What It Takes

by Richard Ben Cramer

  Michael never talked about loss, not like Tiky meant it—lose oneself?

  Loss, in a vote, he knew ... too well. That first campaign that Tiky saw, in ’58, for the urban renewal board—Michael lost it: came up fifth in a race for four seats. But the point was, he came back stronger. Two years later, he and his friends organized every precinct in Brookline, and took over the Democratic Party. In 1970, Michael lost a bid for Lieutenant Governor. Of course, that wasn’t his race to run: Kevin White was at the top of that ticket. But anyway, Michael came back stronger. Four years later, he’d organized the whole state, won the nomination for the top job, and ousted Frank Sargent from the Governor’s chair.

  In ’78—now, that taught him loss—the voters threw him out. They didn’t really choose that moron, Ed King. They voted against Michael Dukakis. He had to face that. And it hurt. He was the first to admit ... how it was. Michael said, over and over, “I blew it.” Kitty called it “a public death.” Actually, it was harder for her. His bride was the one he worried about. She never had his stoic calm—things got to her more, he ... well, she counted on him ... and he blew it. That’s what made it so hard to take, sitting home, in the kitchen, every time he looked at her. That was hurt. And for a while, he sank inside himself: What went wrong? Why did the people turn on him? He got a job at the Kennedy School, teaching government, and he applied himself, as he always did, to find the answers, to learn, and he signed on John Sasso, a terrific help, and they started again. ...

  It wasn’t easy. But four years later, he was back. And he was better. He and Kitty were better. She’d had to look inside, too ... and she did. In the middle of that comeback campaign, ’82, she told him about the diet pills: she’d been taking pills for twenty-five years. He couldn’t believe it! How could he not have known? He should have seen somehow. He blamed himself. ... He’d found them once, found a bottle of pills, a few years back, and she told him she would quit—but she never did. Not until that campaign, when she said she wanted to go away for treatment, a place in Minnesota. And Michael listened, he supported her. It all went together somehow: learning to listen, listening to her ... the better Michael, the better Kitty ... whatever she needed, he was ready to help. So, he told everybody she’d gotten hepatitis, had to get away to rest ... and he kept on plugging. And when she came back, she was better—she’d beaten it—and he was back on track. And they won, stood together on stage, that night, while people cheered, and that was a great ... the feeling was ... the way she looked that night—God, the light in her eyes that night, his bride—it was ... well, just terrific.

  The point was, he was better now. This last election proved it. Sixty-nine percent! ... And he’d be okay, whatever happened, with this Presidential campaign. Like he told Tiky, he wasn’t going in to lose. Of course, he wasn’t going to rush into anything. That’s not how Michael did things: he’d construct an orderly process of decision. He had questions, and, in an orderly fashion, he had them catalogued. In fact, in the fashion of Michael Dukakis, he already thought he had answers. But he’d listen. He’d learned that.

  Family ... that was first. They’d have a talk, a real family conference—next week, when they’d all be home for Christmas. But Michael had been promising that talk for a month. He knew what they wanted. It hung in the air every time he saw them. The kids all thought he should go, especially John—quite the politician now, and just as eager as his mother for this. ... Kitty must have told him a thousand times: it was up to him, whatever he chose ... but Michael knew how she wanted it. He always knew more than she thought he did.

  Well, they’d have their talk, next week, back in Boston, after he got back to work, saw how things stood in the State House. That was the other question, the other pole of his orbit. He wasn’t going to let everything he’d done slide down the tubes—his programs, his promises for the next term. ... Could he govern, hold the reins in Boston, while he slogged around a cornfield in Iowa? ... Sasso said it could be done. That’s what John said in the memo: twelve days a month outside the state ... at the start, at least. If he used the weekends, that’s eight days right there ...

  The fact was, Michael knew he could run the state with one hand. Michael never doubted his own ability. At one point, in Florida, Tiky suggested: “Isn’t there a Lieutenant Governor up there? Whyn’cha just turn it over to the Lieutenant, let ’im run it?” Michael just shook his head. That wasn’t his style. Dr. Dukakis, hands on. One hand? Well, so be it.

