by Sally Quinn
“That’s not the way it used to be in my time,” Gordo would insist when Des tried to tell him how things had changed. “In my time we went everywhere. The press never missed a good party.”
Those days were over, Des had told him. Smart hosts and hostesses knew it was too dangerous to have reporters hovering around trying to catch their guests saying something indiscreet. The stakes were too high these days. Whereas the press had been docile and passive fifteen years ago, now they were carnivorous. Nothing and nobody was sacred.
Des was thankful that Gordo was his boss this time when he had to tell him about the White House invitation. Gordo must have called Des back three or four times that day to discuss topics of conversation, suggest questions, propose a cover story. Doing the cover story would demand a high-level session with the President with the editors of The Weekly. That way Gordo could fly down, take his usual suite at the Hay-Adams, and probably suggest an intimate dinner upstairs at the White House with the various Weekly editors. He was driving Des crazy, but at least he wasn’t giving him a hard time.
“Gordo, you know this is really a private evening,” he said in exasperation after the third call. “I’m not sure a heavy grilling or interrogation is in order here. That’s what bothers me about the whole evening.” Then, in a mischievous mood, he added, “You know, Gordo, I’ve been thinking about this all day and I thought maybe it wouldn’t be such a hot idea if I went. I mean, it’s really going to put me in somewhat of a compromised position. Don’t you think from the point of view of the magazine’s credibility I ought to regret?”
Gordo did not disappoint him.
“Jesus Christ, are you out of your mind? You would turn down an invitation to dine with the President of the United States in the family dining room alone? Des, I don’t often do this, but if I have to I will order you to go.”
“Well, Gordo, if you feel that strongly about it, I suppose I have no choice.”
“I’ll decide what’s best. Now you get your ass over to the White House.”
Des was still laughing when Allison walked in the door of his office and flung her fur coat and gloves on his black leather sofa.
“Hi, kid,” she said. “What’s so funny?”
She walked over to where he was sitting at his desk, leaned over, and gave him a kiss, another kiss, another kiss.
“Oh, it’s that asshole Gordo. He’s so excited I’m going to the White House that he’s about to expire. I decided to have a little fun and told him I didn’t think it was good for my credibility to go and maybe I should regret. He went bat-shit.”
“You bastard,” she said. “Poor old Gordo. The energy it takes to be such a power fucker.”
“Did you walk over?”
“No, it’s too cold. I treated myself to a cab. I left early. There’s not a hell of a lot going on. Very slow news day. I’ve got my instructions from Walt and all the other editors about what to ask Uncle Rog. I figured I’d better tell them. It’ll be all over town tomorrow. Have you informed your illustrious bureau yet?”
“I’ll leave that to Gordo. I haven’t had the guts. I’ve tried to tell them a couple of times and the words got stuck in my mouth. I’m just not up for all the shit I’m going to have to take.”
“Oh, Des, you’ve got to tell them tonight. They’ll all know about it by tomorrow morning and then you’ll look worse. It will look like you were taking it too seriously and that you were holding out on them. Besides, it’s Thursday night. You never miss Thursday night. What excuse do you have?”
“I hadn’t figured it out. I was thinking of having a small stroke and having you carry me out to the hospital.”
“What’s your cover story?” she asked, ignoring the suggestion.
“We’re going with the battle between the Chief of Staff and the domestic adviser. We’ll have several pictures of White House staff on the cover, including the President’s, with a cover line asking ‘Who’s in Charge Here?’ ”
“Oh, Uncle Rog will love that.”
“We’re not going to tell him, though, are we, sweetheart?”
“You know he’ll ask.”
“You’re right. Well, fuck it. I will tell him. I just won’t tell him the cover line. I’ll say we’re doing a piece on the White House staff.”
“You better tell your own staff. For one thing, you’ll probably get stuff you can use. You know Uncle Rog isn’t going to let you go with that cover without trying to have some input.”
“Okay. Okay, you’re right.” He got up from his chair and moved around the side of his desk. He leaned over her where she was sitting on the sofa and kissed her on the mouth.
“What time are we supposed to be there?”
“They suggested seven thirty. But it’s only six thirty now. I came over early.”
He walked over to the door and yelled down the hall: “Cal, Milt, Mary. Can you come into my office? I need to talk to you.”
Mumbles erupted from the line of little glass cages down the hall, and minutes later a group of people trooped into Des’s office, bitching and moaning and complaining about New York, those stupid writers up there, mauled copy, fact checkers’ mistakes, dumb queries, and various other things.
Allison sat on the sofa and picked up a copy of The Weekly.
“Sonny, I hate to disturb you now that you’ve gotten so comfortable, but do you mind disappearing for a while so that we can have our secret and important conference unhindered by the ears of competition?”
“Who would I tell? Besides, by next Monday it will be all old news anyway.”
“Boo, hiss,” shouted the others as she turned and walked down the hall.
Des broke the news to the troops. He had decided how to head them off.
“Eat your hearts out, gang,” he began. “But I’m about to move out of the small time and into the fast lane.”
“Don’t tell me you’re moving to New York?” asked Milt in horror. “Not just when we’ve gotten accustomed to your face.”
