Saving Graces - Elizabeth Edwards [111]
As John campaigned, it was not unusual to meet up with people who were not going to be with you in the election. John was doing a town hall in Durham, New Hampshire, when I spotted a man with a video camera—not unusual—who had been at the last two events—unusual. One of the staff asked him if we could help him with anything, and he said no, he was just the Republican tracker. His name was Steve, and he had been hired to follow John and tape his public events. Oddly enough, even Steve became part of the family. We’d walk in somewhere, and there he would be, sitting right in the front so he could get a clear shot. Hey, Steve. Hey, Mrs. Edwards. After months of hearing John talk, he even allowed that he thought John made sense and he might even vote for him.
We kept plugging on, despite events with only a few people, despite low poll numbers. In late summer there was a labor rally in Iowa attended by all the candidates. John Kerry spoke before John, and the head of the union, who introduced the candidates, handed Kerry his personal $1,000 contribution when he introduced him. Geez. This was a group—working people—to whom John could appeal, and their president sent a clear message to go another way. With all of the polls putting Howard Dean on top and Dick Gephardt next, Kerry and John were fighting for the third spot, and it was certain that only three of them would come out of Iowa with their campaigns alive. When John started speaking, the crowd sat back in their chairs, arms folded. It didn’t look good. But as he spoke, they leaned forward, and then they started applauding what he was saying and finally they were on their feet. It was good, but the numbers didn’t change.
We continually worked on our speeches. John was starting to frame his stump speech in new language, using a phrase he had heard Christina Reynolds, who had been with us since the Senate campaign, use after she heard John talk about two school systems, two health care systems, two tax codes, one that benefited the rich, the other for the rest of America: It was Two Americas. And it was the beginning of a speech that would electrify audiences, but was it too late?
Campaign momentum would constantly be broken by debates. It wasn’t all bad. It meant television coverage, more people seeing the man, hearing the message, but it was also completely out of control. A one-hour debate would consume half a day and might result in John speaking for four minutes. And the questions were not the questions that we heard at town halls; no one there asked about polls or about money raised, and yet part of nearly every debate—and sometimes nearly all of them—would be these process questions, all inside-baseball, all irrelevant to most voters.
We drove in a van to Baltimore for a debate, and fifteen people had to stay quiet for the trip because John was on an hour-long telephone call from Bill Clinton, who was giving his advice on the debate. Sam Myers may have been used to being still for long periods, but it was painful for Jennifer, Jonathan Prince, and honestly me. In the New York Pace University debate, Cate and I sat in front of the Sharpton family. At each debate there was a different lineup of candidate families—Jane Gephardt and I were the most reliable, then Teresa and Gert Clark, but this was the only time I had seen the Sharptons. Al would be holding forth onstage and Al’s two daughters would be saying, Just answer the question, Daddy. That’s no answer. Oh, Daddy. It was pretty clear that Al got the same amount of grief from his daughters as John got from his.
John had a brutal schedule. Once when he was in Washington, we walked down to M Street to eat dinner. In the narrow, heavily traveled streets of Georgetown, we each had hold of one child, until John Kerry’s car pulled up alongside us. Kerry jumped out on the corner of Prospect and 34th. While I held both children, he and John