THAT AUTUMN and winter was a tumultuous one for our a family. Everything happened, almost all at once it seemed. Even when I try to play the tape in my memory of those months it seems to turn into fast-forward. Tommy’s success in freeing an innocent man and then filing a suit against the Lake County police and States Attorney made him a public figure, one with powerful television charisma—his fifteen minutes of fame, I told him, though I was enormously proud of him. Then the Atlantic Monthly published a segment from his book Attack Politics: The End of Civility. The publisher immediately increased his advance from ten thousand to a hundred thousand dollars, for fear another publisher might try to seduce him to back off from a contract that seemed to me to be almost unenforceable. Poor dolts, they never realized that my Tommy would never do anything like that.
The book was mostly history, Tommy’s favorite subject. I often told him that he should go back to school and earn a doctorate. I’d be glad to support him. He said it was more fun to do history his way, which was certainly true. The last couple of chapters, however, talked about attack methods in contemporary American politics. He argued that the deliberate destruction of an opponent in American political life was a dangerous threat to our society, both because such a strategy was far more effective in an age of television and, worse, created a polarization which had never existed before. The people of the country, he argued from surveys, were pragmatic. However, the activity of well-organized and well-funded interest groups polarized politics. The result was that politics had become more vicious, and dislike and distrust for politics and politicians was
increasing dramatically. Precisely because of the power of the media, including the Internet, attack politics was much more destructive to the fabric of the body politic than it had ever been before.
I’m prejudiced, but I think he made a very strong case.
“Be careful, Tommy love, your fifteen minutes of fame may last for a half hour.”
A couple of our neighbors, more active in politics than either of us were, visited us one night in early November to suggest that Tommy make a run for the State Legislature next November. They were eager to turn the district around. Demographics, they assured us, had already made it a Democratic district. He should try out his tactics—never attack his opponent and never ask anyone for money. In such a race, you didn’t need much money anyway but they’d raise whatever we needed.
Tommy looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders.
“We’ll think about it,” he said, “and call you tomorrow.”
“Well, you didn’t say no.”
“Well?” he said to me.
“Tommy, one of my colleagues who served in the legislature says that Springfield is like Ash Wednesday all year long.”
“I won’t win.”
“I’m not so sure. You have TV charisma.”
“Yeah, but who sees local candidates on TV?”
“True enough … Still it’s a chance to test your theories.”
“And maybe prove them wrong.”
“In this country, Tommy love, nothing succeeds like failure with the possible exception of martyrdom. If you want to do it, I’ll support you totally.”
We consulted the children. They thought it was no big deal.
“Can we travel with you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Will Daddy be on television a lot? He’s really cute!”
“Will we meet a lot of Latinos?”
“You bet.”
That was that. They were adventurers.
Joe McDermott, our friend from Loyola years and Tommy’s best man, signed himself on as our legal counsel. He was still the big blond power forward, even if he had put on a couple of
pounds. He always cleared his throat before making one of his solemn high pronouncements. He treated me with courtly respect to which my madcap laughter often did not entitle me.
Pro bono he insisted. We were to announce our candidacy at the Unity Temple, Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous church in Oak Park. Good Catholics that we were we’d never been in it before. It was a kind of creepy place.
It was the week before Thanksgiving and almost a year before the election. The primary in Illinois is in March, eight months before the election. That makes for an absurdly long campaign. We would probably not have any primary opposition, so we would not have to start active campaigning till June, still a long time.
Joe had all five TV channels there for the announcement. My friends from the neighborhood had assembled a little crowd of supporters.
Tommy was his usual adorable self—relaxed, gracious, charming. Just a nice looking young Mick with a red-haired wife and three adorable little girls. Then when he began to talk, without a podium and without a script he became magical—a decent man, with candor and integrity and honesty.
I’m announcing my candidacy for the General Assembly from the Fourteenth district. My wife and three children are my only supporters and the kids can’t vote—though if we move back into Chicago, maybe they could.
I’m making three promises today that I will keep throughout the campaign.
I will never permit a negative ad against my opponent. Attack ads which harm the candidates and their families are an evil which will disappear from American society only when enough candidates solemnly pledge never to use them, even if that pledge means losing an election.
I will never ask anyone for a financial contribution. My friend Joseph McDermott will preside over campaign finance. He will never ask for money either. Nor will he tell me who has contributed and who has not. Only when enough candidates adopt these rules will the pernicious effect of money on elections be eliminated.
