A Washington columnist favorable to us once noted that ‘lovely Congresswoman Bradshaw and her handsome husband Ted eschew the party scene, staying home to study issues their constituents are avid about.’
I would stand the columnist up against the wall and open fire for his use of ‘eschew’ and ‘avid’ and for telling the kind of lie Washington insiders would gloat over while they sipped their martinis.
In fact, the Bradshaws had to be dragged from the various balls and parties and ‘dos’ they attended four or five nights a week. She’d spent her summers in the Hamptons and studied for two years in Paris, where she’d done some modeling. He’d spent his teens and early twenties trying to fashion a professional tennis career for himself, but having failed that, he married Jess and took up the task of trying to fashion a political career for his wife. In addition to looks and money, they had what all politicians need: a neurotic — not to say psychotic — ambition to not only stay in office but to advance in office.
One more term in the House and Jess would announce for Senate.
I admired Jess more than liked her. She had that slight air of condescension all wealthy liberals have when they address the woes of average people, but her relentless battles fought for the poor and the helpless overcame it. She also had the same condescension for people she employed, including me and my staff.
Ted was a pain in the ass. They’d had two campaign managers previous to me and they both had the same problem — having Ted override their decisions. Jess had almost lost one election cycle because Ted insisted that they do things his way.
Ted loved being on TV. Some in the press (even the so-called ‘liberal’ press; if only they really were all that liberal) felt that the two had a Bill and Hillary Clinton problem. He was bright and shallow, known to stray from the marriage vows most folks attempt to honor. He’d always wondered why Bill Clinton had gotten in trouble over a simple blow job. ‘What the hell? Who hasn’t gotten a blow job here or there?’ I assumed he never asked Jess this question.
In taking the job I’d made Jess honor a blood pact. Jess and I were the final authorities. If she sided too often with Ted, I would quit; if Ted went around me on an issue, I would quit; and if Ted had any contact with the press without prior agreement with me, I would quit.
I took care of his TV lust by having a media buyer in Chicago help me set up a half-hour TV show for Ted on Saturday afternoons. She got many sponsors because Ted would interview people on both sides of the aisle and talk about what the guests had done to improve the lives of people across the state. Sponsors loved it because it made them look patriotic and civic-minded, and Ted loved it because it was enough of a success to get him invited to Rotary Clubs and schools to speak.
As I was saying, my knock interrupted Ted telling Jess that my (and Abby’s) idea was dumb and his, of course, was brilliant.
The room was small, holding only a makeup table complete with a mirror encircled with some electric bulbs and a counter packed with mysterious items for beauty, three wooden chairs and a movable metal rack holding empty hangers.
‘I’d say she looks pretty damned good,’ Ted said.
‘How’re you feeling, Jess?’
‘Oh, not bad, Dev. I just hope I don’t fuck up. I’m really nervous about this.’
‘Oh, honey, you’re not going to fuck up. Tell her, Dev; tell her she’s not going to fuck up.’
I said, without smiling, ‘Did you hear that, Jess? Ted said you’re not going to fuck up. That’s good enough for me.’
They loved their jousting.
‘Dev, would you please tell Ted for me he’s an idiot?’
‘Just remember, honey, maternal. That way you’ll get the “lady” vote.’
Ah, yes, the much sought-after ‘lady’ vote. I had tried, Abby had tried and Jess herself had tried to convince Ted that in this era voters wanted strong female candidates. They didn’t care if the candidate was good in bed or even good in the kitchen. Women were the equal of men in this arena (personally, I would have been happier if the Congress was sixty percent women) and voters wanted women who exemplified strength.
‘I’m doing this for your sake, honey.’
What happened next was one of those moments you never forget. Years later it would come back to me and still have impact.
Their daughter, Katherine, was sitting on a folding chair in a corner. She was the image of her mother, that indelible a match right down to the freckles across the perfect nose.
She was wearing a brown dress that made her all the more slender. Low heels and carefully brushed blonde hair completed her conservative look. She knew how to dress for her mother’s public. She’d been very sick for a time and was still pale.
She said, ‘Just be strong, Mom. Stand up to him every time he lies.’
And that was when Ted turned on her. ‘Since when did you start giving your mother advice? Everything you tell her is wrong. You should be out there with the rest of the crowd. In fact, get the hell out of here right now!’
I suppose her ‘be strong’ suggestion went against his ‘be maternal’ idea, but there was a hysteria in his voice that was chilling. Ted had once slapped a male staffer. He did not like to be told he was wrong.
But Katherine was his daughter. And she sure hadn’t deserved his rage.
‘Oh, honey, don’t get so worked up. It’s not good for you,’ Jess said.
‘I know. I’m just worried about the polls, Jess. That’s all.’
This startled me. Shouldn’t she have been soothing Katherine? And shouldn’t he be apologizing to Katherine?
But all Jess said was, ‘Don’t be upset with your dad, Katherine. You know how overwrought he can get.’
Katherine wasn’t as hurt as I thought she should be, either. ‘Oh, I’m used to it. If I got upset every time he yelled at me, I wouldn’t have time for anything else. I just wish he’d take Xanax the way you and I do.’
‘Well, I need to get going.’
Ted strode to Jess and kissed her on the cheek. Then he went to the door and was gone.
It was a full minute before anybody spoke once he was gone.
‘Poor Dad. I feel so sorry for him.’
‘Yes, honey, so do I.’ Jess kissed Katherine’s forehead.
Apparently it was me, not them. This was the way you treated your daughters these days.
Five
What we were about to see was the civilized equivalent of a prize fight. There wouldn’t be any blood but there would no doubt be injuries. And while neither fighter would end up in the hospital, one of them might end up doomed to looking back on this night forever. Going over and over it, reliving with exquisite pain all the ways they’d humiliated themselves and lost the election.
The stage was filled with hurrying, scurrying TV techs checking sound and lighting. I turned around to get a look at the imposing auditorium. Lots of laughter and hellos and good lucks as the crowds chose their preferred side of the aisle. About half of them were in stylish attire for men and women alike. Again, like a prize fight.
Abby, Ted, Joel, Katherine and I sat next to each other in the front row on our side of the auditorium.
There was applause as the two candidates walked onstage. Jess waved and smiled. She took up her position behind the podium.
Trent Dorsey wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a red power tie. The grin that was always close to a sneer was firmly in place as he situated himself behind his own podium.
A middle-aged woman from the Voters’ League walked to center stage and, much like a referee, gave us a quick lesson in proper behavior for TV debates.