by Sally Quinn
“Okay, Coach. Oh, good, here’s Jackson. We need to talk to him about the booze.”
Jackson came in in his white starched steward’s jacket and regulation black pants. He was rubbing the back of his head, a scowl on his face.
“What’s the matter, Jackson?” she asked. “As if I couldn’t guess. Don’t tell me. You hit your head on the ceiling above the stairs.” Sadie was trying not to laugh.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell you, I’ll be the happiest person alive when we get that new kitchen and we don’t have to traipse up and down those dollhouse stairs. They were made for Filipinos.”
“It won’t be long, Jackson. You’re terrific to put up with so much.” She really meant it, too. Jackson, for one thing, had agreed to move into the house from the Navy barracks. Before he had, there had been no staff living at the house, and the stewards had wanted to serve dinner at 6 P.M. so they could clean up and get out by eight. Since Sadie and Rosey never ate dinner until nine o’clock, this had caused serious problems. And Sadie hadn’t liked being in that big house all alone when Rosey was away, even though there were guards at the gate outside. It just seemed crazy. Jackson had volunteered before Rosey had had a chance to order anyone to do it. He was wonderful. Tall, balding, funny, a Southern renegade, Jackson had become indispensable to Sadie and to Tilda. He ran the house like a dream. Rosey loved him too, and his abilities had freed Tilda to do more restoration work and to travel with Sadie.
“I’ve had to order more booze for the official locker,” he said. “We were almost out. I had to borrow some the other night from your own personal liquor locker. And the Democratic Committee liquor locker is almost out too. We’re sure drinking a lot of liquor around here these days.”
“I’ll notify the office about the other two,” said Tilda. “But don’t forget to put some back in the personal locker. No point in having the Greys supply half the government with booze on their own dime.”
“Which china do you want for the party?” asked Jackson.
“What’s the least chipped?” asked Tilda.
“Let’s use the white-and-gold,” Sadie said. “I’m not crazy about the navy-and-gold with the Vice Presidential seal anyway, and the white will look prettier with the Christmas decorations. I don’t suppose there are enough goblets with the gold edge left.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Jackson. “They’ve most of ’em been taken as souvenirs. We’ll have to go with the new plain ones.”
“Can you imagine just stealing a glass out of the Vice President’s house? I mean, what kind of guest would do that? It’s just unthinkable,” sputtered Sadie.
“The air-conditioning people, that’s who,” responded Tilda, which sent the three of them off.
* * *
When the phone rang, Sadie opened her eyes and peered at the clock on the bedside table. It was exactly 10 A.M. Nobody made a social call before ten in Washington. She was sorry to note that the sound of the phone gave her a pain in her head, and it was clear as she became more fully awake that she had a hangover. She hadn’t intended to drink so much at the party, but it had been so festive she hadn’t been able to resist. The house really had looked marvelous. The English chintzes, bright colors, and pretty antiques she had added made it a dream. And of course, the decorations and the tree itself, with her beautiful Bavarian feather angels, tiny white lights, and the great big velvet angel on top, were splendid.
She had dimmed the lights, put candles everywhere, and had the fireplace blazing. A combo from the U.S. Marine Band had played Christmas carols, and everyone had joined in. John T. had gotten smashed and said it was the best time he’d ever had in his life. Rosey had followed Sadie around all evening removing glasses of white wine from her hand, but she had still managed to get a bit tipsy.
Sadie knew before Jackson buzzed her that it would be Lorraine on the phone.
“It’s Mrs. Hadley—don’t tell me,” she said as she groped for the phone, moaning over her hurting head. “Jackson, do we have any spaghetti left over from night before last? Good. Could you bring me some up on a tray, please. And could I have a Coke too. Thanks. I’ll take the call now.”
She pressed the button on the phone and picked up the receiver, propping herself up in bed. She plumped up the pillows around her, turned on the bedside light, and generally got herself comfortable for a long chat.
“Well?” she said.
“Darling, it was a triumph. An utter triumph. Best party of the year. I had a simply marvelous time. And so did Archie. Thank you for my seat. You do look after your old friends, don’t you? Now, admit it, aren’t you pleased? Oh, the house is simply to die. Darling, you’ve really done such a magnificent job decorating it. Now, who were those dreary air-conditioning people?”
An hour later, they were still hashing it over. “Could you believe,” asked Sadie, “that Claire would dare wear those knickers? I was shocked. She’s much too old for those things. With legs like that she should live in caftans. I was amused to see the way she fell all over the Saudi prince. Buttering him up so that Worth will take her on his next trip to Saudi Arabia, no doubt. She left dear Senator Corwin high and dry.”
By this time Sadie had finished her spaghetti and her Coke and had sent Jackson back downstairs for some tea.
“Now, Sadie, I couldn’t help but notice that the Secretary of the Treasury was not in evidence last night, though half the Cabinet was.”
“Rosey and I had a big argument about it. I told him if we didn’t invite Gower that everybody would notice. But he says that the President hasn’t decided whether to fire him or not, and Rosey didn’t want it to look like he was making a political statement. He felt if we invited Gower while he’s under investigation for stock fraud, it would look like a vote of confidence. I said I didn’t see how we could leave him out. Besides, I kind of feel sorry for him. I mean, they’ve just let him hang there dangling for the last two months.”
