Saving Graces - Elizabeth Edwards [117]
We headed to Wisconsin a little earlier than John Kerry expected. When the first numbers from Tennessee and Virginia started coming in, we flew to Milwaukee. We were at a rally at the Slavic Center when John called to congratulate Kerry. Kerry was floored. “You’re in Wisconsin? The primary was today. What are you, the Energizer bunny?”
Wisconsin wasn’t a last stand, though it came close. The primary was two weeks away, and unlike the previous weeks, we could concentrate on one state. Home base would be the Pfister, a refurbished hotel with a large lobby that served as the meeting place for press and children and staff. And best of all, our niece Jordan, my sister’s youngest, was the staff person in charge at the hotel.
I spent two weeks driving around Wisconsin, talking to as many people as I could. Donsia Strong Hill helped set up meetings, and Brian Brooks drove me—using Mapquest directions faxed to him from Raleigh, which often left us on the wrong side of lakes. Um, Oshkosh is right over there, he said, pointing west over Lake Winnebago. When Meghan and Jennifer joined us, it became the girl-mobile. We sang—without the benefit of the songbooks—and Brian was a good enough sport to join in.
When we were near Milwaukee, I would try to stay at the Pfister so I could see the children. But the children were being well cared for without me. I came in and dropped my suitcases one time, and Jordan pointed to the nearby couches. I walked over and there they were, Emma Claire and Jack, one on either side of Nick Anderson, a Los Angeles Times reporter. He was reading them a book. He looked up and said, “Miss my own kids. You don’t mind?” Of course not, and sat with them.
“So,” he asked, “what would be a victory in Wisconsin? A thirty-point loss?”
“I’m an optimist.”
“A twenty-point loss?”
“I’m an optimist.”
“You surely don’t think he’ll win.”
“I’m an optimist.”
John was getting good crowds, and he had positive interviews with several newspaper editorial boards. I felt good. The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel debate went well. After the debate John was still standing onstage, cameras still running, when Howard Dean came over and said, “We’ve got to get together.” John asked when, and Howard said, “Whenever you want.” “How about tonight, then?” Howard agreed. He said he wanted me to be there. I think Howard might have been skeptical the first time I told him I had known his brother, who had been killed in Laos, when we were both at UNC, but Gerry Cohen, whom we had both known, had made a scrapbook of Charlie’s time at UNC and sent it to Howard, who was no longer skeptical—I’d been friends with his brother, and that was good enough for him. I understood completely.
That night we went out to dinner with the children and Chris Downey, a good friend from Washington. Our table was on a platform with curtains around it that the children were enjoying closing and opening. We knew Howard would come shortly. But before he did, four journalists, E. J. Dionne, Dotty Lynch, Walter Shapiro, and Meryl Gordon, came in and were seated at the table next to ours. I got up and told Sam that Howard couldn’t come into the dining room unless he didn’t mind this being public. Sam found another space, and when Howard arrived, we drew the curtains on the table, and John and I slipped out. We went up a darkened staircase to a private party room. It was empty except for chairs stacked on tops of tables, a bar, and Howard. We took chairs from the tables and sat. It’s hard to explain the rawness unless you have been in the center of the storm, but there is nothing subtle at this point. We all knew why we were there.
John said, “Thank you for coming.