Rodham

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  “He needs to let her speak for herself,” Greg said. “She should be saying all this, not him.”

  Just then, the interviewer asked Sarah Grace if what Bill said was true.

  Sarah Grace nodded. She said, “I felt sorry for the woman.”

  I winced. “Unfortunate choice of words.”

  In a soft voice, her eyes downcast, she added, “I think Bill’s been a wonderful governor for the state of Arkansas.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “Did they not give her media training?” She was so—there was no other word for it—weak. Bill needed an equal who’d act like even if he’d had affairs, so what? Because they both were sophisticated and tough and the only person he was answerable to was her and if she’d dealt with it, it was no one else’s business; hell, maybe she’d had affairs, too. The American public would not, of course, like such a woman, but that didn’t matter. He was the one running for office, and the reality was that a wife like that would probably win him sympathy votes.

  The interviewer asked Bill what he’d meant when he’d previously said his marriage had had difficulties—did it mean communication problems? Adultery? Separation?

  Bill said, “I think the American people, at least people that have been married for a long time, know what it means and know the whole range of things it can mean.”

  “That’s a good answer,” Greg said.

  “But she’s got to jump in,” I said. “It can’t just be him.”

  For the next few minutes, it was only him.

  When the interviewer asked if he was prepared to say he’d never had an affair, Bill said, “I’m not prepared tonight to say that any married couple should ever discuss that with anyone but themselves.”

  He said, “I have acknowledged wrongdoing. I have acknowledged causing pain in my marriage. I have said things to you tonight and to the American people from the beginning that no American politician ever has.”

  He said, “I think most Americans who are watching this tonight, they’ll know what we’re saying. They’ll get it, and they’ll feel that we have been candid.”

  The interviewer said to Sarah Grace, “When your husband sits next to you, and his answers are not a denial that he’s had an extramarital affair—what’s that like?”

  “I love Bill very much,” Sarah Grace said in a quavering voice, and then she began to cry.

  “Oh my God,” I said, and Greg said, “What a train wreck.”

  “And I love Sarah Grace,” Bill said, setting an arm around her shoulders. “And together we couldn’t be more excited to get back to the real problems of this country, which is helping millions of Americans fulfill their dreams and find stability and prosperity.” Did Bill think he looked protective, reassuring—husbandly?—in this moment?

  “Call a priest,” Greg said. “Someone needs to read the last rites to Bill Clinton’s candidacy.”

  “Greg,” I said, and he turned to look at me. “I want to run for Senate.”

  * * *

  —

  I didn’t announce until February 18, three weeks later, but by the next day, a frenzy of activity had commenced that didn’t stop until the primary: I was reaching out to major donors and influential members of the party, assembling a staff, requesting a leave from committees and other responsibilities from the dean of the law school and the university provost.

  As Greg had recommended, I announced I was running by sitting down with a reporter from the Tribune. This interview would occur at the Tribune’s office on Michigan Avenue and, on the way, as Greg sat in the front seat of a taxi and his deputy, Jill, and I sat in the back, Greg turned around to face us. “Good God, Hillary,” he said. “When did you last shave your legs?”

  I was wearing a black wool skirt suit and pantyhose—never a lucky combination for me, apparently—and when I glanced down, it was true that the blond hair on my calves swirled visibly inside the nylon.

  “Pull over,” Greg said to the driver. “Jill, run into that Walgreens and get shaving cream and a razor.”

  When Jill reentered the car, she passed a plastic bag to me, and Greg said, “No. Jill, you do it for her.”

  “I shave Hillary’s legs?” Jill sounded uncertain. “Now?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Take off your tights, Hillary,” Greg said. “And no, you won’t. I want you focused while we run through your answers.”

  My life had changed overnight, and this was who I had become—a person whose legs were shaved by someone else, in a taxi. If I had lost, my entry into the Senate race would, I suppose, have seemed at best quixotic and at worst humiliating. But because I won—because I beat Dixon, Albert Hofeld, and Carol Moseley Braun in the primary and then Richard Williamson in the general—my decision to run for Senate took on a retroactive sheen of inevitability. It did so in a public way, seeming to others, especially journalists, like the fulfillment of a destiny set in motion at my Wellesley graduation. But it did so in a private way, too, in how I explained my life to myself: This, it turned out, was the reason I had never married or had children; this was the reason James and I hadn’t really acted on our attraction; this was the reason I had worked hard as a professor and a volunteer and made important connections, so that at the age of forty-four I had a résumé that allowed me to run for U.S. Senate.

  I tried to tell as many friends and acquaintances as possible ahead of time—friends because I was excited, and acquaintances so they’d feel flattered and invested and therefore inclined to donate.

  Gwen was, of course, one of the first people I called. I said, “There’s been a happy change of plan. I’m running for Senate.”

  Gwen said, “What about Carol Moseley Braun?”

  “Her campaign has very serious problems, and she might well drop out before the primary. If I thought it was realistic that she could be elected, I wouldn’t challenge her.”

  “My friend at the Rainbow Coalition told me she’s a media darling and is raising lots of money.”

