ordered. “You three are the core of any campaign organization I’m going to have, and you’re just sitting here like you’ve got sunstroke. Wake up! That’s better. Now, Eileen and Morrissey, no more bickering, okay?” They nodded. “Good. Marcia, you have to speak up more. There won’t be time to write memos. All right?” I nodded. “Good. Now, the first thing we have to come to grips with is timing. Now, today is …”
“March tenth,” I offered eagerly.
“Good. Thanks. Okay, it’s March tenth. We have a few weeks of enforced grace, at least till the end of the month, when the official state mourning period is over. It would not look good if I declared my candidacy and the TV cameras picked up a flag still flying half mast for Gresham. Right? By the way, does anyone have to go to the bathroom or anything before we really get started? No? Okay, now, when are petitions due?”
“Not till June fifteenth,” Eileen said.
“Hmmm.” Many men, when thinking, rub their foreheads. Paterno massaged his nose between his thumb and index finger. “So if we figure six weeks for a decent petition drive, we can wait to declare till the beginning of May, which should—”
“That’s too late,” Jerry said.
“No it’s not,” Paterno argued. “Not if we have everything ready to go. Not if—”
“By that time, do you know how many deadheads will have declared? Six thousand radicals, five thousand one-issue jerks who told their mommies to watch for them on television, and three or four viable candidates. And you’ll be viewed as just another one of them.” Jerry caressed the cleft in his chin with the knuckle of his index finger.
Paterno looked at Jerry and stopped rubbing his nose. “But if we declare too soon—” Paterno began.
“Bill, listen to me,” Jerry continued. “If you come out soon, right in the beginning of April, you’ll get all the coverage you want. They’ll treat you like a statesman, a gentleman. Every other candidate who declares after that will automatically be compared to you.”
“I don’t know,” Paterno muttered, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “It’s so soon.”
“Jerry’s right,” Eileen said. “And it would give us an extra month to fund-raise, to approach a lot of heavy contributors before everybody else does.” Although she and Jerry routinely sniped at each other, their political judgment was remarkably compatible. According to Jerry, they didn’t dislike each other at all; they were simply too much alike, coming from similar lower-middle-class Irish backgrounds, to find each other interesting. Bickering, he explained, helped them to keep awake in each other’s company.
Eileen acknowledged that their outlooks were very similar but felt obliged to inform me that men like Jerry were, beneath a thin layer of charm, sexist, narcissistic, and anti-intellectual. When we were alone, she teased me about being a sucker for a pretty face and called him names like Heartthrob. She had suggested that men like Jerry were a dime a dozen in her old neighborhood in Jackson Heights.
“Thank you for your support, counselor,” Jerry said, flashing her a wide, bright-toothed smile.
And it did seem that she avoided men like Jerry, selecting soft, quiet, bookish men to date, men whose pale lips matched their eyeglass frames, men who called to discuss the body politic.
Eileen turned from Jerry back to Paterno. I felt bad that they couldn’t enjoy each other, because I wanted the three of us to be friends. But each said they had enough of the other in the office, so my friendship with Eileen was limited to long lunches and to evenings when Jerry was busy. She came to our apartment only once, when Jerry was safely in Houston at the Democratic Convention. She had gazed around the living room and asked, “Kathye Baron?” I had nodded. “Well, she certainly tried, poor thing.”
Eileen was five years younger than I, thirty, but I thought of her as more than my
“March tenth,” I offered eagerly.
“Good. Thanks. Okay, it’s March tenth. We have a few weeks of enforced grace, at least till the end of the month, when the official state mourning period is over. It would not look good if I declared my candidacy and the TV cameras picked up a flag still flying half mast for Gresham. Right? By the way, does anyone have to go to the bathroom or anything before we really get started? No? Okay, now, when are petitions due?”
“Not till June fifteenth,” Eileen said.
“Hmmm.” Many men, when thinking, rub their foreheads. Paterno massaged his nose between his thumb and index finger. “So if we figure six weeks for a decent petition drive, we can wait to declare till the beginning of May, which should—”
“That’s too late,” Jerry said.
“No it’s not,” Paterno argued. “Not if we have everything ready to go. Not if—”
“By that time, do you know how many deadheads will have declared? Six thousand radicals, five thousand one-issue jerks who told their mommies to watch for them on television, and three or four viable candidates. And you’ll be viewed as just another one of them.” Jerry caressed the cleft in his chin with the knuckle of his index finger.
Paterno looked at Jerry and stopped rubbing his nose. “But if we declare too soon—” Paterno began.
“Bill, listen to me,” Jerry continued. “If you come out soon, right in the beginning of April, you’ll get all the coverage you want. They’ll treat you like a statesman, a gentleman. Every other candidate who declares after that will automatically be compared to you.”
“I don’t know,” Paterno muttered, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “It’s so soon.”
“Jerry’s right,” Eileen said. “And it would give us an extra month to fund-raise, to approach a lot of heavy contributors before everybody else does.” Although she and Jerry routinely sniped at each other, their political judgment was remarkably compatible. According to Jerry, they didn’t dislike each other at all; they were simply too much alike, coming from similar lower-middle-class Irish backgrounds, to find each other interesting. Bickering, he explained, helped them to keep awake in each other’s company.
Eileen acknowledged that their outlooks were very similar but felt obliged to inform me that men like Jerry were, beneath a thin layer of charm, sexist, narcissistic, and anti-intellectual. When we were alone, she teased me about being a sucker for a pretty face and called him names like Heartthrob. She had suggested that men like Jerry were a dime a dozen in her old neighborhood in Jackson Heights.
“Thank you for your support, counselor,” Jerry said, flashing her a wide, bright-toothed smile.
And it did seem that she avoided men like Jerry, selecting soft, quiet, bookish men to date, men whose pale lips matched their eyeglass frames, men who called to discuss the body politic.
Eileen turned from Jerry back to Paterno. I felt bad that they couldn’t enjoy each other, because I wanted the three of us to be friends. But each said they had enough of the other in the office, so my friendship with Eileen was limited to long lunches and to evenings when Jerry was busy. She came to our apartment only once, when Jerry was safely in Houston at the Democratic Convention. She had gazed around the living room and asked, “Kathye Baron?” I had nodded. “Well, she certainly tried, poor thing.”
Eileen was five years younger than I, thirty, but I thought of her as more than my
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