Okay. I’ll kick it around for ten days. But no promises!
NEW YORK STATE DEMOCRATIC COMMITTEE
ALBANY HEADQUARTERS
151 STATE STREET
ALBANY, NEW YORK 12207
TO: Albany Office
FROM: Wayne Duvall
DATE: June 4, 1998
SUBJECT: Craig McKenna
* * *
He’s going to do it. I could tell by the way he kept turning me down.
I gave him a week and a half to get back to me. In the meantime, I’m attaching his off-the-record curriculum vitae.
Let’s get moving.
WD
* * *
Craig Steven McKenna
Born January 18, 1960—St. Louis, Mo.
Father: Alan C. McKenna, U.S. Attorney
Mother: Louise Pearl McKenna, OB/GYN
Graduated Harvard summa cum laude, 1982; placed third in his law school class, 1985.
Began singing in coffehouses when he was 18. Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie. (Good sign.)
Chained himself to Widener Library in 1978 to protest Harvey Milk’s murder and inadvertently incited the first riot of the semester.
Spearheaded the Students for Human Rights Commission and succeeded in closing down seven Boston establishments that discriminated against minorities.
Locked Vice President Bush in a toilet in 1984.
Launched Harvard’s first AIDS hotline—manned it himself.
Organized a half-dozen zap attacks on the White House to protest the Reagan administration’s silence on AIDS. Came to know most of the D.C. police force—particularly his arresting officers—on a first-name basis.
Wrote Pat Buchanan’s obituary for the Harvard Crimson, which was picked up by all the wire services. It took Buchanan three days to convince anyone he was still alive.
Fell for Clayton Bergman—a construction and hardware entrepeneur—in 1978. Been living with him for twelve years. (Liberals’ll love that, and we may even have a shot at the conservatives once they begin calculating the two disposable incomes.)
Admitted to the New York State Bar in 1986 and founded the firm of McKenna & Webb in Saratoga Springs. Has since obtained verdicts in eighteen out of twenty-one cases—civil liberties, family practice, and environmental preservation. Your bluebook Republican nightmare.
Believes in kids, the Red Sox, and equal rights across the board.
Doesn’t understand the word “don’t.”
He’s our man.
* * *
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Craig
FROM: Charleen
DATE: June 4, 1998
SUBJECT: “Men are usually easier to figure out than women, but not sometimes.”
* * *
I’m attaching a copy of the letter you sent to Noah. You left it by the Xerox machine. Always destroy the evidence, Craig. Remember the Rosenbergs.
How was the “depo” in Albany? You’ll note that I employ quotation marks to signify skepticism. Is there anything you want to tell me? Something that rhymes with “campaign”? What about “Charleen, you may need to hire a temp for a couple of years”? I could see this coming in 1981 when you sent the Ku Klux Klan application to Anita Bryant.
Your face is ash-gray. Just like my mother’s after her hysterectomy.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Charleen
FROM: Craig
DATE: June 4, 1998
SUBJECT: “My fellow Americans”
* * *
I told him no three times. It was like talking to a mailbox.
This is nuts! I have a life! Am I supposed to give it up just so Kitty Kelley can write scummy things about my relatives? And why did they pick me? How come they didn’t ask Jenny Pizer at Lambda Legal? She’s more qualified than I am. And she kicks ass a lot harder too.
They want me to give them an answer by June 15. Right now it’s a probable “nope.” Kind of. I’m not sure. Is there any way I could get elected to office without Clayton hearing about it? Maybe if you kept him distracted for two years.
Which reminds me—the First Lady and I are doing hot-and-sour soup and spareribs tonight. Want to join us?
Cr
P.S. Actually, I’m handling this pretty well. I can almost keep food down again.
P.S. 2. As you’ve undoubtedly gleaned from the Pumpkin Papers Alger Hiss apparently left by our Xerox machine, my front man in Utica advises me that Jody intends to kiss you this weekend. You’d better call the witness protection program. I think he’s at the end of his rope.
P.S. 3. I changed my mind. It’s a definite no.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Mr. President
FROM: Charleen
DATE: June 4, 1998
SUBJECT: Kitty Kelley
* * *
There’s nothing I savor more than hot-and-sour soup—unless it’s swallowing mercury. Really, Craig. Between Jody’s kiss and your nomination, that’ll make two of us throwing up on the table. Clayton’s bound to suspect something. I can always claim PMS—what’s your excuse?
Before you tell Clayton you’re running for office, try to give me enough lead time to seek safe harbor outside the radiation zone. Iowa, perhaps. You might also consider spilling the beans after you’ve accepted your candidacy. Fewer moving parts are involved that way. (See Ricardo vs. Ricardo, when Lucy bought the turquoise tea hat with pearls on it before she promised Ricky she wouldn’t.) Besides, assassination is a federal offense.
Assuming, arguendo, that I earn my scarlet A with Jody, who’s to say he won’t lose interest once the mystery’s worn off? Remember Clark? He looked like the real McCoy too—until breakfast. And I’m not hunting for a casual relationship. My biological clock is running on fumes.