Finally, I promise to make no campaign promises. In
our country only a majority of a legislative body can deliver on a promise. I can promise no more than that I will work for better schools, better public transportation, better housing for the poor, fair treatment for immigrants and respect for the environment. I certainly am a Democrat and in some respects a liberal Democrat though not in every respect. I look forward to an interesting campaign.
There was absolute silence for a moment. Everyone seemed to sense that something new had happened. The kids led the applause.
“Any questions?”
The reporters asked the usual questions we might have expected—property taxes, public schools, pension reform, the influence of the Catholic Church.
To the last he replied, “My brother is a priest, my wife’s brother is a priest, and her uncle is a monsignor. On both sides we’ve been Catholic since before St. Patrick. I have learned two things from the tradition of Catholic social teaching. The first is that we must be on the side of the poor and the needy and the oppressed. The second is that we accomplish social change by cooperation, not conflict. Neither position is incompatible with being a Democrat, not in Cook County anyway.”
That broke it up.
Tommy watched as the media left, his eyes seeing something far away.
“Tremendous,” Joe McDermott said shaking his hand. “You wowed them. Some of that will be on all the channels tonight … . Wasn’t he great, Mary Margaret?”
I was also staring at something far away. I couldn’t make out what it was, however.
“I think I just saw my husband crossing a river,” I said.
“The Des Plaines?”
“I think they call it the Rubicon.”
We shook hands with the people and thanked them for coming. The daughters joined us and they thanked the people too. Like I say, adventurers. Joe passed out petitions to get Tommy’s name on the ballot for the primary.
“You were magical, Tommy,” I said.
“Don’t look at me with those shining eyes, woman,” he said with a suggestive wink.
We met Rosie and Chuck at their favorite ice cream parlor on Chicago Avenue and celebrated with sodas and sundaes and malts.
Tommy watched me very carefully during our courtship, his eyes probing me, studying me, analyzing me. I didn’t pay much attention. I thought he was just admiring me or maybe, as time went on, desiring me. I didn’t understand that he was figuring me out, gauging my responses, exploring my moods, checking out my quirks. By the time we were married I had become pretty transparent to him. Then he turned the same search light on my sexuality, though he had already guessed that beneath all the crisp authority and strong opinions I was a deeply sensuous person, despite my modesty. It didn’t take me long to realize that he had scoped me out and that I was in every respect naked to him. At first I didn’t like that at all. Women weren’t supposed to be that way with men. You lost control if you let that happen. Married women my age often discussed how you could keep your husband dangling—as though it was a woman’s right and duty to do so. How could you be real power in your family if you couldn’t do that? You control men by rationing sex, right?
I didn’t like that strategy because I loved my husband and besides I was determined to be the perfect married lover just like I was the perfect daughter and the perfect student and the perfect tennis player and the perfect lawyer. So I read all the books about sexual techniques and was not, I must confess, turned on by them. So I was a perfect target for Tommy’s careful study of me, a pushover sexually. Sometimes all he had to do was look at me with a certain faintly sinister smile and I lost all my modesty and all my ability to resist. A voice inside me suggested that I was nothing but a whore. But he was my husband and I loved him. I spoke to none of my friends about this problem—if it was indeed a problem. I asked Rosie what she thought—in an indirect and round-about way.
She laughed and said, “Hon, a lot of men and women play silly games about wanting and refusing sex. It’s all foolish nonsense.”
So I guess I went with the flow and began to enjoy my vulnerability to my husband, whom, like I say, I love deeply.
That night after he had announced his venture into politics, he used one insidious little trick that he knows turns me on quickly. In one continuous movement, he unzips my dress, unhooks by bra, and slips his fingers under the elastic of my pants. As my clothes fall away I change from the cool, cerebral, high powered lawyer into an aroused, groaning wife desperate for her husband. I don’t know why this trick works so quickly—and so effectively. It must be some deep twist inside me. I like being in disarray, almost naked yet with my clothes still clinging precariously to my body. All the time Tommy is laughing at me, reveling in what a pushover I am. Sometimes he just has to touch the zipper and I collapse. He is so damn proud of himself that I am furious. No man has a right to do that to a woman. However, sometimes I laugh too. In fact always. Of course I have to wear a dress with a zipper for it to begin. It used to be that we’d both laugh a lot during our love-making.
It doesn’t work any more. Or rather we don’t do it any more. The Beltway or the Senate or something had put out the fire.
