by Ann Beattie
“Dearest Heart,” he began again, but this time his attention drifted to a figure in the distance, coming nearer. It was his friend Bill, the brother of his beloved Harriet, and he suddenly realized Bill would be accompanying them, and his heart deflated. He had envisioned just the two of them on the bench, two stars alone in the night sky who would each take strength from the other’s burning bright.
Except that Bill was alone, and he veered to the right and took another path, striding purposefully in his blue suit, which became smaller and smaller until it seemed to meld into the sky. Lost in thought, Bill had just happened to be walking through the same park where Harriet had promised to meet Richard at half past noon. Bill disappeared, and some part of Richard felt ashamed that he had not greeted him. Earlier, he had thought of jumping up to greet two old ladies he didn’t even know, yet he had failed to call out to one of his dearest friends. Was this what it was to be in love? Preoccupied and jittery and thinking thoughts as jumbled as the tails of ribbons?
He looked at the flower on the bench, alarmed as if the swaddled flower, like a newborn baby, was a miraculous new being whose name he had forgotten. Probably she would know and say its name caressingly, just as she would speak his. He felt his heart skip a beat as he imagined her saying his name. He had already written the greeting. Though he wrote, “Dear,” he envisioned her as a deer, bashful until twilight, daring to reveal itself in order to find sustenance as light faded. Dearest Heart, he wrote. He continued: From the first days I knew you, you were destined to be a great lady—you have always had that extra something which takes people out of the mediocre class. And now, dear heart, I want to work with you towards the destiny you are bound to fulfill. He looked at the handwriting and admired the penmanship. It was almost as if he held a magic wand, the words had flowed so smoothly. There was no going back, no redoing the note, though he wondered if the second salutation of her as “dear heart” had been merely repetitive, making the greeting less emphatic. It was the only piece of stationery he’d taken. He dared not make a mistake. As I have told you many times—He stopped. That was wrong. He seemed to be hectoring her, she whom he intended to treat so gently, as if she, herself, were swaddled in wrapping paper. How to turn that aside? By including himself, of course, by assuming they were already together. He reread and continued, anticipating the dash that would add a note of quickness and brightness to the letter: As I have told you many times—living together will make us both grow—and by reason of it we shall realize our dreams. You are a great inspiration to me, and though you don’t believe it yet, I someday shall return some of the benefit you have conferred upon me.
It is our job (no going back, but a bad choice of words, as if the quotidian were tantamount!) . . . It is our job to go forth together and accomplish great ends and we shall do it too.
And, Dear One, through the years, whatever happens I shall always be with you—loving you more every hour and attempting to let you feel that love in your heart and life.
He blew gently on the ink, with so faint an exhale it might have been the stars’ own breath expelled. Such notes were not written every day! Had he said what he meant, with enough conviction that it would be persuasive, providing scaffolding for their climb to heaven?
Another figure approached, a sudden parade of familiar people! Good heavens, was everyone going to be in the park at this important moment? It was Belinda Hayes, but she did not see him any more than Bill had, her eyes cast down with an expression of infinite sadness. Her cheeks were invisible, her hair almost obscuring her face. She looked at the ground, rushing on in a way that made him suspect she must be crying.
He was so lost in thought, he did not see Harriet coming toward him on another path. He missed her approach, missed the opportunity to gather his thoughts, lost any last chance to decide that the letter he’d tucked so carefully in its envelope was inadequate and must be rewritten, presented later.
“You seem lost in thought,” she said, made melancholy by his own unexpected mood.
He stood awkwardly, fumbled for the flower, no doubt crushing some blossoms in his haste. The letter had fallen to the ground. This moment was happening too fast, yet was too slow to keep pace with his rapidly beating heart.
“I’ve missed you all summer long,” he said.
“And written me a letter to prove it’s true?” she asked coyly.
Her name was on the envelope. Harriet, written on the diagonal, as if the handwriting, itself, might lift off into space.
“You know,” she said, smiling dejectedly, as if their greeting had been only perfunctory, “this is the park where Belinda Hayes and I last saw poor Gilbert Middlemark, who died. We were just little girls, and she kissed him on the cheek because he was so handsome, and he lifted her to a bench and said what pretty apple-red cheeks she had. They fancied each other, though she was much too young to marry, and the next week he was in the hospital, he had the flu of 1919, and he never did come home. She comes to the park because she’s never forgotten him.”
“Belinda Hayes?” He frowned.
“Why, yes,” she said. “Do you know her?”
“She works at my office,” he said immediately. “She walked by just a moment ago, and she looked so sad, but when I said goodbye and left the office, she seemed to be fine.”
“If you’re in love with her, you have no chance,” Harriet said suddenly. “She says it’s written in the stars that one day she and Gilbert will be reunited, and until then she will belong to no one else.”
He saw, in Harriet’s eyes, a sadness that transcended her years. Might she, too, have an unrequited love? And if so, was there any chance that he might be fortunate enough to be the one she loved?
“Bill told me she often comes walking in the park,” Harriet said quietly. “Bill came to find her and try to lead her away from her sadness. He’s your best friend. You must know his feelings about Belinda.”
“But I don’t,” he said, for his thoughts had all been about his love, his yearning.
“How surprised you are,” she said, “as if the park belonged only to you! As if you were here to see things, but no one could see you. Isn’t that what a child thinks, hiding under the covers? If they hide, then Mama and DaDa can’t see them?”
“Do you mean you and Bill have often talked about Belinda, and that he’s known that I work with her every day, yet he never told me?”
