The Broken Road

by Peggy Wallace Kennedy

  Me and Daddy reading “get well” letters at Holy Cross Hospital in Silver Spring, Maryland, 1972.

  The real motivation behind Beasley’s ousting may have been his penchant for honesty. Sighs of relief from the Wallace insiders were heard all across the state when local television stations announced, “And now we are going live to Montgomery where an Air Force C-147 hospital plane carrying Governor George Wallace and his family has just landed.” In less than an hour, the hospital plane took off heading south to Miami and the Democratic National Convention. Daddy was the governor of Alabama again.

  Daddy spoke at the convention on the evening of July 11. His bodyguards lifted Daddy in his wheelchair to the stage. The Wallace delegates along with the majority of others stood and applauded. Although he was obviously in pain, his voice was strong as he spoke about returning to the values of the average working-class man and woman.

  The following day, Daddy was nominated for president. He received 23.5 percent of the convention vote and earned 382 delegates, putting him third in the final count. Some said it was the height of his political career. As he was wheeled off the podium, no one could have imagined Daddy would run again for president in 1976 and serve two more terms as governor of Alabama; most people assumed George Wallace’s political career was over.

  The day after his appearance at the convention, Daddy was flown to the hospital in Birmingham for an emergency surgical procedure to treat internal infections caused by perforations of his intestines when he was shot.

  After Daddy recovered from his surgeries, he was admitted to the Spain Rehabilitation Center at the University of Alabama in Birmingham. It was time for him to accept the new reality of the rest of his life as a paraplegic. His battle with depression and a growing dependency on pain medications soon overwhelmed him. While he was at Spain, he met a young woman who was a quadriplegic as a result of a motorcycle accident. The driver of the motorcycle, her fiancé, was not injured. He, along with her parents, had long since abandoned her. She was alone. Every day, Daddy visited her. Following her release, he called her often. Their friendship led him to speak frequently to others with paralysis and to promote funding for research.

  Daddy leaving Spain Rehab in Birmingham, Alabama, August 1972.

  In late May, after the assassination attempt, I returned to Montgomery to try to salvage what I could of my spring quarter classes at Troy. With an uncertain future ahead, it became obvious to me that a college degree was more important than ever. At least by the spring of 1973, I would have a teaching degree in hand. The prospect of being on my own became real; Mama and Mamaw were both gone. Mamaw had died of cancer on January 2, 1971. Mr. Henry, heartbroken yet again, moved to a small house in Tuscaloosa to live with his sister. There was no more broken road to go to.

  Before Daddy left the rehabilitation center to return to Montgomery, the mansion went through a transformation. Its staircases, narrow halls, bathrooms with no showers, open second-floor galleries, and exterior steps to every entryway would make it difficult if not impossible for a paraplegic to live there. The upstairs sitting room and the connecting hallways on both sides that were open for view from the first-floor entryway were walled up. Bulletproof glass covered all the second-floor windows.

  Halls and interior doors were widened. The master bedroom closet fell victim to a doorway cut into what had been my bedroom when we first moved to the mansion. It would serve as Daddy’s therapy room. What had been my bathroom was gutted to install fixtures to accommodate the needs of who my daddy would be when he came home—a man paralyzed for the rest of his life.

  An elevator, installed in a newly constructed tower in the rear wall of the mansion, was the only means to carry Daddy upstairs. Exterior ramps appeared at designated entryways, and the family dining room furniture was replaced. The mansion was ready for his return.

  When Daddy came home, he felt the absence of the constant coming and goings of the therapists and doctors who had attended him at the hospitals. His physical and mental condition worsened. Although Daddy’s doctors warned him of the dangers of drug dependency, his demands became more frequent and his personality more sinister.

  We were soon living in the midst of what felt like a Southern gothic nightmare. Daddy’s angry outbursts increased and were often directed at us. There was no give and take in his conversations with me, no interest in my life and what I was doing apart from him. He demanded sympathy.

