You couldn’t keep him down for long. You sure as hell couldn’t argue him down. Not that Tiky didn’t try. That was how they loved each other, those two. Tiky was on him about everything! ... How cheap Michael was, what a know-it-all, always politicking! ... When they really got going, it was in Greek, needling, sarcastic, interrupting one another’s interruptions, correcting one another’s Greek ... in Greek.
“Mr. Expert! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You don’t even know how to say it! ...”
“That’s ancient Greek, the way you said it.”
“This is my cousin,” Michael would say, “who talks Greek with a southern accent.”
And giggling ... like boys. Fact was, they’d been boys together, when cousin Stratton (that was Tiky’s real name. Dr. Stratton Sturghos) came up to Brookline for visits at the Dukakis home. Stratton’s mother was a cousin of Michael’s father. You had to be Greek to know what that meant: cousins together, in the family home, sons of cousins, grandsons of brothers, back to ... well, back forever, to the village. It was absolute comfort that they were of the same flesh ... and absolute license, open season:
“Look at him, big doctor! Flat on the couch ... Chubby! You eat that whole bag of cookies?”
Michael could never understand how Tiky could live like he did—not a shred of discipline! Michael was the kind who’d eat one cookie. Tiky’d just eat till they were gone. Tiky and Kitty, they’d race for the couch—winner take all, sprawled flat out. Michael and Vivian were the run-around kind, always in the kitchen, fixing something, doing something. Michael fetched for Kitty. Vivian fetched for Stratton. It was perfect. Sometimes they got to laughing so hard, they were crying. Tiky and Kitty were fighting for the couch, so Michael dove for it, and they were wrestling, grunting, giggling. Once, in the Berkshires, Michael got a fish; Tiky hates fish, just can’t stand it; so Michael cut off the head, and he snuck in on Tiky, who was reading in bed, and all of a sudden, a disembodied fish head jumped at Tiky from over the edge of his book. And he yelped, hit the deck, whereupon Michael chased him, all over the house, trying to zap him with the fish head, on a skewer, shouting in Greek: THE FISH! THE FISH IS COMING! ... waving that plug-ugly severed head till it flew off the skewer and landed behind the fridge, and they had to move the fridge, but Tiky wouldn’t help, and the rest couldn’t budge the box, for laughing.
That’s why Michael always came—to let go, like he could when it was family. You wouldn’t see him waving a fish head in Boston, no—not with the animal-rights coalition, reporters, Republicans ... not with any strangers to see. No, in the State House, even around town, no one would see Michael Dukakis without his dark suit, his dark eyes sober and composed, hooded under his bushy brows, watching, wary, thinking his way through. You could almost hear the gears in his head. Even when he was happy, supposed to be having a good time ... you could see him thinking. Michael didn’t lose control. People in the State House, it drove them nuts: Governor Robot! They didn’t understand: in the Mediterranean mindset, there are only two kinds of people. There is family, and there is everyone else.
That’s why it worked with Tiky; it wasn’t a meeting of the minds. Michael didn’t have much use for Tiky’s politics, which tended to echo the standard Sunbelt war cry: get the damn gov’ment offa mah back! There were topics that Michael wouldn’t even get into with Tiky: medical care ... Michael thought it a scandal, a disgrace, that millions of people didn’t have insurance, had no access, not even basic care! ... Dr. Stratton Sturghos, on the other hand, would have no truck with “sosh’lahzed medicine.” Once or twice, he tried to tell Michael what happened when the county took over his hospital, where he used to practice ...
“Jus’ fell apart ... completely to hell—no better’n’a charituh ward in Miamuh!... Michael, you’re not list’nin’... Ah’m try’n’a talk to you now!”
“Don’t even start,” Michael would say, with a quick, dismissive show of one palm, a grimace off to the side.
Tiky wouldn’t push, not on politics. When you got down to it, Tiky had too much respect. He honored Michael. The most admirable man Tiky knew. Michael never lied, never took advantage, never played favorites, never cut a deal with one against the other. And he was exactly the same at twelve years old!