  There’d be time, certainly time enough in the year to come ... even in ’88, if he got into ’88 ... if he didn’t fall on his face. That was the real question for Michael. Could he win, or at least do well? That’s what he wanted to know, when he talked to people who’d been through one of these. Did he have a chance? How could he do it? How much money? What kind of theme? ... He didn’t want to get into this to be embarrassed. That would be loss. Once again, for Michael, it came down to philotimy, to Michael’s (and the voters’) view of himself. Him? President? That’s how he thought at first. Then this Iran thing showed him what he could do. They were shredding papers in the basement! Lying to Congress! That was the stuff Michael Dukakis was born to clean up!

  Anyway, Sasso said he had something to offer: it had to do with development, jobs, opportunity for all. Michael didn’t have the words yet. He’d have to ask ... figure out how to phrase it ... he’d ask John, when he got back. No, if he asked John, he’d only see the question in John’s eyes again: John said he wasn’t taking sides ... that’s how the memo was written. But Michael knew how John wanted this: if he didn’t go, he could say goodbye to John. Sasso would be on the phone to Cuomo. Now that would be loss. ...

  Michael didn’t talk much about loss—but he knew how to avoid it. And every which way he looked at this thing, all the loss was on the side of not running:

  If he did not run, his own career was crested. What victory night would ever be as sweet as this last one?

  If he did not run, he would lose John Sasso ... like losing a brother. Michael knew.

  If he did not run, then that special light would leave the eyes of his bride. In that light—in the eyes of his wife and his kids—was his own brightest view of himself.

  One more possible loss: if the family would be okay ... if the state would manage to survive without him for a day here and there, maybe a week, a week or two ... if the only question that remained came down to, “Was he able enough?” ... and Michael Dukakis had to answer, “No,” and for the first time in his life, back away ... well, that was a loss he could not take.

  There is a second meaning to that old Greek word, philotimy: it also means ambition.

  Tiky asked him, quietly, just before Michael was ready to leave: “Well?”

  “Looks like ... well, I’m gonna look at it.”

  “You thoughta everything?”

  Michael said, with a half-shrug: “Everything I can.”

  12

  Stelian

  THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN the boys was that Michael was always so serious. You had to admire him, but you got the feeling you were taking up his time. Stelian was happy to see you. He’d shake your hand, bring his left hand up on top of yours, and smile while he held you. He had Pan’s smile, the same square, open face, the same fair skin, Pan’s courteous manner. And always, a word of encouragement. He’d say to a cousin who was applying for a job: “Oh, I know you’re going to get it ... you’ll be great.” And they could feel close to him, the way they never could with Michael. The other difference was, it was harder for Stelian. He had to struggle to make his grades. He was bright enough, eager enough. In another house, he would have been an easy success. It was only in comparison that he seemed to be laboring. Not that he complained.

  No, Stelian—The Duke—did well enough, and had plenty of friends at school, mostly guys: he never developed any ease with girls. He didn’t have money to throw around on dates, for one thing; or a car, which could have made a difference; he didn’t dance, either. Neither boy could d
ance a lick. It was odd: they were so determined to learn everything else; they had lessons for music, practice for sports ... but dancing, never. Sometimes when the cousins were there, after dinner, someone would call for a dance, and cousin Olympia, the only girl, would be nominated (dragooned, more like it) to teach the boys in the living room. But after a few halting steps, they’d start to joke around, and forget it. Life was not about dancing.

  In fact, Michael never did learn, even into his senior year at Brookline High. And there was the prom coming up, and a girl ... first girl he paid attention to, Sandy Cohen (of course, Michael called her Sandra). She was smart, pretty, blond, popular ... and she thought Michael was so cute. (He said he hated that word.) She wanted to get all A’s, so he would like her. And he did: he asked her to the prom, and although she’d already said yes (a year in advance!) to the most popular boy at school, Bobby Wool, she wanted to go with Michael ... and she was going to break her date, and she even came over, after school, to teach Michael to fox-trot ... but in the end, she couldn’t do that to Bobby. So Michael went to the prom alone, worked all night in the coat-check room. Anyway, that’s when it happened, Michael’s senior year, when everything was going so well, in the winter, before the prom. ...