“Darling, the man is a crook. Everybody on Wall Street knows that. Roger Kimball should never have appointed him in the first place. But then, what Roger Kimball knows about the financial world you could put in your hat. I do agree that it’s perfectly ghastly that this investigation has dragged on so long. But it’s the President’s fault. Why doesn’t he just end it and keep him or fire him? Just another example of how badly managed the White House is, I’m sorry to say. Now, if your husband were the President, things would run on time.”
“Oh, stop, Lorraine. You know these conversations make me uncomfortable. I like Roger Kimball. I think he’s a decent, wonderful man. And I think he’s a good President. Obviously there are problems. But what administration doesn’t have problems? I blame the press. If they didn’t get onto a story and bleed it to death it wouldn’t end up being such a major incident.”
“Well, I certainly agree with you there, dearie, but don’t say I said so. I certainly wouldn’t want to alienate any of the little darlings.”
“But they’re always trying to find a fault, to find flaws in everyone. Do they ever look for anything nice? Good news isn’t news at all. Look at the way they’ve tried to make poor Molly Kimball into a staggering nitwit. She’s a bright, interested, active woman. She isn’t very chic, to be sure.…”
“Darling, let’s not overlook the tiny little drinking problem.…”
“Okay, so she likes a little nip now and then. She’s not the President of the United States. She didn’t put in for this.”
“My dear, I’ve never heard you so wound up on the subject of the press. Where did all this come from? You certainly don’t show it when you’re around them. You had half the Washington press corps there last night.”
“I don’t know, Lorraine. I’m sorry to launch a tirade. It’s just that it’s been building up in me. I haven’t ever really talked to anybody else about this. It’s not that I don’t like them personally. You know I do. Individually I like a lot of them very much. I think they’ve got too much power, and I don’t see any way to rectif
y it. I shouldn’t be talking about it. Let’s change the subject.”
“You know, just to continue this conversation for another moment,” said Lorraine, “I once asked Des Shaw about the power of the press, and about the arrogance of so many of the reporters we know. And he said that you have to compare the press with any other profession; there are some lousy journalists, some rotten reporters, some really dishonest, hypocritical, self-righteous people in journalism. Just as there are in politics, or medicine or law or business. But how on earth did we get on this heavy subject when we were right in the middle of a delicious gossip? I can’t think.”
Just the mention of Des’s name made her breath go short.
“Let’s talk about something else,” she said. “I’ve gotten myself all worked up and it’s not good for my hangover. Though I do feel better after the Coke and spaghetti. An old Southern trick.”
“Okay. Speaking of Des Shaw, where was he last night? Didn’t you invite him and Sonny?”
“As a matter of fact, I did not.” Sadie’s voice suddenly turned cool.
“Oh, Sadie. That’s so silly of you. I just don’t understand this. Why have you got such a scunner on Sonny? She’s such a darling girl. And Des—well, Des is the dreamiest man in all of Washington. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t have anything against Des. I think he’s quite nice, though I’m afraid I don’t see his charm the way you do.” She hoped she sounded convincing to Lorraine. “But Lorraine, I have to be honest with you. I’m really not crazy about Allison. Claire Elgin doesn’t like her either, and neither does Helene Corwin.”
“Yes, and they’re both so jealous of her they could spit. They all have sneakers for Des. But it’s too late. I have a suspicion that Des is going to propose to Sonny this Christmas. Just a hunch.”
Why did Sadie suddenly feel nauseated? The spaghetti and the hangover must have been too much of a combination. She didn’t feel like talking anymore.
“Listen, Lorraine, I’ve adored talking to you, but we’ve been on the phone for over an hour now and the kids are driving up from Richmond this morning. I’ve really got to get up and get dressed.”
“All right, dearie. I’ll talk to you later…. Oh, Sadie?”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t say anything to upset you, did I?”
“Not at all. What could possibly upset me?”
“Good. I was just worried, that’s all. Talk to you soon, lovie.”
“Goodbye, Lorraine.”
* * *
“Miss Landry is here from The Daily. She’s in the back sitting room.”
“Okay. Thanks, Jackson. Is Nan here from the office yet?”
“She should be here any minute.”
“Look, why don’t you offer her something to drink and tell her I’m on a telephone conference with the White House office or something.”
Jackson disappeared downstairs, and Sadie fiddled around with her makeup waiting for Nan to show up. She was probably late because of the snow. It had started just before noon and was coming down hard. Nice for a white Christmas, but not great for trying to get around. Washington stopped dead whenever there was the slightest bit of snow.
She decided to put on the same white cashmere sweater she had worn the day before but with a green Irish tweed skirt, a wide leather belt, and boots. It was simple enough and not too dressed-up. She couldn’t bear all those photographs of First Ladies and Second Ladies dressed for interviews as if they were going to church, as if they always dressed that way to sit around at home.
The phone buzzed. Nan had arrived and they were both waiting for her in the sitting room sipping orange juice.
