Silent Partner: A Memoir of My Marriage (14 page)

SINCE I’D COME TO
New Jersey some thirty years earlier, I’d listened to joke after joke about New Jerseyites being “the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.” But in this not-so-brave new world that was just coming into being, the many millions of us who used our bridges and tunnels (not to mention ports, railroad lines, and airports) were now terribly vulnerable. Safety could no longer be assumed.

The hijackers who left that morning from Newark Airport were a mere four of the 31 million people who came through the airport that year. New Jersey would need a governor whose first priority would have to be to take their safety seriously. If Jim won the election and became governor of New Jersey, it would fall to him to make sure the people of the state remained safe, by the standards he set and by the competence of the people he appointed.

How unconscionable, then, that once he was elected, he would violate that public trust by appointing his lover, Golan Cipel, to a homeland security position for which he was completely unqualified.

9. ELECTION EVE

AFTER A FEW DAYS
of no campaigning, we returned to our regular schedule, or tried to. But nothing really felt regular anymore. I was in my sixth month of pregnancy by then, and I thought at least a dozen times a day about the safety of my unborn child. Up until then, I had considered myself her fortress, but after September 11 I felt no more substantial than a pup tent. I was frightened whenever I was in a tunnel or on a bridge. I tensed whenever I heard a descending plane—how could I possibly keep this child safe? She would be coming into a far more dangerous world than the one I’d grown up in, a far more dangerous world than it had been only last week.

As a candidate for governor, Jim was now acutely aware of the added responsibility he’d have for keeping the citizens safe, a view undoubtedly intensified by the fact that soon one of those citizens would be his own child.

With that newer, darker mind-set, we resumed campaigning. In addition to the fund-raising and other functions, the debate preparation continued. I had attended all the debates thus far between Schundler and Jim and thought that Jim did very well. He expressed his views clearly and with compassion, and he held his ground when threatened. The hard work was paying off. Jim had clearly come a long way.

And then it was time for our first anniversary. There was much to celebrate. Jim and I would soon become parents, and everything we had worked so hard for was on the horizon. All the signs suggested that Jim would be New Jersey’s next governor. Not only was he doing well in the polls, but many people were already calling him “Governor.” During that time my sense of Jim as a principled and compassionate human being had grown. He was still mayor of Woodbridge, and though Woodbridge had not been under siege in the same way New York City was, it too had lost some of its citizens in 9/11. As mayor, Jim had a role as leader and comforter. I admired him for that. I trusted him.

It was about a week after our anniversary that I happened to visit Drumthwacket, the governor’s mansion in Princeton. Jim and I were attending a fund-raiser for D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), a school program urging kids to resist drugs and violence. The dinner, attended by hundreds, was held outside under a huge tent on the thirteen-acre estate. Before we left, a staffer gave Jim and me a tour of the public rooms on the first floor of what would within months become our home. A firsthand look at the private residence—eighteen rooms on the second and third floors—would have to wait.

My first impression was that it was a magnificent structure. From the outside, it was beautiful—white siding, an elegant six-columned portico in the front. The dining room and the library impressed me too. But when I had the chance to look further, I was dismayed. The first floor had had some ceremonial uses during Christie Whitman’s governorship, beginning in 1993, but Whitman had never lived at Drumthwacket, and with no governor in residence all the rooms on the first floor needed attention—not only the dining room and the library but the music room, the parlor, the governor’s study, the sunroom, and all the private offstage offices and kitchen. In the public rooms, the rugs were frayed, the paint looked dingy and chipped, the window treatments were old and faded, and the furniture needed to be either replaced or reupholstered. It looked more like a down-at-the-heels museum than a mansion meant to signify New Jersey’s wealth and prominence. As for the private residence on the upper floors, God only knew what condition that might be in.

