“I’m here,” he began, “because it is right to be here.
“Farmworkers need better wages. They need more water in the fields, proper sanitation. They need medical care, and retirement, and the simple right to bargain. The things which give work dignity.
“Their children need schooling. They need proper health facilities, and the hope of a better life. The things which make their parents’ work worth doing.”
Pausing, Kerry scanned the crowd. “For too long, we’ve allowed the exploitation of immigrants—legal or otherwise—by businesses in search of profits and politicians in search of votes. But if our history proves anything, it’s that those who speak to the best in us defeat those who speak to the worst in us.
“Those who’ve come here today already know that. If weeach do what we’re able to do—organize, boycott, send money, call our leaders to account—there’ll be more of us tomorrow, and next month we’ll be that much closer . . .”
When his speech was over, Kerry slipped into the crowd, not merely shaking hands now but listening and talking, alternating English with awkward Spanish. To Lara, he seemed liberated, free from the politician’s tyranny of schedule and repetition. But there was also this, Lara thought again: if he was ever to run against Mason, he would need to turn out minority voters, the people Mason did not seem to reach. And nowhere was this more true than in California.
It was not until five-thirty that Kerry found her again. “Come on,” he said, smiling. “I’ve got another speech to give. In San Diego.”
SIX
Four hours later, at nine-thirty, Kerry Kilcannon walked to the podium.
It was half past midnight in the East; the network television coverage had ceased hours before. Watching from the press section with Nate Cutler and Lee McAlpine, Lara could see that the delegates were tired. But no one knew what Kilcannon would say, and his surprise visit to the UFW rally seemed to have stirred emotions deadened by a litany of platitudes so numbing that, as Lee had remarked, “you can hear television sets clicking off all over America.” By setting himself apart, Lara sensed, Kerry symbolized what many delegates were craving—daring, conviction, spontaneity. What was harder for her to grasp was how much of this was calculated.
“Ker-ry . . .”
It began as a ragged chant from the New Jersey delegation, slowly spreading.
“Ker-ry . . .”
More rose to their feet now. With a diffident smile, Kerry held up his hand, signaling the crowd to stop.
“Ker-ry, Ker-ry, Ker-ry . . .”
“Please,” he called out. “People are trying to sleep . . .”
There was a wave of laughter. From where Lara sat, Kerry was a distant figure, but his smile flashed brighter on the screen above her. “Seriously,” he added, “I’d like to thank you for staying up with me . . .”
More laughter. Next to Lara, Lee McAlpine smiled. “Maybe he should thank Dick Mason,” she murmured.
Kerry held up his hand again. “I’ve got ten minutes,” he said wryly, “and then they turn off the lights. So I’ll try to be succinct.
“I’m here to support the President and Vice President. They deserve all the commitment we can offer. And I will do everything in my power to help ensure their reelection.”
Waiting, Kerry let the applause build, the sense of reassurance, and then said crisply, “But I also want to talk about the future.”
“Well,” Lara said, “so much for fervent praise.”
Kerry’s face was intent now. “There is a terrible disconnect in this country. People don’t trust their leaders. They believe we manipulate their emotions and lie about their problems.
“Too often, they’re right.”
The crowd was still now—surprised, Lara thought, and engaged.
“Theother party’s great lie,” Kerry said sardonically, “is that if you cut welfare, foreign aid, and the National Endowment for the Arts, you’ll have a balanced budget and a better life. And if that doesn’t work, you just tighten the screws on immigrants.
“Ourtime-honored deception has been that if you tax the rich and cut the defense budget, you can save Medicare and Social Security without any cost to anyone else.
“More and more people realize that those things aren’t so. But they don’t believe we have a program for change. They’re no longer sure what we stand for.”
Nate whistled softly. The delegates from Connecticut—Mason’s people—seemed suddenly restive. But Lara could feel the feedback growing, Kerry touching his audience.
“If this party deserves to lead,” Kerry went on, “we must embrace certain truths which separate a compassionate society from one that is selfish and complacent:
“That racial discrimination still exists, and that we need the courage to challenge it, and to end it.
“That gay men and women are not on a crusade to change the behavior of others, and that protecting them from violence and discrimination is moral, not immoral.”
The delegates were rapt, gazing up at Kerry. Around Lara, the reporters had fallen silent.
Kerry’s voice became staccato. “That guns are too available, and kill far too many people.
“That too many children are denied proper medical care and a proper education.
“That too many of their parents are trapped in dead-end jobs.
“That too many lives are warped by violence, inside and outside our families.
“That too much of our prosperity is built on low wages and shattered dreams.
“That, in the end,we are a family, charged by decency and self-interest to care about every American.”
Though he spoke to thousands, Kerry’s tone became direct, intimate. To Lara, his cadence gave no sense of a speaker waiting for applause. “No issue,” he continued, “is more bitterly divisive than abortion. Yet it seems to me that this is a prime example of the narrowing of our minds and the hardening of our hearts.
“To our opponents, who have made their position a litmus test of decency, and yet would cut programs for our poorest children and our most endangered adults, I quote Joseph Cardinal Bernardin: ‘Those who would defend the right to life of the weakest among us must be equally visible in defending the quality of life of the powerless among us, the old and the young, the hungry and the homeless, the undocumented immigrant and the unemployed worker.’
