What It Takes (100 page)

By July, his wise guys were already after him to “broaden the message,” to speak more “Presidentially,” to be more “inspirational.” Sasso’s memo at the start of the month—the third-quarter plan, as John called it—gently suggested: “We have not hit that high note yet.” Sasso urged him to reach for broader themes as he moved into the fall.

Of course, Michael took it from John—at least in concept. Sure, they could work more of that into the plan. ... But if someone handed him a speech that strove for “that high note” ... well, Michael went to work with his pencil, brought it back to “in my state.”

They told him: People have to hear something more!

“It’s a marathon, my friend ... plenty of time for that ...”

If they persisted, they found he had no more time for them.

“Nope. Nope ... it’s not me.”

End of discussion.

The problem was, if he acknowledged that this was anything different ... then, the next thing—they’d want him to be different. And he wasn’t going to do that. Where would it stop?

“Nope. Steady as she goes, my friend ...

“That’s us ... steady, strong.”

He was most intent on proving that
he knew what he was doing
. And how could they argue? Ahead in New Hampshire ... closing on Gephardt in Iowa ... three million dollars
in the bank
. ... Everything worked great!

Except when he
didn’t
know:

He got to a café in Iowa, and ruled that the print press could follow him in—cameras out ... nope, no cameras. (The iron ring still bothered Michael: the boom mikes, lights—how could people talk?)

Of course, the TVs went bullshit. They were doing stand-ups in front of the closed door: how Dukakis froze them out. ... The Press Secretary, Patricia O’Brien, tried to soothe them: she knew campaigns, she understood ... she’d talk to the Governor. ... This was her credibility on the line, too!

So Michael came out, buckled up in the backseat, and Pat turned around from the front—she was on him.

“Governor, you can’t do it that way.”

“That’s the way I do it.”

“No, Governor, you can’t do it. That is not the way you do it. Not in this.”

“I don’t want cameras ... they change ...”

“The cameras are why you’re here!”

Now Michael glared at her in the front seat; he gave her the look. “
Will you listen to me?
”

“
I’ll listen to you when you start listening to me
.”

Of course, he knew she was right. That’s what was galling. He was still staring at her with a look you’d give a misbehaving child ... but he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

“Well,” he said. “Well. ... Well! PUT ON YOUR SEAT BELT!”

The funny thing was, they got great press—respectful, serious—almost fond! This was partly because of the diddybops: they just assumed the race revolved around their man. But once the Duke’s first-quarter fund-raising figures surfaced (
four
million?) ... no one questioned again whether the guy was a player. He could play. ... If anyone still made bold to ask
why
he thought he should be President, Michael had a neat and serviceable answer: opportunity for all, government that worked ... he was more than airy ideas, he was the hands-on manager who
made it happen
. (“That’s the
kinda leadership
I think we need in this country. I’m the
kinda guy ...
”)

Anyway, they seldom asked why. If they weren’t speculating on the horse race, they were busy with Karacter ... and it was apparent, Mike was their kinda guy.

Michael didn’t screw around (but liked his wife), never took drugs (but blamed himself for not watching his wife), never got drunk (but would taste wine), never lost himself in fancy for a movie, a book, an idea of any kind ... never overate, overslept, overworked, overpaid, overspent, overreached, overspoke ... never lost control, in any way they could see.

And never changed.

Perfekt!

There was just enough for a nice, neat profile: a joke or two up front about how cheap he was (heh heh—that snow-blower is
twenty-five years old
—heh heh) ... which played right into the “crisis of his life,” the time he lost, in ’78—because
he wouldn’t raise taxes
fast enough ... how sad he was, in loss, but how he got smarter (at Harvard!) and came back, better, harder,
brilliantly
... as Duke II.

Forty column inches—no loose ends.

There was a woman named Gail Sheehy on the prowl that summer—the Karacter Kops’ drum majorette, she marched at the head of the parade. And after a long shiny-magazine inspection of Dukakis’s life, she went (cautiously) gooey on her new squeeze:

“... Or might we be ready for a hardheaded, thoroughly decent, pre-war model of a man, one who would wear very well indeed, never tell us a lie, give good value on the dollar, and keep Amtrak running on time?