  Stelian had gone to Bates College because Pan and Euterpe went there. Michael applied to Bates, too, and got in, but he turned it down. Maybe he thought he could do better. Maybe Pan and Euterpe believed Stelian would do better without Michael around. Maybe they had some hints, after all. ...

  It was the winter of Stelian’s junior year, when Panos and Euterpe got the call. Stelian had better go home. He wasn’t well ...

  Is he sick?

  Well ...

  What?

  He is very depressed.

  What was it? Why? How could it be? Their son? He was fine!

  Stelian had attempted suicide.

  Over the next months, and years, the parents and Michael would learn scientific terms for Stelian’s psychological condition. But the truth was, as Michael phrased it, through tears of incomprehension and pain: The Duke did not want to live anymore.

  The polite phrase for it, in 1951, was “a nervous breakdown.” The doctors wouldn’t put words on it without an extensive mental examination, long-term evaluation in a hospital environment. Psychoanalysis was, at the time, in its prickly adolescence. It wasn’t more than a decade before that doctors had labeled schizophrenia (which could not be ruled out here, no, not yet) as “neuro-syphilis.” And not long before that, its cause was thought to be masturbation. Science had come a long way since, but the mystery still cast a shadow of shame. There was nothing good to be said about this. Outside the house on Rangely Road, there was to be nothing said, at all.

  The family would tell no one. Not even the cousins could know. It was trouble they would bear alone, the three of them, Panos, Euterpe, and Michael. It went without saying: they would be strong.

  And they were strong. Pan went to work every day, and on weekends and holidays he’d drive them to Stelian’s hospital, where they’d chat in the common room for a while, or walk the grounds outside. And Euterpe kept the house going, every day, and worked out Michael’s schedule with him, including visits to the hospital; and every night, she’d set out three sets of breakfast dishes, covered with napkins to ward off dust. And Michael went to school every day, and played basketball, and brought home A’s, and was president of the honor society and the student council.

  “Hi, Michael, how y’doing?” they’d ask in the halls of Brookline High.

  “Fine.”

  And it was true. He was only stronger. That was the winter he decided to run the Boston Marathon, and he went into training, miles and miles every day, and that spring, he faked his age, entered the race, and did very well: finished fifty-seventh in a field of almost two hundred runners. That special girl, Sandy Cohen, stood on a corner of the course, in Brookline, near the finish, holding an orange with the top sliced off, so he could squeeze the juice into his mouth for a last burst of energy. She was proud of him. She kept a photograph of him, running, in a T-shirt, with his number across his chest, his hands in loose fists pumping at his sides, dark eyes down with intense, inward concentration.

  She was the only one who really knew what it meant to him, that race. She was the only one he ever told about the sorrow in the house on Rangely Road.

  Inside the house, just the three of them ... what else was there to talk about? Stelian’s trouble was of overwhelming moment for the family, at the kitchen table. But really, what was there to say?

  He’s getting the best care ...

  He seems to like the new doctor ...

  He seemed more like himself ...

  There was just no way to talk about why. What had they ever done? Pan was so pained. What got into the boy? Had he ever lacked for anything? For Michael, a pillar of existence had crumbled: the big guy, Stelian, The Duke ... was down. Had Michael done something wrong? Had he not done something? Could he have helped?

  It was not the kind of thing they knew how to talk about—even before, when things were good, the language of psychic need was one they’d never tried to learn. So, sometimes, there was just silence at the table, ten minutes at a stretch, while the three of them stole glances at each other, and interested themselves in their food.

  It was worst for Euterpe. She felt everyone was looking at her. And they were. That was the state of psychiatry at the time. The doctors looked nowhere, save to the home, the dysfunctional family, the mothering ... it was the dogma of the day: momism. The child got sick, the cause was in his rearing—had to be early on—bad mothering ... a psycho-pathological mother. There was no comprehension of biochemical dysfunction, there was no credence for inborn instability: there was only one cause—Mom.