Our love-making that night, ages ago, was gentle and peaceful and wonderful. I say this because I want to make it clear that I was committed to wherever he might go across the river, no matter what happened.
“I’ll never second guess you, Tommy,” I said as we relaxed after our romp. “Never.”
“I might second guess myself,” he laughed and kissed me again.
We had not even bothered to watch the news that evening.
Joe called us the next morning. “You guys were wonderful. It was a major coup. You won the election last night.”
My colleagues at work complimented me.
“Your husband is pure charisma,” said the managing partner. “Can we sign him on?”
“Nepotism,” I said, bantering with him.
“We could bend the rules.”
“I think I can forget that.”
A couple of our women partners praised the kids and assured
me that they would move to the West Side so they could vote for Tommy.
“He really is cute!”
“Funny, I’d noticed that … He’s good in bed too.”
We didn’t hear a word from Father Tony. Apparently he hadn’t noticed that his brother was running for the General Assembly. I sighed with relief.
The day after Thanksgiving, Joe called us again. He asked Tommy to put me on the phone.
“You guys didn’t go away for Thanksgiving?”
“Just to Grand Beach for the O’Malley Family bash.”
“You’ll be around tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“There’s some people who want to talk to you. They’ll come out tomorrow night. Very important people.”
“Good people?” I said uneasily.
“Sure. Very good people. They want to ask you something. I’m not going to advise you on how to respond.”
“We both like secrets,” Tommy said.
There were three of them. We recognized them at once. Major powers in Illinois politics. The kids were upstairs at their homework.
We offered them a drink or a cup of tea. They declined. They were eager to get down to business.
“We noticed your television appearance the other day,” the woman said.
“We were impressed,” one of the men added, “both by what you said and the way you said it.”
“We think we can beat Rodgers Crispjin next year,” the third man said.
“And we think,” the woman finished the pitch, “that you’re the man to do it.”
“Your approach to politics is new and different.”
“And long overdue.”
“Crispjin is a pompous phony and the people are beginning to see it.”
“It won’t be easy, but it can be done.”
“The mayor?” I asked.
“The mayor has a policy of not intervening in a primary. But
he’ll pass the word that he thinks you’re a winner—he really believes that. Then in the general election he’ll back you strongly. You’ll have no more than token opposition in the primary. Neither will H. Rodgers. The trick will be for you to get more primary votes than he does. That will make you a valid contender.”
“I’d probably lose,” Tommy said.
“Probably,” said the woman. “But you might win.”
“We can raise money for you. We’ll do it your way. Who will be your chair?”
“Ambassador O’Malley?” he said, raising an eyebrow in my direction.
“He’d love it!”
“The race here in this district?”
“We’ll talk to them and get them a candidate that will be a winner. They won’t want to stand in your way.”
“We’ll give you a couple of days to think it over, not too many because we have to collect the petitions.”
“I don’t think we need to think it over, do we, Mary Margaret?”
“No, Tommy, we don’t.”
“We’ll go for it,” he told our guests. “Sounds like fun.”
They were astonished. We were supposed to argue, they were supposed to win us over. Were we just a little crazy? We sure were.
“No promises that we’ll win,” I said.
The woman nodded.
“I have a strong hunch that you will.”
They left as quietly as they had come.
“Did we really do that?” Tommy asked me
“I can’t believe we did.”
“Neither did our guests.”
“I agree with what you said, Tommy. We’ll probably lose.”
“Yeah, but what if we win?”
“We can worry about it then … . We’d better go upstairs and tell the kids.”
They were delighted.
“Someone has to straighten out the mess in Washington,” said Mary Rose.
“We’ll campaign with you,” Mary Ann said firmly.
“Will we win?” Mary Therese wondered.
“Of course we will,” I said confidently.
“Drat it woman, no zipper tonight!” he said when we entered the bedroom.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
The next day the Examiner had the first of many headlines.
HOUSE HUBBY TO CHALLENGE CRISPJIN
Strategists for veteran Senator H. Rodgers Crispjin visibly relaxed yesterday when they learned that the best the Democrats could do to challenge the Senator’s reelection bid was to choose an obscure suburban lawyer, Tommy Moran. For the last several years Tommy has been a househusband while his wife, hotshot lawyer Mary O’Malley, earned big legal bucks for the family. “If that’s the best the Democrat party can do,” said a close ally of the distinguished Senator from Illinois, “they are really bankrupt. We’ll run the usual vigorous race of course, but we have no doubts about the outcome.”