'I Know I Cannot Run Now'

Speculation popped up last week that Senator Edward Kennedy might make himself available for a draft at the Democratic Convention. TIME National Political Correspondent Robert Ajemian spent several days with Kennedy to determine how he views his future. Writes Ajemian:

His large Virginia home was dark at 9:30 p.m., and Ted Kennedy, in a denim shirt and slacks, sat alone in the high-ceilinged library. He looked ruddy, handsome and, with his thick legs and arms, somewhat burly. The house was totally silent. In front of him on the glass table was his attache case, opened up and spilling over with business. Earlier in the day, as he left the office, one of his closest aides had wondered aloud if the Senator ever got lonely; it seemed an odd question about a man so constantly surrounded by people, so constantly in motion. But to see Kennedy sitting all by himself in the dimly lit study made the question seem more understandable. The big house was full of memories, unanswered questions.

Kennedy was in a pensive mood, and when the conversation turned to politics, he became extremely guarded. He has carefully avoided any involvement in the presidential race, and seems to take satisfaction that people have come to believe him about staying out. As if to emphasize this, Kennedy sent word to Jimmy Carter a couple of weeks ago that it would be wiser if they did not meet when Carter came to Washington to call on Democratic leaders.

It was perhaps inevitable, however, that speculation would revive about Kennedy, a man whose great gifts and flaws fascinate everyone. Last week, as the Carter bandwagon slowed, the New York Daily News claimed that Kennedy would accept a genuine draft at the convention but would not lift a finger to help it. The story had a plausible ring. Kennedy swiftly and firmly denied it.

"Look," he said, measuring his words carefully, "I know I cannot run for President now, and I've accepted that. It took a certain discipline, an adjustment, but I've settled this with myself. It's just not possible with my family situation. I'm not going to tear myself up about this. It would be destructive. My career is now in the Senate."

Tremendous Problem. He did not always feel that way. Even when he announced his withdrawal in the fall of 1974, Kennedy believed he could win the presidency if he went after it--despite Chappaquiddick. He thought that he would start off any campaign with a large built-in vote, even as high as 45%. "The last 6% or so would come hard," he used to say. But he told close friends he could not put his family through a campaign that was sure to become poisonous. Most people translated that to mean he feared the political pressures would be too much for his wife Joan's emotional health.

He knew that Chappaquiddick had left him with a tremendous problem of credibility with the American public. It was even possible he found some relief in staying out. That way he wouldn't have to test the true feelings of the voters.

As Carter moved steadily out front in the primaries, Kennedy's conviction that he would have to remain in the Senate became almost total. The deflating implications of a Carter presidency, with the Georgian's political allies in control of some of the most important offices for four or even eight years, were not lost on Kennedy. "I'm sure some people feel the parade is passing me by," he said. "But what else can I do but accept it? I'm a realist." Then he added wryly, "Also, there's a certain attraction that goes with staying out, a kind of escape. Having this name brings burdens as well as opportunities."

Kennedy remains restrained and uncertain about Jimmy Carter. "People keep asking me what I think of Carter," he said with a shrug. "I still don't have any real feel for the dimensions of the man, no sense of the human being. People ask if I agree with his positions on the issues. I have to say 'what positions?' When he sends a statement to the Platform Committee saying he is not going to take up the substance of the issues, how is one going to know? That's obviously his strategy." Staffers say Kennedy was critical of Carter for the way he handled the controversy over Mo Udall's religion. Udall was blasted by a Carter backer, Detroit Mayor Coleman Young, because the Mormon Church bans blacks from the ministry even though Udall had left active membership at 17. Kennedy thought it unfair of Carter not to go to Udall's defense.

Big Ripple. Growing signs of resistance to Carter's candidacy in the past few weeks have raised new hopes for Kennedy voters. Hubert Humphrey, they say, is no longer the automatic beneficiary of a deadlocked convention. Carter and Henry Jackson are bitter at Humphrey for what they consider his continued attempts to insinuate himself into the race. Kennedy backers once again wishfully see him as the brokered candidate, or at least a figure of commanding influence.

Kennedy still causes a big ripple wherever he goes. On the day of the Michigan and Maryland primaries, he attended an AFL-CIO luncheon in Washington honoring his mother. Just before the presentation, he took her upstairs to the suite of President George Meany. Kennedy looked loose and easy--quite the opposite of the solicitous candidate --as he joked with the labor boss. He broke into a broad grin when his mother turned to Meany and bluntly asked: "Mr. Meany, do you think Carter has this thing all wrapped up?" Meany, 81, gazed fondly at his 85-year-old guest and said: "Well, this fellow Carter came to see me last week and he told me he would have 1,200 delegates. It's hard to take the nomination away from a man who has that many."

Unlike his two brothers, Kennedy has become a powerful force in the Senate. A pragmatic liberal, he has learned in 14 years to deal shrewdly with his adversaries to get things done. His targets have been controversial subjects and, in some cases, his positions are surprisingly conservative. He introduced a crime bill that called for mandatory two-year sentences without parole for violent crimes, and four years for repeat offenders. Kennedy thinks rehabilitation approaches have failed, and he has taken the blunt position that punishment is society's best deterrent.

He ranges across the legislative scene, from calling for reform of lobbying to spearheading the successful drive for public financing of elections. He has become a gutty infighter. He challenged Russell Long, the influential head of the Senate Finance Committee, to cut down personal and corporate tax shelters and loopholes for the wealthy. He jumped on the Civil Aeronautics Board to lower air fares and lift restrictions against new carriers. His concentration on national health insurance has resulted in endless hearings on hospitals and drugs and preventive medicine, establishing him as the dominant force on the subject on Capitol Hill.

Last week in the cavernous Senate Caucus Room, the 153-member Democratic Platform Committee rose to welcome him. Kennedy, sensing their readiness to hear him, gave the moment his best effort. Perched on the edge of his chair and leaning into the audience, his voice booming out, his hand slicing back and forth, he gave his views on domestic and world issues. He finished to a prolonged ovation. Intoxicated for the moment by the look and the sound of him, many members seemed almost eager to embrace the dangers of his candidacy.

Back in his office, Kennedy looked pleased with himself. It had been an exhilarating encounter for him. Then he was asked directly: Would he like to be President? He thought for a moment, then replied: "I can't sit around stewing about that." He paused. "Of course I'd like to be President. But it's not going to happen in this period of my life. I've accepted that." But one sensed that his blood was up and the juices, lately stilled, were moving.

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