Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

  "Eleven?"

  Stanton rolled down his window. "Whatsa matter, Henry," he asked, slyly, conspiratorially, "--you got some action going?"

  "No," I said. Boy, did I feel slow. Was he looking for something clever, something sexual? He kept coming at me from places I didn't expect.

  "See you, then," Ferguson said as the car rolled away.

  Eleven o'clock? Well, it was late. It implied that we were skipping ahead, past the usual formalities. It assumed an intimacy that did not exist, in my mind, yet--but it was flattering, too. It also assumed I was a professional and would understand the rhythms of a campaign, even a larval one. Politicians work--they do their public work, that is--when civilians don't: mealtimes, evenings, weekends. The rest of the time, down time, is spent indoors, in hotel suites, worrying the phones, dialing for dollars, fighting over the next moves, living outside time; there are no weekdays or weekends; there is sleep but not much rest. Sometimes, and always at the oddest hours, you may break free: an afternoon movie, a midnight dinner. And there are those other, fleeting moments when your mind drifts from him, from the podium, and you fix on the father and son tossing a ball out past the back of the crowd, out in the park, and you suddenly realize, Hey, it's Saturday; or you glance out a hotel window and spot an elderly couple walking hand in hand, still alive in each other's mind (as opposed to merely sharing space, waiting it out). The campaign--with all its talk of destiny, crisis and mission--falls away and you remember: Other people just have lives. Their normality can seem a reproach. It hurts your eyes, like walking out of a matinee into bright sunlight. Then it passes. He screws up a line, it's Q&A time, it's time to move.

  The suite at the Regency brought all that back. It was generic; it existed outside time. I was, at once, vaguely depressed and entirely comfortable. There was a handful of pols in shirtsleeves, working the phones, hammering laptops, nibbling off platters of fruit and cheese, chugging Diet Cokes. No smoke, no booze anymore. But a haze of ill health all the same; sycophancy frays the nerves, clogs the arteries. I didn't know most of them. There were a couple of bodyguard, trooper types. There were a couple of Nandi Wipes with wispy mustaches--statehouse sorts about to be paved over.

  And there was Arlen Sporken, a Washington media consultant I knew only by reputation, which was mixed. He was hot right then, as hot as he would ever be, having just won a special election down in the Carolinas with a pro-choice ad that sold the Crackers on the notion that the Founding Fathers fought and died for the right to a d&c. Sporken had a great, fresh effusion of golden farmboy hair, after which it was all downhill, his body dissolving into a shocking wallow of fat. Pols tend toward fat, except for the joggers and jigglers, who burn down like fuses in a campaign. Sporken had a kind face, a pleasant drawl. He was from Mississippi and reeked of the un-ironic liberal fervor common to Southern Baptists who'd had conversion experiences during the civil rights years. He was a booster, an enthusiast--and another toucher, a flagrant one. "Henry Burton, as I live and breathe!" he announced, yanking my hand, then crushing tile in a kill body hug that culminated in actual backslapping and rib-chucking. "So you're on board."

  "Well, I--"

  "He thinks you're great. Great! Just great." This was more than your standard white-boy overcompensation in overdrive. "We're gonna win this thing," he was saying now. "Don't you think?"

  Since this couldn't possibly be the beginning of a serious conversation about the campaign, I said something harmless like "Well, who else is in?"

  "Henry, you really have been away. Harris, definitely. Martin, maybe. Luther Charles--well, you know Brother Luther." I did know Luther, mostly as a distant childhood memory; I hadn't seen him in years. But Sporken couldn't possibly have known that: he was assuming that since Luther was a brother, I'd have tribal vibes about his political intentions. So I sent him a quasi-disdainful look that said, We don't share vibes on the first date with persons outside the pigment. Arlen--a good liberal--retreated, respecting my racial space. "Uh, the big question is Ozio, of course," he concluded. "You think he's got the cojones to run?" A mortal dork, this guy. I considered the door. But I wanted to see Stanton again, I guess. "Ozio . . . Don't know him personally," I said. It was one of those conversations you have--usually with civilians--where life imitates the McLaughlin Group, where you say the safe, expected things. Political chat. But I strayed a little then, got too close to something real. "If Ozio did go, and put it all together," I asked. "Would you take the two spot?"