  For the first time in his life, Daddy had no choice but to live with us rather than around us. Throughout his life, Daddy’s passion had been people, the kind that sat around the town square, gathered in small-town restaurants, or worked in the fields. His style of politics was all about racing to the next hand to greet, climbing up on the front porches of wood-framed houses, heel-and-toe walking along sidewalks, and last-minute jaunts up just one last staircase to shake a fella’s hand. Daddy’s perpetual motion defined him, energized him, fed his overwhelming need to be present in the moment. Everyday worries could not catch up as long as he was moving. The legs that carried him were akin to an artist’s hands. Lose them and the magic was gone. He would have to learn another way.

  As Daddy struggled with the challenges of his paralysis, his physical pain, and the new realities of his future, his inattention to the politics of the governor’s office gave rise to warring factions within his inner circle. People were afraid. The Wallace brand had been supporting their families for more than a decade, and the mere thought of its coming to an end was unspeakable. No one had ever thought about a contingency plan in the event there were no more Wallaces. While Mama’s death may have caused a significant setback, an unexpected and abrupt George Wallace exit from Alabama politics would have backlogged bankruptcy courts for years. State employees would have jobs no matter the outcome of Daddy’s medical challenges. But the two c’s of the Wallace brand, contracts and campaigns, were uncertain.

  “The suggestions of the press that I am unable to fulfill my duties as governor are just another attempt to undermine the wishes of the people of Alabama,” Daddy said as media outlets began to question his ability to serve out his term. Rumors of his depression and drug addiction spread. The Montgomery Advertiser called on Daddy to immediately retire. According to some members of the press, the governor’s office was besieged by power brokers and Governor Wallace was in no shape, physically or mentally, to carry on. While many agreed, Wallace supporters rose up in righteous indignation and attacked both the article itself and its author.

  The challenge to Daddy’s authority was in some way more therapeutic than the hours of physical therapy he endured. Perhaps he remembered what his father said to him when, as a teenage boxer, Daddy would find himself lying on his back in the boxing ring: “Don’t you just lay there, shake it off, get up and knock the little bastard’s head off.”

  Daddy’s ultimate recovery was a testament to his determination and courage. His coming to terms with his paralysis freed him from despair. But most important, his living with me rather than just around me changed my life. He was always there—he wasn’t able to dash off.

  As we adjusted to our new reality, Cornelia took it upon herself to play matchmaker. In her view, now that I was at the age of twenty-two, it was time for me to get serious about finding a husband. Her list of eligible prospects was a veritable who’s who of unmarried Alabama notables. When she found out that the Alabama Department of Tourism was planning an all-expenses-paid (minus spending money), ten-day excursion to Europe to promote Alabama tourism, she signed me up, perhaps hoping I would meet a prince. Daddy gave me a bon voyage hug and a hundred dollars. “Don’t tell your daddy,” Cornelia said as she slipped me a cash-filled envelope.

  The mansion was decorated for Christmas when I returned. December 15 was the only occasion in my life when I had two dates on the same night. While Cornelia’s quest for the perfect husband was ongoing, my first encounter of the evening was with someone I had never met and was arranged by my friend Benita, who had driven m
e from Troy to Montgomery on the day Daddy was wounded in Maryland, and her friend Carol Wells from Greenville.

  “This is going to have to be no more than a meet and greet at your house,” I complained over the phone. “I already have a date. The only reason I am doing this is for you. Now tell me his name again and where is he from?”

  “His name is Mark Kennedy, and he’s from Greenville.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  I walked up onto her front porch and rang the doorbell. I forced a smile as the door opened.

  My future husband stood up and shook my hand.

  During our brief conversation, there was no mention of politics or inquiries about my family. It was about me. There was no talk of connections, no “all of my family loves Governor Wallace” moments. I became uneasy. I had never lived outside the context of who my father and mother were and what they had done. Being in the center of a conversation was nothing new to me, but standing alone in the center of a conversation was.

