What It Takes

by Richard Ben Cramer

  This was the pride Euterpe had in her own sons, and the expectation: that they would apply themselves to their learning, to all their tasks; that they would excel beyond their peers; that they would make their own way in this opportune New World, farther even than their parents had gone. She and Pan named their two sons in the traditional way, the first for Pan’s father, Stelian, who had died in the influenza epidemic just before the First World War. It was the second son, her last child, who would be named for her family: he would be called Michael, for her learned father ... and she gave him a middle name, Stanley, to honor that kindly WASP principal who had seen the spark in her. It was just right, the way it worked out ... because her first son, her Stelian, was such a Dukakis! A kindly boy, good-natured, he had Pan’s broad face and sturdy frame—he loved to play sports with his friends. But the second son, Michael, was a Boukis, sure enough: he had her looks, her slender quickness, the gift of easy learning, the near-photographic memory. ... He had her discipline: now it was little Michael who stood in front of the mirror, learning his new words. ... And he had her will: with pride, she always told strangers that the first Greek words he ever learned were monos mou, “by myself.”

  Both the boys learned Greek when Pan’s mother, Olympias (Lymbia, they called her in the family), came to live out her last years with her doctor son. That was just after Michael was born, and from that point, they spoke Greek in the home. Lymbia loved all her grandchildren, but she could not get enough of Michael. She would sing to him, in Greek, and tell stories of her old home in Adramiti (now Edremit, in Turkey), how her old stepmother kept cocoons in the house, and spun out raw silk to make the sheets, and men’s shirts, for Lymbia’s dowry. ... In fact, Lymbia still had one with her: a silk shirt with no neck opening (because every girl had to have so many shirts for the man she would marry—but, of course, no girl knew how to cut the neck until she found the husband). ... And little Michael would regard the shirt, listen to the story, in solemn fascination. Stelian would be outdoors with his friends, whooping around the neighborhood. But Michael loved to sit and listen to his yiayia (grandma). He was so gentle with her. Every night, he would bring Yiayia from her room to the table. And he’d pull her chair out, hold it for her. She adored him for that.

  Lymbia, in fact, was the reason they moved from their apartment to the house in Brookline. Euterpe wanted an extra bedroom on the ground floor, so Yiayia Lymbia (who could not manage stairs) could sit with them at the dinner table. Pan only had two conditions for a new house: it had to be within fifteen minutes of his office, and it had to have a two-car garage. When they found the house on Rangely Road, it seemed perfect, though there were no other Greeks in the neighborhood. In the midst of the Depression, they bought the house, new, for $12,500. Panos paid cash. That was the way Dr. Dukakis did business. No debts allowed—not to strangers. Family, that was different: it was Pan’s brothers who had helped him through medical school. That was a debt he never forgot.

  Panos would never take a dime for doctoring anyone in the family. This was a matter of pride: What good was a doctor in the family, if a cousin had to pay a stranger to look at him? Whenever a cousin anywhere in this country took sick, the family called Panos. Sometimes, half-asleep, three o’clock in the morning, Pan would be on the phone to New Jersey (or New York, or South Carolina), listening to the symptoms of a niece or nephew. Even in later years, when his brothers, and their wives, and wives’ families, could well afford their own local care, no one’s doctor was allowed to make a move without consulting Pan, by telephone in Boston. After all, he was their pride, too, the ornament at the top of their tree, a doctor in their family.

