Chapter 3
Overnight the mood changed: there was no time left to brood or even think very much. Two months stretched between election and the convening of Congress on January 4. It seemed they vanished in a day.
For one precious week he took Linda and the kids and escaped to the fabulous home of an old friend, Frank Brandstetter, high above “Las Brisas” in Acapulco. There, surrounded by Brandie’s generous hospitality and the attentions of his devoted staff, they lolled in the sun, did a little shopping, ate their meals in an airy gazebo on the lawn overlooking the entire sweep of the spectacular harbor; dreamed a bit, planned a bit, mostly just loafed. Their thoughtful host left them alone except when they sought his company at mealtimes, or for an occasional game of backgammon at the marble tables set along the edge of the enormous pool. They all turned brown, relaxed, unwound. Only Mark’s parents and Jim Elrod knew where they were; for seven precious days the world did not get at them. On the eighth day they returned to Palo Alto and were swamped immediately in the great rush of preparation.
His first act next morning was to submit his resignation from the university. It was accepted at what turned into a public ceremony. The head of the department notified the Stanford Daily and the wire services; reporters and photographers descended upon the office, word quickly spread across campus. The dean, no slouch when it came to the uses of publicity, asked him to delay handing over his letter until the media had assembled. When all was ready he received it with a few ringing phrases he had obviously been polishing:
“… express Stanford’s pride in the sudden, sensational and well-deserved rise of one of her dearest sons … must pay tribute to his dedication to the university, to his students, to the cause of education itself … this great new calling worthy of his splendid talents … wondrous new opportunity to serve on national, nay, world stage … we are confident that … we know that … we all will watch with pride as he … honor … integrity … decency … Go, with Stanford’s blessings!” Great applause and shouts from the hundreds of students who by now had gathered in the Quad. Again, “The Ax” and the Stanford Hymn. Again, clouded eyes and a real emotional wrench as he left the institution in which he had invested twelve of the happiest—in all probability the happiest—years of his life.
The days passed, then, in a blur of activity: congratulatory letters, telephone calls, telegrams, which he, Linda, Johnny McVickers and a corps of student volunteers did their best to answer; brief but well-publicized appearances up and down the state “to thank those who so generously and wonderfully gave me their support in this campaign”—an idea suggested by Senator Elrod, who had used it with great effect after his own much larger victories in North Carolina; return appearances on Today, Good Morning, America, A.M. America Sixty Minutes, Firing Line, the lot; interviews with the New York Times, the Washington Post, the wire services, most of the major dailies and magazines. In December Time gave him a cover story, just two weeks before the President-elect appeared in the same space as Man of the Year. The juxtaposition was too close for Mark’s comfort, but he and the President exchanged hearty phone calls on both occasions, and what he was now beginning to regard as their truce was maintained unbroken in the public eye, though he felt with renewed uneasiness that it was being stretched to its limits by all the adulatory publicity heaped upon himself.
Through all of this, he and Linda tried, with considerable success, to keep their heads. “Don’t forget you’re not Young Mark Coffin,” she would murmur wryly on some pompous occasion—“You’re Humble, Homespun, Modest Young Mark Coffin.” “I’m doing my damnedest,” he would whisper back, “arrogant and difficult bastard though you know me to be.” A secret amusement, a secret serenity—a secret singing—linked them together, both publicly and in private. It was his hour and Linda’s, and it was obvious to a public that had decided to forget the closeness of the election and take them unanimously to its heart, that they were riding high and loving every hectic minute of it.
During these weeks he received calls from a surprising variety of people in Washington. The first and probably the most important was Arthur Hampton of Nebraska, Majority Leader of the Senate, who called the day after his resignation from Stanford: a friendly call, interested, sympathetic, welcoming; not a trace of the political pressure, the gentle but unmistakable warnings that he was expected to get in line, which Mark had anticipated. Equally friendly, equally welcoming, equally noncommittal, was Herbert Esplin of Ohio, the Senate Minority Leader. Both told him to call them by their nicknames, and after a few seconds of hesitant formality he found it easy to do so. Both told him they expected great things from “the Senate baby”—“God, don’t you hate that phrase?” Herb Esplin asked, sarcastically mimicking the media’s use of it—and both promised all possible aid in helping him achieve “whatever it is you want to do here.” This was the only point at which either gave any indication that he would like to know, and Mark parried them both with a laugh and an amiable “I’m really not sure what I want to do yet. I’ll drop in when I get there and maybe you can tell me.” Both chuckled at his reply and gave almost identical responses. “I expect you’ll manage all right, whatever it is,” Art Hampton said. “I have an idea you’ll get wherever you want to go,” Herb Esplin said.
I’m glad you’re so confident, he thought as he hung up; but his own confidence was now building rapidly as a rising euphoria rushed him toward the day of his departure for Washington.
Another senatorial call came, this from a man who had scrupulously stayed out of the campaign and was now obviously trying to clamber aboard the bandwagon and make up for lost time: James Monroe Madison, senior United States Senator from California—with whom, Mark knew, he was now saddled for at least the four remaining years of Jim Madison’s present term. He had never thought much of Jim Madison, and he didn’t think much now, though he was scrupulously cordial and polite. He motioned Linda to pick up the extension, and they exchanged amused glances as Senator Madison fell all over himself expressing his pleasure and gratitude at Mark’s victory. He, too, offered all possible help and assistance “as we work together for our great state,” and Mark accepted it with a grave tone and a wink at Linda, in the spirit in which it was offered. “That will be interesting,” he remarked when he hung up. “Very,” Linda replied.
