"When Carter goes down, I go up"

There's a lot of action by Ted Kennedy, but can he be President?

Polls show President Carter in deep trouble, and that naturally makes the nation's political leaders consider the alternatives. That means Kennedy. The renewed interest in the Massachusetts Senator was emphasized even further last week by a TIME poll in which voters stated by a dramatic margin that the issue of Chappaquiddick would not prevent them from voting for Kennedy. TIME Washington Bureau Chief Robert Ajemian spent several hours with the Senator last week and wrote this report:

The controversy swells again. Ted Kennedy--whether he likes it or not, whether he is encouraging the development or not--is back in the middle of an intensifying stir about whether he will be a candidate for President.

He is the most popular Democrat in the country, yet he sometimes seems strangely isolated. One day last week he stood alone in the kitchen of his house in McLean, Va., turning a couple of steaks in the broiler. His red-checked shirt was open to the waist of his khaki slacks, revealing a thick mat of hair, now graying. The huge house echoed with memories, but now it was empty and still. Kennedy's wife had been living in Boston, away from the family for more than a year, and his children were at Cape Cod for the summer.

"Why should I be talking about running for President?" he said as he waved the big fork in the air. "There's a Democrat in the White House, there's no moral crisis in the country. What's the reason for running? For power? For what?" If Carter were not down in the polls, Kennedy added, nobody would be asking him questions. "When Carter goes down," he said wryly, "I go up." He had another thought about that. "The press made Jimmy Carter, and now they're trying to destroy him. I'm going to set my own course."

Inside the dark dining room, a single straw mat and a slender wine glass had been put out on the table for Kennedy, and now he set another place for his guest. A call came from his son Patrick, 11. Kennedy bellowed into the phone after he listened to the boy tell about catching a manta ray that day. He lighted some candles, opened a bottle of white wine, and began tasting his cooking. "Yes, I would like to be President," he said frankly. "Yes, I feel I can do the job. But this isn't the time."

For all his protesting, Kennedy has been acting lately like a man lining up friends and gathering power. When Jimmy Carter refused an invitation to speak to a national conference of mayors in Atlanta, Kennedy swiftly accepted; he moved just as fast last week when Carter was unable to address a meeting of the American Bar Association in New York City. Suddenly Kennedy seemed to be everywhere. He split publicly with the President over what he considered broken campaign promises on national health insurance. At the same time, he was on television answering a lot of questions about the magazine articles in which his wife Joan admitted that she had long been an alcoholic. Politically, he seized every opportunity. After Timothy Hagan, 32, was elected chairman of Ohio's vote-heavy Cuyahoga County, Kennedy's staff immediately invited the new leader to stop by. When Hagan wondered if the Senator might possibly be keynote speaker at the state's largest political gathering in October, he was startled at how quickly Kennedy said yes. Old campaign friends who had not heard from the Senator for some time have begun receiving postcards from his trips, another sign that he wants to renew contact with his network around the country.

The result of all this is that many Democratic politicians are fluttering, wondering whether Kennedy is indeed positioning himself to run. G.O.P. leaders like Senator Howard Baker are convinced that he is. But Democrats have grown used to the old Kennedy ploy of keeping a high profile and then backing away. Nonetheless, many of them are eager for his candidacy, and a lot of their eagerness is based on dismay over Carter's bland leadership. "In New York," said one top Democratic leader, "I could raise a million dollars in ten days if Kennedy just gave the word." Even if Kennedy doesn't give the word, some politicians believe that they can make him a candidate anyway. Last week a group of influential state chairmen met privately in Washington to discuss Kennedy's prospects. One notion was to use this winter's Democratic Party midterm conference as an opportune setting to whip up enthusiasm for Kennedy.

There are lots of good reasons for Kennedy's reluctance. He has a powerful Senate career in his grasp. And a challenge to Carter would focus attention on two extremely troublesome areas of his personal life: his wife Joan's health and, of course, Chappaquiddick.

Joan Kennedy for years has had a drinking problem, always kept as private as possible. In search of help and treatment, she has spent extended periods away from her family. Although close friends say her recent disclosures offended him, Kennedy--who did not get to read the stories in advance--says that is not so. "Our family has always kept things private," he says, "but once Joan decided it was best for her to talk openly about the problem, I thought it was very brave." Her honesty, in fact, had benefits for both of them. Now everything was in the open; there would be no more questions about where Joan was and how she was. Some politicians, including those at the White House, viewed the Kennedy confession much more coldly--as smart politics.

