Silent Partner: A Memoir of My Marriage (11 page)

It rained torrentially that day, and Jim called to say he was running late.

“The rain is so bad, and there’s so much mud here that our wheels just keep spinning,” he said. “We are really stuck in the mud. We’ll get out, but it’ll take a couple of guys to give us a push.”

In a movie, with appropriate music, the image of a car spinning its wheels in the muck might correctly augur the future that awaited us. But this was real life, and so, at least for that day, the mud was just mud and the rain was just rain.

I was wearing an off-white suit for the occasion, which luckily was protected by my raincoat. Nevertheless, after arriving at the church, I had spent the first few minutes getting mud off my stockings and fixing my makeup, which was threatening to wash out. The four of us stood around in Father Counselman’s office, a plain room with a desk and some bookshelves. No altar, and if there was a cross, I don’t remember it.

Suddenly Jim burst in. “Sorry I’m late, folks,” he said, turning to me and giving me a wet hug. He kissed me and held my hand, then took his place in the little semicircle where we’d all been standing.

“Well, is everyone ready?” Father Counselman asked, after a few more minutes of chat.

Jim squeezed my hand. “I’m excited,” he said to me. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I didn’t have a single doubt or a moment’s hesitation, but it all felt a little unreal. I had never thought that I would get married in someone’s office, much less an Episcopalian’s.

Then Father Counselman took us through our vows.

It was over in just a few minutes. Still standing in Father Counselman’s office, we signed all the paperwork, and then he told us we were now legally husband and wife. Jim seemed ebullient. I was happy, but it all felt faintly surreal to me. Jim and I kissed, and Celia turned to me and said, “Congratulations, Mrs. McGreevey!” If there was any moment that made it real for me, this was it.

By now, it was 8:30
P.M.
and still pouring. Jim and I had planned to go out to dinner somewhere in Woodbridge, just the two of us, following the ceremony.

“Do you still want to go out to dinner?” said Jim.

“Not really,” I replied. “Let’s wait till we really feel married.”

We had finished later than expected, and the weather was still awful. That would probably be another sign in a movie, but in our lives it just meant we didn’t have to get even wetter than we already were. Jim walked me to my car, where we kissed good night. After that, he went to his home, which soon would be my home, and I went back to my parents’ in Elizabeth, knowing that this would be the last night I slept there. I realize that might seem strange to some people, but I didn’t even think of going to Jim’s house. For one thing, the evening’s formalities didn’t seem like our “real” wedding. For another, I hadn’t told my parents about this little matrimonial detour. I wanted the formality and excitement of our wedding ceremony to be shared by everyone, at the same time and in the same place. As far as I was concerned we didn’t exchange vows that night, we just signed a contract. Besides, we were leaving the next morning for Washington, and I still hadn’t packed for our wedding and honeymoon—ten days in Italy.

Soon after I got home, my phone rang. “So, Mrs. McGreevey, how does it feel to be married?” Jim asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t think I feel married yet.”

“Are you happy?” he asked. “I am.”

“Yes,” I said. “I really am happy.”

The next morning, as Jim and I sat together on the train to Washington, D.C., I wondered what married life would really be like. I knew that ours would not be a typical marriage, though I was certainly not prepared for just how atypical it would be. I was marrying someone who I believed would be governor, maybe even president. But what did it mean to be the wife of the governor? I wouldn’t be able to compare my marriage to any of my friends’ marriages or to the marriages of any of my relatives. The only political wife I knew well was Lori Kennedy. I did know that many political marriages ended in divorce, and that made me wary. I was going to make my marriage work.

I WASN’T ONE OF
those little girls who played bride, so I hadn’t really imagined a fantasy wedding for myself, but our wedding ceremony two days later was close to perfect, a lovely mix of happiness and hope. There wasn’t a Catholic priest or a church (that would have made it perfect), but I did wear my beautiful Vera Wang dress—a strapless gown in antique white—and my dad did walk me down the aisle. All the people I loved were there to share in the day.

