Bill Boner slunk away to Kentucky and into the pallet business after his sexual shenanigans as Nashville’s mayor. Megan Barry stuck around after hers, ran for Congress and wrote a book.
The congressional run, against the Republican incumbent in the 7th District, had predictable results: Barry lost by 20-plus points. The book, published one week after the election, is similarly unsurprising: She is repentant.
As a general rule, I favor the slinking-away approach. After all, Boner had already been a congressman. And, coming from a family pallet business background myself, I can appreciate the under-the-radar properties of such an endeavor. Muckraking journalists rarely if ever set up outside your door.
Why, I wondered, did Barry submit herself to judgment by voters again and to readers after such an embarrassment?
Barry’s public service career – two terms as a Metro Council member at-large and two and a-half years as mayor – took place while I was away from Nashville.
I knew three things about her: The major policy initiative of her mayorship, a public transit referendum, failed spectacularly. Her son died of a drug overdose. And she was forced to resign after playing naked footsie for two years with the head of her security detail.
Oh – and that her husband is Bruce Barry, a Vanderbilt professor who occasionally writes political and social commentary for local consumption. As do I. (There the similarity ends.)
So I read Barry’s book to see where it would take me. I was skeptical. In my experience, a politician’s mea culpa tends to point fingers in other directions, too. And despite Barry’s admission on the first page of the author’s note – “I am the biggest ass in this story” – it’s clear she views some of the other players as sizable rear-ends, as well.
Her husband: “distant and uncaring and absent,” as he described her portrayal of him. Glenn Funk, the district attorney whose bringing of felony charges forced her resignation: holding a grudge over perceived slights. Rob Freeman, the footsie partner: “God put more energy into Rob’s cheekbones than his frontal lobe.”
Though I didn’t feel personally aggrieved by Barry, never having voted for her, I considered her transgression a betrayal of Nashville’s trust. And monumentally, irredeemably, stupid.
But, as a writer who knows the value of a well-turned phrase, I found myself appreciating a number of examples scattered throughout the work. I started keeping notes. Here are a few:
Of her mayoral campaign manager and later adviser Claudia Huskey: “I watched her transform Team Megan Barry from a pirate ship to an ant colony.”
Of the “perfect” black-and-white family photos lining the Barry home stairway: “We look like Simon and Garfunkel album covers.”
Of an interview with Channel 5’s news dog, Phil Williams: “Phil and I sit facing each other in stern armchairs with floral brocade bolted down so tightly I wonder if it’s tried to escape before.”
Of the jail official who handled her booking: “She’s young and bubbly – with a spray of freckles, tight cylindrical curls, and Invisalign. She looks like a member of the pep squad, the class president of jail, or something. I’m being processed by Punky Brewster.”
Clever writing goes a long way with me, and as I read those and more examples I could sense my opinion of Barry softening some. It’s hard to hold on to negative thoughts when you’re smiling.
If you’re looking for salacious details of the affair, you’ll find some, though it’s pretty PG-rated. Still, probably more details than I cared to read about.
Definitely far more than I would care to read about – or have the world read about – if I were her husband.
But those details weren’t the main thrust of the narrative for me. Instead, it was the continuing thread of loss, not of office or prestige, but of the couple’s son. Max, their only child, is presented as a gentle soul who never seemed to quite find his way in life.
Barry does not use Max’s death as an excuse for her wandering libido, which predated the loss. But it’s clear what a blow it was and continues to be. It would take a colder heart than mine not to feel sympathy.
“It’s What You Do Next” is the title of the book, and Barry seems focused on moving forward with her life and the marriage that survived her infidelity. I wish her well in that, though I would not advise another political venture.
And I kind of wish Boner, who I gather is retired now, would write a book. I bet it would be a hoot.
Joe Rogers is a former writer for The Tennessean and editor for The New York Times. He is retired and living in Nashville. He can be reached at [email protected]