It was always special, even forty years before—Tiky’s visits to Panos and Euterpe’s house in Brookline. He and Michael were born nine days apart, forged of the same metal. And yet ... Brookline was a different world. It was ... a privilege, going up there. That’s how much respect there was for Michael’s family. Panos was a doctor, a man of learning, a helping man. How many Greek doctors were there? Not too damn many. Stratton’s dad ran a restaurant in Greenwood, South Carolina. Of course, all Greek men could cook. And Euterpe, Michael’s mother, was an educated woman. How many Greek girls had been to college? She might have been the first in the country, to hear the family talk. So, inside that house you watched your step, you behaved. When Panos arrived, you shook his hand. (It wasn’t all hug-and-kiss, like Tiky’s family in Greenwood.) And when Panos talked, you listened. Of course, that wasn’t often. He worked day and night. But he’d show up for meals, in his wool suit, with his vest still buttoned, at the head of the table, and when he told you to eat everything on your plate ... well, then, you sat straight up, and worked your fork on those carrots!
Panos was stern, but an upright man, a model in that family. The model, in fact: growing up, both cousins knew they were going to be doctors, like Pan. At least, that’s what Tiky always thought, until one day, on a visit, during high school, Michael and he took the trolley into Boston. And they were walking through that park, the Common, the green in the middle of town, looking at the old buildings, and Michael said: “I’m gonna be there someday.” And he was looking up the hill at a building with a golden dome, and Tiky didn’t even know what he meant. But he learned, later: that was Beacon Hill, and that building with the dome was the State House. Michael knew even then, what he wanted, where he had to go.
And he got there. That’s what Tiky had to admire. Michael picked out one job in the world, and worked, and worked, and never took his eyes off the top of that hill ... never cut a deal, never went against his own ideals, never wavered, never changed at all—the guy weighed the same as he did in high school. And he got there. He made it work ... Work? Hell! Tiky’s cousin had to decide now whether he wanted to be President! Tiky knew the decision Michael had to make. (With Kitty around, everybody knew.) That’s why they had come down for another visit, second time in two months. Michael couldn’t talk about it in Boston—every word would be retailed in the State House halls, and then right into the papers. Michael wasn’t going to show uncertainty, not to strangers. With family, he could talk about what he didn’t know ... maybe. Tiky didn’t mean to push. Michael would talk, if he wanted to. Tiky wasn’t going to get into politics now. But he couldn’t help asking, first time he had a chance:
“Michael, what’re you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Kitty says I’d be good ...” Michael’s mouth twisted into a small, ironic grin. “She thinks her husband would make a terrific President.”
“Well, if you won ...”
Michael cut in: “I’m not gonna lose!” Then he added, softly: “If I’m gonna do it ... I’m not going into it to lose.”
Tiky nodded, backed off. But Michael was talking. That was what they all noticed, that time, at the end of ’86: Michael didn’t have to rest, didn’t need to cool out. He had that snap the minute he got there, first day. “Let’s go!” He was, well ... ebullient!
“Whaddayou care, Doc?” Michael said to Tiky, with the needle in his voice. “You wish Reagan were running again?”
Why wouldn’t Michael be happy—on top of the world? It was, to use one of his favorite words ... appropriate. Michael Dukakis was, at the end of 1986, in control of his life, master of his fortunes, victor in his struggles, as few of us can ever hope to be, on this earth.
; In the neat and narrow ellipse of his life, there were two long sides. There was work, and there was family, anchored by the two poles of his daily orbit: the State House on Beacon Street, and his home on Perry Street, in Brookline. Within this universe, he was master, and masterful: proud father to three splendid children, a son and two daughters, who were flourishing, each in his or her own way, and all lovingly proud, in turn, of their father. He was husband to a woman who was the object of all his earthly desires, his bride, Katharine, who was beautiful, bright, emotional, exciting, and—here was the miracle!—still in love, after twenty-three years, devoted ... to her solid (sometimes, he suspected, stolid) husband ... him. It was ... well, Michael wasn’t good at describing emotion, but to him ... and when he did, it always rattled out in bursts of quick monotone with pauses not ... at the end of thoughts, but for breath while he thought more ... lawyer-words-and-State-House-words-and ... that’s why he seldom tried it, but ... it was the greatest thing that could happen ... to a guy like him, his family, they were (shrug, pained smile, hands-turned-up-in-hopeless-seeking, head-shaking-no, no, words fail him) ... just terrific.