“And for those of us who defend all women’s right to choose, I say this: we must also give women the choice of having children who, because we care, will have a lifetime of choices.
“Maybe,” Kerry went on, “if we not only say these things, but act on them, we will regain the trust we’ve lost. But we will never be free to act on them unless we face one more fact—that the way we raise campaign money is hopelessly corrupt.”
Pausing, Kerry gazed up at the skyboxes and luxury suites, and then his voice cracked like a whip. “How can we inspire trust,” he demanded, “when the best we can say for ourselves is that the other party’s worse? No wonder people are so fed up.”
The audience was silent—startled, Lara thought, by his bluntness, the implicit demand that the President and Mason take the lead. Kerry stood straighter, scanning the convention floor. “Half of our citizens have already stopped voting.” Now Kerry’s voice became cutting, angry. “What else do they need to tell us? How much more clearly can they spell out their despair?
“It’s aboutfreedom , the special interests say. But how many ofyou are ‘free’ to spend ten thousand dollars to influence a political party?
“This is the freedom to corrupt, and it is slowly destroying our democracy.”
“Well,” Lee murmured. “He’s off the reservation now.”
“Ending it,” Kerry went on, “is a moral imperative. And the beginning of the end is a constitutional amendment which says, ‘Nothing in the Constitution shall prohibit Congress from passing laws to regulate the funding of campaigns for federal office.’
“Pass this amendment, and the lobbyists and politicians wil
l have no place to hide, no excuse to offer. And if they oppose it, we have the right to know what reforms they offer in its place.”
The proposal was another surprise, at least to Lara, and a gamble; to many, amending the Constitution would seem too radical and too difficult. But on the screen, she saw a black woman in the Illinois delegation mouthing the word “yes.”
Kerry’s tone became passionate, imploring. “In our party’s past,” he said, “there is much to be proud of. But we can only be proud of our future if we give Americans back their government.
“I ask all of you to join me in that effort . . .”
There was a moment’s silence, and then the applause began, echoing to the rafters, delegates clapping, stomping their feet, standing on chairs to acclaim a party leader who—for at least this moment, long after most Americans were sleeping—had transformed their convention. After several minutes, it showed no sign of ending.
“Impressive,” Lee McAlpine said. “And it was actually about something.”
Nate looked at his watch, timing the applause. “He’d better enjoy it now,” he remarked. “Mason will cut his throat, if he can. And if Kilcannon wants to run, where’s the money coming from?”
Lee turned to him. “Of course he’s running, and he’ll find the money somewhere. He’s got the name, after all.”
It was more than the name, Lara thought. As she remembered him, James Kilcannon had been handsome, elegant, cautious. Kerry was the passionate one, the dangerous one, the Kilcannon who might change the party and challenge the system, perhaps destroying himself in the process. If he decided to run for President, she had begun to think, he would be driven as much by his emotions as by cool cerebration. Watching him, a slight figure in a maelstrom of his own creation, Lara felt a new and puzzling emotion of her own—fear for Kerry Kilcannon.
“Maybehe’s running,” she told her colleagues. “But I’m not sure he’ll know more than a minute before we do.”
* * *
For the next two days, Kerry was back in rhythm again, doing a steady stream of appearances and interviews, while Lara waited her turn. Reading the press reports, she saw that he had developed a mantra: “I have no plans to run in the year 2000. My speech was about policies, not personalities, and I expect to help the President and Vice President have a successful second term.” Which was what he told Lara Thursday night, with a palpable air of weariness and boredom.
They were in a pressroom off the convention hall. The President and Mason had just given their acceptance speeches, carefully crafted to minimize risk, and the conventioneers were straggling from the hall in an atmosphere of anticlimax, like air leaking from a balloon. “Really?” Lara answered. “You damned near stole the convention.”
He gave a reticent shrug, as if tired of talking about himself. “Then that’s a sad commentary, isn’t it.”
“But suppose youdo decide to run,” she persisted. “Later on. If you have to raise millions of dollars, won’t that create a credibility problem? And won’t all the special-interest money go to Mason now, for sure?”
Kerry gave her a sideways look. “What makes you think I care?”
“Because you have to. You didn’t win New Jersey twice because you’re a virgin. What about all the donations from the trial lawyers and the teachers unions?”
Kerry’s eyes flashed. “I guess that defines me, doesn’t it?” He paused, then told her in a flat voice, “The press is such a safe place. You sit on the sidelines, where everything we do is cynical and self-serving, and the only risk is believing anything we say.” He stood abruptly, hands shoved in his pockets, looking down at her. “You were right a few years ago, Lara. Write about ‘real people,’ not us. That wayyou can be real, too.”
Stung, Lara felt an anger of her own. “If you don’t want to answer questions tonight, just say so.”
Kerry stared at her intently, and then his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t fair.”
Lara’s anger subsided; in its place she felt exposed, disconcerted by the hurt his words had caused, puzzled that they bothered her at all.
