She’d been carrying the notes from her talk with Kitty about the drugs ... she’d had the notes, for weeks, in her purse. And she’d told herself: first reporter who asks ... gets this story, gets it all.
So she had to get the green light from Michael. Without it, she was going to lose her new job, or her fondest idea of herself.
“Governor,” she said, “this could be terrible if it comes out any other way. It’s a lot better for Kitty, if we do it now ... it’s the only way to keep control of the story, if we do it right ... do a full press conference. Then it’s over ...”
Michael was already shaking his head. His wife’s problems? No one had proved to him they had any bearing on the office he sought.
Pat tried to explain: it wasn’t about the job, it was about the campaign, the pack on the plane. If this dribbled out uncontrolled, then BOOM, everything would go nuclear. “Governor, you don’t know how bad this can be ...”
But it was always a mistake to tell Michael he didn’t know. She should have realized that, should have figured. ... She was asking him to throw his wife—his bride!—to the pack. Not even asking—telling!
“Look,” he said, in his laying-down-the-law voice. “If Kitty wants to share her ... experience, that’s fine. I think you know, I’m the kinda guy ...”
He didn’t have to finish that thought ... Michael, the great allower. “But I wanna make sure no one thinks the campaign, this campaign, requires her to do it ... because it doesn’t.”
You could just about hear his feet digging in, under the kitchen table. So Sasso said quietly, “Mike, you have to do it.”
“Well,” Michael said, “well ... it’s not gonna be a press conference.”
At that point, they could almost see the ugly vision behind his eyes: Kitty being grilled by the pack on her woes. Twenty-five years he’d taken care of Kitty. She was high-strung, emotional ... they didn’t understand. ... No one was going to put his wife through that.
“... maybe the speech, at the drug event ...”
Pat and John were already planning. There was a drug event for Kitty on the schedule. She could put her confession into the speech. No questions—not at that event, anyway.
Sasso had his eyes on Michael. Poor bastard didn’t need this, didn’t deserve ... John said quietly, with sadness, like it was just the two of them: “No choice, Mike.”
And Michael said to John: “I don’t think she can do it.”
Kitty said: “Michael! I can do it.”
Michael turned to her, said nothing, just looked, with his dark, sad eyes ... then got up. He went around the table, stopped behind Kitty, and, hand on her shoulder, slowly, delicately, lowered his face to hers—put his cheek next to her cheek. Just a touch—faces together, Michael’s eyes were down. “Babe ...”
It was almost too soft for anyone else to hear. “Babe ... I just don’t know if you can handle it.”
And Kitty’s throaty voice was as soft as his.
“I can, Michael ... I know I can.”
29
1964
GEORGE BUSH WAS STILL in Midland, in the big house on Sentinel, the last of George and Bar’s homes in West Texas, when he first mentioned to a friend what he meant to do with his life.
It was George and C. Fred Chambers in the kitchen ... the kids and wives were at the pool ... no one else in the house that day. Bush said: “You ever had any sake?”
“No, let’s try it,” Chambers said. “Looks like a warm beer can to me.”
“Well, that’s how you drink it, I guess.”
So they popped open this rice wine, and started feeling warm, pretty good ... sitting at the kitchen table, talking oil, like they always did—Bush and Chambers were in deals together—when Bush said: “Fred, what do you wanna do? ... I mean, for the rest of your life.”
“Well, I’m here ...” Fred said. “Oil bidness, I guess ...”
Tell the truth, it caught him off guard. He never expected the question, not from Bush. He always figured George was like him—like everybody—just meant to hit the biggest field ever ... pile it up ... find the next one.
“You know what I think,” Bush said. That wasn’t a question. “I think I want to be in politics, serving, you know, public office.”
Fred took that in, nodded: “Well, I think that’s great,” he said. “I thought of being a teacher or something, where you do something for people ...”
But Fred could tell, as he said it, Bush wasn’t just thinking about it. Bush had thought. Fred didn’t ask him how, or when ... it just seemed settled. Bush’d do it, somehow. Fred didn’t have to ask him why. He knew why. George had always felt that way about his dad.
