Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

  "He's a fucking horse," Johnson said. "Always was."

  Richard came over. "Henri, you ain't lived till you heard Momma work a phone. 'This is Mary-Pat Stanton, the candidate's momma. Now you gonna vote for mak boy or not?' Hot shit!"

  "Richard," I said, getting sort of excited now, "let's get Ken Spiegelman off the phone and see if he can give us something for the candidate to say on the telethon tonight about health care." Spiegel-man was a Gang of Five member from the University of Chicago. He was young, slick, accessible-too young for treasury secretary but building his portfolio.

  "Why, that's just brilliant, Henri," Richard said, diving into the middle of Momma's row and retrieving her. "We say the exact right twenty-five words 'bout health care tonight, and we'll just . . . walk away with this thing. Right? I got a better idea."

  He wrapped an arm around Momma, cupped his hands: "HEY EVER'body, listen UP! Best-loolcin' woman in the room got somethin' to say. Go 'head now, Momma. Gwon stand up on this here chair." Momma didn't need much prodding. She was wearing a flagrant orange-and-white State U. tracksuit. "Y'all havin'fin?" she croaked, and she smiled, her big, broad lipstick-and-mascara face bursting into utter glee. "Wal, listen. Ah know you workin' hard foh mah Jackie, an' he's the best a momma could have, and y'alls the best friends our family could have, an' ah ain't got no highfalutin' talk like Mr. Senator Lawrence Harris." There were hoots and whistles. "But in mah book, y'alls are just EX-CEPTIONAL. With a gang lahk this, we could do serious damage in a roadhouse-y'get me, Jemmons? We could jus' rip up a joint."

  "Momma, I was thirty years older, I'd be lickin' your ear!" Richard said, playing to the crowd-which roared.

  "And ah'd be squealin' like a pig," Momma said, doubling over, hands on her knees. I had to admit: I'd never fully appreciated Momma until that moment. I'd considered her something of an embarrassment, a joke. But she had everyone in that room up now, and feeling good. Every face was beaming. She was her son's mother.

  "Now listen up y'all. Ah'm a-gonna set down now, 'fore ah fall down. But ah love ya, and ah'll never forget ya. Win or lose, come rain or come shine, ain't this just GRAND!" She started down, to whoops and applause, then went up again: "Now, jus' a second, jus' a second. Ah'm a-listenin' to what ah just said--and ah would like to amend it a little--okay, Jemmons?"

  "Have at it, Momma," he said.

  "The lose part," she said. "Ah didn't mean to say that--win or lose. Mah boy ain't gonna lose. You folks ain't gonna lose. Ah don't see a loser in this here room. And ah've seen more than a few losers in mah sorry ol' life." The place was rocking, hoots and whistles. "But mah Jackie ain't no loser, and y'alls his friends and you ain't losers neither. So listen up: We are going to win this thing. We are gonna steal this thing right out from under Mr. Senator Lawrence Harris's nose. Then we gonna go on down home and whip his sorry butt. And that's all ah'm a-gonna say."

  Chapter VI

  Wlost New Hampshire, but not badly. It rained Election Day, and that was good for us. Stanton voters proved to be as devoted to the candidate as he had been to them-in fact, according to the exit polls, an implausible number said the deciding factor was that they'd actually met the governor. And so we did somewhat better than Richard's one in four; our 29 percent was more than Nilson and Martin combined. Harris won, of course; but he could manage no more than 38 percent in his home state, which gave us hope. Election Day itself was strange, empty. We slept in. We packed our bags. We went to the movies. We saw Wayne's World. Daisy and I held hands; Richard jiggled; Lucille-an unexpected delight-had a rowdy and infectious laugh. Halfway through the movie, I went out into the lobby and called Brad Lieberman. The first wave of exit polling was coming in. "We're alive," he said.

  I went back in, whispered the results to Daisy on my left and Richard on my right. Daisy squeezed my hand and stuck her nose in my ear. "No Caribbean this week," she whispered.

  "Disappointed?"

  "Yes-and no."

  We shared an umbrella walking back across the asphalt expanse to the Hampton Inn. We walked with our arms around each other, very close and comfortable. Richard and Lucille went ahead, separately, their black umbrellas bobbing in the wind. Mountains of snow were stacked around the light poles; everything was gray and white. "I'm beginning to feel nostalgic," I said. "We've lived our lives around this parking lot. I can't count the number of times I looked out over at the multiplex and wished I was at the movies."