Another who called, almost immediately, surprising Mark with the warmth of his greeting, was Chauncey Baron of New York, the former Secretary of State who well-founded rumor indicated would be reappointed to that office by the incoming President. Secretary Baron also was most cordial—almost effusive, in fact, which hardly suited his rather icy public reputation. Mark was not ready to agree with Linda’s quick question afterward—“What do you suppose he wants?”—but he had to admit he was a little puzzled by the call. More charitably after a moment Linda said: “I’ll bet he expects you to be on the Foreign Relations Committee and is just building his bridges early.”
“As a freshman, I don’t have the slightest hope of being on that committee, as you very well know,” Mark said.
“Don’t give up the idea without a fight.”
“I haven’t even got the idea.”
“Like fun,” she said with a smile he had to respond to. “Everybody wants to be on Foreign Relations.”
“I’m not going to even think about it. I’ll be happier.”
“Ha!”she said; and considered her hunch justified when, within a day, he also heard, out of the blue, from the British and French ambassadors in Washington.
Bright and cheery a few days later came another call. A surprisingly youthful feminine voice cried happily,
“Senator Mark Coffin! Am I really speaking to our most brilliant and surprising and amazing young politician in the whole big United States?”
“Yes, you are,” he said, amused. “Who might this be?”
“Well, sir, this is Lyddie Bates. If you don’t know who I am, just put your lovely young wife on the phone and she’ll give me clearance.”
“I know who Lyddie Bates is,” he said, still amused. “I’ll get Linda on the other extension.”
“Well, children,” she said when they were both listening, “I want you to come to a party for the President-elect the night of January fifth, the day after the Senate convenes. Can you come? You and Rick Duclos will be the only new senators there and there will be lots of important people for you to meet.”
“Well—” Mark began hesitantly, but Linda cut him off.
“We’ll be there, Lyddie. It will be absolutely delightful.”
“Good!” she cried. “See you then, darlings. Black tie, of course!”
“Linda,” he said a moment later, “are you really sure we want to get caught up in the social whirl quite that fast?”
“I’ve known Lyddie since I was ten,” she said, “and she knows everybody who is anybody. It’s imperative for us to be there if you want to get into the inner circle.”
“Do I want to be in the inner circle?” he asked moodily. “Do I really want to lose my independence that fast?”
“It’s the only way to get things done,” she said crisply. “Lyddie’s offering you an entree that no amount of money could buy and I think she’s an extraordinarily generous old dear to do it. I wouldn’t think of not accepting.”
“I’m glad you wouldn’t,” he said, more dryly than he intended. “I’m glad somebody in this family knows how to operate in Washington.”
“Well,” she said, flushing a little, “I do. I’m sorry if you think I’m pushy, Mark, but that’s the way the game’s played in Washington, and I intend for you to play it.”
“I intend for me to play it, too,” he said, softening his tone and taking her hand, “but I want to try to keep a few of my own rules intact while I’m doing it.”
“I know,” she said contritely, coming into his arms. “I shouldn’t be so anxious, I guess. You know what you’re doing. But it is so important to get off on the right foot.”
“I’m doing fine so far,” he said. “Don’t worry.” He cupped her chin in his hand and gave her the direct look of their most candid moments. “How are we going to play the game? What is Washington going to do to us? Do you ever think about that?”
“I think about it a lot,” she said, her tone for a moment more worried than he knew she wanted to show.
“The big bad temptations of the big bad capital.”
“They’re there,” she admitted. “I’m worried about them, for us and for the kids. But we’re mature people and we’ll just have to face them. All that matters is for you to do the things you can do.”
“That doesn’t matter more to me than my wife and my home,” he said flatly.
“Remember that,” she said, not quite as lightly as he knew she intended, “and everything will work out just fine.”
“It will,” he said soberly. “I give you my word on that. I’ve never done anything yet to hurt you or the kids, and I’m not going to now.”
“Remember that,” she said again, still not quite as lightly as she wished, “when you’re in Washington, D.C.”
“I will always remember that,” he said again, as soberly as before. But the kiss with which they sealed it was just a little more desperate on her part than he would have liked for his own peace of mind, which as of then was quite honestly innocent of anything but the most absolute devotion to God, home, the flag and motherhood.
That, however, was the only moment in the rush of days when anything at all interrupted the steadily rising tide of their confidence and happiness together; and when the governor called, as he did frequently—“Just to be sure I don’t forget he has his brand on me,” Mark said—“he thinks”—they were able to report cheerfully that all was going very well, that they were happy as clams and looking forward to doing “the great job you and the state expect of us,” as Mark put it, giving it the priority he knew would please the governor. The governor did sound pleased and Mark was confident he would have his full support, and that they would agree on virtually everything when he took his seat in the Senate.
The days rushed on, narrowed down, suddenly spun out. Christmas and New Year’s passed in a haze of farewell parties, appearances, interviews, good wishes. On January 2 they left San Francisco International Airport for Washington, D.C, seen off by a crowd of several hundred students, campaign workers, well-wishers, the media. His parents and the children preceded them into the plane; he and Linda turned at the top of the stairs for one last wave to the jubilant crowd jamming the waiting-room windows. A Chronicle photographer caught them with a zoom lens: handsome, happy, confident, excited, glowing. Ahead lay a marvelous journey to a marvelous culmination.
Mark’s doubts were swept away in the euphoria of actually being on his way.
Washington had never seemed so exciting and enchanted. Washington would be all the things they had ever dreamed.
Never had they been so sure.
***