Sometimes he was so proud of the kids—on occasions, appropriate occasions—that he’d start to mist up and couldn’t talk. Kitty—you could always see how he felt about Kitty, he was like a high school kid, nuzzling her, kissing her ... and when he knew he pleased her, a boyish pride swelled him, puffed him up like a bantam in the henhouse yard. ... But away from her gaze, he didn’t think of himself as special. He hardly thought about himself at all. It was untoward, a breach of discipline, to dwell on the self like that. That’s one of the things the family did for him: in their eyes, he found the fondest view of himself, his best self. And not just on Perry Street: he was much blessed with family. There was, God love her, his mother, still hale at eighty-three, still in perfect mastery of her own life (though she did, last year, in light of her age, finally give in to an automatic lawn sprinkler), still thoroughly attentive to Michael and his progress in the world, still taking care of the house he grew up in, on Rangely Road, in South Brookline, just a few miles from Perry Street. There was Kitty’s dad, the warmest of men, a brilliant musician, first violinist with the Boston Symphony, assistant conductor for the Boston Pops, and a great admirer and booster of Michael. There was Kitty’s sister, Jinny Peters, and her husband, Al, who would move the earth for Michael. And then, all the cousins, who were so proud of him, as were all the Greeks in Massachusetts—in fact, Greeks all over the country ... but that was work, and that was different. ...
Dukakis took quiet pride in the way he cleaved the two halves of his life. He kept a rigorous balance that was, well, Greek in its symmetry. He got to the office early each day: by 8:15 he’d be there at his desk, with his coffee in a Styrofoam cup, looking over the papers that were lined up for him, while he demanded of his secretary, Jean Hines: “Well, what’ve you got?” ... But, just as surely, by 6:00 P.M. he’d be on his way home, for dinner at his own table, in the embrace of his family. True, he might have to leave again, some nights, for meetings or political events. But, just as surely, he’d save a night to get the family groceries at the Brookline Stop & Shop, marching the aisles briskly, behind a cart half-full with the weekly produce specials, and the plain-paper labels of generic foods. (“Go on, read the label! You tell me the difference!”) ... Michael Dukakis insisted—Governor or no—he was going to have his life, a life that did not lose touch with reality. So, in the summer, he tended his own garden (not too strong on flowers, but what tomatoes! And his berries!), and he cut his own lawn with his old push-mower. While he was out, he might see his neighbors, talk about kids, crabgrass, or gutter screens ... bits of homeowner life that another Governor might have dropped. But with Michael, nothing was dropped, nothing was wasted. Come to think of it, not much was added, either.
He had a car, an appropriate car: a Chevy Citation, made in Massachusetts ... perfectly good car. Or, on appropriate occasions, he would let a state policeman drive him—when a driver would save time. But there were never any limousines idling on Perry Street. Most mornings, Michael preferred to walk to the trolley stop, get a paper, pay his sixty-cent fare, and ride into Boston on the T. Sometimes, when they picked up a security threat, the state police would try to station a car in front of the Governor’s house. But Michael would go out and order it away. He didn’t like a fuss. And he was not going to let his life be consumed. He was busy, all right—he never had time to read anything that did not have facts he might use someday; he had a lot of meetings, had to turn down invitations. But he made time, every Sunday night, to type out long and lovingly newsy letters to his daughters at college. That was family. That was important! Anyway, a twenty-two cent stamp was much more economical than a call to Princeton, New Jersey.
It all fit together so nicely—the wheels and gears of Michael’s wonderful machine—and it was not without power: to use another fine Greek word, it had synergy. There was strength in having a Governor who knew the price of milk. Price-gouging was one problem that would never sneak up on him. Michael didn’t need a meeting on maintenance of the mass transit system. He knew the T as well as any working stiff. The Governor didn’t need a staff report on the highways from Boston to Jinny’s (rent-free weekend retreat!) house on Cape Cod, or the routes to Harry’s (Tanglewood, rent-free!) place in the Berkshires. He lived in the state like a working man lived. The problems of his voters were his problems, too. And in his second go-round, after he lost and made his comeback, after John Sasso and his roundtable of wise guys managed to create Dukakis, the persona ... well, then, the synergy worked the other way, too. It got easier to screw a $100 million out of the legislature for job training—what the hell, the voters knew Dukakis wouldn’t throw money around. Ha! Sonofabitch was too cheap! When he cracked down on tax cheats, they knew he was playing fair and square: first business his G-men padlocked was a Greek restaurant!