During our visit, the staffer gave us a brief history of the house and told us that there was an organization—the Drumthwacket Foundation—charged with its maintenance. Before this day, I had not given any thought to living there. Unlike many other New Jerseyans, however, I had actually heard of Drumthwacket. During Christie Whitman’s first term as governor—long before I knew Jim—I’d received a solicitation for a donation to the newly formed foundation. I made a twenty-five-dollar donation, simply because of my interest in politics, never imagining I would even visit, let alone live there. (Had I known that it would one day be my home, I might have been more generous!) If this were to be our residence and if I were to have any say in its upkeep or maintenance, I knew I would have to make many changes.

“So what did you think of the place?” Jim asked as we drove off.

“Well,” I said, “it’s an imposing structure, but the inside needs some sprucing up.”

“Well, it sure beats 323,” the address of our town-house complex on Gill Lane where Jim had lived for many years. “Here we certainly won’t hear the neighbors.”

I laughed. “And they won’t be able to look in the windows the way they do now.”

“Can’t you just see our little munchkin running around here?”

“Yes.” I smiled. I could.

JIM’S FINAL DEBATE WITH
Bret Schundler, which would be telecast live, was scheduled for Sunday, October 28, at the NBC Studios at Rockefeller Center, with Gabe Pressman moderating. Jim and I drove in together—taking time out to pull over to the side of the road, thanks to my daily siege of morning sickness. Then Jim, Schundler, I, and several other people stood around exchanging pleasantries. During airtime, I sat on the side and watched. When Pressman asked both Jim and Schundler about their views on the issues, the sparks flew. Schundler, who was anti-choice, took a shot at Jim for his pro-choice stance. He pointed to where I was sitting, beyond the range of the cameras, and said, “His wife is pregnant right now. His baby is kicking. He can feel it. That is a human being.”

Jim was so shocked at what he considered to be an unprovoked personal attack that all he could say was, “Please . . . !”

I was furious. I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep myself from blurting out something that would make headlines the following day. Instead I just clenched my teeth and shook my head. I wanted to rush onto the set and slap Schundler. Too bad I couldn’t have put my morning sickness to better use. And too bad my kicking baby couldn’t have kicked him.

During the same interview, a second interviewer, Larry Mendte from WCAU-TV in Philadelphia, knowing that both Jim and Schundler had daughters, asked whether they would be trick-or-treating. To Mendte, this was an inconsequential question, a pleasantry. But immediately Schundler lunged for the jugular. “Do they celebrate Halloween in Canada?” he asked acidly, meaning to draw attention to Jim’s divorce. “My nine-year-old will be out for Halloween in Jersey City.” I grew even angrier. This was a painful topic for Jim. How could Schundler be so vicious? There was no principle or policy at stake—merely an ad hominem attack. It was Schundler’s way of saying, “You’re divorced. And you never see your child.” Jim was again stunned—I could see it in his eyes—but he recovered, feigning equanimity in the way that seasoned politicians have to if they’re to survive. When Schundler said good-bye to us at the end of the taping, I just gave him a dirty look. Jim bade him a polite, even cordial, farewell.

“How could you even be civil to that man?” I said to Jim as we headed to the car, where the driver awaited us.

He was angry and disgusted, especially at the trick-or-treat remark. “It was a pointless personal attack,” he said. “Absolutely uncalled for.” But then he shrugged. “That’s politics.” Though in almost any circumstance, I was less likely than Jim to speak my mind, temperamentally he was less fiery than I was. I always thought that he was able to mask his feelings better than I could, though I didn’t know then how much practice he’d had.

I had always wanted Jim to win, and to win big, but now, after this personal experience with Schundler, I badly wanted Schundler to lose. And in just a few more days, he would—at least if I had anything to do with it.

That was the twenty-eighth, a Sunday. During the week, I was up at seven, at work from nine to five, and out campaigning—now truly with a vengeance—until ten, eleven, midnight, whenever. On Friday, November 2, I arrived home after Jim, probably around midnight. Jim was already asleep. I was keyed up from the day and about what awaited us tomorrow—the last big rally before the election, to be held at a hotel in New Brunswick. Hundreds were expected, and Jim wanted me to give the speech introducing him. I’d been practicing my speech over the last few days, and a little after midnight I went through it one last time while looking at myself in my bathroom mirror before collapsing into bed next to Jim.