Prescott Bush had the old-fashioned idea that a man who’d been blessed had a duty to serve. He’d always had public office somewhere in his mind. But what Pres saw was the service, the office. He did not take easily or quickly to the politics required to get there.
He first considered a run for Congress in ’46, while Poppy was at Yale ... but his partners at Brown Brothers Harriman took a dim view of the crowded House chamber. “Well, Pres,” one of the Harrimans said, “if it were the Senate, we’d surely back you ... but the House? We need you here more than the House needs you.” And that was the end of that notion: there were no disputes among partners in the Brown Brothers’ paneled boardroom.
So it wasn’t till 1950 that he filed for office, and then for the Senate, and he ran nose to nose with a Democrat incumbent. But the Sunday before the vote, Drew Pearson predicted on his network radio show that Prescott Bush would lose the Connecticut Senate race ... because it had just been revealed that Bush was president of the Birth Control League. Well, it didn’t happen to be true, but more than half the voters in Connecticut were Catholics (state law actually prohibited the use of contraceptives), and Pres was denounced at every mass—it must have cost him ten thousand votes ... anyway, just enough votes: he lost by eleven hundred, and his dream of service in the nation’s best club was dashed. Two years later, he filed for the Senate again, but this time he narrowly lost the nomination to an upstate businessman named Bill Purtell, and Pres had to give up his dream: he’d run twice, he’d lost. He was finished.
But then—a Great and Godly Good stroke of fortune, or rather several, a Blessed Confluence: that same June, 1952, the senior Senator, Brien McMahon, died in office. Pres was handed the nomination ... he had to campaign only two months in a special election ... and, in the Eisenhower landslide, he beat young Congressman Abe Ribicoff by almost thirty thousand votes. At last, he would take up residence and the duties of a statesman in Washington. Moreover, as he’d won a special election, to replace a Senator deceased, he could take up his duties the day after the vote: he did not have to wait for the new Congress (unlike Purtell, who had knocked Pres out of the regular election), and became, instantly, the senior Senator from Connecticut, a man of standing in the Capitol.
In fact, by Blessed Confluence, Prescott Bush found life in the capital almost unimaginably congenial. There was the fact that he’d backed the Eisenhower wing in the late Republican political wars, and so found friends in the White House—like Sherman Adams, the President’s right-hand man. Then, too, Pres was one of the few golfers among GOP Senators—surely, the best golfer—and so he was often Ike’s playing partner: that was most congenial. And then, too, Pres had been friends forever with Bob Taft—met him years ago, as sons of good family will, in Cincinnati (served on Yale’s board with him, since ’44)—and as the GOP had taken back the Senate in Ike’s landslide, well, Pres’s friend Bob Taft was the Leader of the Senate. And it did not hurt that Taft’s son, Bill, was a professor at Yale in those years, and so a constituent of Pres Bush, and when Bill Taft decided he’d like to be Ambassador to Ireland, it was Pres Bush who called his friend Sherm Adams, and pushed the nomination through the White House. And surely that was easier because Foster Dulles, at State, was a friend (lawyer to Brown Brothers Harriman, for quite a while) ... as were the men at Treasury
, and Commerce, of course—men of business whom Pres had known for years, and very congenial fellows all. And when there was friction between the Republican Senate and the Eisenhower administration (a good deal of friction—Ike was not really a pol, and notwithstanding his golf, not really a clubable man), it was Pres who hosted a dinner at the Burning Tree Country Club, to get all the fellows together—brought a wonderful quartet down from Yale to sing (Ike never forgot that, nor that Pres’s son Johnny sang bass)—and things went along much better after that.
In all, it was a splendid time for a gentleman of business and grand personal qualities to serve in the Senate. And though he did not leave a long list of laws that bore his name, Pres was welcomed in the capital’s councils of power, to have a look (perhaps a quiet word, here and there) on the most important and interesting matters in the Eisenhower years. He was such a sure-footed man, so impressive, so steady in his personal code ... that people listened to Pres, though he was new in the Senate. He was a good ally—his word was his bond—and a good friend: they all noticed that. When Sherman Adams ran into such trouble with that Goldfine, and the vicuna coat ... well, for a while, Pres and Dottie were the only ones who’d still have Adams to dinner. Pres took a leading role in the censure of Senator Joseph McCarthy—alas, that fellow did step over the line ... but when McCarthy fell sick, in 1955, Pres was the last (maybe the only) member of the Senate to stop by the hospital and wish Joe well.
