. . . And His Lovely Wife (20 page)

“Well,” I said, trying to smile. “I'm a middle-aged woman in the middle of a statewide campaign. This might be as good as it gets.”

“Just because you're middle-aged doesn't mean you have to look like it,” the owner said, frowning.

“Right.”

Thirty minutes later, I was newly painted and had even managed to fluff my flattened hair with the handy-dandy set of travel hot rollers I was now hauling everywhere I went. A year ago I hadn't even known they made travel hot rollers, and now I not only owned my own set but had a variety of outlet adapters to go with them in case I decided to flee the country. Only now does it strike me as odd that I rolled my hair in the downstairs bathroom of a woman I'd met only five minutes earlier and then thought nothing of parading around with them on my head for a whole ten minutes before the shoot. Give me fuzzy slippers, butterfly hairpins, and a can of Aqua Net and I would have been my mother in 1962.

Larke could not have been more gracious. Not one of us wanted to do this, but we wanted Mike DeWine to win even less. This was about family, and our version of it, which happened to reflect millions of families in America.

The ad struck a delicate balance between Larke's need for dignity and our need to refute any ugly attack based on a twenty-year-old divorce. It also had to meet our need to do all of this in thirty seconds.

Scene One: The ad began with a shot of Larke and Elizabeth sitting on the front porch steps. Elizabeth talked about how she loved her dad but hated politics sometimes. Then Larke said divorce was difficult and theirs was no different, but that Mike DeWine's attack on their family was just wrong.

Scene Two: The screen switched to a shot of all five of us, with Caitlin and me seated on a picnic table, and Larke, Elizabeth, and Emily on the bench in front of us. I identified myself as Sherrod's wife, Connie—no last name—and said our family was united in condemning Mike DeWine's attack ad. Emily and Caitlin just had to look familial and outraged.

Originally I was supposed to end by saying, “In fact, this ad says more about Mike DeWine than it does Sherrod Brown,” but Larke felt strongly that she should have the walk-off. It felt odd having my husband's ex-wife defend him in an ad that would run in every television market in Ohio, but then again, this whole venture was hardly a page from
The Waltons,
so what was one more moment of discomfort?

Scene Three: Sherrod, noticeably absent from the filming, appeared on the screen, courtesy of a previously recorded assurance that he approved this message.

One question gnawed at us long after the trying shoot was over: Would we have to run this ad?

We wouldn't know the answer until the weekend before the election.

eighteen

Deck 'im

A
WEEK AFTER
S
HERROD'S SURGERY, ON
S
EPTEMBER 7, HIS OLDEST
friend, John Kleshinski, called my cell phone from his home in Boston.

Immediately, I knew something was up. John was a sweet and gentle man who told Sherrod to marry me right after he met me, but I was just a happy sidekick on the John and Sherrod show. John had regularly sent me encouraging e-mails during the campaign, and had carved out a special place in my heart in recent times after my son was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes at age thirty. John had been diabetic since age thirteen, and no one stepped up faster to help Andy than John. I didn't know until much later just how much John had helped Andy, and by then it was too late to thank him.

Sherrod and John were Mansfield born and bred, although John always joked that he was just a poor Catholic boy from a large herd on the other side of the tracks, while Sherrod was a pampered doctor's kid. A year older than Sherrod, John didn't really get to know him until Sherrod was running for reelection as a state representative at the ripe old age of twenty-three. John made his wealth in pharmaceuticals, retired in his forties, and was now a philanthropist—Sherrod called him “a warrior for social justice”—who was especially drawn to charities for children. He loved to say that he donated to Sherrod's first fundraiser—a three-dollar pretzel-and-beer bash at the local UAW hall—and had supported him ever since. The two shared a love for Cleveland Indians baseball and politics. “In that order,” John often said.

John was the most generous man, both spiritually and materially, that Sherrod and I knew, and he also insisted on joy. I swear they were twenty years younger whenever they were together. The only thing missing was the bathroom jokes.

This time, though, John was all business.

“Hey, you know how I don't like to butt in on all this campaign stuff,” John said.

“What is it, John?”

“You guys have enough unsolicited advice coming your way every day.”

“John?”

“Okay, listen, I saw Sherrod last night in Washington. We had dinner. You knew that, right?”

“Yeah, he loved seeing you.” And he did, too. John was always such a touchstone for Sherrod.

“Well, I'm concerned.”

Immediately, I was, too.

“What is it?

“He is absolutely exhausted, Connie. I've never seen him like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember how you and I talked months ago? About how the only way Sherrod could lose was if he made a mistake?”

I remembered that conversation well. “We said a tired candidate is a candidate who makes mistakes.”