  "Fuck a duck," said a familiar voice just behind me. "I'll take what I can get."

  Stanton had cracked open the door to the bedroom behind me; he was buttoning his shirt over a hairless, pink chest; he was the color of a medium-rare steak just off the grill, steaming a little. I had heard about this. He opened the door wider. "You remember Ms. Baum," he said. The librarian. I hope I didn't gasp. She was . . . arranging herself. She seemed a bit dazed. She whacked her shoulder on the bedroom door, trying to squeeze past him. "Ow," she yipped. He leaned into her, put his arm on her. "You all right, darlin'?" She stiffened, desperately attempting to maintain the appearance of propriety. He was--well, he was entirely unembarrassed, as if he'd just sneezed, or scratched himself, or yawned, or done any of those semiprivate physical things normal people are willing to do in front of strangers.

  "Well, Governor," she said, "it was good to have . . . this . . ."

  He saved her, or tried to. "Henry," he said, turning to me. "Don't you think Ms. Baum runs just a great program?"

  I said something.

  "Thanks so much," she said, moving toward the door. "For . . ." "You're going to give my best to Iry Gelber, right?"

  "Of course, we'll--"

  "Take this up with your board. Tell Iry I'll even extend him the privilege of whupping my butt on the golf course." He had moved toward the door, following her. He put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. He whispered something in her ear. She inhaled, then darted out the door.

  "'Bye now," he said, closing the door, chuckling a little. He moved over toward the bar. There were piles of sandwiches, fruit and cheese. He prowled the food; he worried over it. He reached for a sandwich, restrained himself; chose an apple--a perfect red Delicious, like the poisoned one in Snow White, and made it disappear. "Ms. Baum is on the regional board of the teachers union," he explained, still chewing.

  "I was wondering why you chose that particular library," I said, "in Harlem--"

  Arlen Sporken was immediately in my face. "The governor always visits adult literacy programs, wherever he goes."

  Stanton didn't seem too eager to acknowledge the politics of it, either. That part was obvious. It wasn't something you had to talk about. He made it clear, through the slightest of winces, a raised hand, a turn away--something--that this was an invasion of his innocence, a squall line threatening his uncloudy day.

  "Well, it was a pretty amazing experience," I tried. What an idiot. And nobody said anything; nobody helped me out.

  Stanton peered at me in a kindly way, as if he hoped that I'd know where to take the conversation from there. But I was stuck, clueless, and beginning to sweat. And then, for the first of what would be many, many times, she saved me.

  The phone. "The missus," a trooper said.

  He snagged a sandwich on the way. The receiver seemed tiny in his hand. I noticed his long, graceful fingers. He caressed the phone; it was clear he knew how to work it. "Hi, darlin'," he said. And then she leveled him--the sharp, distant bark was audible where I stood. His eyes narrowed, his brow fiirrowed. "Oh, listen, honey, I know, I know . . . I'm sorry . . . We got stuck here. But great news. Real progress with the teachers--" His eyes narrowed again. "Tonight? Are you sure? . . . I'm sorry . . . I had no idea--" Then, to one of the statehouse guys: "Charlie, did you know we were supposed to meet the guy from the Portsmouth Democratic Committee tonight?" Charlie shrugged; smiled. He was a thin, taut little man, a jockey. "Goddammit, Charlie--" He shrugged, smiled at Charlie. Then back on the phone, "Tell b
ins I'll come by first thing tomorrow . . . No, no, Susan . . . Please . . . C'mon ... No, I want to, I want to . . . We'll get right up there. We'll leave now If you'd just quit poppin' my eardrum, we'd . . . Okay, I'm . . . No, please don't go . . . Stay there. Stay right there . . . Susan?"

  He hung up. Shrugged. "We better go," he said. "Where's the plane?"

  "Teterboro," one of the troopers said.

  "Shit. All the way out there? C'mon. C'mon. We gotta get out of here." There was all sorts of movement now. Papers gathered up. The jockey was in the bedroom, then out, with a suitcase. Stanton snagged another apple. He put his arm around Sporken, "You're doin' what we talked about?"

  "Putting it together," he said. "But you know--Washington. They ain't coming along until you show what you can do--"

  "Then they'll be pantin' after us like pigs in heat. But let 'em know we know that."