  “Yes and no,” I said. “Apparently, her campaign manager is bad news, and Carol is flaky in terms of her schedule. I witnessed it myself at an event. I just don’t think she can go the distance.”

  “Why don’t you wait and see? And if she doesn’t, run next time.”

  “The momentum following the Anita Hill stuff—if Carol isn’t going to capitalize on it, someone else should.”

  I was unprepared for the steeliness in Gwen’s tone when she said, “You haven’t convinced me, Hillary. The idea that her campaign is troubled—that sounds like a justification for you doing what you want to do.”

  “Just to be clear,” I said, “this isn’t about race.”

  “Well, sure.” There was an edge to Gwen’s voice I hadn’t heard even when she’d tried to convince me not to move to Arkansas. “This isn’t about race for you.”

  * * *

  —

  I knew in advance the conversation wouldn’t go well with James. Sitting side by side, holding hands—I’d decided this would be the last time, and the truth was that Greg’s disdain had seeped into the act itself, rendering it slightly foolish—I said, “This is all a bit last-minute, but I’ve decided to run for Senate after all.”

  James looked just as dismayed as he had during our earlier conversations on the subject. “But why?”

  Was he expecting me to answer literally? I said, “Because our government makes lots of important decisions, and I’d like to be involved in them.”

  “But politics is such a sleazy business, and you’re such a lovely person.”

  Did I bristle because of the hint of snobbishness or paternalism or was it easier to say goodbye if I found some flaws in him?

  I said, “It’s far from a sure thing I’ll beat Dixon, but, either way, this could be an opportunity for both of us.”

  James looked bew
ildered. “How?”

  “You can recommit to your marriage, and I can—” I paused. “Step back and get some perspective. I’ve had so much fun with you. I don’t regret a minute of it. But maybe it’s time to get on with things.”

  When he spoke, his voice was controlled but thick with emotion. He said, “What I feel with you is the most profound connection I’ve ever felt with another person. Maybe that’s been one-sided, but this was always much more than fun for me.”

  “Of course it’s not one-sided. James, I adore you. I just—with Susie—and David—”

  “If I leave Susie, will you not run for Senate? If you asked me to leave her, I would.”

  I swallowed before saying, “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “People get divorced.”

  “No one has ever gotten divorced because I asked them to.”

  We still were holding hands, and this was when he pulled his hand away and stood.

  “James, I’m sorry,” I said. “The fact that I’m running for Senate doesn’t mean I don’t value our friendship.”

  He was shaking his head, looking angry and also on the brink of tears. He said, “That’s an awful thing to say to a person who’s in love with you.”

  * * *

  —

  Once I had won the primary, the general election, given the political makeup of Illinois, was a foregone conclusion. Election night 1992 was nevertheless exciting because a record-breaking four other female senators won, including Barbara Mikulski being reelected from Maryland. Counting Nancy Kassebaum from Kansas, a total of six senators would now be women, and Kay Bailey Hutchison won a special election in Texas the next year. By then, the media had dubbed 1992 the Year of the Woman, a title I found both silly and heartening. Election night 1992 was also, of course, sobering because of George Bush’s reelection.

  Twenty minutes after the polls closed at seven, my race was called. My victory party was at the Hyatt Regency on East Wacker, and I wore a red skirt suit—red was not yet a color that belonged to Republicans—and spoke at eight-twenty, surrounded by my parents, brothers, and sister-in-law; Maureen and her family; a few Wellesley friends; and many volunteers, including Northwestern law students and undergraduates.

  “I believe wholeheartedly that Illinois’s brightest days are ahead of us,” I said into the microphone. “And I’m confident that together, with hard work and optimism, we will reach them.”

  There were, of course, many things I didn’t know then about the future. When journalists or voters ask me now about my first run for office, I think less of my campaign, which frankly has blurred with subsequent campaigns, and more of two images from the fall of 1991. The first is of Anita Hill delivering her opening statement—her aquamarine suit, her composure and isolation. In the sense that Clarence Thomas was confirmed, she didn’t prevail. But she did, I feel certain, change the course of history.

  The second image is the framed photo next to James’s TV, his family’s rugby shirts and their smiles and the autumn leaves behind them. When James committed suicide in December 1993, eleven months after I’d been sworn in as a senator, I don’t believe that it was because I’d broken his heart; I don’t believe a person takes his life unless he has serious underlying mental health issues. And in terms of external problems, the one that probably loomed much larger than me was that earlier in the fall, he’d been accused of misusing funds in his role as director of the Center for Law and Finance. On a college-visiting trip with his son, David, James had apparently paid for a rental car, meals, and hotel rooms with a university credit card. I can’t imagine this was anything other than an honest mistake—he was more scrupulous and ethical than most people—and I also assume it embarrassed him deeply. It made the news and cost him his job with the Center, though he would have remained a professor.

  I will always feel a terrible sadness that James hanged himself, from a beam in his family’s basement. (I suspected it was intentional that he did it on a morning when a housecleaner was there so that it was she rather than Susie or David who found him.) I learned of James’s death after returning to my Senate office from voting on a transportation bill; my colleague Eli from the law school had left a message.