“Right. Well, he's looking that tired. He was forgetting what he was talking about in the middle of a sentence. He kept yawning and his eyes were really red, and he was irritable. Sherrod is almost never grumpy, at least not with me. You've got to intervene, Connie. You've got to get more involved in his schedule.”

That was all I needed to hear. Almost anyone else, and I would have questioned his judgment. John, though, knew Sherrod nearly as well as I did, and he would know if Sherrod was off his game.

I thanked John for weighing in, and immediately called our scheduler, Shana Johnson. We went over Sherrod's schedule, day by day, event by event, and started shaving. We decided what he absolutely had to do, what we could let go, and when he could squeeze in a nap.

Then I called John Ryan, and his response convinced me yet again that one of the smartest things we ever did in the campaign was to beg John to become campaign manager. He, too, knew how rare it was for John Kleshinski to offer advice.

“This has to change,” he said. “And it has to change right now. I promise, Connie. We'll make sure Sherrod gets some rest.”

Sherrod was scheduled to fly home from Washington that evening, and I knew he was supposed to land around eleven. I always waited up for him, and we had a ritual that never changed no matter what time of day he flew: As soon as he landed, he either called or e-mailed on his BlackBerry to let me know he was safely on the ground. The campaign may have made me a more regular flier, but I still knew most crashes came during liftoff or landing, and some habits were mighty hard to break.

Right around 11
P.M.,
my phone rang once—then stopped.

I recognized the number as one belonging to the campaign, but had no idea whose phone it was, so I dialed the number.

No answer.

Tried again. No answer.

Tried again. The call immediately kicked into an automatic voice mail recording on the second ring.

Ah, the overactive mind of a tired writer.

I imagined the plane going down, and Sherrod, his nose facing the ground, calling one last time as the plane roared toward the asphalt.

Then I imagined him frantically dialing as he tumbled down a dark, bottomless ravine in the campaign car.

“What if his last call was to me!” I cried out to Gracie as I pulled my bathrobe tight around me and kept dialing, dialing, dialing.

No answer.

No answer.

No answer.

Finally, at 11:20, it occurred to me to call Zach West, who was supposed to be driving Sherrod from the airport.

Zach answered on the first ring.

“We're ten minutes away,” he said.

I could hear Sherrod's raspy voice in the background.

“It's almost eleven-thirty at night,” I said. “Who is he talking to?”

“He's fundraising.”

“What?”

“He's making a fundraising call.”

“At eleven-thirty at
night
?”

“Yeah,” Zach said. “He's calling the West Coast.”

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath.

Only sixty-one days, and counting.

         

A
FEW DAYS LATER, MY FRIEND
F
LEKA
A
NDERSON REMINDED ME
why we must always keep old friends close, no matter how far away they live.

Fleka is a no-nonsense executive recruiter who has been my friend for more than twenty years. When she first met me, she nicknamed me “Miss Love the World” because, being the introvert that she is, she found my friendliness just this side of mind-numbing. Over time, though, she got used to me, and she is the only friend I've had who would sit on my front porch with me and share a bottle of champagne and a box of Bugles. That kind of friend, you keep.

Besides, we had working-class roots in common. Her father, who died when she was seventeen, was a coal miner, a union organizer, and a steelworker before he met Fleka's mother and bought a bar in Niles, Ohio. Her mother tended bar at his side throughout Fleka's childhood.

Fleka moved to Florida a few years ago, where she is raising five-year-old Sydney, who gives me a reason to buy fairy princess dresses, cartoon underwear, and books starring strong little girls. Her grateful mother regularly sent me funny e-mails to lighten the load during the campaign—and to check up on me.

Many times, she forwarded the latest scare letter from the National Republican Senatorial Committee warning about all the disasters that would plague our country within days of the election of Sherrod and his fellow Democratic candidates. A horrified Fleka ended up on the NRSC's e-mail list after she launched a spirited defense of Sherrod on their blog.

This particular Fleka e-mail, though, titled “I am about to have a crisis,” was intended to make me get a grip on the whole “lovely wife” thing. Her adoring Swedish father named her Fleka because it means “girl” in Swedish. Fleka has always claimed that this name was a source of constant misery because of one particular horse. Hence the following e-mail:

Con,

I realize that you are having a very hectic life now, things are getting rough, you have a lot on your mind. I know you have camera guys stalking you for pictures to get you at unflattering moments, people going through your garbage. Hell, you have the Republican party saying negative things nationally about your husband and your life. I get it. I admit, it is rough, but do you realize what is about to happen to ME on Friday????????