In general, Pres took to the job with grace, and assiduity. He traveled the world for a blue-ribbon commission for international trade. Later, as a member of the Armed Services Committee, he’d descend in a small plane onto the deck of some U.S. carrier, where he’d spend a few days with the officers, at sea. That was always most interesting. Meanwhile, each week, from the Senate studio, he’d make a TV broadcast for distribution in his state. (As a banker, in the thirties, Pres had helped launch CBS, and his friends there, Bill Paley and Frank Stanton, counseled him to do all the TV he could.) At the same time, he was a stickler for responding, personally, to every letter or telegram. Most weeks, he’d sign a thousand letters. He acknowledged every invitation, every contribution. His office worked six days a week, and Pres did, too. He spoke at a hundred public schools in the state, kept in touch with town officials, state officials, labor unions, the insurance companies of Hartford, the manufacturers of Bridgeport ... he meant to show that they were his interest, that he was, as he put it, “a lift-up and bear-down sort of Senator.” And though he had a bitter reelection campaign against the well-known Thomas Dodd, Pres made splendid use of TV—he was quite good with that camera now—and won by the largest plurality ever attained in Connecticut.
After that ... and after 1960, when things did not quite work out for Dick Nixon ... well, Pres wondered, as every Senator must, how he’d do, how he’d feel, at the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue. Yes, the thought occurred ... he’d been around the White House quite a bit, what with the pleasant friendship he’d had with Ike. It did not seem oversized, or strange ... and there was no clear standard-bearer for the Party, not from the mainstream, anyway. Yes, the thought occurred ...
But things did not work out that way. Pres’s own health was shaky, his doctors were quite firm about slowing him down. He would be sixty-seven when he’d have to run for reelection. And even Dottie, he knew—though she’d never say a word—was dreading the effort to come. Well, he had to take stock, and he did. He came to a firm decision: he would retire. He just could not drag Dottie through another campaign. Maybe if his health were better ... maybe, if Kennedy hadn’t beat Nixon by a hundred thousand votes in Connecticut ... maybe, if Abe Ribicolf meant to stay, content, in the Governor’s chair ... maybe, if Pres had begun his own service as a younger man—well, surely ... but no.
And so, with regret (with a stoic sorrow that would only grow, as his health improved), Senator Bush announced he was stepping down. He removed his name from consideration. That was the end of politics for him—an end, he was convinced, that came too soon. And that was 1962.
It was that spring, ’62, when Houston’s Party leaders came to Bush’s house for lunch. Oh, they were in an awful bind.
The GOP was growing in Houston—in fact, it was on the rise all over Texas. (They’d even elected a Senator in ’61, when LBJ had to give up his seat to assume the Vice Presidency. They got that runty professor, John Tower—a couple of Party leaders held him down on a table and shaved off his little Hitler mustache—and sent him out as a single-shot Republican against a field of about seventy Democrats ... and he won!)
But the problem was how the Party was growing. The GOP had papered the state with its new slogan, “Conservatives Unite!” Of course, no one dreamed what that might mean. They had pried the right wing loose from the Democrats. The Party meetings were bigger than ever, but those new Republican voters—they were extreme, on the fringe, they were ... well, they were Birchers!
These ... these nuts! They were coming out of the woodwork! (Actually, they came out of a couple of fringy churches in the working-class suburb of Pasadena.) These people talked about blowing up the UN, about armed revolt against the income tax. They had their guns loaded at home, in case commies should appear that night. ... Well, you can imagine how upsetting it was to decent Republicans—that is, to the lime-green pants crowd, who’d organized the GOP in Texas about the same time they’d founded their country clubs.
In fact, in the last Party convention, in Houston, right there in Harris County, it was everything decent folk could do just to hold on to the leadership. Jimmy Bertron was their candidate for County Chairman—such a fine young man!—the man who’d shaved John Tower and steered him to the Senate. But the Birchers poured in, they were packing the place! (Bob Crouch, one of the old-line faithful, had to head over to the black side of town, “to round up some Toms” ... at least they’d vote right.)
