Other
pollsters across the country were suggesting that not only the White House, but
both the Senate and Congress would be controlled by the Democrats.
CBS’S
anchor man, Dan Rather, was reporting a close result in several seats. “In Connecticut,
for example, the gubernatorial race is too close to call, and the exit polls
are unable to predict the outcome. But for now it’s over to our correspondent
in Little Rock, who is outside Governor Clinton’s home.”
Nat
flicked off the radio as the little motorcade of three SUV’S came to a halt
outside his home. He was greeted by two television cameras, a radio reporter
and a couple of journalists-how different from Arkansas, where over a hundred
television cameras and countless radio and newspaper journalists waited for the
first words of the president-elect. Tom was standing by the front door.
“Don’t
tell me,” said Nat as he walked past the press and into the house. “It’s too
close to call. So when can we hope to hear a result involving some real voters?”
“We’re
expecting the first indicators to come through within the hour,” said Tom, “and
if it’s Bristol, they usually vote Democrat.”
“Yes,
but by how much?” asked Nat as they headed toward the kitchen, to find Su Ling
glued to the television, a burning smell coming from the stove.
Fletcher
stood in front of the television, watching Clinton as he waved to the crowds
from the balcony of his home in Arkansas.
At
the same time he tried to listen to a briefing from Jimmy. When he’d first met
the Arkansas governor at the Democratic convention in New York City, Fletcher
hadn’t given him a prayer. To think that only last year, following America’s
victory in the Gulf War, Bush had enjoyed the highest opinion poll ratings in
history.
“Clinton
may be declared the winner,” said Fletcher, “but Bush sure as hell lost it.” He
stared at Bill and Hillary hugging each other, as their bemused twelve-year-old
daughter stood by their side. He thought about Lucy and her recent abortion,
realizing it would have been front-page news if he had been running for
president. He wondered how Chelsea would cope with that sort of pressure.
Lucy
came dashing into the room. “Mom and I have prepared all your favorite dishes,
as it will be nothing but public functions for the next four years.”
He
smiled at her youthful exuberance.
“Corn on the cob,
spaghetti
bolognese
, and if you’ve won before
midnight,
creme
brulee
.”
“But
not all together,” begged Fletcher, and, turning to Jimmy, who had rarely been
off the phone since the moment he’d entered the house, he asked, “When are you
expecting the first result in?”
“Any
minute now,” Jimmy replied.
“Bristol
prides itself on always announcing first, and we have to capture that by three
to four percent if we hope to win overall.”
“And below three percent?”
“We’re
in trouble,” Jimmy replied.
Nat
checked his watch. It was just after nine in Hartford, but the image on the
screen showed voters still going to the polls in California.
breaking
NEWS was plastered across the screen. NBC was the first to declare that Clinton
would be the new president of the United States. George Bush was already being
labeled by the networks with the cruel epitaph “one-termer.”
The
phones rang constantly in the background, as Tom tried to field all the calls.
If he thought Nat ought to speak to the caller personally, the phone was passed
across to him, if not, he heard Tom repeating, “He’s tied up at the moment, but
thank you for calling,
I’ll
pass your message on.”
“I
hope there’s a TV wherever I’m “tied up,”
“ said
Nat,
“otherwise I’ll never know whether to accept or concede,” he added as he tried
valiantly to cut into a burned steak.
“At
last a real piece of news,” said Tom, “but I can’t work out who it helps,
because the turnout in Connecticut was fifty-one percent, a couple of points
above the national average.” Nat nodded, turning his attention back to the
screen. The words “too close to call” were still being relayed from every
corner of the state.
When
Nat heard the name Bristol, he pushed aside his steak. “And now we go over to
our eyewitness correspondent for the latest update,” said the news anchor.
“Dan,
we’re expecting a result here at any moment, and it should be the first real
sign of just how close this gubernatorial race really is. If the Democrats win
by... hold on, the result is coming over on my earpiece.
the
Democrats have taken Bristol.” Lucy leaped out of her chair, but Fletcher
didn’t move as he waited for the details to be flashed across the bottom of the
screen.
“Fletcher
Davenport 8,604 votes, Nat Cartwright 8
,379
,” said the
reporter.
“Three percent.
Who’s
due up next?”
“Probably
Waterbury,” said Tom, “where we should do well because...”
“And
Waterbury has gone to the Republicans, by just over five thousand votes,
putting Nat Cartwright into the lead.”
Both
candidates spent the rest of the evening leaping up, sitting down and then
leaping back up again as the lead changed hands sixteen times during the next
two hours, by which time even the commentators had run out of
hyperbole’s
. But somewhere in between the results flooding
in, the local anchor man found time to announce that President Bush had phoned
Governor Clinton in Arkansas to concede. He had offered his congratulations and
best wishes to the president-elect. Does this herald a new Kennedy era? The
politicos were asking.” But now back to the race for governor of Connecticut,
and here’s one for the statistics buffs, the position at the moment is that the
Democrats lead the Republicans by 1,170,141 to 1,168,872, an overall lead for
Senator Davenport of 1,269.
As
that is less than one percent, an automatic recount would have to take place.
And if that isn’t enough,” continued the commentator, “we face an added
complication because the district of Madison maintains its age-old tradition of
not counting its votes until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Paul
Holbourn
, the mayor of Madison, was next up on the
screen. The septuagenarian politician invited everyone to visit this
picturesque seaside town, which would decide who would be the next governor of
the state.