Ch
P.S. I’m sure the Democrats already considered Jenny Pizer. But they probably wanted to start small.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Charleen
FROM: Craig
DATE: June 4, 1998
SUBJECT: Starting small
* * *
Thanks for the vote of confidence. And Clark was an exorcist. You get what you pay for.
By the way, Jody’s been pursuing you for a year and a half. The statute of limitations on “casual” expired eight months ago. And who ever said you were mysterious?
You might want to stick around when I tell Clayton. If this shapes up to be the fight of the century, I’ll need somebody to handle the popcorn concession.
Charleen, could our lives get any more tangled?
LOUISE MCKENNA, M.D.
OBSTETRICS/GYNECOLOGY
Jefferson Medical Plaza, Suite 100
903 Saint Charles Street
St. Louis, Missouri 63101
Darling:
I just met the loveliest woman on the leg press at the gym. Her name is Sylvia and she has an available nephew. How do you feel about gastroenterology? And don’t be a snob.
Somebody got into my office last night and pillaged my Rolodex. Meanwhile, the $300 from the basketball pool was practically under his elbow and he didn’t touch it. Instead, he rearranged my Post-its by color. I’d have gone to the police, but with a story like that, they’d have locked me up.
Give my best to Clayton. No need to pretend I mean it.
Love,
Mom
CLAYTON’S HARDWARE
serving Saratoga Springs sinc
e 1988
Honey—
I figure we’ll leave for Utica around 6:00. I’ve got to wait for a shipment of threepenny nails, so why don’t you pick up Charleen and the kid in the Bronco and then meet me at the store?
Love you.
C
Craig McKenna
Attorney Notes
Never try packing a suitcase when you’ve got something burly on your mind. Otherwise, you and your sig oth are going to be stuck wearing ski pants in June.
He rearranged my Post-its by color.
First she gets a phone call from an unidentified crackpot who all but bribes her for my address. Four days later, somebody breaks into her Rolodex—but before he leaves, he cleans her office.
Circumstantial evidence is generally inadmissible, but a verdict is still a verdict.
Travis.
It had to happen sooner or later. And he was always a lot braver than I was. (Who hitchhikes to Scranton for a record album?!) Let’s see—he probably kicked off the mission by hunting down every Craig McKenna on the Internet. (Grin.) When he figured out my number was unlisted, he raked his irrepressibly methodical brain for a clue he’d overlooked. Did he become a lawyer after all? Should I check with Harvard? How about the Massachusetts State Bar? Air raid alert! His mom was a doctor in St. Louis! That’s when he called her. But chances are good that his capillaries were already popping by then—just like when Liza Minnelli came into the record store searching for one of her mother’s old albums. (“Oh my God she looks exactly like Sally Bowles I forgot how to breathe should I talk to her?” “Travis, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”) Poor Mom. No wonder she hung up on him. So after that, he booked the first available flight to Missouri—which makes perfect sense as long as you’re Travis. He probably figured he’d be an easier sell if Mom could meet him face-to-face. I hope he didn’t try to schedule an appointment with her. I think I forgot to tell him she was a gynecologist.
Yo! Craig! It’s 96 degrees in Utica! Unpack the thermal underwear!
I haven’t stopped smiling in three hours.
Uh-oh.
* * *
The Utica Post Tribune
VOL. MCLVI, NO. 98 UTICA, NEW YORK JUNE 5, 1998
BLUE SOX TAKE ON TROY IN GRUDGE MATCH
WEEKEND SERIES WITH BANDITS BEGINS TODAY AT 1: 00
* * *
Jody and His Boys Primed for a 3-Game Sweep at Schuyler Park
Craig McKenna
Attorney Notes
The Road to Utica
starring Noah and Charleen and Clayton and Craig
Noah was the one who drew up the seating chart for the Bronco: me and Clayton in the front, Charleen and our Munchkin in the back. He also had a mile-by-mile itinerary charted out—from Foxhound Run in Saratoga Springs to Oswego Street in Utica.
“Ready, dude?” he asked Clayton as we nosed our way out of the hardware store’s parking lot.
“Dude me again and watch what happens,” warned my other half. Then he reached back with his free arm and mussed up the kid’s hair. Affection insurance.
“100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”
Always a perennial favorite whenever we take him places, the object is to see who can go the longest without getting bored. (I usually clock out at sixty-something, and Clayton’s never made it past eighty-four.) But on this particular occasion, Charleen—decked out in a Jody-motivated yellow-and-white $800 Prada—decided to put up a road block of her own just as we were passing Saratoga Lake.
“You’re eleven years old and you’re not singing that song,” she informed Noah briskly in her “cross-the-line-and-you-lose-the-toes” voice. “It promotes alcoholism.” I’ll be damned, I thought with misplaced pride. She’s beginning to sound like me. But Noah wasn’t taking it with nearly as much equanimity.