Chappaquiddick still has the familiar whiff of danger. Nine years have passed since the night Kennedy left a party with Mary Jo Kopechne, 28, and drove his car off the rickety wooden bridge. Kennedy did not report her drowning for more than eight hours, was charged with leaving the scene of the accident and received a suspended sentence, although there has never been a full explanation of exactly what happened. In 1974, when Kennedy considered running for President, half a dozen publications set up investigative task forces to comb back over the case. The rush of activity jolted Kennedy, and two months later he pulled out of the race. But there has been a change.

A TIME poll taken last week showed that a big majority of Americans seem ready to put the subject of Chappaquiddick behind them. "Five years ago," confessed William Crolius, a blunt-spoken Washington businessman who has always disliked Ted Kennedy, "I would have carried a placard myself saying HOW WOULD MARY JO HAVE VOTED? Now I'm ready to forget Chappaquiddick and so is my wife. This country is desperate for some leadership." Others still hold a sharply different view. "Chappaquiddick would be a disaster here," said a top Democratic officeholder in South Carolina. Today, Kennedy himself is far more confident about dealing with the issue. If Chappaquiddick were the only obstacle, Kennedy now says, it would not stop him from running.

Kennedy's growth is clearly visible in the Senate, where he ranges across the legislative scene. His airlines deregulation bill has radically altered the costs of air travel. His new criminal code calling for tougher mandatory sentences will bring a drastic change to law enforcement, as will a wiretap bill requiring federal warrants in national security cases. Last week Hanoi acceded to his personal request that 30 Vietnamese be allowed to join their families in the U.S.

He is much on the move, and accustomed to being the center of the worlds he moves into. One day last month, puffing on a small cigar and surrounded by counseling aides, he strode out of his Senate office and headed for a debate over his bill on regional health planning. The American Medical Association had mounted a big effort against it, but once Kennedy was on the floor, he cut loose, his voice booming, his arms reaching into the air. "No, I will not yield," he roared theatrically at Utah's Senator Orrin Hatch as he pushed his argument. When the final vote began, Kennedy planted himself in the well of the Senate, head constantly moving, always checking the remaining time, persuading certain Senators, among them Ohio's John Glenn, to change their negative votes. What was predicted as an uphill contest carried in Kennedy's favor.

His power is increasing in the Senate club. Next year he will become chairman of the important Judiciary Committee, which controls, among other things, the confirmation of 152 new federal judgeships, one-quarter of the entire federal bench. This new Kennedy clout has not been lost on the White House, which will be nominating the judges.

The underlying rivalry between Carter and Kennedy is concealed by a veneer of friendly talk on each side. Despite the break over health insurance, Kennedy has voted for most of the President's programs. Driving his car across Washington not long ago, Kennedy spoke about that dispute on health. "His people are trying to get off the hook," he said, "but my own credibility is really at stake here." The next day Kennedy accused the President of a failure of leadership. Carter's staff, on the other hand, counted the split as a plus for the President; he had refused to knuckle under, the way they saw it, to another big spending program, and by Kennedy at that.

The rivalry is not going to disappear. In fact, it will probably heat up. The White House staff has little use for Kennedy, believing, as some other observers do, that self-interest is never far from his mind. Carter strategists were angry last month when New Jersey Senate Candidate Bill Bradley, after refusing the President's offer to campaign for him, wooed Kennedy and quickly won him. New York Governor Hugh Carey, up for reelection, has also been cool to a Carter visit, but sought out the Massachusetts Senator. Kennedy's vanity can only be excited by such requests. "Hey, did you see Gallup?" he grinned in his office, speaking of a recent poll that showed him beating the President, 54% to 32%, among Democrats. When aides told Kennedy last week about an Atlanta radio station poll that had him ahead of Carter 63% to 37% in the Georgia capital, Kennedy had a quick joke: "You know, my father told me not to peak too early." So far Carter seems unconcerned. According to the President's staff, Carter believes Kennedy will remain immobilized unless someone like California Governor Jerry Brown is successful in the primaries.

Whatever happens, Kennedy will hold to his strategy of action and high visibility. And politicians will keep looking for signals. Tim Hagan of Cleveland has already picked up his: Kennedy's decision to go to Ohio, Hagan insisted, was strictly presidential politics, an investment for a very possible run for the presidency. "He doesn't know the candidates well, and he doesn't know Tim Hagan at all," said the young chairman. "Why else do you think he's coming?"

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