“Not so fast, Milt,” he said. “Your shot at my job will come soon enough.”
“Des, you know that I am happy to serve you for as long as I am needed.”
“So what’s the fast lane, then?” asked Mary.
“The White House.”
“You’re going to run for President?”
“Christ, what a bunch of wise-asses. No, I’m going there for dinner tonight. Just me and Rog. I thought you great reporters might like to know about your chief’s access so you’ll be able to fend off your colleagues’ questions tomorrow when they want to know what went on.”
“What’s going on?” asked Mary. “Is it some big party? I don’t remember—”
“No, it’s just Allison and me. And Gordo is in seventh fucking heaven. He’s already getting out his dinner jacket in preparation for an invitation to the next White House dinner.”
They were mollified by his nonchalant attitude and his putting the brunt on Gordo.
“Now, it is obviously off the record, but we’ll no doubt talk about the White House staff, so if anybody has any thought on an approach, any specific questions, let me have it.”
Allison came back when his office was empty.
“Well?”
“I think the natives are mollified. I made it sound like a big joke and put it off on Gordo.”
“Well, it’s not going to be funny if we’re late. Can we go?”
“I guess so. But I’ve got to tell you I’m not totally comfortable with this.”
“Are you kidding? You wouldn’t miss it. You just have to go through this tormented soul-searching to ease your pure journalistic conscience.”
Des looked at her for a moment, deciding whether or not it was worth it to get mad. Finally he stood up, rolled down his shirt sleeves, buttoned his top button, straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair, put on his suit jacket, and motioned to her to go. As they walked through the door of his office, he reached down and goosed her.
* * *
They walked to the White House from Des’s office, a block away on Pennsylvania Avenue. They crossed Seventeenth Street in the dark and the swirling snowflakes and walked past the Executive Office Building to the West Wing gate. They showed their White House press passes to the guards, who buzzed them in through the metal gate. Then they walked up the slope toward the pressroom, turning just before they got there to the door of the business entrance. They didn’t want to go through the pressroom. At the lobby of the main entrance, a White House guard at the desk called to check on them; then a Secret Service agent appeared to lead them through a narrow hallway, through several passages, and into the glass-enclosed portico that led to the first-floor diplomatic entrance. They walked past the portraits of First Ladies to the elevator that would take them upstairs to the family quarters.
It was odd for both of them. Des had never been in the family quarters. Allison had been there several times, but each time she felt awed. They were standing in the hushed silence waiting for the elevator door to open. Des reached over and took her hand. It amused them that they both had sweaty palms. The White House, after all, was the White House, no matter how jaded one was about Washington.
When they got to the second floor and the door opened, the Secret Service agent excused himself and went back down. An elderly butler led them over to the sitting area at the west end of the long hall. Aunt Molly had decorated it in her own Western style. Everything was done in reds and yellows; there were Indian artifacts around and lots of family pictures. It wasn’t Allison’s taste, but it was as friendly and warmhearted as the Kimballs themselves.
Both Aunt Molly and Uncle Rog were sitting having a drink. Both stood up expectantly. Molly was wearing a long pale green wool caftan, and the President had on a turtleneck and a sports jacket. He looked pale and tired.
Allison walked over to Aunt Molly, kissed her on the cheek, then turned to Uncle Rog, who kissed her, then gave her a big bear hug.
“Hello, honey,” he said warmly. “Gosh, I’m glad to see you. You look wonderful.” Then to Des, “You must be taking good care of my girl.”
“Well, sir…” Des began.
“She’s obviously got her hooks into you. Don’t tell me she’s responsible for your being all dressed up tonight. God Almighty, you look like you’re going to a fancy dinner party. Here, take off your jacket and loosen your tie, and I’ll get you a sweater.”
“Oh, no, sir, this is fine….” Des was not his usual cool, confident self.
“The hell it is. We’re going to relax tonight. We’re just family. Here, I’ll go and get a sweater myself.”
With that the President disappeared into the bedroom next to the family sitting room and came back a moment later with a pale green crew-necked sweater. Des dutifully took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and pulled the sweater over his shirt.
“There—that’s better. Now I can relax. You looked like some goddamn journalist ready to get out your tape recorder the other way.”
“As a matter of fact, sir,” said Des, reaching for his pocket.
He was regaining his sense of humor, Allison was pleased to see.
“Oh, no, none of that,” said Kimball, laughing. “This is strictly off the record tonight—unless, of course, I say something brilliant, in which case I will instruct you to write it down. Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “what’ll it be? Allison honey, you want white wine, right?”
She nodded.
“Scotch neat will be fine, sir,” said Des.
“Actually, he drinks Irish whiskey, Uncle Roger, if there is any.”
“This is the goddamn White House. They have everything here. Ernest,” he said, turning to the butler, “surely there is Irish whiskey here, isn’t there?”
“Yes, sir, I believe there is, sir,” said Ernest as he turned to get the drinks.
“Sit down, sit down,” Uncle Roger said, motioning to Des. Allison was suddenly getting the feeling that Uncle Roger was playing the role of the father interviewing the prospective son-in-law. She hoped he didn’t carry it too far.
