The Senator and the Priest Read online

  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.”

  CHAPTER 9

  OUR FIRST step in assembling a staff was to meet with another Loyola classmate, Dick Sanchez, or Ricardo Sanchez as he called himself when he was being seriously Latino. Ricardo was of medium height, taller than Tommy of course, with a pencil-thin mustache, and a smile which revealed perfect, if reconstructed, teeth. A River Forest dweller with kids about the ages of our own who also attended St. Luke’s school, he was movie-star handsome with bedroom brown eyes. He reminded me of the various characters that played the Cisco Kid. Indeed I called him Cisco that night when we were sitting in Doc Ryan’s bar on Madison Street in Forest Park.

  “OK,” he said, “everyone knows that Rodge Crispjin is a phony. He’s tall and handsome with his snow white hair. He looks like a Senator, but he’s as lazy as sin and he’s in the tank with Bobby Bill Roads and his crowd of hypocrites from Oklahoma and sleeps with every luscious woman he can get his hands on. He hasn’t introduced any major legislation during his term in Congress and doesn’t have much influence. His down-state accent is phony. He’s a public relations bubble that is waiting for someone to
burst.”

  “Ric,” Tommy said, going into Spanish, “here’s a map of Illinois counties with the greatest proportion of Hispanics. Those are census figures, so we figure they represent mostly legals.”

  “We believe,” I continued also in Spanish, “that this is the time to mobilize the Mexican voters in the state. They belong in the Democratic party.”

  “You guys are really good,” Ric said in English. “Tommy, a person can tell that you’re a gringo, but one that knows the language well. Mary Margaret, when you go into Spanish, you become Mexican—the eyes, the gestures, the facial expressions, the body movements. Sonoran accent of course, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Hermosillo, Cisco,” I said. “The kids are really good at it.”

  “That should be a big asset in the campaign.”

  “We want you to take charge of our Hispanic campaign,” Tommy continued. “Help us to mobilize the Mexican-American votes.”

  “The HDO has that sewed up.”

  “Only in Chicago, not even Suburban Cook, where your folks are all over the place,” I argued. “To say nothing of Dupage. We think we can carry Dupage for the first time in any election if all our amigos turn out.”

  “Lake too,” Ric agreed. “We don’t owe Rodgers Crispjin anything … What’s in it for us?”

  “Major political power in Illinois,” Tommy continued the argument, “It’s time, you know, long past time.”

  “And an ally in the United States Senate?”

  “We Irish never forget a favor. I’d advocate immigration reform anyway, but with more sense of backing back home, if the Mexican-American voters put me there.”

  Ric shook his head.

  “You two guys have always been magic. You’ll bring excitement back to politics. I’ll have to talk to Tina, but I know what she’ll say. What do you want me to do?”

  “Co-campaign manager with Joe McDermott.”

  “You have the whole Loyola Law School class. I bet you signed up Dolly McCormick too, smart, pretty Black woman.”

  “Chief of Staff and Press person.”

  “Wow! You guys move quickly.”

  “We don’t have much money yet,” I said. “The party says more will be coming in, but you know our ground rules. We’ll pay you something even during the primary.”

  “The Ambassador is the chairman of the finance committee,” Tommy added.

  “Hell,” Ric continued in English, “I’ll do it pro bono. It will be fun.”

  “You’ll need something for secretarial …”

  “Tina would be furious if she were left out … this is going to be fun!”

  “Chucky,” I said, meaning my dad, “says that volunteers will swarm in.”

  “I’m sure he’s right.”

  “Tommy has some money coming in from book royalties, we’ve put a second mortgage on the house. Lake County wants to settle our suit.”

  “You guys are incredible! We’re going to win! … What will you be doing, Maria Margarita?”

  “Scheduler, Cisco, adviser, morale.”

  “And person in charge, I bet! Tina’s going to love this!”

  “That was easy,” I said as we drove back to our house.

  “You know this Tina? What is she like?”

  “Well-organized, smart, dangerous! Tiny, very pretty, fire in her brown eyes.”

  We were silent for a few moments.

  “We’re getting in deep, Mary Margaret,” he said, sounding a little dubious.

  “There has to be one rule for us Tommy: We’re having fun! A magical mystery tour!”

  “Speaking of fun, I note, counselor, that you are wearing a dress with a zipper.”

  “I thought you might notice that.”

  That was only four years ago. We were so young.

  We announced officially two weeks after we had agreed to run, in a small room at the Marriott on Michigan Avenue, already bright with Christmas decorations. The kids all wore red dresses and green ribbons. The room was packed with media people and supporters, the room overflowing as we had hoped it would be.

  Again my delicious husband had no notes and needed no podium.

  This looks like it’s getting to be a habit. I may have set a record for the number of times a man has announced his candidacy—twice in five weeks. I can guarantee I won’t go for three.