  And what a doctor! By the time Panos made a bride of Euterpe, he had long since wed the practice of medicine. Throughout his life, it remained his first love. When Euterpe joined him, he had already worked his way through premed and medical school, practiced as an intern and resident for nearly five years, and opened his office at 454 Huntington Avenue (just across from the Greek Orthodox Cathedral). He and his bride took an apartment in the same building, across the hall from the office, so Pan could be there on a moment’s notice. Even after they moved to leafy South Brookline, Pan still spent the bulk of his life in the office on Huntington Avenue, or in the car. He made house calls for more than forty years, even after he couldn’t do the driving. (Euterpe had to chauffeur him, and read or knit at the wheel while he went inside.) Through five decades, he delivered three thousand babies, and in later years, he birthed the babies of his babies. They were his pride and his testament, his patients. For the first-generation Greeks who came to him, he was the first doctor who spoke to them gently, who did not lord it over them, as they expected an educated man to do. Panos was always respectful of them, sometimes even tender. There was a young priest, named Iakovos, who served for a time at the cathedral. One night, about 2:00 A.M., Panos called him to the hospital: one of his patients, a Greek man, was dying. The young priest ran to the church and then straight to the hospital. But he found Dr. Dukakis in tears, because his patient had died before the priest arrived. The priest had never seen a doctor cry. Iakovos, the future Archbishop of all the Greeks in America, concluded: “Panos was a very human man.”

  But at home, it was not humanity but stern expectation he showed to his boys: Stelian and Michael were ever reminded of the great blessings they’d enjoyed since birth. “Much has been given ...” Panos would say. “And much is expected of you.” They could never forget (as he could not) that he never had a fine school like theirs, a luxurious home, all the food he wanted, a car to ride around the town, green lawns for sports and games. No, when Panos came to this country, at age sixteen, without money, education, without his parents, without English ... he had to work, he had to save, he had to sacrifice! He worked in the mills, and behind a lunch counter, he went to night school to learn English, and then to another job, cleaning out meat cases for a grocer. He came to this country in 1912, and twelve years later, he was the first Greek to graduate from Harvard Medical School. How could they ever forget that? How could they ever match it? Certainly not by fooling around: one time, once, Michael brought home a B-plus on a report card. Panos asked: “Why did you not get an A?” ... And certainly not by ungrateful waste! If, God forbid, Michael left a scrap of food on his plate, Panos would command from the head of the table: “Ekonomia, Michael. Ekonomia!” ... And certainly not by giving in to trouble, crying, being weak: when Michael had a paper route, there was a dog at the top of the hill who never let him pass, but snarled and attacked him. Michael lived in terror of that dog. In fact, he would fear dogs for the rest of his life. But he would not, as another boy might, tell his father, who could likely solve the problem with a phone call. He would never tell his father he was scared.

  There were no failures in that household, no tales of woe or loss brought home to Rangely Road. The boys were expected to do their work and succeed: simple as that, simple as Pan. Euterpe was, if anything, tougher. Although she was a former teacher, she would never help them with an answer for their lessons. Instead, she would tell them where they could find it, then quiz them to make sure they did. Of course, both boys did well in school. It could not be otherwise. She made sure they set aside time for their studies, along with their other obligations: orchestra practice, music lessons, sporting events, club meetings. Euterpe would arrange their schedules with them at the beginning of the week, along with their obligations in the home. No Dukakis boy would stay up till dawn the night before a school exam. There was no excuse for running out of time. Stelian and Michael always knew the schedule and the expectations for the following day, even before they hung up their clothes and got into their pyjamas, even before Euterpe set four places for the next day’s breakfast (cup, saucer, orange juice glass, plate, fork, knife, and spoon ... all covered with a napkin, to ward off dust) and switched off the light in the kitchen.

  She’d be up again at six or six-thirty, and she’d have her bath while Pan went downstairs and read the
paper. Then she’d come down to make breakfast while Pan went up to the bath. Soon, there would be three of them, downstairs, for breakfast, while Panos shouted up the stairs: “Stelian! You’re going to be late for school!” Stelian hated to get up for school. But he was late only once. He had to bring a tardiness excuse, a note from home. So, Euterpe wrote: “There is no excuse for Stelian’s being tardy. He was wakened with plenty of time, and he should have been ready.” Stelian had to stay five nights after school.

  Michael was never late. He just got up and went about his business. That was always the way in the house. Stelian, three years older, had to do everything first, of course. He was popular with the other kids (they called him The Duke, at Brookline High), and he taught Michael all the games—even made sure he was picked when the big boys in the neighborhood were choosing teams. He took care of Michael. But then, the little guy would come along and do everything quicker, better than Stelian! Things just came easier to Michael.