It was beautiful, when it worked like that, it was mastery, that second term: Michael’s pistons pumping, Sasso greasing the wheels. After his first term, in ’78, the voters turned Dukakis out on the street because he wouldn’t listen; he wouldn’t even discuss anything. When you boiled it down, all he’d ever say was, he was right. He was right about this, right about that ... and anyone who knew anything would see he was right. Governor Asshole! Then, he had to raise taxes, and he was dead: the thing just blew up in his face. But it was different when he came back, in ’82. For one thing, he went around the whole state and apologized. He hadn’t listened. He’d been an asshole. Of course, that’s not how he said it, but he showed everybody what he meant. When he got back in, he scheduled meetings just to listen. He listened to the cops, listened to the teachers, listened to the doctors. ... When he set out to do something, he consulted: called in the legislative sachems and asked—what did they think? (Then he went ahead and did what he wanted.) Everybody ate it up. The papers started calling him Duke II, like he was another person, a total redesign, a fundamental improvement, like a solar-powered car. ...
Of course, the papers peddled the New Nixon, too. What human being in our own lives remakes his personality after age forty-five? We wouldn’t believe it of our own brother or sister, but for some reason, it sells with pols.
There wasn’t any solar-Duke II. What they saw was the same old Michael Stanley Steamer ... but with new valves, better lubrication. That was John Sasso’s genius. The legislators still couldn’t talk to Michael about what mattered to them: a new bridge on Route 464, or a job for a nice young man of good family ... Dukakis (I or II) would look at them like they’d brought dirt into his office. But with Sasso as Chief Secretary, they could come in, have a drink, a cigar, and a sympathetic chat; John would try to help, but, he’d add: “You know how the Governor is ...” Then, perhaps, John would call Fred Salvucci, the Transportation Secretary, or Nick Mitropoulos, the patronage chief, and take care of the matter. Michael never had to know. On bigger things, when Michael did have to know, John could slowly le
ad him to the deed, showing him, every step of the way, how this move would make possible another, and another, which led to the goal they had discussed, which was exactly the right thing for the state ... exactly what Michael wanted to do. Still, there were afternoons in the State House when the Senate President, Billy Bulger, would travel back and forth to John’s office by means of the outside balconies—so Michael wouldn’t see. The funny thing was, they weren’t doing anything wrong! They weren’t getting rich, or defrauding the citizens. They were doing the state’s business, making the wheels turn. Don’t tell Michael!
The other funny thing was, Michael was now the master mechanic, explaining at the Conference of Governors how he’d learned to make the wheels turn. To be fair: he had learned some new tricks. In the second term, when he had another deficit, he didn’t cut programs, and he didn’t raise taxes. Instead, he called in his revenue guy, Ira Jackson, and told him: You figure out a way to get me more of the taxes that people already owe. So Ira came back in a matter of days with a plan for an amnesty and a crackdown: the carrot and the stick ... pay up now and no one gets hurt. If you wait, you’ll get busted, and you’ll pay more. Michael looked at the plan and said: Okay, do it.
And it worked. Even Ira never dreamed it like this: millions of dollars started coming in—hundreds of millions! And then a couple of businesses were padlocked, cars seized, boats, that kind of thing ... and more millions rolled into the state—$900 million in three years. People started to pay up. They knew about the new plan. It was called REAP, Revenue Enhancement and Protection. The important thing is, it had a name that people could remember, like all of Michael’s new programs, and a rollout, with posters, or TV ads, or, at the least, a ream of newspaper stories. Telling the story was just as important as being right! Sasso and his Boston wise guys would sit around, two Thursdays a month, and figure how to show it all in the best light, “to create the right climate in the state.” Then Sasso would synthesize, dis-aggrandize and memo-randize, and that would be the new plan for Michael to look at, next week, next month, next quarter of the year.
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