  "I hear you," Sporken said. "And, Governor, I think you're doin' just great. They're not gonna know what hit 'ens."

  "See you in DC," Stanton said. "You comin', Henry?"

  Coming?

  "Look," he said, "We'll talk on the plane. Wait a minute." He dashed into the bathroom. He came out with a bunch of toiletries provided by the hotel. Shampoo. Toothbrush. Comb. "What else you need?" he said.

  "I've got classes tomorrow," I said.

  "Call in sick--it's summer school," he said. "The kids won't mind." The jockey was standing next to him now, with the garment bag. "Oh, Henry," he said. "This is my uncle Charlie. You coming?"

  He was asleep as soon as we got on the plane. It was a noisy little prop job; any conversation would have been strained, difficult. I tried with Uncle Charlie: "You're the Medal of Honor winner?"

  "He say that?"

  I nodded.

  "Whatever he says," Charlie laughed. "He's the master." "Are you related to his mom or dad?"

  "His dad died."

  I knew that. "Did you know him well?"

  "Nobody knew him well enough."

  It was very late. The plane tracked low over the northeast corridor, between a cottony layer of clouds and an electric map, traces of light, towns and strip malls, country roads. It was like a toy, a model railroad; not quite real. This was all very strange, to say the least. I closed my eyes. I must have slept.

  She was standing there, alone in the dark, on the tarmac at Manchester. It was a soft, heavy night, too cloudy for a moon, or perhaps too late. The terminal lights were dim, opalescent in the mist; there was a slight neon buzzing. A minivan stood just beyond the chain-link fence, engine idling, headlights rehearsing a smoky vaudeville of moths and mosquitoes. There was nothing else. We staggered down the stairs; him last.

  "Susan Stanton," she said, shaking my hand.

  "Henry Burton," I said.

  "I know, I met you twenty-five years ago. At your grandfather's, in Oak Bluffs. You were running around in wet underpants. Just out of the sprinkler, I think. Very cute." She rattled this off crisply, an ironic commentary on Susan Stantonhood. I was charmed. Then, without the irony: "Your grandfather was a great man."

  Only if you didn't know him, but I just said, "Thank you."

  "Jack Stanton could also be a great man," she said, without turning to her husband, "if he weren't such a faithless, thoughtless, disorganized, undisciplined shit."

  The governor was off to my side, back a little. I didn't want to look too hard, so I couldn't see the expression on his face. It was, undoubtedly, the furrowed brow, pouty-mouthed, elementary-school-penitent look. He reached out an arm to her, which she swatted away with a file folder.

  "First impressions, asshole," she said. "These people don't know you. They don't even know you by reputation. They have United States senators courting them. They are waiting to be swept off their feet by Orlando Ozio, who is the governor of a real state."

  "They may be waiting a while for--"

  "They don't know that," she snapped. "They don't know shit. The Democratic town leader of Portsmouth only knows that he was supposed to have an after-dinner drink with the governor of a state whose capital he learned in third grade and promptly forgot and never had cause to think about from that day to this, and you never showed. Oh, he was wowed by the missus. Never met a woman so interested in fly-fishing before! Jack, do you realize how incredibly, indescribably, skull-crushingly boring fly-fishing is? Do you realize I've now committed to doing this--this thing with him? I will fly-fish, with him, because of you. You asshole. You cannot do this to me. You can't. We've only been at this a month, and already you're flicking up in your old fucked-up way. The only shot--the only shot--we have here is perfection. You cannot blow off party leaders. I am not going to let you embarrass--"

  I was aware then of a subtle softening of the air. It was eerie, vaguely narcotic. He was . . . whistling. The song was--it was on the tip of my tongue, from before my time--syrupy, mainstream, late-fifties pop.

  "Jack," she said sharply, then less so: "Jack--you asshole." And now he was singing:

  "Primrose lane Life's a holiday on Primrose lane

  When I'm walking down that

  Primrose lane W-i-i-i-th you."

  He had a slight, reedy tenor voice with a touch of sandpaper to it; not quite professional quality, but there was a musical intelligence behind it--a humility. He knew not to reach for too much, he toyed with his limitations. It was lovely and utterly insidious. It made her anger seem--transparent, unsubtle, the stunt it was. He was saying: I know your game, too.