  After a pleasant but very ordinary chat, I offered my “Nice to meet you” and left. I gave Mark my phone number but was not sure he would call. “Nice enough, even looks a little bit like Daddy, meeting him made my friends happy, not a total waste of time,” I said to myself.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said as I sat down on the barstool next to my date for the evening. “I had to do a favor for a friend.”

  “No problem,” he replied. “You want a Coke or something stronger?”

  20

  ’Til Death Do Us Part

  Southern mamas are known as being subtle, like a freight train.

  —Shellie Rushing Tomlinson

  When I met Mark in early December 1972, I hoped he was a person I could believe in, someone who was not likely to desert me, someone with roots in the ground who could perhaps help me grow my own roots. It was very important to me that I found him on my own. No matchmaking by Cornelia or the Wallace inner circle. Mark’s distance from my family allowed me to make my own assessment of who he was.

  The day after our “drive by to kick the tires” meeting, the intercom buzzer rang in the guesthouse. “Miss Wallace, there is a call for you from a Mark Kennedy. It came in on the public line, rather than on your personal line. Wanted to check before I put him through.” The next day, a Sunday, Mark drove through the mansion gates in a 1968 maroon Tempest with a broken antenna and parked next to my new 1972 black-on-blue Mercury Cougar that Daddy had bought for me. Mark was on his way back to Auburn University some fifty-five miles away.

  The following Wednesday I took Mark to the capitol to meet Daddy. His secretary cleared the room for us when we walked in. Mark and Daddy’s conversation was casual. Daddy interrogated my new beau in a gentlemanly way. Mark had appropriate accolades for the Greenville, Alabama, Wallace loyalists, including the local probate judge and the owner of a local restaurant, which Mark professed was one of his all-time favorites.

  As we exited, Mark no doubt heard the secretary’s train-whistle whisper, “Is this the one?” At breakfast the next morning, Daddy looked over the top of his newspaper. “When are you two getting married?” he asked.

  Mark met Cornelia, Ruby, and my extended family on Christmas Day. Cornelia imported a chef to assist the kitchen staff with the preparation of our “Christmas à l’Orange” extravaganza. Two large candelabra holding orange-scented candles sat amid orange blossom bouquets in the middle of the mansion dining room table.

  We sipped fresh-squeezed orange juice in the First Lady’s Room and then sat down to a dinner of duck à l’orange, creamed sweet potato orange cups, orange-glazed squash, orange bread pudding, and ambrosia. Daddy surveyed the Christmas feast.

  “What is all of this?” he asked.

  “It is our Christmas dinner, George,” Cornelia shouted from the other end of the long table.

  “I know that,” Daddy grumbled. “But what is it?”

  “We are having an orange-themed Christmas.”

  Daddy snorted. “Well, back in Clio, all we ever got for Christmas was an orange and maybe some candy, when I really wanted a bicycle.” He reached beneath the table and pushed a buzzer that rang in the kitchen. The server appeared. “Go see if you can find me some barbecue,” Daddy said.

  Following Cornelia’s flight from the table, the plates began to pass.

  “I promise you, it is not always like this,” I said to Mark.

  “Want an orange roll?” he asked.

  “Anybody got any vodka to put in this orange ambrosia?” Ruby said. “We could all stand a screwdriver after this mess.”

  The Miami Dolphins and the Washington Redskins were playing Super Bowl VII on January 14. A perfect season was on the line for Miami. Mark and I watched the game in the guesthouse. Miami won 14–7.

  After it was over, we walked outside. Mark was working on a class assignment and wanted to get back to Auburn before the library closed. He gave me a modest hug.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” I said in a damsel-in-distress voice.

  Mark smiled, “And I wish I could stay here forever.”

  “You can!”

  Mark looked at me, puzzled.

  “You just asked me to marry you, right?” I said.