During the ceremony, we had not two but three wedding rings. My mother had a plain gold ring that I had asked for, since I knew that it no longer fit her. I wanted my marriage to be strong and happy like my parents’, and bringing my mother’s ring into our ceremony was a concrete way of expressing my deepest hopes of what the future would bring to Jim and me. When we said our vows, my voice was soft, while Jim’s carried throughout the room. He was accustomed to making speeches, and I was moved by how much strength and conviction he expressed in his vows to me. In the background throughout was the sound of young children—my nieces—chattering, and that also seemed somehow appropriate in terms of what I was hoping my marriage with Jim would bring.

The banquet was beautiful—ivory damask tablecloths, with a white-rose centerpiece framed by lit candles. We had a five-person orchestra for the occasion, an elegant group all dressed in tuxedos, which played “From This Moment On” for our first dance as husband and wife. Throughout the evening, we talked, laughed, and danced with each other and with our guests. Altogether we filled the room with about eighty people—family and close friends who had traveled down to Washington to be with us. About half a dozen of our guests were union and political leaders who had come forward to support Jim when his run for governor was threatened by Torricelli. Including them in our wedding was our way of saying thank you. In his toast, best man Kevin McCabe recalled a visit the three of us had made to D.C. for a conference, which was followed by a long, long evening at the Irish Pub. In a comment that didn’t mean half as much at the time as it did later, Kevin said if I could endure that, I could endure anything.

Soon after dinner began, Jim was up and walking from table to table, as I’d seen him do at dozens of fund-raisers. I was sitting near Jimmy Kennedy, and our eyes met as we watched Jim circulate. “Look at him,” I said with amusement. “He just can’t help himself. He thinks he’s campaigning.”

Jimmy smiled as well. “I guess it’s automatic.” It was a telling moment in this very new marriage. I knew what I was getting into as I watched my husband work the room. It was fine with me, I decided. This is who he was.

The day’s celebration ended around midnight and would have gone longer if we’d let it. The band had packed up, our families had left, the waiters were looking at their watches. It was just us and the stragglers. We were hanging around to be polite, but it was time for the guests to go. Finally, I stood up and said, “We have to let these guys clean up. Party’s over, folks.” Actually, I had a wedding night to get to.

We made our way to the bridal suite, Jim still in his tux, me still in my wedding gown. We were tired and happy. When we were at last in our room, Jim turned to me. “Didn’t we have a great day?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “It was beautiful.”

“You looked spectacular. You made a gorgeous bride,” he said as he helped me out of my wedding gown. Finally we were together as husband and wife, alone at last.

I GUESS I SHOULDN’T
have been surprised, but even on our honeymoon in Rome, Jim worked. One evening before dinner, he said he had to call his campaign manager, Gary Taffet. Since there was no phone in our room capable of a transatlantic call, Jim had to call from the hotel lobby. After fifteen minutes, I wondered where he was. After half an hour, I was a little edgy. After an hour, I began to wonder if he’d been abducted. But no, when I went down to the lobby, there he was, phone glued to his ear. Not only did I have a lot to learn about marriage, I had a lot to learn about this marriage, to this man in particular.

Despite Jim’s umbilical attachment to the telephone, we enjoyed our honeymoon in Rome immensely. One day, our guide, a fine-arts curator based at the American embassy in the Vatican, showed us the Caravaggios, the Michelangelos, and the Raphaels. But the high point of the entire wedding experience, and what we had hoped for most, was a private audience with Pope John Paul II. A morning or two after we arrived, we went to St. Peter’s Square to meet Sister Roberta, the aunt of a friend. Sister Roberta lived in New Jersey, and I’d met her before; happily, she was there on vacation and had been able to help arrange this papal audience for us.

“What do you think I should wear?” I asked Jim—probably the only time I’d ever asked him for fashion advice.