  "And I can't remember them ever having a Werner Herzog," Daisy teased.

  "And all the nights I had to slog across over there and retrieve the candidate from Danny's Dunkin' Donuts. You wonder what Danny's going to do with himself now."

  "I wonder what the candidate's going to do with himself now," she said, "without Danny's Dunkin' Donuts."

  We stopped just outside the lobby door, under the marquee, but still under the umbrella and turned to each other, and kissed. It was a serious kiss, our first public display of affection.

  "Henry?" she said, meaning: Did that mean what I think it meant? "Yes," I said. It did.

  She looked at me, her eyes widened; she put her hand on my cheek. "What are we going to have him say tonight?" she asked.

  "That it was a moral victory."

  "Henry?"

  I looked at her.

  "Do you think the telethon helped us any?"

  "No," I said. "He did it by sheer force of will. He did it on Saturday, standing at the mall all day. He did it on Sunday and Monday. I mean, have you ever seen anybody do one-on-one like that? But the telethon wasn't a bad idea," I added quickly, remembering that it had been hers. "Henry?" she said. "Is this . . ."

  "I think so."

  .. or are we just relieved that we won?"

  "We didn't win."

  "We didn't die," she said. "So we won."

  "We better go inside."

  She kissed me again, quickly, open-mouthed, on the lips.

  Jack and Susan were both up in the suite working the phones, thanking local supporters. "I will never forget this," Jack said, over and over. "I will always remember what you did for us here."

  Susan hugged me. It was a big day for hugs.

  Jack was off the phone now He came over and shook my hand. He was wearing a white shirt, suit pants, no shoes. "Henry, I'll admit it: last night, I thought we were dead."

  "Well, Leon's last track didn't help much," I said.

  "He couldn't measure intensity," he said. "Our folks just felt more strongly about this election."

  "That's because of you, sir."

  The governor ambled over to the table. There was a fruit platter and some sandwiches. "Don't!" Susan said. "You fell off the wall, you didn't crack-but you're still looking like Humpty-Dumpty."

  She said this lightly, but with an edge. He narrowed his eyes, and took some grapes. "Henry, how early can we get on and off, and go home?" he asked.

  "Polls close at eight," I said. "You've got to stay and do the nets. You want to do Nightline?"

  "No!" Susan said. "And no press conference. Those jerks had us buried, all of them. Let 'em stew in it."

  "Well, we aren't gonna be able to make 'em disappear," Stanton said. "They weren't able to make you disappear either," she said. "And so they'll have to come to terms with that. We're going to tighten this up now, Henry. We've got a new set of priorities. We'll do local TVs first, networks second, local pencils third, national pencils last." "And pundits never?" Stanton laughed. "C'mon, they're there. We can pick and choose. Henry, get Richard and Daisy and all-get 'ens here 'bout six. We'll thrash this out. Also, have Laurene schedule the nets. We'll do 'ern all tonight. We'll do the morning shows from Mammoth Falls tomorrow, from the Mansion-okay?" He looked over at Susan; she nodded. "And okay, Mrs. Stanton-no press conference. Henry, y'all come on the plane with us. Tell Richard and Arlen and Leon, and whoever else we got here to stick around and work spin. Then get their selves down to Mammoth Falls by tomorrow night. Y'know, I'm gonna miss this place."

  "So many won
derful things happened to your reputation here," she said.

  "No, really," he said. "It was okay. It was a rite of passage. You realize how amazing these folks are, voting for me after all this shit? There was a time, last night, it was getting on toward ten o'clock, and I was working-what?-my eighth restaurant, table to table? And I knew most of these damn people wouldn't be voting for me-hell, half of them wouldn't be voting, period. And I come to this table, two couples 'bout our age-teachers, lawyers, something like that-havin' dessert, getting ready to split the bill. Back home, the kind of folks that would've been friends of ours. Up here, they're gonna be voting Harris without even thinkin' about it. One of the women teaches preschool. She asks about Head Start. And y'know, we just start talkin' about it. I forgot we were in a campaign, damn near sat down and had a cup of coffee with 'ens. She was smart. You could tell she was good at what she did. And I told her about some of the things we'd been messin' with down home."

