is wide-eyed
and apple-cheeked, with frosted hair coiffed and sprayed to withstand gale-force winds. She cradles the mike as if the bench
is a cabaret stage.
“Jeffrey and I welcome all of you tonight to our home. The beautiful spring evening promises new times… and a new governor
and lieutenant governor. Are you ready to give a great big welcome to our guests of honor? Are you?”
Her breast heaves with the Carney-Wald button, while a badge on her shoulder proclaims “More for Massachusetts!” A few feet
away, the broad-shouldered man in the midnight chalk-stripe suit grins. Just as I guessed, Jeffrey Arnot. “Are you ready to
welcome the next governor of our great Commonwealth?” Yesses rise like helium.
Carney springs onto the bench, air-kisses Tania, and launches his ten-minute spiel. “Not just jobs, good jobs…a Massachusetts
economy in drive… every child in the best of schools.” He tells a story about his wheelchair-bound late mother, his voice
rich as fudge as he segues to life lessons learned from his father, a metalworker of sterling character. Next he sings praises
of his wife and sons, who are busy campaigning elsewhere in the state in homes as warm and welcoming as Jeffrey and Tania’s.
Waiting his turn, Wald nods reverently. I search his face. No widower’s flash of grief shows nor mournful gaze in memory of
his own lost son. So what? Give the man the benefit of the doubt. Not every politician is required to bare his soul to a roomful
of strangers.
In minutes, Jordan Wald leaps up to join Carney, grabs the mike, and quips about the two bench-pressing for Massachusetts.
“We’re both athletes—a wrestler to pin the problems and a marathon runner to go the distance for the people.”
Time-delay laughter. “Seriously, my friends, we’re in a tough race. The future is at stake.” His voice slightly reedy, Wald
predicts a hard-fought campaign with victory in November. His four terms in the Massachusetts Senate, he says, are foundation
stones for the future. He ticks off environmental legislation he has sponsored. The Carney-Wald administration will be pro-business
and green. “Protection of our coasts, our wetlands.”
Wald makes eye contact so each guest feels addressed personally. He jabs the air with a few Kennedy gestures and turns his
head from the shoulders, as business executives do. Marty practiced this. It’s an authority thing. Underlings twist their
necks, but bosses strike the Mount Rushmore pose.
“My life is an open book. What you see is what you get. My good fortune… giving back in public life. My thanks to each and
every one of you.”
He’s done. Tania invites all to stay and enjoy the party, and the candidates work the room. The black-clad headset handlers
keep watch like a junior Secret Service. I turn, and a hand with a grip like wood and leather clasps mine.
“Jordan Wald.”
“Oh. I’m Regina Cutter.”
“Appreciate your support, Regina.” He leans close, the cleft in his chin quite charming, though his handshake doesn’t feel
quite right. I smell wine breath, men’s cologne—and underneath his starched shirtfront, something vaguely sour. “For you,
Regina, for Massachusetts.”
But his politician’s eyes have already moved on. The moment came and went. What did I learn—that perhaps thirteen years ago
this man leaned on the DA to nail Henry Faiser whether or not the evidence was solid? No, nothing of the kind. He strikes
me as a stereotype of a political candidate. The lasting impression is that Jordan Wald has an odd handshake and uses hair
spray.
“Bulldog and Boxer, exit now. Repeat, exit now.”
Like border collies, the headset handlers cut the candidates from the pack and escort them outside into a black Suburban with
dark-tinted windows. The SUV pulls out, corners, disappears.
The party winds down fast, the house emptying quickly. The trio packs up. I linger by a foyer fireplace, its
and apple-cheeked, with frosted hair coiffed and sprayed to withstand gale-force winds. She cradles the mike as if the bench
is a cabaret stage.
“Jeffrey and I welcome all of you tonight to our home. The beautiful spring evening promises new times… and a new governor
and lieutenant governor. Are you ready to give a great big welcome to our guests of honor? Are you?”
Her breast heaves with the Carney-Wald button, while a badge on her shoulder proclaims “More for Massachusetts!” A few feet
away, the broad-shouldered man in the midnight chalk-stripe suit grins. Just as I guessed, Jeffrey Arnot. “Are you ready to
welcome the next governor of our great Commonwealth?” Yesses rise like helium.
Carney springs onto the bench, air-kisses Tania, and launches his ten-minute spiel. “Not just jobs, good jobs…a Massachusetts
economy in drive… every child in the best of schools.” He tells a story about his wheelchair-bound late mother, his voice
rich as fudge as he segues to life lessons learned from his father, a metalworker of sterling character. Next he sings praises
of his wife and sons, who are busy campaigning elsewhere in the state in homes as warm and welcoming as Jeffrey and Tania’s.
Waiting his turn, Wald nods reverently. I search his face. No widower’s flash of grief shows nor mournful gaze in memory of
his own lost son. So what? Give the man the benefit of the doubt. Not every politician is required to bare his soul to a roomful
of strangers.
In minutes, Jordan Wald leaps up to join Carney, grabs the mike, and quips about the two bench-pressing for Massachusetts.
“We’re both athletes—a wrestler to pin the problems and a marathon runner to go the distance for the people.”
Time-delay laughter. “Seriously, my friends, we’re in a tough race. The future is at stake.” His voice slightly reedy, Wald
predicts a hard-fought campaign with victory in November. His four terms in the Massachusetts Senate, he says, are foundation
stones for the future. He ticks off environmental legislation he has sponsored. The Carney-Wald administration will be pro-business
and green. “Protection of our coasts, our wetlands.”
Wald makes eye contact so each guest feels addressed personally. He jabs the air with a few Kennedy gestures and turns his
head from the shoulders, as business executives do. Marty practiced this. It’s an authority thing. Underlings twist their
necks, but bosses strike the Mount Rushmore pose.
“My life is an open book. What you see is what you get. My good fortune… giving back in public life. My thanks to each and
every one of you.”
He’s done. Tania invites all to stay and enjoy the party, and the candidates work the room. The black-clad headset handlers
keep watch like a junior Secret Service. I turn, and a hand with a grip like wood and leather clasps mine.
“Jordan Wald.”
“Oh. I’m Regina Cutter.”
“Appreciate your support, Regina.” He leans close, the cleft in his chin quite charming, though his handshake doesn’t feel
quite right. I smell wine breath, men’s cologne—and underneath his starched shirtfront, something vaguely sour. “For you,
Regina, for Massachusetts.”
But his politician’s eyes have already moved on. The moment came and went. What did I learn—that perhaps thirteen years ago
this man leaned on the DA to nail Henry Faiser whether or not the evidence was solid? No, nothing of the kind. He strikes
me as a stereotype of a political candidate. The lasting impression is that Jordan Wald has an odd handshake and uses hair
spray.
“Bulldog and Boxer, exit now. Repeat, exit now.”
Like border collies, the headset handlers cut the candidates from the pack and escort them outside into a black Suburban with
dark-tinted windows. The SUV pulls out, corners, disappears.
The party winds down fast, the house emptying quickly. The trio packs up. I linger by a foyer fireplace, its
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