“Done all your Christmas shopping?” Uncle Roger asked Des.
God, next he’d be asking how much he made and was he going to be able to love, honor, and cherish.
“Well, we’re not having much of a Christmas this year,” piped up Aunt Molly. “I just couldn’t fight the crowds, being stared at and having umpteen Secret Service men trailing around behind me. I always used to get Roger socks and underwear to stuff in his stocking. But I just couldn’t see walking up to the counter at Garfinckel’s and saying, ‘I’d like ten pairs of underpants for the President, please.’ ”
“Aunt Molly, why didn’t you ask me? I would gladly have gone out and done some shopping for you.”
“Oh, Allison, you’re a darling, but I got one of the girls in my office to do it for me. Anyway, we’re leaving for Aspen tomorrow. That will be Christmas present enough.” With that she took a rather large gulp from her glass.
“Now, Molly, let’s not start with that,” warned Uncle Roger. “There’s no point in subjecting these two to your laments.”
“Well, why not? Who else am I going to talk to about it? Locked up here in this tower like Rapunzel, getting constantly criticized if I even cross my eyes, or worse, if I don’t, and watching my husband get crucified every day in the press, not to mention seeing his staff going at each other. All I said was, I’m glad we’re going to get away.”
“It must be tough as hell,” said Des, interested in keeping the conversation alive, though he could see that the President was getting irritated. “I don’t think any of us, even covering the White House, have any idea how little privacy you have and how hard it is to try to lead a normal life.”
“Normal?”
“Now, Molly, they’re not interested in our little problems.” There was a warning note in his voice. It fascinated Allison how she always managed to bring this out in them. When Allison was around, they turned into the Bickersons. It was almost as if they were competing for her approval. It was like watching one’s parents fight. It annoyed her that Des seemed intent on prodding Aunt Molly. She could see his eyes light up when Molly mentioned the staff. That was the kind of confirmation he needed for his cover story. She wondered whether this dinner had been a good idea after all.
“So, Desmond—I hope you don’t mind my calling you that.”
“Not at all, Mr. President.”
“Tell me about yourself. You’re from Boston, aren’t you? You used to work for The Boston Gazette. Tell me, do you like working for the magazines better than the newspapers?”
Des launched into a discussion of newspapers versus newsmagazines to be polite, though Allison could tell he didn’t have much enthusiasm for the subject, while she and Aunt Molly talked about what they were going to do in Aspen, whom they were going to see, and exchanged gossip about their friends out there.
It was shortly after eight when dinner was announced.
They moved into the family dining room to the left. Des had seen pictures of it, but it was prettier in reality. The wallpaper was murals of old battles, and the sideboard was a beautiful old American desk which had once belonged to Daniel Webster. Roger Kimball proudly pointed out the desk as one of his favorite pieces in the White House. The table was set for four, and candles were burning brightly. Bowls of consommé were served as they sat down, and Uncle Roger directed that the butler serve white or red wine to Des and Allison. Aunt Molly stayed with her Scotch.
“I know it isn’t chic, but I’ve never been much of a wine drinker,” she said. “I have to drink it when we go out to official functions or when we entertain. It would look terrible if I kept my Scotch with me at the table.”
“What are you boys planning for this week’s cover?” Kimball was trying to change the subject.
“We’re planning a cover, as a matter of fact, sir, on the White House staff. We’ve done a lot of interviewing and talked to many of the staffers over the
past few weeks. We thought it would make an interesting study.”
“What the hell,” said the President, obviously perturbed. “Nobody told me about it. And nobody’s tried to interview me on the subject. Why not?”
“You, sir?” Des seemed taken aback.
“Yes, me. I’m the President, as I recall. Wouldn’t I know more about the staff than anybody?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, we put in a request for an interview, but your press secretary turned us down. We always put in a request to interview you on all of these stories, but it’s rare we can get to you unless it’s some special year-end roundup or a cover on you personally, and even then it takes weeks, even months of arranging.”
“God damn, Molly, you see what I mean? Now, why wouldn’t Manolas tell me about these things? They think they’re protecting me from all of this and half the time they’re simply keeping me in the dark. I’d like to make up my own mind about these interviews. I ought to fire the lot of them, by God. Just get rid of the whole bunch. A little housecleaning. We’ve been here a year now. Maybe I’ll surprise the world and announce in my State of the Union Message that I’m getting rid of everybody.”
“If you’d listen to me every once in a while, these things wouldn’t come as such a shock to you, Roger,” said Molly a bit caustically.
“I have a good mind to get that press secretary on the phone right now.”
“Don’t, Uncle Roger,” said Allison quickly. “It will only cause trouble. Manolas knows we’re here tonight and it will look like we’re complaining about him behind his back. That won’t be helpful to us and he’ll spread the word around. Besides, he’s only trying to do his job.”
Kimball sat silently for a moment, then turned to Des.
“What time can you be here in the morning for an interview with me, young man?” he said. “It’s not too late for that, is it? I mean they won’t have put the magazine to bed yet or anything, will they?”