  "Tish Miller's thing," Susan said.

  "Yeah," Stanton said, moving over to the wing chair where Susan was sitting, leaning down, putting his hands on her shoulders, staring her in the eye. "Tish Miller's one of wine-inspirational model, right, sweetheart?"

  "Okay, okay."

  "Anyhow, this woman says to me, 'Governor, from all I've heard and read during this campaign, I'da never guessed you knew or cared about this stuff.' "

  "I wonder why," Susan said.

  "No, it's not just them-not just the scorps," he said. "It's us. It's me. We gotta figure out how to communicate what we love about what we do. We've gotta show them we're doin' this not for ambition or glory."

  "Not just," Susan said, but softer. She was with bins now.

  "Not just, not only-but because we love doin' for the folks, finding things that work. We gotta think about how we can do that-right, Henry? Because, you know what? I would be willing to bet you anything, I got that woman's vote today."

  "Now all you have to do," Susan said, "is personally meet and greet the other two hundred fifty million Americans."

  "Fine with me," Jack Stanton said. "But first, I want to go home."

  Home. We landed in deep night. There was no moon. There was, however, a soft breeze coming up from the Gulf, carrying with it a moist hint of spring. I stood by the river for a moment before going up to my apartment. The river seemed familiar, an old acquaintance; it flowed quickly, silently, as if it were a well-oiled piece of machinery, doing its job. My apartment was less familiar. I hadn't slept there in a week, but it seemed much longer. The place felt dusty, moldy. Several of the plants along the river window had died. I turned on the television. CNN was telling it our way. We were alive, and Lawrence Harris was breathing more life in us yet: his sound bite was pompous, trite. "The people of New Hampshire have sent the message that they are ready for fiscally responsible governance," he said, without a hint of a smile. "I expect the rest of the American people will respond favorably to this message as we move along." Then the clincher: "I think we are growing up as a nation."

  Lovely. I opened the refrigerator and winced; something had gone bad. This presented me with several decisions. Clean the fridge or let it fester? A Perrier or that lone bottle of Heineken? Fester. Heineken. My own personal victory party. I lay down on the bed, watched CNN some more. It was pundit time. Several Washington scorps were talking about the "weak" Democratic field and who would save it. Ozio's non-write-in campaign had fizzled in New Hampshire. They showed a clip of the governor of New York rushing into or out of a building. He seemed perturbed. "I never asked for it, I never encouraged it," he said, "so why should I comment on it?" And so, the anchor wondered, If not Ozio, who? Larkin? Someone was saying very definitively that Larkin would soon jump in. "You don't know anything," I told the television and shut it off.

  I noticed the collection of Alice Munro stories I'd bought a month earlier splayed open on the coffee table across the room. Had I left it like that? Cruel and unusual punishment for a book (I hated broken spines; I was willing to endure personal discomfort to maintain the integrity of a spine). It seemed a long way to go, but I got up and walked across the room. The book had been left open to a story called "Bardon Bus." I began to read the first paragraph in the half-light; it was bold and yet wistful-perfect. I snapped on the reading light, lay down lengthwise on the couch facing the river and read myself to sleep there.

  Jack Stanton woke me in the morning, banging on the door. "Henry! Henry! Rise and shine!" He was wearing a yellow knit shirt, leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots. It was eight o'clock. "Jeez, you look a sight," he said. "Fell asleep in your clothes, huh? Didn't watch me, all fresh and confident, on the morning shows? Well, get on up. We're going for a drive, goin' down to Grace Junction. Hey, look-1 even brought you breakfast: a banana, an apple, black coffee-all your favorites."

  "Why Grace Junction?"

  "Dunno. Take a drive. See some country. See Momma. C'mon, Henry. Get yourself showered and shaved. I'll just sit here, read the paper, make some calls."

  The Bronco was downstairs, Uncle Charlie lounging in the back. I rode shotgun; the governor drove-and sang. He had the radio turned way up. He sang tentatively on the new songs, more confidently on the oldies. He turned the radio down when "Achy Breaky Heart" (which was just gathering steam about then) came on. "I hate that goddamn song," he said. "I have always hated gimmick songs, even when I was a kid-Purple People Eater,' How Much Is That Doggie in the Window,' the Singing Nun. People should have more respect for music than that. You know, it's like politics. You should always have respect for what you're doing, respect the ceremonies and rituals, respect the audience."