  And when the doctors talked to Euterpe, they didn’t want to hear about the bikes on the lawn, how her boys did their homework, got to school on time, and did so well—enough of that ... They were only after the pathology. How had she messed up her son? They asked her. They had the nerve. They looked at her as if she were a monster. She tried to tell them: there was nothing wrong with her sons. They were better than anyone else’s sons. That’s the way she raised them. They’d done very well, all their lives.

  But there had to be a reason. Surely she must understand. There was Stelian, withdrawn, in pain ... after shock treatments to his brain ... in the dayroom of Baldpate Hospital. ... What did she have to say to that?

  She didn’t have anything to say—none of them did. All they could do was keep their pain, their shame, their questions ... in that house. They went into a Mediterranean hunch, erecting a wall of silence against the outside world. After all, there is family, and there is everyone else. And for everyone else, they were just fine.

  Especially Michael, who became, in a matter of days or weeks, something akin to an only child. It wasn’t that they stopped thinking of Stelian. They had trouble thinking of anything else. But all the formidable expectation of that household now descended onto Michael’s narrow, rounded shoulders.

  He was ready, certainly able enough, and fit for the weight by temperament, too. He bore it as he’d been taught to bear all: with stoic determination and hard work ... steady as she goes, one foot in front of the other ... especially on Heartbreak Hill. And he never talked about Stelian’s troubles, not to his old friends in Brookline, nor to his new friends at Swarthmore College.

  That was the school he decided to accept: with his grades, he could have had his pick. But Swarthmore (it was Stelian who’d first mentioned the college) was small, quiet, not too far away, outside of Philadelphia, in a well-to-do town not unlike Brookline. It was not socially elitist like Harvard, but committed to a brainy meritocracy, and serious about the business of learning, as serious as young Michael.

  It was a perfect fit, and he dived into noetic training as he had into the marathon. He would not falter and he would not stop. His classmates marked him right away as a young man with much on his
mind:

  “He just seemed more mature ...”

  “He wasn’t going to waste two minutes ...”

  “More than the rest of us, he had his priorities ...”

  It was all true, as far as it went. Michael was on his own program. It wasn’t that he was a grind, a drudge. Not at all: he played his trumpet, ran cross-country, made the JV basketball squad (at five-foot-eight, the shortest player), and even wrote sports for the student Phoenix in the larded style of the Boston sports pages (the crack of the ash on the old horsehide ... Cooper flung the pigskin ...). That first year, he led his classmates, two nights a week, into Philadelphia, where they canvassed for a slate of clean, smart Democrats—reformists, the able, decent few—to unseat a corrupt Republican machine that had held power in the city for almost seven decades. That fit into the program, just right ... as did the campaign to organize students against a McCarthyish loyalty oath then under discussion in the state legislature ... and the campaign against fraternities whose national charters barred Negroes, or Jews ... and Michael’s own makeshift dorm-hallway barber shop, which he set up when barbers in the “ville” refused a haircut to a black student from Nigeria. Michael had learned to cut hair when he worked as a counselor in a camp for underprivileged children. Now, for sixty-five cents a head, he offered a flattop and a political lecture. What he got was campus fame ... and pocket money.

  What he erected was a neat system in which everything fit—or it was dropped. Some kids hung out at the Turf Villa (pizza and beer), or at the “druggie in the ville” (sodas or coffee at the fountain). Not Michael. Around exam time, the campus was wired. (Professor Laurance Lafore used to say he’d never seen anything like Swarthmore in exam week—except London during the Blitz.) Everybody was up all night. Not Michael. In later years, when he had to tell something about his life, he liked to say he ran into freshman physics, and that put an end to his medical career. In fact, his D in physics fit just right—it allowed him to tell Panos, finally, that he wasn’t going to be a doctor. At that point, Panos was a gingerly father: he did not insist to Michael that he could do well—in any class he chose. But that was true, and Michael knew it. One day, before psychology class, Michael and a friend were leafing through the thick text, studded with terms of mystery and menace. Leighton Whitaker, who was a sophomore, figured it would take hours to get through any one of these chapters. He asked Michael Dukakis, freshman, how much time he figured he’d need. “Twenty minutes a chapter,” Michael said shortly. “I’m just going for a B in this class.”