  By the time he got to high school, he was Mr. Everything. Not socially: he never had time for that, and anyway, he did not approve of the social clubs that excluded some students. Michael was friendly to all the students—one of the few who talked to both the poor Irish kids and the richer Jews—but not too friendly. He didn’t have time to hang around. With letters in cross-country, basketball, track, and tennis, trumpet lessons, the school band, orchestra, class office, student council, the honor society ... even Pan had to wonder after a while. He told Euterpe one night: “If this boy doesn’t slow down, he’ll get sick.” But Michael didn’t show any ill effect. And at the end of every semester, he brought home another card full of A’s. Panos said to Euterpe: “How does the fellow do it? He’s amazing!” Of course, neither parent said that to Michael.

  But there are a thousand ways a child knows, when he is favored, some of them small—like Euterpe’s little nod of satisfaction when he’d report another perfect score on a test—and some of them more dramatic.

  It was Stelian who first took an interest in politics, brought the subject and his zeal for it into the household. But, then, as always, Michael came along behind him, and just absorbed it—he could discuss elections like a committeeman! When the cousins came, talk would fly around the table. Uncle Constantine was the sparkplug—he’d stake out some far-out position and hold it against all comers. The others would argue, at first, then subside. (If they asked Panos, he’d only say: “Don’t look at me ... Leave me out ...”) But Michael would hold his ground. No matter what Constantine or Stelian said, Michael would never give in. And then Euterpe would take Michael’s side. Michael knew what was right.

  Panos was never much for politics. He registered Republican, against FDR’s New Deal. (Like most Greeks, Panos didn’t believe in the dole—something for nothing—let the people work!) What Pan wanted was a son to take over the practice, to become a doctor, to inherit all he’d built. There was never any question in Pan’s mind that one of his boys should have the office at 454 Huntington Avenue. That was their legacy. And that was his plan for Michael, his second son. Stelian was a good boy ... but Michael was the heir.

  Of course, no one had to tell Stelian. There was nothing said at all. In the house on Rangely Road, the expectations were just understood. After that, what was there to discuss?

  “Look at him! Just like Euterpe!” Tiky was crowing, needling, all over Michael. “Lookit’im! For God’s sake, Michael! The kid’s out of school!”

  Michael always liked to meet the Greek kids in Florida. He’d quiz them on their Greek language, their schools, their schoolwork: Who’s the teacher? ... Is she good? ... What are you learning? ... Oh? Did you learn about Samuel Adams? ...

  “Michael! F’God’s sake!”

  “Wait a minute,” Michael protested. “I’m trying to learn something here.”

  “Lookit him, always lookin’ for an edge! Kitty! He’s politickin’ again!” Tiky always got on Michael for not being able to stop. That was Tiky’s trump card, when Michael started riding him about his cookies, his diet, his weight. Tiky always told the story about a visit in 1958, when he was in medical school and Michael was at Harvard Law. He went up to Boston to visit Michael, and spent the whole damn weekend on the back of Michael’s stupid Vespa, handing out stupid fliers for some stupid town election in Brookline. “Pretty soon, I’m thinkin’ ... ‘What the hell am I doin’ this for?’ ...”

  The short answer was: because Michael couldn’t stop. Tiky learned then: that was Michael’s life.

  But it wasn’t really politics—not the way Tiky liked to caricature it. Michael had spent his life fighting that sort of politics, the glad-hand, back-slap, blarney-paisan, ethnic-joke, one-hand-washes-the-other, job-for-a-friend politics he found when he started in Massachusetts. It was always young, clean Michael and his Harvard-Law-Democratic-Study-Group allies against the dirty old hacks, the hoary Irish machine, against the bosses, the rake-offs, the patronage ... against the politicians. ... That’s what carried him into office, and carried him to the top. Michael always had to operate from that narrow, moral axis. In every race, Dukakis had to prove himself abler, smarter, cleaner than the other guy—even if they agreed on policy. He didn’t get into contests of philosophy. Michael’s career had more to do with another old Greek word: philotimy ... philotimo ... the love of honor. A Dukakis campaign was never about how he saw the world so much as how he (and the voters) saw Michael Dukakis.