“Just walk with me awhile,” he asked her. “Okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, Kerry left the room; Lara hesitated, then followed.
Silent, they passed the hospitality suites on the mezzanine, walking among the last wave of lobbyists and delegates and politicians. Briefly, an aging, bespectacled congressman from Pennsylvania took Kerry aside. Lara watched Kerry listen intently, studying the congressman’s face, then touching him on the shoulder.
“What was that?” Lara asked when he returned.
Kerry shrugged. “He wants my help this fall. He’s in trouble in his district, and he’s scared. You can always see it in their eyes.” His voice held both compassion and puzzlement, Lara thought; there were worse things than losing office, it suggested, and Kerry had seen some of them.
Leaving the hall, they stepped into the balmy subtropic air. Beneath the full moon, a clump of anti-abortion demonstrators stood sentinel, holding signs with pictures of aborted babies, blurred mercifully by the semidarkness.
“I can’t imagine it,” Kerry murmured.
“Abortion?”
“It would be so hard, I think. Knowing thatmy child . . .”
His voice trailed off. Lara turned to him. “It wouldn’t be just you, though.”
He did not answer. They walked among the great hotels, grids of light in a cloud-streaked sky. After some time, they found a bench on the wooden pier, in the shadows of chartered yachts. Kerry gazed across the harbor, a pool of ink, listening as the sounds of the last parties mingled with the lapping water.
“If you really care to know,” he said at length, “I’ll tell you what I think I’m doing. Off the record.”
Lara nodded.
“Mason’s a tactical politician,” Kerry went on. “He reacts to pressure, not to core beliefs. If I reach people he’s not reaching, maybe he’ll begin taking campaign reform and the inner cities more seriously, just to head me off. I’ll have moved the party without ever having to run.”
“Do you think you can?”
“Perhaps.” Kerry’s gaze remained fixed on some middle distance. “The problem with confrontation is picking the right issues. Or else I’m just a nasty little Irishman who likes a fight. I don’t want that.”
There was a hint of self-doubt in his voice, Lara thought—perhaps the worry that he liked a fight too much. “But you think campaign reform’s a ‘right issue.’ ”
“Yes. These people plan to win by not running on anything. That creates an agenda vacuum, and what flows into political vacuums tends to be scandal—in this case, the way they’re raising money.” Kerry smiled. “By this time next year, with a little help from friends like me, Dick’s going to be a dedicated reformer. Especially if you folks do your job.”
It was a much cooler analysis than Lara had expected. “But a constitutional amendment . . .”
“Is like pushing a boulder uphill, and tomorrow all the law professors will be screaming bloody murder. But if nothing else happens,it could. So let’s see what the President and Dick come up with, and whether—if they do—the Supreme Court finds it constitutional.” His tone became ironic. “Those justices may pretend to be virgins too, but they read the papers like anyone else. The threat of an amendment might prod them a little.”
Lara watched his profile, reflective and quite still. “What if Mason doesn’t respond?” she asked.
“He has to havesome sort of record. Otherwise what’s his rationale for running—‘It’smy turn’?” Kerry faced her. “The world’s full of former statesmen who used to be unbeatable. Dick’s people are getting lazy in office—smug, slow to act, protective of their own turf. I’m not sure how they’d do against a grassroots campaign run by community activists, plugged into their own states, who believe in what they’re doing.”
Lara met his eyes. “And in whatyou’d be saying. It would have to be you, w
ouldn’t it? There isn’t anyone else.”
Turning, Kerry gazed at the dock, eyes hooded. In his quiet, Lara heard the ocean swirl beneath them, splashing the wooden legs of the pier. “By then there may be others, Lara. In four years, who knows what happens to any of us.” His tone was pensive. “Becoming President was Jamie’s dream. It doesn’t have to be mine.”
Once more, Lara thought, she heard the echo of self-doubt and wondered, in spite of his denials, whether the line between his brother’s life and Kerry’s own was quite so clear to him. Feeling his reflectiveness, she nerved herself to pose the other question that remained.
“What about your wife, Kerry? Does she figure in here?”
Kerry gave her a level look. She sensed him preparing his stock answer: that like many couples of their generation, they had their own careers and their own lives. And then he turned away. “Oh,” he said softly, “if I’m inaugurated, I expect she’ll come.”
SEVEN
Two months later, Liam Dunn died, the victim, as Kerry’s father had been, of a sudden, massive heart attack.
He had risen early, Kerry’s mother told him, for his usual walk around Vailsburg, surveying the parks and the conditions of the streets, the empty houses or those that were declining, along, perhaps, with the families who lived there. As on every day, the walk had ended at Sacred Heart, where Liam asked God for the wisdom to be a decent man in a complex world. And then Liam had driven downtown, to party headquarters, and died at his desk.
“What better way?” his mother asked simply.
“No better,” Kerry answered. But when he put down the telephone, he asked that his calls be held, and he sat alone in his office in the Senate, his brother’s before him, the place Liam Dunn had secured.
You understand politics well enough, Kerry. I raised you to. But you’ve never understood just how much you can do.
Slowly, Kerry Kilcannon shook his head, feeling the hole in his heart . . .
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