She had had Jackson light the fire, and the sitting room looked beautiful, done mostly in greens and browns to pick up the green-and-red chintzes in the living room. It seemed made for Christmas with the greens, the poinsettias and cyclamen.
“Hi,” said Sadie in the bounciest voice she could summon. She didn’t want the reporter to notice that she was under the weather. If she just raised her voice, then her body would be uplifted as well, she hoped.
Nan looked at her somewhat in surprise.
Carol Landry stood up politely to shake hands. She was probably no more than about twenty-five, with pale brown hair, freckles, and a wide grin. She was trying to look in control but was obviously scared to death. This relaxed Sadie. She would be able to handle this. She had read the girl’s stories since she had begun writing less than a year before. She wrote perky little party stories and an occasional harmless profile. She’d done some stories on the National Trust for Historic Preservation which were fair but boring. Obviously none of the big guns wanted to do them. She had been assigned to this story because, on the advice of Nan, Sadie had approached her one evening when Carol was covering a party and told her that she had considered the paper’s request for an interview and had decided that if Carol wanted to do it she would be willing. Nan explained to Sadie that people are not allowed to pick and choose which reporters they want. But if they know that one of the tougher reporters is after an interview they can stall it and promise the interview to a lightweight. An editor would be reluctant to take the story away from whoever got it first.
It had worked. Nan had learned from the grapevine that everyone in the Living section had been furious when Landry came back with the interview. But Landry had made a case that she had been cultivating the Second Lady at these parties and had won her confidence. “Isn’t that why we cover parties?” Landry had asked. It had paid off. As Nan had predicted, nobody would take it away from her.
The only problem then was that Sadie was stuck with it. Nan had also suggested that she do it right before Christmas so the house would look wonderful. They could talk about the Christmas decorations, and people would be in a holiday spirit, not the usual vicious frame of mind that seemed to take over Washington in the spring and fall.
Nan had been right on all counts. So here she was now, face to face with this trembling creature, wondering why she had to do this sort of thing in the first place and wishing she could be upstairs in her bed with an ice pack. She also wished she hadn’t eaten the spaghetti.
“You don’t mind if I tape-record the conversation as well as take notes, do you?” said Landry, setting up her tape.
“I don’t suppose so—do I, Nan?”
“No, I’m here to act as your witness, God forbid,” said Nan, laughing.
Landry then took out her notebook and crossed her ankles in a very ladylike manner, leaning toward Sadie in a confidential way.
“Tell me,” she asked, then cleared her throat. “Excuse me, I guess I’m a little nervous. It’s just that I’ve admired you so and I hadn’t expected to get the interview.”
Sadie relaxed even more. This was going to be a piece of cake. Nan, however, raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“How do you like being the wife of the Vice President? Is it different from being a Governor’s wife?”
That one was easy enough.
“I like it very much. It’s fun and interesting. More than the job, though, the difference is living in Washington. Washington is the most fascinating place I have ever been. And so complicated. Just learning about the city and the people and how it works has occupied a great deal of my time.”
“What about Washington is it that you find so fascinating?”
“Would it be too much to say everything? I love the politics—the stakes are so much higher on a national level than they are on a state level. I love the different groups, the different power centers, the mix. You never go anywhere that you don’t see people from several areas—the diplomatic, the journalistic, the Congressional. It’s never boring.”
“When you say power centers, what do you mean? Do you think, as so many people have contended, that power is the motivating factor for most people in Washington? Who was it who said that power is the greatest aphrodisiac? Do you agree with that?”
“Well, of course, it does seem to
me that power has some motivating influence on some of the people in Washington.” She laughed. “To say the least.”
“Would you say that you are motivated by power?”
She hadn’t really noticed how the conversation had been veering, but Nan was by now sitting on the edge of her chair. “Certainly from Mrs. Grey’s point of view the office of the Vice Presidency has given her a greater platform on which to espouse the things she cares about. She is able to accomplish a lot more for the National Trust for Historic Preservation in this position than she would if she were the wife of a Richmond lawyer, or for that matter the wife of a Governor. Here in Washington she can get a national focus. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Grey?”
Nan was smiling, but through her teeth. Sadie might have said she was glaring. She pulled herself up. She had been too relaxed. Thank God Nan had insisted on sitting through the interview.
“Oh, yes, very definitely,” she said. “I can get people to pay attention to these projects that I’m interested in, these areas that we are trying to revitalize all over the country. We want people to focus on the active role of historic preservation and get away from the house-museum concept.”
She could tell that Carol Landry was not pleased with Nan’s intervention. She had been scribbling furiously as Sadie talked about power. Now she seemed less interested. Yet Nan had specifically told her they were to talk only of historic preservation. That had been agreed upon. Nan had been perched on the edge of her chair. Now she leaned back. Sadie knew her answer had been okay. Nan had told her to keep talking, to offer things rather than wait for the reporter to ask another question; that way she could keep her writing about preservation and not trying to get in a personal question. Landry had been pretty clever starting off on Washington like that. She would have to be more careful.
“You see,” continued Sadie before the reporter could get in another question, “in the last fifteen years or so historic preservation has moved from the concept of the historic shrine to inner-city rehabilitation.”
