How perfection led to failure.
By Mimi Swartz
Riding shotgun in a mammoth Suburban barreling from Port Arthur to Beaumont, the Democratic nominee for governor of Texas is putting on her face. Balancing a compact on one knee, splaying a lipstick between two taut fingers like a smokeless stogie, Ann Richards retouches while she gets the drill from her entourage—two trial lawyers, a football coach, her son Dan, a press aide. It is late afternoon, and she is heading for a meeting with black supporters. “He’ll be the biggest contributor there?” she asks of one name on the invitation list, as she fixes a line under her eyes. “Do you know what he does for a living?” she asks of another, sketching in her mouth with a red pencil.
Onward to the past.
By Jan Jarboe
Ten thousand feet above the state he wants to govern, Clayton Williams suddenly bursts into tears. A moment before, I had asked him if it is true, as I had heard, that he cries every time he hears “The Aggie War Hymn.” The answer is swift and anatomical: The mere mention of the War Hymn triggers a fountain of tears. Here sits the Republican nominee for governor—the very man who is traveling around Texas representing himself as the last true cowboy—crouched on the edge of his cushy airplane seat, with his craggy face so wet with tears that it glistens in the bright August light.