  He was certainly feeling chipper. He drove south on the interstate about thirty miles, sticking right on the speed limit, then turned west on a two-lane state road toward Grace Junction. It was an uncomfortable sort of day. The sun was warm, but the air was cold-the wind had shifted around north and carried with it memories of New Hampshire. The governor couldn't find the right mix. He lowered the windows, and it got cold. He raised the windows and it got stuffy. When he lowered the window just a little, the whistling made it hard to hear the music. "Henry," he said, snapping off the radio and lowering the windows about ten miles out from Grace Junction. "I'm gonna go over Doc Hastings', get some blood pulled. I think it's about time we dealt with the McCollister situation."

  I'd been dreading this moment. Fat Willie had been there in New Hampshire, in the back of soy mind. He would blindside me whenever I began to feel optimistic (when there was no cause for optimism, the McCollister situation seemed moot-a pragmatic callousness I did not admire in myself). But I never really thought it through. It was too awful. I never seemed able to fix on it, to analyze it, to make a judgment. Sitting there, beginning to freeze a little in the Bronco, I suddenly realized why: I could not allow myself to believe that Jack Stanton would take advantage of Fat Willie's teenage daughter; and yet I couldn't believe he hadn't.

  "Deal with it?" I asked.

  "Tomorrow, I want you and Howard to go over there, to Fat Willie's, and lean on him a little," the governor said. "Not really lean on him-but tell him we have to resolve this thing, establish paternity. Tell him we want the girl to have an amniocentesis. Explain what that means, in detail. Tell him it's a long needle through the belly button. Tell him to explain that to Loretta. Henry, these aren't sophisticated people. They're good people, but not sophisticated. I think you present this to them, tell them that I am insisting on it, that I had my blood pulled already. Chances are, the girl will back off her claim." "Why me?" I said, shivering. "Is it because I'm-"

  "It's because Willie chose you," he said. "I didn't. I can't help it if he can't see past skin color."

  "Maybe he just thought I'd be sympathetic," I said, knowing that was only part of the truth.

  "Look, you don't have to say anything. Howard knows what to say. But you should be there, since he came to you."

  I turned toward the open window. The air was sharp but fresh; it smell
ed of newly turned soil. We were riding through raw red-clay farmland. It was exotic country; the roadsides were the color of a squeezed fingertip. I remember thinking it must be tough to farm such land. "Governor," I said. "If I'm going to do this, there's something I need to know."

  "I am not the father of that child," he said.

  Grace Junction was Onawachee County's seat. It had the requisite domed, two-story county-court building on the town square and a gray granite Confederate War Memorial that was particularly grisly: "These, Our Sons, Gave All in Glorious Struggle." There was a tablet for Civil War dead, two more for World War I and II, and a fourth for Vietnam, which was practically empty-leaving plenty of space for the next war. The governor's father, William H. Stanton, was listed among the World War II dead, though he had never lived in Grace Junction. The square around the court building was half populated now-lass offices and the Willows Funeral Home on the north side; Presley Drugs and the Florida (the most popular, and political, cafe' in town) on the west. The south had several thrift shops and a gaping hole where Zucker's furniture had once been; the east side had Meyer's Stride-Rite Shoes, the Modest Values dress shop and more vacant storefronts. Despite the strong sense that time had passed it by, this was a fairly pleasant square, as such places go: the sidewalks were red brick, set in a herringbone pattern; the courthouse was framed by live oaks. Daffodils were blooming now; spring was coming. The town seemed green, lived-in-not stark or defeated, as so many rural towns were. We entered town from the east, through Black Town, which was mostly shotgun shacks and cinder-block convenience stores, set in a web of train tracks, dilapidated garages and auto repair shops. The sawmills-mostly closed now-were on the south side of town. White folks lived on the north and west; rich folks north, rednecks west. Momma lived on the west side, in a tan clapboard house on a double lot. The governor had offered her a new house in Mammoth Falls, a brick house on the north side of Grace Junction-anything she wanted-but she was a creature of her place and wanted to stay put. "The gals wouldn't know where to come for our Wednesday poker party if I picked up and moved," she said.