  Politics was, for Michael, a means to an end. And the end, for him, was always the same: putting good law, and good people—the able, decent few—into the slots of the system, so the mechanism of government could run cleanly, efficiently, to solve the problems of the many. Michael Dukakis, master mechanic.

  And the problems? Well, there were always problems. Michael could tick them off all day: there was housing and the infrastructure of the neighborhoods; Michael had worked on that for thirty years; in fact, that campaign Tiky saw, in ’58, was Michael’s first, for the local urban renewal board, the Brookline Redevelopment Authority. There was transportation, which was always one of Michael’s interests; not just urban transit, but interurban, too; in fact, he was the champion of high-speed rail, bullet trains for Bos–Wash. (Now, there was a dream!) There was economic development, where Michael had also made a name for himself, with the explosion of high-tech business around Boston, and the state-aided renaissance of old mill towns. And there was taxation, which Michael studied, labored to reform, long before REAP and his current success; in fact, that’s where Michael met John Sasso, at a 1978 rally for a fair-tax referendum; Michael cared about the tax system, talked it like some men talk fishing. And there was education, health-care costs, welfare reform. Open space, and acid rain ... healthy air for healthy people to live healthy, productive lives ... the kind of lives he knew they would live, simple as that—if good government could cure the ills of ignorance, poverty, pollution, crime. ... In Michael’s neat world, the problems could be solved. And government, by the clean, the good, could spur the cure. See, he’d gone into doctoring, after all.

  That’s how he talked about the Presidency, at Tiky’s house. He saw the problems. He dealt with them every day. And God knows, Washington could use some doctoring, Dukakis-style. That thing about Iran? Never would have happened, never! Free-lance foreign ops from the basement of the White House? No way—no loose wheels, rolling free—not with Dr. Michael tuning the machine. Hands on—that’s what it took ... Michael Dukakis never took his hands off!

  “Michael would be great at that. Terrific! You know he would. ...” That was Kitty, talking about how Michael could run the government. These days, she was always trying to show Michael how great he could be ... but she wasn’t pushing: she told Michael it was up to him ... so now, she was telling Tiky how great it would be. Of course, Michael heard.

  “Oh, ah’m not sayin’ he couldn’t do it. Ah got no problem with that. It’s just ...”

  “What?” Michael said, eager, combative.

  “Well, yours
and mah relationship isn’t ever gonna be the same. Ah admit it: mah reasons are selfish ...”

  “What are you talking about? We’ll be the same.”

  “You’re gonna be unda a damn microscope! You know that. You get shot, God forbid, and you got on bad shorts, they gonna write about your shorts! They’ll pick ya to death!”

  “Aw, come on,” Michael said, in his most dismissive, get-serious voice. Strong, steady Michael had taken the heat before. He wasn’t afraid of the press ... if they wanted to test his marvelous machine ... if they made Michael Dukakis the issue: that’s what his campaigns were about. That’s how he won!

  “The spotlight ...” Tiky said. “It’s jus’ gonna be a whole new ball game.” He knew he wasn’t getting across what he meant.

  “You won’t have to say anything,” Michael said.

  Tiky just shook his head. It wasn’t himself he was worried about.

  Michael’s eyebrows were arched in mock-serious consideration: “Vacations at Camp David ...” He was starting to see it like Kitty did: this could be fun ... the big time.

  Tiky could see Michael getting used to the idea. And cousin Stratton had too much respect to argue. “Well,” he said, “ah don’t mind sleepin’ in the Lincoln bed, if that’s what ...” He trailed off, his eyes seeking Vivian’s. Tiky never could get Michael to see: it was never going to be the same.

  But the way Michael was, he always thought: whatever happened, he’d handle it. Strong, sturdy Michael ... steady as she goes. How could Tiky challenge that? How could he even bring up the question? He couldn’t. Instead, he said to Vivian, that night: “We’re gonna lose the Michael we have.”