THOUSANDS OF people waited for us at the polling place. Mary Rose and Mary Ann were voting for the first time. “Good deal that I can vote for my dad.”
Many of the people were not our neighbors. They had come because they liked Tommy and wanted us to know that they were loyal. Immediately I decided that we would win. Most people would see through Bobby Bill’s trick. It had been close for a while but Tommy’s tough talk won us a lot of votes we might not have had and even, I think, some Republicans. Then we went to five crucial L train stops and asked people to vote. We also passed out “Holy Cards” with a picture of the family on the cards.
Chucky’s photo of course.
Voters knew the L stations we would visit. So we were mobbed by people wanting us to autograph the picture cards.
Tommy seemed his usual cheery ebullient self, confident of victory. I could tell, however, that the confidence was an act. He was still recuperating from the campaign traumas—Gately Park and the Friday afternoon massacre. If we lost, as he thought he would and I vigorously denied, he’d go through an interlude of near-depression.
“So,” I had told the Lord, “he’s gotta win.”
We shared wonderful love during our afternoon nap. Then we picked up the kids at Rosie’s house and rode down to the Allegro for our second victory as Chuck had assured both of us. The rain poured down and lightning crackled against the skyscrapers as we rode down on the Congress Expressway. Just like six years ago.
The night started out badly.
The polls closed at seven. By seven-fifteen, Crispjin’s spokesperson was on the air claiming victory.
“We have sophisticated scientific surveys which enable us to predict the outcome of the election very early in the evening. We now believe that Senator Rodgers Crispjin will carry Illinois by fifty-three percent of the votes. As soon as Tommy Moran concedes, Senator Crispjin will address his followers here at the Fairmont hotel.”
“How can they know so early?” Mary Rose demanded.
“They can’t have data this soon,” Joe McDermott said. “It’s another one of their frauds.”
“Is there any sign around the states that exit polling was going on?” I asked Joe.
“None that we have heard about.”
“They’re faking things,” Tommy murmured. “They figure that it will be a close race and they can more credibly claim fraud when they’ve been ahead all night. We’re going to win!”
Then Leander Schlenk appeared on the monitor.
“Mr. Schlenk, you are a veteran observer of American elections. Are you surprised that Senator Crispjin is winning so easily?”
“Not at all. I’ve taken for granted that people would grow tired of Little Tommy and his noisy family. The people of Illinois should be grateful that this is the last roundup for the drugstore cowboy senator.”
One of the national networks reported that the Illinois Senate race had added one seat to the Republican contingent in the Senate. A check appeared after Crispjin’s name, even though he was trailing in the returns by five thousand votes.
“Asshole,” Maran muttered.
I did not find it in my heart to reprove her for the language which seemed just then to be appropriate.
Then Father Tony appeared on the tube.
“How do you feel about Senator Crispjin’s victory, Reverend Moran?”
“I feel a great relief. My little brother is a clever little fellow, but I have been telling him all along that he shouldn’t try to play with the big boys. I hope and pray that God will turn him away from empty celebrity and he will return to being the
good Catholic he used to be. Then, I hope he will concentrate on saving his immortal soul.”
I screamed several obscene words which I would not permit to my daughters.
Tommy seemed unaffected.
“Poor Tony,” he said. “He’ll be terribly disappointed by morning.”
The atmosphere of a large room in which election returns are watched is odd, a mixture of hope and fear, victory and defeat, joy and sadness. Every change in the tally you’re watching increases the dread and the expectation. One is either a little bit closer or a little bit further away. The neurosis which pervades the room makes everyone edgy, both laughter and curses inappropriately vigorous. An anteroom perhaps to a mental institution in which everyone was eating and drinking too much.
Oh, when is it going to end!
Two of the national networks had now ruled Rodgers Crispjin as the victor, mostly on the flashes emanating from the newsroom of the Chicago Examiner. The Daily News on the other hand reported with its usual caution that the race was much too close to call while Channel 3—which was receiving the same tallies showing up on our monitors—said that Senator Moran was edging away from Senator Crispjin.
We had in fact never lagged behind the opposition from the very first tallies on the monitor. With 20 percent of the ballots we were 13 percentage points ahead of the opposition.
“We can’t be that far ahead,” said a very anxious and somewhat overweight South Side Irish woman.
Our own interests were frustrated by the national interest in the presidential election.
Joe and Dolly would appear periodically in the family group around the candidate’s easy chair. He himself remained relaxed and serene, occasionally muttering something barely intelligible after he’d done some calculations.
About eleven-thirty we picked up five thousand more votes.
“DuPage,” Joe intoned.
“Truly?” my poor little Tommy asked.
“Then we have it … We’ll win by maybe 100,000 votes! Women of the house, the champagne please!”
Rosie and Maryro and I popped open the bottles and filled the plastic goblets we’d brought along.
“Gentlepersons,” Tommy stood on a chair, which I held steady, not quite convinced that his sense of balance had returned. “I proclaim victory. We’re going to win bigger than anyone had expected. The scandal of last Friday evening backfired. A hundred thousand votes, a veritable landslide.”
Quite sober, as he would remain all evening, he began “A Grand Old Name.” Then the kids grabbed their instruments and did “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Chucky and Rosie sang “Rosemarie,” their favorite theme song.
I was afraid to count our chickens before they were hatched.
A phone rang, the one next to Tommy’s chair. I picked it up.
“Mary Margaret,” I whispered.
“How y’all doing down there,” the President-elect said. “Having a little celebration? You’re entitled to it. Do you think you can get the Senator?”
“I’ll just snap my fingers, sir.”
“The President is on the line, Tommy!”
He jumped off the chair and came running.
“Congratulations, Mr. President! I’m glad ABC is about to call it for you. I hope I can ride along on your coattails. You on mine? I don’t see it … Hey, you’re right … It doesn’t much matter so long as we’re both winning. I’ll look forward to it … Your first call? … I really appreciate it, sir. Have a good vacation.”
The room turned dead quiet.
Tommy took a deep breath.
“That was the President-elect. ABC will shortly proclaim him the victor. Apparently we carried Illinois by more votes than he did …”
A mega cheer exploded. Then on the TV monitor Channel 3 put a check after Tommy’s name.
I answered another phone.
“Yes, Dolly, I’ll tell him … Boss Man, Dolly says we should come right on down!”
The young people, cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends, led us down to the main ballroom playing “Happy Days Are Here Again!” They struck it up the second time as we entered the
big hall. Then “Mary, a Grand Old Name,” which opened my tear ducts. Finally as Tommy reached the podium, myself dragged along, they turned to “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
Finally the crowd settled down.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t get too close to the edge of the platform,” Tommy began. “And if I hold on to my wife so I won’t fall off again.”
After another wave of cheering, Tommy brought the crowd under control.
“The President-elect called me ten minutes ago and assured me that we both had carried Illinois. He thanked me for providing coattails. I don’t think that’s true. But he did say that I was the first one he called after ABC declared him the winner. I thanked him in the name of all of you who have worked so hard. Happy days are indeed here again!”
Our pickup orchestra played that again and then its favorite Mexican serenade, during which my husband kissed me like he meant it. I have little recollection of the rest of the evening until we were home in bed about three in the morning. I won’t, however, forget our romp of love. Together we’d beaten the bad guys. We had proved that we were smarter and stronger than they were.
Happy days were indeed here again.