“We have waited so long for a political leader to believe in with all our hearts ...”

What higher praise could the Top Kop offer?

Even reporters, who actually tried to cover the man, could find no handle for dire speculation—secret failures,
frissons
, hints of danger ... certainly not the Streak of Wildness.

Maureen Dowd, the most observant political writer on
The New York Times
, essayed The Profile that summer, and came out with:

The cheapness joke ...

The passion for Kitty ...

The crisis of his life, ’78 ...

And she wrapped up this life lesson as neatly as would Michael:

“... When he recaptured the governorship in 1982, Mr. Dukakis had learned the art of politics. Duke II, as he is sometimes dubbed, does not scoff at patronage. He has created an awe-inspiring political machine. ...”

God! She must have been talking to Sasso!

Actually, the big-feet were all talking to Sasso, though Patricia O’Brien was a splendid Press Secretary, and Sasso had ruled, by memorandum, that
all
comment—from
everyone
—had to funnel through Pat’s shop. What he meant was, everyone but him.

John thought O’Brien hadn’t quite made the leap from her previous life as a working reporter. She didn’t quite
get
how the game was played. So every once in a while, he’d work a story, or a big-foot, himself. When it came time to announce Michael’s extraordinary $4.5 million first quarter, John was rubbing his hands with relish. This was the kind of story that would put his man on the map!

Pat meant to announce the figure, on the day such figures were announced. But, no ...

John meant to work this: Michael would be in Atlanta, ten days before the figures were announced. So Sasso would leak
partial
figures (not enough to step on the main story) to
The Atlanta Journal
. Then, just to cover his tracks (and take care of a friend, or two), he’d leak some numbers to
The New York Times
... so both papers would have partial stories. (Who could tell where they got the stuff?) Other papers and TV would pick up from that.
Then
, later, comes the main story. That way, John could get
a whole week
of play ... with news organizations chasing each other to find out exactly how big was Michael’s triumph. Gorgeous!

Pat said: “John, you can’t choreograph reporters. They aren’t puppets! It’s going to cause a lot of ill will ...”

John said: “You’re right, Pat ...”

But he did it anyway. Sasso knew which stories offered room for a few downfield moves and which he had to run straight up the middle. (The story of Michael’s decision to run, back in March—no one got that early, not a whisper!) ... Sasso was good with the press—that was part of his job—he was good at his job. And Pat didn’t have to know everything. Who was she gonna complain to—Michael?

Michael didn’t have to know everything, either. He’d long since come to rely on Sasso’s friendships within the press, his handling of stories ... to Michael it was a simple management problem, basic shop. Michael knew, John ran a good shop.

The proof was in the papers. In July, at last, Kitty made her announcement—she had taken speed for twenty-five years. This was a textbook piece of management.

Al Peters, husband of Kitty’s sister, knew of a hospital in Norfolk, Massachusetts, that was dedicating a new wing for substance-abuse patients. The campaign got the hospital to dedicate it to Kitty.

Kitty’s statement was a labor of weeks ... three drafts, four drafts ... they had to answer all questions—favorably, but firmly. They wanted to raise this once, then put it to bed. No second-day loose ends ... and no lingering questions about Michael.

How could Mr. Hands-On not know about his wife’s addiction for twenty years?

Why did he lie when she went for treatment, in ’82 ... that story about her hepatitis?

That was Sasso’s worry—this could raise doubts about Michael. Tell the truth, John had no patience for this drug business. John didn’t even want to deal with Kitty.

To Kitty, it seemed none of the men understood. It got to be very much a woman’s affair: Patricia O’Brien and Susan Estrich worked with Kitty on her speech, and they worked in secrecy. If word got out, this would turn into a circus. The campaign had people calling doctors to make sure the medical facts checked out. Of course, they were only asking about “a friend.” The doctors said there was no way five milligrams a day could constitute a physical addiction. But that was the word Kitty wanted to use: addiction. This was important to Kitty. This wasn’t just a problem of press relations. This was her coming out.