Well, it was a bitter fight to the end. But when all the ballots were counted, Bertron held on—by sixteen votes! ... Landslide Bertron!
The Party was saved!
But not for long. Now, in ’62, Jimmy Bertron wanted to move to Florida. In fact, he was leaving, and leaving the chair ... the Party was up for grabs again.
That’s why they came to George Bush.
“George, you’ve got to help us! You’ve got to run for chairman!”
Well, wasn’t it great, how it worked out?
Actually, Bush had his hands full—business, and all. Not that he was making a prophet of Fred Chambers, trying to pile it up ... no, he was not that way. That was more his old partner’s style—Hugh Liedtke—now, there was a man who gave new meaning to the verb “amass.”
That’s really why they’d split up—Hugh and George divvied up Zapata in 1958. See, Hugh was all for acquisition, corporate takeovers, buying production. He liked business. But George, he was more for the hunt, the future, the cutting edge, exploration. He liked the oil game. In effect, they split the company in half, and Hugh kept Zapata’s land operations, and George took over Zapata Off-Shore, which was a subsidiary they’d created to drill for oil under the ocean bed. That was the future, according to Bush.
(Of course, he was dead wrong. Oh, offshore went fine—grew into a giant industry—that part was true. But the future, turned out, lay with the corporate takeover boys, and with Liedtke, who soon acquired South Penn Oil, and turned that into Pennzoil, and—well, it was just a pity that Uncle Herbie and his money men went with Poppy on that split.)
Anyway, it was the offshore business that carried Bush to Houston—and it wasn’t any life of leisure. By 1962, Bush had four rigs to drill on the seabed; each cost several million dollars, and each had to keep working. He had more than two hundred people on his payroll, maybe ten times as many shareholders to consider. He had farm-outs of ocean-floor leases from the majors, he had contracts to drill, schedules to keep; he had business possibilities everywhere in the world there was oil under water. He had insurance, he had accountants, he had lawyers, bankers—he had de
bt. He had storms at sea that threatened his equipment ... he had five kids who had to get educations ... he had an ulcer.
So he looked at those Houston Republicans who came to lunch, at those desperate souls who wanted him for County Chairman, and he said:
“Well, Jeez, sure! I mean, if you want ...”
Well, after that, the pace of the Party picked up—everyone could feel it. The big difference was, the chairman worked: out every night, somewhere in the county, trying to find Republican election judges, or trying to find black precinct captains. No Republican chairman had ever been seen in the black precincts. They were thirty-to-one for the Democrats. But Bush wouldn’t give up. He’d stand on some broken-down front porch, talking up the two-party system, how that was good and right for the country ... until people inside either signed up or told him to get lost. Come Election Day, a lot of those captains would just take the money, stick it in their pockets ... but George had them on the lists that he updated each week.
Most nights, he’d stop at headquarters, and the place seemed to swell with enthusiasm. Sometimes, Barbara would come, too—she’d stuff envelopes with the lady volunteers—but more often, it was only George. Aleene Smith, Party secretary, would have everything ready on his desk. George would read and sign the letters, sign the checks, write his memos, and clear the desk before he went home.
HQ was a dump on Audley Street, but Bush soon moved it to better quarters, a nice old house on Waugh Drive, near Allen Parkway. (Of course, people said he picked the place because it was on his way home from his office atop the Houston Club—but that’s just how people are.) The house was perfect—volunteers had tables in the living room, the committee could meet on the side porch, or in the dining room. George put his office upstairs, in the front bedroom, and he fixed it up fine. He got the money from the first Neighbor to Neighbor Fund Drive—the kind of thing he used to do for the Midland Red Cross, a civic exercise. He got some local business friends to donate computer time, and he made lists of all the Republicans in the county. Then the precinct chairmen got the lists, just like they would for an election—but this time, for quarters and dollar bills. They raised more than ninety thousand dollars, probably double what the Party ever had. Then he used some of that money to support the campaign of Bill Elliot, who became the first City Councilman ever elected by the GOP—and that put more fire into the troops.
What It Takes Page 63
