What It Takes (133 page)

By that time, of course, Joe’s head was racing. He was starting to see how it could be ... in the new house, with Jill, the boys. The boys loved her. Half the time, she was over there for dinner, in the kitchen, easy in the life. ... And the boys wanted to be married. That’s how “we Bidens” thought about it. Beau or Hunt would say to his dad: “Are we gonna get married again?”

And Joe was so attentive. Every day he called her. Every night. If he got home at ten, he’d run over to her apartment, just to say hello. And he was so interesting—though, God knows, she didn’t care much about politics. Joe didn’t mind. He got enough of that in Washington.

No, he’d take care of the politics, and Jill ... well, he could see her taking care of them, the way she was with the boys—with everybody. She could talk with anyone. Not that she believed everyone. No, she believed what she believed. She had backbone. She was private—Joe liked that, her cool way of hiding the girl inside, and old hurts ... he could see that. She had that way of looking at you, to make sure you meant what she thought was so funny ... and then that quick shy smile, half-doubting—she could sniff out bullshit. She’d tell him, too—especially when it was his bullshit—she’d tell him straight. Very soft of manner was Jill, but smart: she knew who she liked.

She could do it ... he could
see
it ... and when that started, well, he could see things falling into place. If he could put that back together, if he knew they’d have their home, their family ... then he could reach outward again. It wasn’t just the schedule—he could travel, he could speak. It was more like the center was in place ... so he could lift his eyes. That’s how Joe talked about it—his words:

“What Jill did ... she was the one who let me dream again.”

L
EE HAD ALWAYS SAID
, she wanted their life back ... but this was not their life. There was a hole at the center: What was Gary going to do? That’s what so much of their life had been
about
. The simplest things, and the biggest—like where they lived—had always fallen into place around Gary’s plans. Even day-to-day doings—the schedule, a calendar ... Lee might go a week now and never write a thing on her calendar. If she did, it didn’t make any difference—she never looked at the darned thing anymore.

It was drastic, overnight; the future was a blank sheet. And not just her personal future, next week. They’d always shared a larger
public
future, for their kids, for the country. On that Gary and Lee had stood, unalterably, together. They’d given up so much for that—but now she was conscious of how much that had given them.

Public purpose ... it was never really for
her
. Over and over, Lee had tried to explain: she wanted Gary to be President—not for her,
personally
—but just because he’d be great.
She
never wanted to be in the White House. But people couldn’t seem to credit her with that. If they didn’t think she was a doormat ... well, she must be so greedily ambitious that she’d let Gary trample her as long as he hauled her into the White House.

She’d tried to explain ... but what was the point now? Her friend Sally Henkel told her she ought to write something, or go on TV—Oprah!—to show she was not a conniver or a victim. But to Lee that seemed like looking back. She always said (and not just her—Gary always said) you only look back to learn, to make yourself better. Otherwise, it’s just morbid—too debilitating. You have to get on with your life, unless you want to curl up in a ball and die. She had to see this as a
new challenge
. She had to
look ahead
—which was hard enough, with all the ... information.

It wasn’t that she asked. People called
her
! ... Just a few weeks after Gary got out, a friend of Lee’s (such a good friend) called to make sure she knew the whole dismal poop on the
Post
’s “other woman.” This friend not only had the woman’s name, just for starters, but what she was like, what she looked like, what she felt about Gary, even what she’d said when the
Post
grilled her. (This friend was sure: a
team
of three
Post
reporters had gone at this woman for six hours!)

And it wasn’t till months later, Lee found out that most of this information was wrong. She should have known: Lee had
seen
one of those reporters in New Hampshire—while he was supposedly grilling the “other woman” in D.C. But how could Lee know what to believe?

Another friend called to say Gary’s car was seen outside this other woman’s house, for
months
—from January to the campaign’s end, in May ... while Lee knew, John had driven his dad’s car back to Colorado in December of ’86. ... Of course, when Lee tracked down a charge and confronted somebody with the facts, they’d start backpedaling: that wasn’t what they really said ... or they must have meant ’86 ... or they must have meant a different car. ... What was the point?