That’s why it was wonderful that Michael was there, when she told the world. Michael could have been on the road—Iowa, California—anywhere. Let Kitty do her thing. But Michael said no. He’d be with his bride. That’s what made it so moving: he was next to her, at the hospital, as she started the story ... and he started to cry. She paused to brush a tear from his cheek. And another ...

“Michael didn’t know,” she said. “I was already taking the pills when I met him. Pills are easy to hide, and I hid them.”

(She hid them in a shoe—she always hid the pills in her shoes.)

“But above all, I didn’t tell my husband, because I knew, if I did, I would have to confront my dependency. I would have to stop. I was afraid I couldn’t stop.”

The small crowd applauded her warmly. And by the next day, the whole country was applauding Kitty.

And applauding Michael.

His ignorance for twenty years, his lie in ’82—those issues disappeared overnight, replaced in the lore of the big-feet by his mastery of the story. The next day, E.J. Dionne quoted lunch-buddies:

“In its current mood, some politicians said, the nation may reward candidates who appear a bit vulnerable: confessional politics may also be smart politics.”

In fact, he suggested, Dukakis helped himself by softening his icy image. E.J. quoted another anonymous source, saying Kitty made Michael “look like a warm, caring, loving and compassionate husband.”

Of course, that referred to his tears ... which appeared in only one paper, E.J.’s own
New York Times
. See, attendance at the hospital had to be controlled. No press circus—Kitty might crumble. So the campaign put the hospital event on the schedule—but without explanation. Only
after
she knew Kitty started her speech (this thing was timed to the minute—no mistakes!) did Patricia O’Brien make a round of calls alerting (only local) reporters that Kitty had something to say—did they want a half-hour with her that afternoon? ... So, at the hospital that morning, there were just a couple of local TVs ... and Maureen Dowd, from the
Times
—she did a great job. And the scene at the hospital made the story so much better.

Lucky she got there. She must have been talking to Sasso.

For Kitty, this was the start of a new world. She was scared ... stressed out ... and thrilled. She must have done fifteen one-on-ones that afternoon—same script, but still: one after another, after the other ... it was brutal!

Susan Estrich or Patricia O’Brien would show in the next reporter, the next camera crew ... for
hours
Kitty kept her place, in her living room, on one of the tatty old Danish-modern chairs (Michael would never spring for new furniture: What’s wrong with our chairs?) ... and Kitty was spectacular. She never lost her focus, or her charm, her vulnerability, her strength. The story never lost its freshness, or its intimacy. She just ... well, she shined.

And she was calm, full of purpose.

It was strange, how collected she seemed, at the center of so much frenzied attention. But that’s what gave her such focus. She knew she was doing something important—and it was right—because it was so important to her. This was not about Michael, or the state, or even the campaign. This was about
Kitty.
And in that line of reporters that stretched into the evening, there was interest, and more: there was connection, esteem, identity.

The local evening news had twenty minutes on Kitty.

The kitchen phone was ringing with requests for Kitty.

The campaign was working overtime on a new national schedule for Kitty.

When the last reporter had gone, Kitty walked back to the kitchen, exhausted, excited, satisfied. She popped open a bottle of wine—glasses for everyone. She knew she’d done a wonderful job.

But even she didn’t know the chord she’d touched. She started to find out the next morning—6:00
A.M.,
she was off to Minnesota. She wanted to tell her story there, where she’d gotten treatment, where her triumph had begun. ... She was flying commercial—back of the plane—and before they’d even taken off, a man, a stranger, came to her, down the aisle. He bent over the back of the chair in front of her, and almost whispered:

“You know, my wife had the same problem—nine years ... and till yesterday, she thought she was the only one. God bless you ...” Then
he
started to cry.

Kitty was always great when she had something to do, something important, whenever people were counting on her, paying attention to her. It’s only when the music stopped—down time, delays—she’d get itchy ... and then, watch out!