Sons of Fortune

“If either of us gets a clear lead by midnight, the other will call and concede?”

“Suits me,” said Fletcher, “I think you know my home number.”

“I’ll be waiting for your call, Senator,” said Nat.

The two candidates shook hands on the concourse outside the airport, and their motorcades whisked off in different directions.

A designated team of state troopers followed both candidates home. Their orders were clear. If your man wins, you are protecting the new governor. If he loses, you take the weekend off.

Neither team took the weekend off.

53

Nat switched on the radio the moment he got into the car. The early exit polls were making it clear that Bill Clinton would be taking up residence in the White House next January, and that President Bush would probably have to concede before midnight. A lifetime of public service, a year of campaigning, a day of voting, and your political career becomes a footnote in history. “That’s democracy for you,” President Bush was later heard to remark ruefully.

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 SUVs 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, crème brûlée.”

“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 hyperboles. 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.”