She didn’t even ask Gary about a lot of this stuff—he didn’t want to talk about it. And some things just weren’t worth bringing up. They were unimportant, compared to the big things in life. And with Gary, you just didn’t keep going
over
things. “You get it out of your system,” he’d say, “because at some point it’s got to stop.”

Lee believed you shouldn’t put a person on the spot. This wasn’t just for Gary’s sake—it was her way with her children and friends, too. “You don’t want to push people into positions where they have to lie,” she’d say, “or just stop talking. There are times when you can be put into a position where you have to lie—just to protect yourself. That’s the way to teach people to lie.”

It wasn’t that they didn’t talk. There was time now to talk about personal things, things they’d just let slide for the last ten years. With Gary it was never easy. But at some point you had to talk. And she told him, this was the
stupidest
thing he’d ever done. But she knew, even as she said it ... she didn’t have to. That’s why she had to laugh about those stories—
Cosmopolitan
, or some magazine like that, made such a big deal about things she wouldn’t even ask! Well, after nearly thirty years, there’s so much you don’t have to ask.

And Sally Quinn—the feminists—were pathetic! You work hard at a marriage for twenty-eight years, and then when somebody makes a mistake, you throw it over? ... And in this case, when you really got down to the facts, it wasn’t such a horrible mistake. Just stupid.

She never would understand how he could be so
stupid
. “But,” she said, “those things happen.”

She said she never shed one tear.

People would call—they were so blue without the campaign—and Gary would end up consoling
them
: life would go on, there would be other challenges, other ways to carry on the mission.

Him? ... He was fine. He’d remind them: he got out of the race on Friday and was at the law firm, 9:00
A.M.,
Monday morning.

Which was true, but it didn’t say anything about him ... except he wasn’t going to sit home. If anyone tried to ask about his work for the firm, he’d roll his eyes to show: he wasn’t really a part of
that
—he was just a rainmaker, a money-raker, supposed to put the firm into the middle of deals. It seemed so empty to him.

He had to do it.

He had engaged himself to do it, for one thing ... and the partners had tried to be good to him. And he had two kids in college, and never took the time before to make money. And his option on the land around the cabin—137 acres, his one personal place in the world—would come due in July ’87, two months after he quit the race. (And the campaign contributor who was going to loan Gary money to buy the land suddenly withdrew the offer. Life changes when you’re a loser.)

Hart had to make money in a hurry. (In the end, he had to ask Warren Beatty ... who gladly lent him the money.)

So this wasn’t therapy, or Hart settling into a new life. There were demands, as ever. Gary put his face to the phone. ... But that wasn’t what his life was about.

He’d defined himself for so long by his public purpose, there was no way to do without it. You couldn’t fly around for six years in a race to change the country before its future be squandered or scarred ... and then, after a ten-minute concession speech, walk away with a shrug, a smile. He could not.

He was religious, in his way—and one of the great sins was to fail to make use of your talents and abilities. He never meant to suggest he was
selected by God
—nothing like that—terrible presumption. But he had something to offer ... that had carried him for
fourteen years
, if you went back to the Senate campaigns.

There had to be a way.

A friend would call and Hart would bring up an idea: someone had suggested he might write semi-regularly for
The New York Times
, op-ed—you know, opinion, foreign policy, defense ...

“Sounds great.”

“You think so?” Hart would say. “May come to nothing ...” He’d mention the L.A. Times Syndicate—a column ... or he thought he might give his remaining economics speech at a college. He’d been talking with a professor who thought it might be good to do a series of lectures.

There were always possibilities. Next week, they were still possibilities. Nothing happened. But he had another idea: PBS might want to do a series of interviews—if he could get Gorbachev ...