  Susan turned and began walking toward the minivan. He came up behind her, put his arms around her, snuggling her neck, cupping her breasts. They stood there silently for a moment, swaying slightly to the song he was no longer singing.

  "So Henry and I were at this great, great reading program in Harlem today," he was saying as we drove along, crowded together in the minivan--Stanton and the driver up front, me, Susan, Uncle Charlie in the middle, the trooper and a couple of boxes of groceries, mostly munchies it appeared, in the back. "You should have seen those people."

  "Was it one of yours or one of mine?" Susan asked him.

  "Well, let me think," he said. "The librarian was--well, she was kind of inspirational. It was--"

  "Henry," she cut him off. "He'll never tell the truth. You settle it. Here's the deal: Stanton and I have this argument about social programs. He's a sucker for inspirational leaders. He figures you can parse genius, analyze it, break it down and teach others how to do it. My feeling is: Gimme a break. Only God can snake a tree. You can't teach inspiration. What you do is come up with a curriculum. Something simple, direct. Something you don't need Mother Teresa to make happen--and that's what you replicate."

  "But you can't sell anything if the teacher is a dud," he said. "You've gotta figure out a way to make great teachers. If you can really liberate them, reward them for creativity, they'll make their own programs. Henry, you ever see a curriculum inspire wonder? This is an argument I always win."

  "Henry," she interrupted, "tell us about the librarian. Kind ofinspirational, the governor said?"

  "Well, she was . . ." They were, I knew, listening very closely now It was showtime. "She was a pretty typical library bureaucrat." "Hah!" Susan Stanton snorted.

  "But it didn't matter--she didn't have to be very good--because they wanted it so bad," I continued. Having allowed her the battle, I wasn't about to take sides in the war. "See, your argument is moot when the hunger is there. If everyone wanted to read, or whatever, as much as those folks did today, social policy would be a walk in the park. But you both know that's not where the problem is. It's creating the hunger for nutritious things when all they know is junk food." "And that's where inspiration comes in," Stanton said.

  "Watch out," she said. "He's going to do his Lee Strasberg number on you now."

  "Tell me I'm wrong," he said. "They should teach teachers, psychologists, social workers--all the people who do community stuff--like they teach actors, make them aware of their bodies, how to project, how to emo
te."

  "We already have a nation of bad actors," she said.

  Okay. It was a set piece, and kind of goofy at that. But it was about policy, not politics--not tactics, not gossip. They cared about it. They went on--not like principals--but like staffers, or perhaps academics. (Susan did teach law at the state university, when she wasn't helping her husband run the state.) They could cite case studies. He had a good one: a professor at the University of Tennessee or someplace had tried the Stella Adler method on half the fourth-grade teachers in Kingsport or somewhere and left the other half as a control group--and found significant improvement in reading scores among the students in the emoted-upon sample. Very goofy, and winning.

  And I'd made it through. It was clear that . . . something had just transpired. And I was now part of it, a co-conspirator. I wasn't sure yet that these were people to be trusted. But they were up to something fascinating; their canvas was larger than the tiny brushwork I'd learned in the House. They had a sense of inevitability about them, a sense of entitlement. They didn't flaunt it--it was almost casual; indeed, they were less vain than most politicians. They didn't require any of the usual empty ceremonies of deference and pomposity; they didn't need the reassurance. Their calm, absolutely certain sense of destiny represented a level of audacity well beyond the imaginings of the bulked-up student-body presidents cluttering the Congress. Their ambition was for something beyond public office. It was too breathtaking to be discussed openly; the scope of the project was simply assumed. It was colossal. I found it nervous-making, over the top--and exhilarating. I had grown up in a politics of logic, compromise, and detail. I was ready for a ride.

  And so we arrived at a condominium complex on the outskirts of Manchester, one of those nondescript pre-postmodern erections, the residential equivalent of a convenience store. It was now about 4:00 A. M. There were predawn stirrings, early workers starting their cars. "This is it?" Stanton asked, clearly displeased. "Tell me again, why not a hotel?"

  "Money, convenience," said Mitch, the driver. "You can keep clothes here. We can store stuff. We have some privacy."