I wound up wearing a black sheath dress and a long black wool cardigan. Around my neck, I wore a necklace with a gold pendant designed by a Catholic priest in order to raise money for orphans. Jim, on this of all occasions, wore khakis, a long-sleeved button-down shirt, and a tie. He hadn’t brought a suit with him, but he did have a sports coat, and that would have to do. We met Sister Roberta, who took us to the entrance of the papal apartment—in a seventeenth-century palace, adjacent to St. Peter’s Basilica. When the Pope greets the faithful in St. Peter’s Square, it’s the balcony of this apartment from which he waves. In the papal apartment, we were met by a monsignor who took us through a series of hallways to the Pope’s personal chapel. I was surprised at how modest it was—a rectangular white room with bare walls, in all maybe the size of a large dining room. Not more than twenty people were in there, and most were from John Paul’s home country of Poland. Among them were a bride and groom in wedding attire who had come to be blessed by the Holy Father.

The room was silent with anticipation. Within minutes, the Pope would enter from a side door and we would be in his presence, a historic moment for two devout Catholics who’d never imagined anything remotely like this. At last the Pope came into the room, escorted by another priest. He looked frailer and paler than I had expected, and he walked quite slowly. I’d seen him once before, though at a distance, when he came to the Meadowlands, a sports complex in New Jersey holding thousands. He had aged since then, and yet he exuded dignity and serenity. As he entered, all of us, as if we had rehearsed, fell to our knees. The Pope was dressed entirely in white, and his presence was overpowering. I felt as if I were before God himself. At that moment, I experienced a complete sense of joy and comfort inseparable from his presence.

Once at the altar, the Pope celebrated mass in Polish. Although we didn’t grasp much, other than recognizing that some of his words were in Latin, this was the most meaningful mass either one of us had ever attended. It was an exquisite occasion full of joy and promise. Here we were, married for less than a week, and the first mass we went to together as husband and wife was celebrated by the Pope. We received communion from one of the attending priests, and then, following the mass, another papal aide escorted us to a separate area of the Pope’s residence for our private audience with him. We were joined by those who had been in the chapel. Again, the room was in almost total silence. While we waited, Jim said to me, “You should say something to him in Portuguese.” We knew that it was one of the many languages the Pope spoke.

One by one, or as couples, we were escorted to Pope John Paul II as he sat on a massive dark wood chair. We trembled. Jim was momentarily speechless, something I’d never encountered in him before. Then we were presented to the Pope by his aide, who announced our names and where we were from. Jim, having regained speech, told the Pope that we were newly married. I asked the Pope to bless our marriage and bless our family. Then, in Portuguese I said, “I’m originally from Portugal.” He nodded with a smile and answered me in Portuguese, “Home of Our Lady of Fatima,” as Mary is known in relation to her appearance to the three shepherd children at Fatima. The Pope was well known to be devoted to Mary and credited her with saving him during the assassination attempt on his life on May 13, 1981. That was the feast day of Our Lady of Fatima.

“Yes,” I said.

He handed us each a rosary in a small pouch imprinted with his coat of arms and motto—
Totus Tuus
, meaning “All yours,” signifying his devotion to Mary. Then we were escorted from the room. At that moment, I thought his blessing would guarantee that Jim and I would have a great marriage. How could we not? We had just been blessed by the holiest man on earth.

Soon we headed for Florence, where we admired the architecture as well as the incredible works of art, including Michelangelo’s
David
. And we explored a different restaurant every day, reveling in the marvelous pastas, meats, breads, and wines. It just didn’t seem possible to have a bad meal in Italy—not that we tried. One day back in Rome, we met some doctors from my hospital and joined them for dinner. It was nice seeing familiar faces, but strange, too, since I was used to seeing them wearing white coats and walking purposefully through the corridors, not wearing sports clothes and ambling leisurely through the streets. It was fun to see them, though, and fun to introduce Jim as “my husband,” a phrase that felt very new to me.

We went wherever our impulses and inclinations took us—to museums and churches, to the Forum and the Colosseum. Somehow we always managed to begin our days at one of the cafés near the Spanish Steps. And since it was a mild autumn, mild enough for us eat outside, we always managed to end our days with romantic dinners al fresco. We were both avid walkers, so we spent the daylight hours walking the streets. On one occasion, Jim said teasingly, “What’s the matter? Can’t you keep up with me? That’s not a good indication.”

“I can keep up with you anytime,” I replied.

“You told me you walked the streets of Paris for hours. Now you can’t keep up?”