The fact was, he didn’t want to commit to anything real and large enough to hold him. He wouldn’t take a step in any direction if that would pull down the pillars of his life ... not when there was a
chance
he could build anew.

He wouldn’t bring it up. People called him! ... Had he seen that poll about the press? (
Two-to-one
, people thought the press went overboard on Hart.) Had he seen that southern-states poll from Atlanta? (When Hart’s name was added, he was still the Democratic front-runner.)

“Really!” Hart would say. (Like he hadn’t talked about that poll thirty times.) He’d tell them about the letters—hundreds of letters, came to his house, to the law firm ... hundreds he couldn’t even get to yet that came to the campaign address.

People were writing to tell him he never should have quit—the cause and the country required him. There were letters that offered theories on who’d set Gary up; letters from lifelong Republicans who said they’d vote for Hart; there were senior citizens who sent five dollars from their pensions—all they could afford. There was a hundred dollars from one couple who’d just birthed a baby girl. They had this money to buy a new crib, but they decided it was more important to do something for their baby’s country.

Of course, there were letters on the other side. But they were few, or from obvious sickos, or people who didn’t ... well, Gary said they weren’t worth mentioning.

Dear Mr. heart sorry your bLue. Evrybody thinks your sLezzy. But I don’t!

sincereLy,

Rand Olson

P.S.

Your a nice Guy.

here is my

picther

Hart never mentioned, anymore, anyone who wanted him gone for good. If he heard any bad news about his standing, it didn’t register. Or it only
proved
to him that the politics-as-usual hacks were afraid of him, ganging up. That’s how the real Hart people knew. Friends or staff who’d gone through the wars with Gary could tell: Jesus, he was
serious
! ... He was getting ready to be a majority of one again.

The Hart people would call one another, like consulting physicians. Billy Shore would dial Sue Casey and say: “I saw him today.” He didn’t have to say who.

“Yeah,” she’d say, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.

“He’s doing it again.”

“Like, how bad is he doing it?”

“Well,” Shore would say, “he asked me three times, ‘Do you really think any of the others really
get
it?’ ...”

Occasionally, one of the physicians would hump up Hippocratically and try to talk to Gary. Casey was still in Denver. She’d call his law office, get him out to lunch.

“Look,” she’d say. “There’s life, and there’s running for President. And there’s just things you’ve got to resolve in life first.”

“There you go again,” Hart would say. “Pass the bread.”

“No, really! What do you want? What’s really going to make you happy?”

“It’s good bread ...”

Sometimes, Casey would resort to bitter memory-dose: “Think what you’re going to put people through! Your family. Yourself! All these stories ... it’s gonna be, like,
slap me again
! ... Have you
forgotten
? ... What it’s going to be like?”

Hart would insist, his family was ready. “The kids—you don’t understand.”

Casey did understand. Andrea had given her an earful—she was furious at Sue for opposing a new campaign. It was
betrayal
, like Sue was siding with the assholes! ...
How come you’re not part of the family anymore?

But even Casey couldn’t understand what happened in Gary Hart when he looked into his daughter’s eyes and saw doubt ...
about him
. If he’d done nothing wrong, why did he quit the race? Why didn’t he get back in? The truth will
always
prevail—he was the one who’d taught her that!

If he believed what he’d always said, he had no choice!

Ideas
had
to make a difference in life.

How could he duck the battle now?

The worst was when she wouldn’t talk. Hart would be up late, reading in his chair in the main room of the cabin. Andrea would walk in and, with one glance, fill the room with the question.

“Andrea ...” he’d say. “If people as smart as Billy and Sue don’t think it’s possible, you have to think ...”

But she’d just keep going to her room. He already knew what she thought.

In some ways, John was harder. He’d never wanted this before—to be a part of a campaign. But now he wanted it
so much.
It was like bitter fate was trying to insure that Gary and his son always passed each other, going opposite ways.

“Dad, you gotta do it!”