Yes, my good, solid, always-been-there-for-me friend, Hollywood, with its ever unconscionable acts, has decided to release the film version of “My Friend Flicka,” simply titled “Flicka.” To hell with your problems. Do you know what I am about to endure???? The book was bad enough, but it was old, Con, old. It was but a distant, foggy memory to most people. This stupid movie puts it all front and center, and they're back—all those clever people who say “Hey, did you ever realize your name sounds a lot like that horse in the movie?”

You may be “the lovely wife,” but at least no one will associate you with a horse. Stop and think about that for a moment. A HORSE!!!!!!

Well, having gotten all of that off my chest, I will go to bed and pray that the movie bombs and no one sees it. As always, you are in my thoughts. My offer still stands to come up if you need me. Hey, that may be a good idea. It will take your mind off the stress of the campaign as you hold me back from punching someone for making the horse reference when you introduce me. Imagine the Republican trackers getting a snapshot of that one….

Love you,
Flek

As I said, some friends you gotta keep.

         

B
Y MID-
S
EPTEMBER, EVERYONE BUT ME AGREED THAT
S
HERROD
needed another haircut. The idea was to do it now so that he wouldn't look newly shorn for his debate on
Meet the Press
the following week. Instead of the House barber—I still hadn't forgiven him for the shearing he gave Sherrod in July—our scheduler, Shana, scoured the city for a barber who would (a) take Sherrod on short notice and (b) promise to give him a camera-ready haircut. We ended up at Goodfellas, a shop just south of Cleveland run by Ray Calabrese.

Ray took one look at Sherrod's short, stubby sideburns and shook his head. “This is like the Nazi look. It's not popular anymore.”

Sherrod's eyes shot open.

“The what?”

“The Nazi look. Your sideburns are too short.”

“Could you fill them in with Magic Marker?”

Ray grinned. “Nice try. So, how'd you do this to yourself?”

“In the shower.”

“You shave without looking?”

“I've had this face for a long time,” Sherrod said.

“Yeah, but why act blind if you aren't blind?” Ray said. “You can get a special kind of mirror for the shower that doesn't steam up.”

“I need to
see
this face?”

“Hey, who you talking to here? I'm no Brad Pitt. I've got my own problems.”

Snip, snip.

“What's the deal with
Meet the Press
? Is it just you?”

“No,” Sherrod said, starting to shake his head. Ray grabbed his face with both hands.

“Steady. So, it's you and who else?”

“Mike DeWine.”

“Again. Here we go.”

“Yeah. Well, it's a debate.”

“Okay. Well, you're going to look great.”

He pulled off the gown with a snap and whirled Sherrod around toward the mirror.

Both sideburns were the same length, a first since I'd known him, and he had at least a hint of curl around his temples.

“I have a good feeling about this haircut,” I said.

Sherrod rolled his eyes. “You're a sucker for the curls, baby. Thanks, Ray.”

Ray smiled and waved. “You bet. Remember, leave the sideburns alone.”

It was a moment's levity in an otherwise heavy weekend. The next day, we traveled to Appalachia again, where we met in a storefront in Jackson with locked-out factory workers who'd been waiting for a new contract for several months. As the rain pounded the town's crowded Apple Festival, one worker told Sherrod how he was supposed to be taking medication for high blood pressure but couldn't afford it, so he prayed a lot. Another worker said his doctor told him he needed heart bypass surgery, but he had no health insurance.

“I take aspirin every day,” he said. “I'm just hoping that'll do it until we go back to work.”

Sherrod scribbled notes as one of the organizers laid out their predicament.

“They can't get hired elsewhere because those employers say they know they'll leave if and when the strike ends.”

Sherrod looked up and asked the men, “Is that true?”

To a person, they nodded their heads.

“Can't be dishonest about that,” one of them said. “The old job pays more.”

“Our people just never realized this could happen,” the organizer said. “This guy sitting next to me? He's a diehard Republican, and I can tell you right now he's not voting Republican. He told me, ‘Things have got to change.'”

The man next to him nodded. “That's what I told him. Meant it, too.”

Sherrod took down several names and promised to have one of his government staff call them about applying for Medicaid. On our way out of town, we stopped at a church booth and bought two orders of chicken and noodles and then stood under an awning to scoop up the hot broth.

“Look at what's happened to these people,” Sherrod said softly, returning the smiles of townspeople as they made their way from booth to booth in the rain. “How do we fix all this?”

As we talked, I couldn't help but notice how so many more people recognized Sherrod now. The ads were working. As much as I wanted to believe that Sherrod's hard work alone—all the news conferences and media interviews, the speeches and roundtables—could get him elected, I knew better. His chances of winning were directly related to how much money he could raise for television advertising. All the rest of his efforts shaved fractions off DeWine's poll numbers, but it was the power of his message—and his photogenic image—telegraphed every day on TV screens that was swaying the voters.