the time he spoke, his smile never quite left his face. McKay repeatedly referred to the candidate as "Jack Kennedy," with such an air of familiarity that, at one point, Terry almost interrupted to ask, Do you know him?
Where did you learn to talk like that?
Even before McKay had finished, Terry Doyle had admitted to himself how drawn he was to him.
"Any questions?" McKay said finally.
"Yes, one," Doyle answered with a jauntiness unusual for him. "Where do I sign up?"
McKay's grin grew, if anything, wider. He held his clipboard steadily in front of Doyle. "Right here, my good man. Right here."
Aware of the relief he felt—landfall! Kennedy! And was this a friend?—Terry Doyle wrote his name as if that were what he'd come all this way to do.
***
Kennedy headquarters were on Tremont Street just down from the Parker House. Three afternoons a week that fall Terry Doyle interrupted his streetcar commute back to Charlestown to stop there and work. A cigarette between his fingers, his cord sportcoat flung over his shoulder, his tie loosened, Doyle put a picture in his mind, as he arrived, of young Jimmy Stewart. His personality had never seemed so vibrant. His status as a college student, entirely involved by day with people who had not known him before, gave him license to reinvent himself, and that's what he was trying to do. Often he arrived at the campaign in the company of other guys from BC, and they all instinctively adopted the manner of candidates, slapping shoulders, cracking jokes, aggressively inviting other workers to like them. That one of the BC guys, a leader of the group, was a Negro made Terry's experience of his new situation all the more exotic.
The other campaign volunteers were mostly older people, retirees and housewives, middle-aged hooky-playing city workers, men in sleeveless sweaters and women wearing little hats like Jackie Kennedy's, or eyeglasses shaped like cat's eyes with rhinestones at the corners. They waved at the friendly college kids, youthful examples of the jaunty American masculinity of which Kennedy himself was the beau ideal. What a relief for Terry, a secret relief, to be out from under the low, dark ceiling—pallium—of his mother's wish for him. Down here he was no longer an apprentice priest He could live without the good opinion of the nuns. He could be virtuous—the cause of freedom!—without being pious. And he could look at girls, want them, have one.
The Young Democrats were pulled together from several area colleges, and had their own section of phone banks and Ditto machines in the far rear of the huge open space on the first floor of headquarters. Warrens of campaign offices filled the floors above, but those were staffed with the pros who ran the whole country. Kennedy's brothers and sisters, Larry O'Brien, Ted Sorensen, Richard Goodwin, Kenny O'Donnell—word was they all had offices upstairs, though no one ever saw them; they were always on the road. The volunteers' domain was this room the size of a roller rink. As Terry Doyle, Bright McKay, and three other eagles crossed it one day in October, they rattled off their greetings.
Terry stopped once to snuff his cigarette out in an ashtray. Except for McKay, the others kept going. The blue-haired woman at one of the desks grinned up at Terry. "That's a nice crop of daisies," she said. She had a pleasing Irish accent like his mother's, and was about her age.
"Daisies?"
"Freckles."
"Thanks, dear," Doyle answered. He liked the woman, but he felt his skin heating up.
"You know what freckles are, don't you?"
"No." He squinted at her through the smoke of his last drag. He had not come this far in life to have attention drawn to his freckles. One summer he had applied Man Tan to his face every day for most of a month to blot the damn things out His mother had said he looked like a coal miner. He hadn't stopped until his brother began calling him Smoke.
"Angel kisses," she said. "Every freckle is a place where an
Where did you learn to talk like that?
Even before McKay had finished, Terry Doyle had admitted to himself how drawn he was to him.
"Any questions?" McKay said finally.
"Yes, one," Doyle answered with a jauntiness unusual for him. "Where do I sign up?"
McKay's grin grew, if anything, wider. He held his clipboard steadily in front of Doyle. "Right here, my good man. Right here."
Aware of the relief he felt—landfall! Kennedy! And was this a friend?—Terry Doyle wrote his name as if that were what he'd come all this way to do.
***
Kennedy headquarters were on Tremont Street just down from the Parker House. Three afternoons a week that fall Terry Doyle interrupted his streetcar commute back to Charlestown to stop there and work. A cigarette between his fingers, his cord sportcoat flung over his shoulder, his tie loosened, Doyle put a picture in his mind, as he arrived, of young Jimmy Stewart. His personality had never seemed so vibrant. His status as a college student, entirely involved by day with people who had not known him before, gave him license to reinvent himself, and that's what he was trying to do. Often he arrived at the campaign in the company of other guys from BC, and they all instinctively adopted the manner of candidates, slapping shoulders, cracking jokes, aggressively inviting other workers to like them. That one of the BC guys, a leader of the group, was a Negro made Terry's experience of his new situation all the more exotic.
The other campaign volunteers were mostly older people, retirees and housewives, middle-aged hooky-playing city workers, men in sleeveless sweaters and women wearing little hats like Jackie Kennedy's, or eyeglasses shaped like cat's eyes with rhinestones at the corners. They waved at the friendly college kids, youthful examples of the jaunty American masculinity of which Kennedy himself was the beau ideal. What a relief for Terry, a secret relief, to be out from under the low, dark ceiling—pallium—of his mother's wish for him. Down here he was no longer an apprentice priest He could live without the good opinion of the nuns. He could be virtuous—the cause of freedom!—without being pious. And he could look at girls, want them, have one.
The Young Democrats were pulled together from several area colleges, and had their own section of phone banks and Ditto machines in the far rear of the huge open space on the first floor of headquarters. Warrens of campaign offices filled the floors above, but those were staffed with the pros who ran the whole country. Kennedy's brothers and sisters, Larry O'Brien, Ted Sorensen, Richard Goodwin, Kenny O'Donnell—word was they all had offices upstairs, though no one ever saw them; they were always on the road. The volunteers' domain was this room the size of a roller rink. As Terry Doyle, Bright McKay, and three other eagles crossed it one day in October, they rattled off their greetings.
Terry stopped once to snuff his cigarette out in an ashtray. Except for McKay, the others kept going. The blue-haired woman at one of the desks grinned up at Terry. "That's a nice crop of daisies," she said. She had a pleasing Irish accent like his mother's, and was about her age.
"Daisies?"
"Freckles."
"Thanks, dear," Doyle answered. He liked the woman, but he felt his skin heating up.
"You know what freckles are, don't you?"
"No." He squinted at her through the smoke of his last drag. He had not come this far in life to have attention drawn to his freckles. One summer he had applied Man Tan to his face every day for most of a month to blot the damn things out His mother had said he looked like a coal miner. He hadn't stopped until his brother began calling him Smoke.
"Angel kisses," she said. "Every freckle is a place where an
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