. It’s boring. I wish my brother was here.”

A few more questions, and then it was over. She wandered around awhile longer, wide-eyed, then retrieved her shoes and went back to the Fontainebleau.

Mickey burst into her room, bellowing, jolting her out of sleep. “What in the goddamn name of hell is wrong with you, Cooper? Wake up!”

Cooper looked at the clock radio. It was just after five o’clock in the morning. The convention must have gone on all night. She looked up at her mother, towering over the bed just the way she had over Jesse in Sheriff Banks’s office.

“What in God’s name are you trying to do to us?”

Cooper pulled the covers tight around her, cowering from Mickey’s rage.

“On the goddamn radio? McGovern? Damn you!”

And then Cleve filled the doorway. “Mickey,” he said, his voice
carrying command. “Leave it alone.” Mickey turned to him with a jerk, started to speak, but he stopped her. “Come away, Mickey. I’ll handle this.”

She threw up her arms and stormed past him, out of the room. He came in, closed the door, sat on the edge of her bed. He looked incredibly tired, the muscles of his face sagging, eyes red and watery. He sat for a long time without speaking.

They had heard about it in the convention hall. A young member of the Illinois delegation, seated across the aisle, had been listening to the Pacifica Network, heard the interview, reported it in gleeful detail to Cleve and Mickey. The news spread. Wheeler Kincaid, the reporter from the
Dispatch
, learned about it. He had a floor pass, was roaming the delegation, asking questions, writing a story.

Another long silence, and then she asked, “Is it okay?”

“No,” he said, his voice low and even, “I’m afraid it’s not. First of all, you should never have left the hotel. The street and the park are no place for a child.”

“I’m twelve years old!”

“And then there’s the interview. I’m sure you’ve gathered by now that your mother and I aren’t for McGovern. We’ve been trying since we got here to keep him from getting the nomination.”

“Why?”

“Because we think he’ll lose, lose badly, and take a lot of other people down with him.”

“Don’t a lot of people think he’s okay? All those people in the park …”

“A lot do, yes. But out there in the country, a lot don’t. In our state, most don’t. Senator McGovern scares them.” He took her hand. “So, honey, when you get on the radio and say you’re for McGovern …”

She heard and saw the weary disappointment and began to cry. He took her in his arms, held her close while she sobbed against him.

Finally, she mumbled into his ear, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s no disaster. It’ll be forgotten in a couple of days.” He paused. “Do you know what I told Mr. Kincaid?”

“What?”

“I told him I will support the ticket like the good party man I am, and that my daughter has a right to speak her own mind.”

“Do you still love me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, “could ever change that.”