started out there, but the truth was he'd never had anything to do with the place. Some of these girls, on the other hand, were daughters of men who knew Kennedy. They were English majors, or history or poli sci or even economics majors. They were smart They talked of going to Washington when Kennedy won. They talked of working for him after graduation. The Kennedy girls gave no indication they thought the world was made for anyone but them.
But there was one thing the debs couldn't do so well, which was use a typewriter. That afternoon's crisis in the Young Dems' comer was about typing.
While Doyle draped his sportcoat over the back of his chair, he listened as the team captain cruelly berated a girl, waving a page of typescript in her face. He was Ed Lake, a Harvard senior whose blond hair fell across his forehead. "Where'd you learn to type, Ginger? At Disneyland?" he shrieked. "Or was it a home for retards? You have a dozen erasure scars on here, and they're a mess." Lake swung around to his audience of eight or ten Young Dems. "This letter is going to fifty college deans! It asks to get our people excused from school for the last push. It has to go out tonight, and it has to be perfect! Can't anybody here use a goddamn typewriter?"
"If perfection is what you want, why don't you do it yourself then, Ed?" one of the other girls said.
Terry liked her guts, and he looked for her eye. When he got it, he winked, Good for you. But the girl looked at him as if one of them were dead.
The typist was crying softly in front of Lake. It's fun, making girls cry. Lake made a show of collecting himself, taking a deep breath, boosting his shoulders, bunching up the letter, and tossing it in the wastebasket.
Terry felt he was watching a performance in a war movie, an officer confronted with a case of shell shock. A British officer.
Lake turned away from the girl and said calmly, all leadership now, "Seriously, folks. We need this typed. We can't send out a generalized mimeo. These are deans. We need the letter typed fifty times, each one separately, before Ken O'Donnell leaves tonight, so he can sign them."
"If Kenny has to sign them, why doesn't his secretary do it?"
"Because it's our job, that's why. Shit!" Lake banged the table, bouncing the telephones, jolting their bells. This is my shot, Terry imagined him saying, at a job upstairs!
As the bell sounds faded into the awful silence, Terry, from his place behind Lake, said, "I know a typist"
Lake faced him.
Terry looked at his watch. "If I catch her as she's leaving work, I could have her over here inside an hour."
Lake's eyes bulged. "Go! Go!"
Doyle did not move. He said quietly, "I wouldn't think of bringing her over here if it was possible you'd talk to her like you just talked to Ginger." Somehow Terry found it possible to keep from blinking as he held Lake's eyes.
Lake shrugged. "Okay, buddy. I'll be good. Promise."
Terry glanced across at the girl who'd looked through him before. She wasn't looking through him now. To Lake he said, "Apologize to Ginger, Ed."
"You're shitting me."
"If you want a typist, you apologize."
"You're the kid from BU."
"BC, Ed. Big difference. Eagles, not Terriers. What about that apology?"
Lake let everyone see the trouble he had believing this. But finally he looked back at the girl slumped in a nearby chair. "I guess he's right, Ginger. I'm sorry. I was out of line."
Terry hooked his jacket and walked away.
The Hancock Building was across Boston Common, a few blocks up Boylston Street at Clarendon. He arrived at the main entrance in time to light up. He leaned against a parked car and enjoyed his smoke and the cool air on his face. Beyond Copley Square the sky was red with the coming sunset. A feeling of calm acceptance came over Terry, and it reminded him of the feeling he'd once associated with church.
Girls began pouring out of the building at a minute past five. They were heading home to neighborhoods like his own, but they
But there was one thing the debs couldn't do so well, which was use a typewriter. That afternoon's crisis in the Young Dems' comer was about typing.
While Doyle draped his sportcoat over the back of his chair, he listened as the team captain cruelly berated a girl, waving a page of typescript in her face. He was Ed Lake, a Harvard senior whose blond hair fell across his forehead. "Where'd you learn to type, Ginger? At Disneyland?" he shrieked. "Or was it a home for retards? You have a dozen erasure scars on here, and they're a mess." Lake swung around to his audience of eight or ten Young Dems. "This letter is going to fifty college deans! It asks to get our people excused from school for the last push. It has to go out tonight, and it has to be perfect! Can't anybody here use a goddamn typewriter?"
"If perfection is what you want, why don't you do it yourself then, Ed?" one of the other girls said.
Terry liked her guts, and he looked for her eye. When he got it, he winked, Good for you. But the girl looked at him as if one of them were dead.
The typist was crying softly in front of Lake. It's fun, making girls cry. Lake made a show of collecting himself, taking a deep breath, boosting his shoulders, bunching up the letter, and tossing it in the wastebasket.
Terry felt he was watching a performance in a war movie, an officer confronted with a case of shell shock. A British officer.
Lake turned away from the girl and said calmly, all leadership now, "Seriously, folks. We need this typed. We can't send out a generalized mimeo. These are deans. We need the letter typed fifty times, each one separately, before Ken O'Donnell leaves tonight, so he can sign them."
"If Kenny has to sign them, why doesn't his secretary do it?"
"Because it's our job, that's why. Shit!" Lake banged the table, bouncing the telephones, jolting their bells. This is my shot, Terry imagined him saying, at a job upstairs!
As the bell sounds faded into the awful silence, Terry, from his place behind Lake, said, "I know a typist"
Lake faced him.
Terry looked at his watch. "If I catch her as she's leaving work, I could have her over here inside an hour."
Lake's eyes bulged. "Go! Go!"
Doyle did not move. He said quietly, "I wouldn't think of bringing her over here if it was possible you'd talk to her like you just talked to Ginger." Somehow Terry found it possible to keep from blinking as he held Lake's eyes.
Lake shrugged. "Okay, buddy. I'll be good. Promise."
Terry glanced across at the girl who'd looked through him before. She wasn't looking through him now. To Lake he said, "Apologize to Ginger, Ed."
"You're shitting me."
"If you want a typist, you apologize."
"You're the kid from BU."
"BC, Ed. Big difference. Eagles, not Terriers. What about that apology?"
Lake let everyone see the trouble he had believing this. But finally he looked back at the girl slumped in a nearby chair. "I guess he's right, Ginger. I'm sorry. I was out of line."
Terry hooked his jacket and walked away.
The Hancock Building was across Boston Common, a few blocks up Boylston Street at Clarendon. He arrived at the main entrance in time to light up. He leaned against a parked car and enjoyed his smoke and the cool air on his face. Beyond Copley Square the sky was red with the coming sunset. A feeling of calm acceptance came over Terry, and it reminded him of the feeling he'd once associated with church.
Girls began pouring out of the building at a minute past five. They were heading home to neighborhoods like his own, but they
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