  In April, Mark and I attended a benefit concert at Garrett Coliseum. A news photographer spotted an engagement ring on my finger and asked if he could take a photo. The following day, the picture of my engagement ring, along with my beaming face, was published on the AP wire service. The caption read something akin to “Peggy Wallace, the daughter of Alabama Governor George Wallace, shows off her engagement ring at a recent event in Montgomery, Alabama. Sources say she and her fiancé, Mark Kennedy, met on a blind date last December. No word from the governor’s office yet.”

  In the aftermath of his assassination attempt, Daddy decided he was losing his grip on the loyalty of his supporters. At his direction, the governor’s office mailed more than forty thousand letters to Alabama high school seniors as well as to every teacher in the state. Photos of him and Cornelia arrived in the mailboxes of every resident of every nursing home in the state. He ordered his signature placed on diplomas from all state colleges and universities. The phone lines in the governor’s office were busy with staff and volunteers phoning to say, “Governor Wallace asked me to call to say hello and to see if there is anything he can do for you.”

  On May 29, Buckingham Palace announced the engagement of Queen Elizabeth’s daughter, Princess Anne. She was to marry on November 14, 1973.

  “Well, hell, Cornelia,” Ruby said upon hearing the news. “We’ll just have a royal wedding of our own.” Cornelia agreed. On August 5, the governor’s office officially announced my engagement to Mark. We were to be married on December 15, 1973.

  One of the mansion bedrooms was cleared and converted into a wedding war room. Folding tables were set up amid snaking telephone cables, extension cords, stacks of wedding invitation boxes, and other miscellaneous items one would typically encounter in an “Alabama royal wedding office,” including thousands of three-by-five index cards bearing names and addresses as well as personal notations on who the people were.

  In 1959, the Alabama legislature had dumped the existing state flower, the goldenrod, in favor of the camellia. Although camellia blooms were not harvested for sale at florist shops due to their short lifespan, they were found in front yards, graveyards, and public parks in small towns and cities throughout Alabama, and they were in bloom.

  On Friday, December 7, Wallace county coordinators and garden club members under the command of local florists launched Operation Camellia. Thousands of the flowers were picked, stems wrapped in paper towels dipped in water, put on ice in coolers, and driven to a cold storage facility in Montgomery, where florists picked them up. Each bloom was placed in a tube of sugar water and ultimately became part of bridal bouquets and arrangements in the nave and altar of my church. They were also in elegant arrangements and lit by candlelight inside the mansion, on its grounds, and in a bill
owing pink-striped tent where an orchestra played. It seemed that every single camellia in the state had made its way to my wedding

  On the day itself, the organist played the bridal march. The congregation stood as I entered the church. A momentary pall fell over the church as the wedding guests saw Daddy sitting alone in the front pew, unable to turn and watch as I walked down the aisle.

  Me, Mark, and Daddy on my wedding day, December 15, 1973.

  Many of the guests wiped tears from their eyes as the reality of his humanity overcame them. For at that moment, he was merely a proud father of the bride, waiting for her rather than walking with her on her wedding day.

  Mark and I, along with Daddy, Cornelia, and Mark’s parents remained in the mansion solarium for hours shaking hands and thanking the thousands of guests who attended the wedding reception.

  “It’s just like I told you,” a guest remarked after taking a bite of wedding cake. “They are family to me.”

  Finally, things quieted down. Friends lingered, wandering the mansion’s grounds and enjoying themselves.

  “If all this won’t elect George Wallace, then I don’t know what will,” I heard Ruby remark. As usual, she was drinking whiskey.

  Hardy late-night well-wishers gathered with the Wallaces and the Kennedys under the mansion’s front portico as Mark and I walked quickly through a hailstorm of rice launched from hundreds of handmade pink satin camellias. Our limousine moved slowly through a waving crowd as we passed through the mansion gate.

  The aircraft hangar was dark but for the ground lights of a small private jet. As the aircraft taxied to the end of the runway, one of the pilots opened the cockpit door. “All buckled up?” he asked. “Looks like we are going to hit some rough weather for a while after takeoff, but after that, it will pretty much be clear sailing.” As the jet climbed through thunderheads, I looked out of the window. It was snowing.