  My father also had died in 1993, back in April. Though I certainly mourned my father’s passing, it was hard to know what I could have done differently with him. I was both grateful for the lessons he’d imparted and sorry they’d been shared with so much antagonism.

  In contrast, even now, twenty-five years later, I harbor regrets about James. I wish that I had kept in touch with him after I left Northwestern, that I’d suggested meeting for lunch on a weekend when I was back in Chicago or just called his office to say hello. At the time, initiating contact would have felt like opening a sealed envelope. But now that I am in my seventies, I’ve learned that very little from the past is truly sealed.

  * * *

  —

  Bill had dropped out of the presidential race four days after the 60 Minutes interview. Four months later, at 6:30 A.M. on the morning after my Senate primary, he called me. I’d gotten three hours of sleep the night before and was still in bed.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “Madam Senator has a nice ring to it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “although I plan to keep working hard right through to the general. I’m sorry about your campaign. How have you been?” I actually did feel forgiving, as if I didn’t need to punish him, because finally karma had.

  “It’s because you wouldn’t go on the record about what a super guy I am,” he said. “That’s why it all blew up.” He chuckled before adding, “In all seriousness, I’m thinking it’s time for me to get out of the political racket. I’m not saying this to discourage you, but it’s meaner than it used to be. It’s more spiteful and a lot less fun.”

  “What would you do instead?”

  “That’s the question. Turns out you can pour your heart and soul into a state for decades, only to become persona non grata. You know what? Fuck ’em.” Ah, here it was—his sincere self-pity and resentment, as if the cabaret singer’s accusations had been a natural disaster over which he exerted no control.

  “How’s your family doing?”

  “Sarah Grace’s relieved I dropped out. She never wanted to live in the White House, and same for Ricky. But Alexis took it harder. I think you and Alexis would get a kick out of each other. She’s a spitfire.”

  My call-waiting had beeped repeatedly as he’d spoken, and I said, “Bill, forgive me, but I need to take this other call.”

  “Oh, Hillary,” he said. “You were never the one who needed forgiveness.”

  * * *

  —

  There was at least one person who would have disagreed with Bill’s assessment. Carol Moseley Braun had called me the previous night at ten past eight to concede, after I’d received calls from both Alan Dixon and Albert Hofeld. My primary-night victory party also took place at the Hyatt Regency, and when Carol called, I was in a suite with Maureen, who was helping with my makeup.

  “Congratulations, Hillary,” Carol said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You ran a strong campaign, and I’d love to work together going forward, because it’s clear our goals are aligned. I know you understand that I had to do what I felt was best for the state of Illinois.”

  Carol laughed and I thought at first that it was a sincere laugh. Then she said, “I realize you have to say that when the cameras are around. But for goodness’ sake, Hillary, let’s not pretend that either of us really believes it.”

  PART III

  The Front-Runner

  AMERICAN PRESIDENTS AND VICE PRESIDENTS ELECTED 1988–2012

  1988: George H. W. Bush and Dan Quayle

  1992: George H. W. Bush and Dan Quayle

  1996: Jerry Brown and Bob Kerrey

  2000: John McCain and Sam Brownb
ack

  2004: John McCain and Sam Brownback

  2008: Barack Obama and Joe Biden

  2012: Barack Obama and Joe Biden

  CHAPTER 5

  2015

  Iowa

  April 26, 2015

  5:23 P.M.

  AT THE RALLY IN CEDAR Rapids, she was standing in the second row, holding up a sign that read EVEN CANCER WON’T KEEP ME FROM VOTING FOR YOU!!! Although the crowd wasn’t exactly going wild, she cheered after every positive remark or policy promise that I made. She was forty or so, with long dark hair, wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt that said OLD NAVY across the front, and she was accompanied by two dark-haired girls I assumed were her daughters; one was a teenager who looked like she’d rather be elsewhere and the other was nine or ten and intermittently joined in her mother’s cheers. The event was in a union hall, and this was the second day of a four-day visit to Iowa. I had announced two weeks earlier that I was, for the third time, running for president.

  I’d been starting my stump speech by mentioning a local event or issue—in this case, a nineteen-year-old from nearby Shueyville was one of three finalists in a singing-competition television show that my traveling press secretary, Clyde, loved—then I always thanked local elected officials and organizers. I then spoke about the economy, jobs, education, and national security. In Cedar Rapids, the longer I went on, the more I could feel the energy in the hall flagging, apart from the woman in the second row. Indeed, after several instances in which she was the only one cheering, other people clearly began to wait with amusement for her exuberant yelp or “Yesss, Hillary!” This dynamic improved the energy in the air, though not by enough.

  It wasn’t necessarily that the audience was bored—these were the people who’d chosen to attend a Sunday afternoon political rally nineteen months before Election Day—and likelier a result of the fact that the hall could have held eight hundred people, and four hundred had shown up. As with a party, the most obvious determinant of how exciting a political event feels is the proportion of bodies to space.