  I’m making the same 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. No matter how many attack ads my opponent may level at me, I will, with the help of God, honor this pledge.

  I will never ask anyone for a financial contribution. My father-in-law, Charles O’Malley, will preside over our campaign fund. 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. Politics in our system of government is necessarily a matter of forming coalitions and winning votes. Just now it is hard to win votes for the issues with which I am concerned—fair treatment for immigrants, restraining the power of Big Oil, Big Pharmacy, and Big Insurance, protection for the pensions of ordinary people, protection of private property from condemnation by greedy local authorities, an increase in the wages of ordinary Americans, a more equal distribution of tax burdens.

  That’s a big order. I can’t guarantee how much progress

  I’ll make on any of them, but I’ll try.

  Now let me introduce my staff. My friends Joe McDermott and Ricardo Sanchez will be co-campaign managers … Dolly McCormick will be Chief of Staff and Press spokesperson. My wife Mary Margaret will be scheduler and morale officer and tell me what to do. My daughters Mary Therese, Mary Ann, and Mary Rose will laugh at my jokes. We hope to add others as the campaign proceeds.

  We can answer a few questions …

  MEDIA: The Chicago Examiner says you are nothing but a househusband.

  MORAN: I enjoyed the role and am proud of it. I did manage to win a few cases from my home office—the Lake County false-arrest case for example.

  MEDIA: Did you clear your candidacy with the Cardinal?

  MORAN: No. That would have been presumptuous. I believe Mary Margaret’s Uncle, Monsignor Ed O’Malley, informed him unofficially.

  MEDIA: It is true, is it not that you support abortion?

  MORAN: I believe that abortion is wrong. However, the law of the land guarantees a woman’s right to an abortion. I am not going to try to take that away, not that a Senator has much chance to be involved with the issue.

  MEDIA: Do you think the Church will bar you from the Sacrament?

  MORAN: Not in Chicago. I would add that my concern with poverty, racial justice, the rights of immigrants is motivated by a long study of the Catholic Church’s social teachings.

  MEDIA: Is it true that you support the rights of illegal immigrants? ’

  MORAN: As I read the declaration of independence, all men, not just citizens, have certain inalienable rights. Illegal immigrants do not lose those rights. I would rather see a policy that enables them to migrate legally. Two things should be obvious—our society needs them and they do not take jobs away from other Americans as some people try to tell you. It is criminal how many of them die down in the deserts. We must stop them or we lose all right to be considered a humane people.

  MORAN: Repeats the response in Spanish.

  DOLLY: Last question

  MEDIA: How much money do you have in your campaign fund now?

  MORAN: Not much—as I said, we put a second mortgage on our house, I added the advance royalties from my book which comes out next year.

  MEDIA: Senator Crispjin has ten million dollars in his fund.
>
  MORAN: I don’t think I’ll catch up with him! … Now we have some entertainment for the season.

  We assembled our little ad hoc mariachi group. Tina Sanchez and her daughter Consuela, it turned out could play the violin. My daughter and I had some guitar experience. We did a few hand-clapping Mexican Christmas carols. We were not yet very good—we’d improve with time, but we were never very good. It didn’t matter. The kids stole the show.

  “Senora,” Tina Sanchez embraced me, “I am more a gringa than you are. Feliz Navidad!”

  I don’t think our debut worried the forces of Senator Crispjin much.

  HOUSE HUBBY AND CLASSMATES PANDER TO ILLEGALS

  One-time househusband, Senatorial Candidate Tommy Moran and a group of his classmates from Loyola Law School pandered shamelessly to illegal immigrants yesterday. At the announcement of his candidacy yesterday, Tommy repeated the same themes that had marked his announcement a couple of weeks go for the General Assembly with an added boilerplate in defense of illegal immigrants, which he then translated into very poor Spanish. To top the day off a couple of musicians and some children (including the candidate’s daughters) with very little talent sang Mexican Christmas carols.

  Partisans of the veteran Senator H. Rodgers Crispjin ridiculed this pathetic performance.

  “We’ll bury that little fool,” one of them said.

  “Will the Senator debate him?”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  On the morning of Christmas Eve, Father Tony showed up to reprimand Tommy. He stormed into our library room in the basement which had become our campaign headquarters. He ignored me and started right in.

  “What’s this nonsense about the Senate? I go to Australia for a few weeks and you make a fool out of yourself! How many times do I have to tell you that you shouldn’t try to play with the big guys!”

  “I was asked by leaders of the Democratic party …”

  I had not before noted Tommy’s reaction to his brother when Tony is in full fight—talking and not listening. My charming, articulate husband lowered his head, bowed his shoulders and acted like a puppy dog being reprimanded by this master for soiling the parlor carpet.