precious few, boys and girls, who seemed not to give a rip about her baggage. She rebelled against Mickey in small ways she knew were mostly ineffective, but at least she had a sense of trying. Mickey insisted on having the man who tended the grounds drive her back and forth to school. That led to a terrible row. Cooper stalked out of the house and got on the school bus. Mickey threw up her hands and went back to her Rolodex.
And then Cleve won the governorship, and they moved to the beastly, old Executive Mansion in the capital, and she lost all she had gained. It was that awkward time, the beginning of adolescence, when fitting in, not being different, became everything. But she was different. The daughter of the governor, starting all over with baggage infinitely more burdensome, the loneliness and sense of isolation compounded by the mansion with its cavernous rooms, house staff bustling about, strange people coming and going. It was an alien, public place. Cleve made a point of including her in some of the many social events. But after acknowledging her with inane pleasantries, most people lapsed into the same old thing that had come to infuriate her: politics.
She focused her anger and frustration on Mickey. Cleve, she reasoned, was an important and busy man. His job, as in the past, took him away a great deal and left him surrounded with people who waited on him and others who wanted things from him. But Mickey … Okay, she had helped Cleve get the job he wanted, and that had consumed a huge amount of her time and energy. Now, could she try being a motherfor a change? It seemed she was so absorbed in political life that she had forgotten how—if she ever knew. Their relationship was awkward at best and increasingly in open conflict. They recoiled from each other, Mickey baffled by the mere fact of a child moving beyond childhood, Cooper with her smoldering resentment. Mickey retreated into her political world, which began to expand beyond the borders of the state. She became, in the larger world of Southern politics, a player.
And thus it was that Cooper was taken completely off-guard in 1972.
It was May, the weather warming, the mansion grounds in bloom. School just out, time stretching infinitely before her. Lethargy, sloth, her room a wreck, the house staff forbidden to enter. She fled outside, found a shaded, cool spot in a corner of the backyard that had a fountain and a bench. A refuge where she went with books. Mickey found her there, a book in her own hand. Cooper ignored her, then finally looked up.
“I’d like for you to read this,” Mickey said, offering the book.
Cooper looked at the title without taking the book: The Making of the President 1968 . Then she ducked her head and went back to her own volume, a mystery.
But Mickey didn’t go away. “I thought you might find it interesting,” she said, keeping her voice light, “since I’d like for you to go to the convention with me.”
Despite herself, Cooper looked up again. “What convention?”
“The party convention. July. Miami.”
Cooper felt her mouth drop open. Nothing came out for a long time. Finally, she said, “With you?”
“With me.”
Cooper was dumbfounded. But she read the book.
They flew to Miami on a Saturday, just the two of them. Cleve, who as governor would head the state’s delegation, would arrive on Monday, in time for the convention’s first session.
Mickey was a member of the Credentials Committee. She had already attended a contentious committee session ten days before in Washington, and a fight loomed over the seating of several delegations, the big ones being South Carolina and California. She went to great lengths to explain things to Cooper, who didn’t understand most of it but listened attentively because she knew Mickey was trying to pull back the curtain of that shadowy, foreign world of politics and politicians that so absorbed her. She was reaching, making an offer, and Cooper did her best to
And then Cleve won the governorship, and they moved to the beastly, old Executive Mansion in the capital, and she lost all she had gained. It was that awkward time, the beginning of adolescence, when fitting in, not being different, became everything. But she was different. The daughter of the governor, starting all over with baggage infinitely more burdensome, the loneliness and sense of isolation compounded by the mansion with its cavernous rooms, house staff bustling about, strange people coming and going. It was an alien, public place. Cleve made a point of including her in some of the many social events. But after acknowledging her with inane pleasantries, most people lapsed into the same old thing that had come to infuriate her: politics.
She focused her anger and frustration on Mickey. Cleve, she reasoned, was an important and busy man. His job, as in the past, took him away a great deal and left him surrounded with people who waited on him and others who wanted things from him. But Mickey … Okay, she had helped Cleve get the job he wanted, and that had consumed a huge amount of her time and energy. Now, could she try being a motherfor a change? It seemed she was so absorbed in political life that she had forgotten how—if she ever knew. Their relationship was awkward at best and increasingly in open conflict. They recoiled from each other, Mickey baffled by the mere fact of a child moving beyond childhood, Cooper with her smoldering resentment. Mickey retreated into her political world, which began to expand beyond the borders of the state. She became, in the larger world of Southern politics, a player.
And thus it was that Cooper was taken completely off-guard in 1972.
It was May, the weather warming, the mansion grounds in bloom. School just out, time stretching infinitely before her. Lethargy, sloth, her room a wreck, the house staff forbidden to enter. She fled outside, found a shaded, cool spot in a corner of the backyard that had a fountain and a bench. A refuge where she went with books. Mickey found her there, a book in her own hand. Cooper ignored her, then finally looked up.
“I’d like for you to read this,” Mickey said, offering the book.
Cooper looked at the title without taking the book: The Making of the President 1968 . Then she ducked her head and went back to her own volume, a mystery.
But Mickey didn’t go away. “I thought you might find it interesting,” she said, keeping her voice light, “since I’d like for you to go to the convention with me.”
Despite herself, Cooper looked up again. “What convention?”
“The party convention. July. Miami.”
Cooper felt her mouth drop open. Nothing came out for a long time. Finally, she said, “With you?”
“With me.”
Cooper was dumbfounded. But she read the book.
They flew to Miami on a Saturday, just the two of them. Cleve, who as governor would head the state’s delegation, would arrive on Monday, in time for the convention’s first session.
Mickey was a member of the Credentials Committee. She had already attended a contentious committee session ten days before in Washington, and a fight loomed over the seating of several delegations, the big ones being South Carolina and California. She went to great lengths to explain things to Cooper, who didn’t understand most of it but listened attentively because she knew Mickey was trying to pull back the curtain of that shadowy, foreign world of politics and politicians that so absorbed her. She was reaching, making an offer, and Cooper did her best to
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