In the morning, I got up, excited and ready for the day. Then I noticed that I was spotting. Maybe I’d strained myself somehow? I felt terrific. Bulky, yes, and therefore a little tired, but not more tired than usual. Jim was showering, so I went downstairs into the kitchen to make toast and coffee—decaffeinated, because of my pregnancy. Jim came down and asked me for a glass of juice. That’s all he was having, because he was rushing out to his first event. We would meet up later at the New Brunswick Hyatt for the rally.

“I’ll see you later,” I told him, “but first I have to call Dr. Ayers. I think maybe there’s a little problem.”

“A problem? What’s the matter?” he asked, stopping in his tracks.

“I’m spotting. I don’t know what it means.”

“Do you want me to go to the doctor with you?” he asked, obviously concerned.

“No,” I said. “I’ll call her and see what she says. I might not even have to see her.” Wishful thinking. I wanted to minimize what was going on, although on some level I knew better. Jim did too, but he knew me well enough to realize that if he expressed concern or looked worried, it would alarm me further.

“But you will call her?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“So I have your word?”

“Yes,” I insisted, with just a hint of exasperation. Besides, he knew by now from the medical concerns earlier in my pregnancy that whenever something came up, I really wanted to take care of it myself. That’s just the way I was. I really didn’t want anyone, not even Jim, with me. If I was concerned about something, I might be willing to accept help, sometimes even graciously. But if deep down I was really scared? Forget it. I was going to whistle a happy tune and insist on being on my own. Besides, this weekend there was so much for Jim to be doing.

“Call me after you talk to the doctor and tell me what she says.”

“OK,” I said.

He kissed me and headed for the door. “Don’t forget to call me.”

“OK, OK, I won’t.” But the truth is, I stalled a few minutes longer before calling the doctor. I knew that she would want to see me, but I didn’t want to miss the rally. I was energized and ready to campaign almost nonstop until Election Day. But my sense of reality was stalking me, dogging my heels. I needed to do what was best for my baby. I paged the doctor.

In minutes, my phone rang.

“I’m spotting,” I told her.

“I’ll head to the hospital now,” Dr. Ayers said without a moment’s hesitation, “and I’ll meet you there in a half hour.” It was about 9:00
A.M.
now.

“I’m introducing Jim at a rally at noon,” I said. “Can’t this wait till after that? Say, three
P.M.
?”

“You’re unbelievable! You’re not going to any rally,” she said firmly, “and you’re meeting me in half an hour.”

“I haven’t even showered yet,” I said. “I can be there in an hour.”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” she said. “And my office is closed today, so meet me in Labor and Delivery.”

Labor and Delivery? Me, in labor? Couldn’t be! Nevertheless, I decided against driving myself since I now had the clear feeling that, warranted or not, I was going to be hospitalized at least overnight. I didn’t want to call my parents to let them know what was happening, because I knew that my mother would panic. She’d be calling me every five minutes, saying, “Did you go yet? Did you go yet? Are you at the hospital yet?” My father delegated worrying to my mother. Or, if he didn’t, he was at least less vocal, hoping to exert a calming effect on my mother, to the extent that that was possible.

Though Paul and his wife, Elvie, lived just up the street, I didn’t want to call them, because I knew they would tell my mother. Jim was at an event, and I wanted him to be able to make contact with as many people as possible, so I wasn’t going to call him either. I wound up calling my friend Freddie Da Silva, who would later be director of protocol in Jim’s administration, to ask if she would drive me to the hospital.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said.

I went to shower and get dressed, knowing I was doing the right thing, knowing that my baby’s health trumped everything else, but all the same I was really upset. There was a momentum and an excitement that had been building and building over the last week or two, as the election approached with all the signs so positive. To leave now was like suddenly going cold turkey.

When we arrived at the nurses’ station of the Labor and Delivery area, Dr. Ayers was already there.

“Come with me,” she said, walking me to a vacant room.