“Does not!” he glowered.
“Does too!” she glowered back. As soon as it became apparent that the Lincoln-Douglas debates were about to break out in the middle of Route 67, Charleen reached into Noah’s backpack for the pocket Webster’s (her Auntie Mame present to him on his tenth birthday) and made him look up “promotes” and “alcoholism.”
“Go ahead,” she ordered, crossing her arms the way grown-ups always do when they know they’ve already won. Guessing he was trapped but convinced he could find a way out anyway, Noah flipped through the onionskin pages slowly.
“A-L-C-H—,” he mumbled, stalling for time.
“A-L-C-O and you know it,” she cut in sharply. Noah grimaced. Caught in the act. When he found what he was looking for, there was a long silence as his forehead got all crinkly under the brunet bangs. Finally he closed the book and handed it back to Charleen.
“Definitely uncool,” he decided.
So for the next twelve miles, we all sang “100 Bottles of Sprite on the Wall.”
Questions You’ve Always Wanted Answers To
Another Noah concoction. According to the junior Kessler rule book, “You pick a thing that even scientists can’t figure out and then you ask the person on your clockwise. But nothing that has formulas in it.”
Charleen to Clayton: Since there’s no air on the moon, would bubblewrap still pop there? Answer: Yeah, but you’d have to catch it first. Don’t forget the gravity thing.
Clayton to Craig: If a brontosaurus couldn’t run, how did it protect itself against a T. rex? Answer: With its tail. Sort of like a prehistoric inside-the-park homer.
Craig to Noah: When the Wicked Witch of the West was hanging around her castle in the middle of the night without anybody to scare, how did she spend her time? Answer: She wore a black nightgown and she ate bowls of Cap’n Crunch, but without milk so her mouth wouldn’t melt.
Noah to Charleen: Do wet dreams hurt? Answer: That’s none of my business. Pick another question.
Noah to Charleen (Take Two): Are you going to kiss my dad? Answer: Wet dreams don’t hurt. So I’m told.
Geography
Noah already had dibs on Xenia, Ohio, and Xanithi, Greece, and Xigaze, China—so this one never lasted very long.
Chip’s Challenge
This is where Noah usually turned on my laptop and competed with Charleen for Monopoly money. (He still wouldn’t tell her the secret to level 105, even when she offered to buy him off with a Dairy Queen. “The taste of defeat is bitter, isn’t it?” he smirked, quoting Lex Luthor. “Oh, knock it off,” snapped Charleen.) But the often combustible contest at least permitted the adults in the front seat to take a breather.
“Mamas and the Papas okay with you?” asked Clayton absently, turning up the volume on WCKM. I nodded. It was just as well that he was still thinking about threepenny nails, because I had a few issues of my own to deal with. So we held hands and chased down our separate thoughts while Cass Elliott sang “Dream a Little Dream of Me” all the way up the Mohawk River.
Nobody listens to his heart the way Travis does. Which means only one thing: if he’s got my address, he’s on his way. He wouldn’t call first in a million years. That’s not his style. It’d spoil the whole odyssey.
I wonder if he still has the three laughs. I wonder if the same places on his body stayed ticklish. I wonder if he remembers everything I remember.
This is crazy. I have a lover who can read me like a blueprint. We’ve shared the best and worst parts of our lives with each other. Besides, I’m going to be in enough hot water with him when he finds out I may be running for office. Which I’m probably not, but it’s still out there anyway.
Travis, I could never stop loving you. Please stay away.
Utica’s first baseman was waiting for us on the porch, but the hugs had to be quiet ones because Noah was already sound asleep. So Jody and his biceps reached into the backseat and gently lifted his son out of Charleen’s arms.
“Hey,” he whispered, almost shyly.
“Hi,” she whispered in return. Instinctively, their fingers brushed and her eyes met his—but for once they stayed that way. (Given what she’d paid for the dres
s, it wasn’t courage as much as economic necessity.) Neither of them seemed to be in much of a hurry to break the mood, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear they were falling in love.
There was a song about that once.
The Ballgame
featuring Jody
Saturday. Mustard-and-relish time. And this was the place for it.
Schulyer Park sits on the banks of the Mohawk River underneath a sky that couldn’t possibly be any bluer unless it were hanging over Wrigley Field. Built eight months before Pearl Harbor, it seats only five thousand people—a study in intimacy that allows the fan an up-close opportunity to examine the sweat, the grit, and the players’ asses.
“Give me the goddamned binoculars,” I snapped at Charleen, yanking them back and nearly strangling her in the process. “You’ve had them long enough.” There was a brief but savage tug-of-war before she relented.
“Why is it that you get them for three minutes and I’m barely permitted a fleeting instant?” she demanded, searching her neck for rope burns.
“Because I’m a boy and you’re not,” I taunted. “Learn to live with it.” To my left, Noah leaned in to us from a comfortable perch on Clayton’s lap and gave us one last chance to behave ourselves.