“How
do you read it?” asked Nat, as Tom continued to enter numbers into his
calculator.
“Fletcher
leads at the moment by 1,269 and at the last
election,
the Republicans took Madison by 1,312.”
“Then
we must be favorites?” ventured Nat.
“I
wish it was that easy,” said Tom, “because there’s a further complication we
have to consider.”
“And
what’s that?”
“The
present governor of the state was born and raised in Madison, so there could be
a considerable personal vote somewhere in there.”
“I
should have gone to Madison one more time,” said Nat.
“You
visited the place twice, which was once more than Fletcher managed.”
“I
ought to call him,” said Nat, “and make it clear that I’m not conceding.”
Tom
nodded his agreement as Nat walked over to the phone. He didn’t have to look up
the senator’s private number because he had dialed it every evening during the
trial.
“Hi,”
said a voice, “this is the governor’s residence.”
“Not
yet it isn’t,” said Nat firmly.
“Hello,
Mr. Cartwright,” said Lucy, “were you hoping to speak to the governor?”
“No,
I wanted to speak to your father.”
“Why,
are you conceding?”
“No,
I’ll leave him to do that in person tomorrow, when, if you behave yourself,
I’ll be offering you a job.”
Fletcher
grabbed the telephone, “I’m sorry about that, Nat,” he said, “I presume you’re
calling to say all bets are off until tomorrow when we meet at high noon?”
“Yes,
and now you mention it, I’m planning to play Gary Cooper,” said Nat.
“Then
I’ll see you on Main Street, sheriff.”
“Just
be thankful it’s not Ralph Elliot you’re up against.”
“Why?”
asked Fletcher.
“Because right now he would be in Madison filling up
ballot boxes with extra votes.”
“It
wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Fletcher.
“Why
not?” asked Nat.
“Because if Elliot had been my opponent, I would
have already won by a landslide.”
I
t took Nat
about an hour to drive to Madison, and when he reached the outskirts of the
town, he could have been forgiven for thinking the little borough had been
chosen as the venue for the seventh game in the World Series.
The
highway was filled with cars festooned with emblems of red, white and blue,
with donkeys and elephants staring blankly out of numerous back windows. When
he took the turnoff for Madison, population 12,372, half the vehicles left the
highway like steel filings drawn toward a magnet.
“If
you take away those who are too young to vote, I presume the turnout should be
around five thousand,” said Nat.
“Not
necessarily. I suspect it will prove to be a little higher than that,” Tom
replied.
“Don’t
forget Madison is where retired people come to visit their parents, so you
won’t find it full of youth clubs and discos.”
“Then
that should benefit us,” said Nat.
“I’ve
given up predicting,” said Tom with a sigh.
No
signpost was needed to guide them to the town hall, as everyone seemed to be
heading in the same direction, confident that the person in front of them knew
exactly where they were going. By the time Nat’s little motorcade arrived in
the center of the
town,
they were being overtaken by
mothers pushing strollers. When they turned into Main Street, they were
continually held up by pedestrians spilling onto the road. When Nat’s car was
overtaken by a man in a wheelchair, he decided the time had come to get out and
walk. This slowed his progress down even more, because the moment he was
recognized, people rushed up to shake him by the hand, and several asked if he
would mind posing for a photograph with his wife.
“I’m
glad to see that your reelection campaign has already begun,” teased Tom.
“Let’s
get elected first,” said Nat as they reached the town hall. He climbed the
steps, continuing to shake hands with all the well-wishers as if it were the
day before the election, rather than the day after. He couldn’t help wondering
if that would change when he came back down the steps and the same people knew
the result. Tom spotted the mayor standing on the top step, looking out for
him.
“Paul
Holbourn
,” whispered Tom. “He’s served three terms
and at the age of seventy-seven has just won his fourth election unopposed.”
“Good
to see you again, Nat,” said the mayor, as if they were old friends, though in
fact they had only met on one previous occasion.
“And
it’s good to see you too, sir,” said Nat, clutching the mayor’s outstretched
hand.
“Congratulations
on your reelection
comunopposed
, I’m told.”
“Thank
you,” said the mayor. “Fletcher arrived a few minutes ago, and is waiting in my
office, so perhaps we ought to go and join him.” As they walked into the
building,
Holbourn
said, “I just wanted to spend a
few moments taking you both through the way we do things in Madison.”
“That’s
fine by me,” said Nat, knowing that it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference
if it wasn’t.
A
crowd of officials and journalists followed the little party down the corridor
to the mayor’s office, where Nat and Su Ling joined Fletcher and Annie and
around thirty other people who felt they had the right to attend the select
gathering.
“Can
I get you some coffee, Nat, before we proceed?” asked the mayor.
“No
thank you, sir,” said Nat.
“And how about your charming little wife?”
Su Ling shook her head politely, not fazed by the tactless remark of a past
generation. “Then I’ll begin,” the mayor continued, turning his attention to
the crowded assembly that had squeezed into his office.
“Ladies
and gentlemen,” he paused, “and future governor,” he tried to look at both men
at once. “The count will commence at ten o’clock this morning, as has been our
custom in Madison for over a century, and I can see no reason why this should
be delayed simply because there is a little more interest in our proceedings
than usual.” Fletcher was amused by the understatement, but wasn’t in any doubt
that the mayor intended to savor every moment of his fifteen minutes of fame.