From whatever harsh realities might he have been excluded? Harriet was looking at the flower, but he could tell that she was lost in sad thoughts, and she did not half see it. It could have been a pebble on the path, for all the interest she took. She was filled with compassion for both of them, for those who had already loved and lost something because of the intensity of that emotion, and in that moment he suspected that he might not know her at all, that her regret might be greater than that of Belinda, and her brother Bill. It was as if their sadness was her own.
“I wasn’t so surprised to run into him,” she said. “He knew where I was going today, because he overheard our call last night. And since he knows where he can often find the one he loves, there were two reasons to come to the park today, you see. When DaDa died, Bill made a solemn promise to look after me.”
“Why would he think he had to look after you, when you would be with his best friend?” he asked.
Her eyebrow arched, telling him she knew more than she was saying. Though she, herself, would never write a book, she read the pages of his own heart. She was just waiting for him to catch up with what she already knew, as women so often waited tolerantly for men.
He was about to reach for her hand, its skin the lovely white of moonbeams, and raise it delicately to his lips, when she said, still lost in thought about other would-be lovers, “I think sometimes it makes him so sad, he only sees her from afar and goes away. I think he hopes the next time will be different.”
A little breeze suddenly began to blow, and each watched as the envelope moved some distance in front of them. The
things he did not know, lost in his dreams! Belinda, who was so young and helpful in the office—to think that she was waiting for her life to end, so she could be reunited with her lost love. Bill was one of his best friends, it was because of Bill that he had come to know Harriet, but men did not often talk to men about secret loves. He had never until now known Bill’s secret. It came as a surprise to him that people could think things would change, that their life might change without even making a proclamation, without the power of their pen writing the most important words of their life. He took her hand, which she wordlessly extended, and its slight pressure kept him in place when the next breeze blew.
“Excuse me, does this letter belong to you?” said an elderly gentleman, strolling by, the tip of his cane planted on top of the envelope.
“Yes, I think it does,” she said, rising and going toward him, her hair blowing backward, her skirt billowing around her slender hips, her hand outstretched. “Thank you very much,” she said, delicately accepting the envelope with its delicate phrasing contained within, taking what she was handed ever so politely. He could only hope that, when she read it, she would say the same to the writer.
The story, written in the manner of F. Scott Fitzgerald, is fiction. The letter from Richard Nixon to his future wife is included as written.
Mrs. Nixon Reads “The Young Nixon” in Life, November 6, 1970
A beautiful winter day. A crow on the White House lawn, more birds in the trees. Sparrows, I think. Is there birdseed? Poor little creatures might need it, the ground’s so hard. This morning the branches were encased in ice. Now it’s sunny and wet and looks like a swell day, so of course my feathered friends are out pecking around. A great day for a walk, and maybe I’ll take one after responding to some letters and glancing at the magazines.
Just back from discussing dinner with the chef: beef, with one of the red Bordeaux Dick likes so much. Tea for me. Prince Philip’s dinner was a success, as were the midterm election returns. There’s some possibility Mamie may join us. I hope Julie can be made to understand the importance of continued Secret Service protection. Spoke to Bob Haldeman and Bob Taylor of Secret Service about her desire to be left alone. I hope they will come up with some compromise. It is so difficult to always be watched. I know that! On my own, so young, no one to give any advice most of the time, because of work, work, work. Now, I could whisper over my shoulder and three people would come running. I wanted to ask Prince Philip if it’s true the Queen carries an empty handbag because she has no need of anything. I’m sure there’s a Royal Handkerchief Carrier. It goes too far, really. The Prince has to walk several paces behind his own wife; I have to struggle to keep up with Dick most of the time, he walks so fast.
What a photograph of young Dick in Life: violin nestled under his chin, hair combed straight back, fourteen years old. Real musical talent, playing both violin and piano. Music is a thing that transports you. I must suggest to Julie that she listen to more music. That would be a way to “escape.”
Someone has written to me, asking what to do about living in a building where there’s never enough heat. I know just who to pass that along to, to get some action. Another letter had a poem written by an eighth grader on a typewriter whose keys were hit so hard they punctured the paper. Hey: that would make her the same age as Dick, on the cover of Life. You wonder how many people have talent that isn’t recognized right away. Or how many fritter it away. How unusual to have periods at the ends of the stanzas, when lovely poetry usually drifts into whiteness . . . a poem about me, as a “treasure.” Well, that’s pretty nice!
(Mrs. Nixon lights a cigarette, waves out the match. The burnt match rests on the rim of the ashtray.)
Wonderful information about Dick and his many talents. A mention of the play he appeared in based on the Aeneid, and the information that Ola Florence Welch acted opposite Dick. Well, I didn’t know him back then, so I’ve got no business being a bit jealous. She’s always telling the press that he was so conservative, while she was always a Democrat—implying she’s more enlightened. Well, bully! She looks like one of those F. Scott Fitzgerald flappers to me, one of those girls with not a bit of fluff to her hair, like she’s wearing a big waxed mustache on top of her head. No wonder he was attracted to that mane of hair I used to have. Now it’s cared for every week by my gal at Elizabeth Arden. Long hair isn’t appropriate once you’re past a certain age, but neatness always is. Ola likes to get her name in the papers. She’s reminisced about things longer than the time they spent together.
Look at that photograph of Frank and Hannah Nixon. Always the same old one. The boys so blond, so well dressed. Poor little Harold died, and then Arthur, though he’d not been born when the photograph was taken. What’s the expression? Not even a gleam in his father’s eye? You know, Frank and the oldest, Harold, seem to be looking at a different person than Hannah and Dick and baby Donald. It’s almost like two different pictures: the father and Harold in their dark suits in one, Hannah in her pale dress and her younger children in their white clothes in the other. Part of the family might have been watching the photographer, and the rest of them watching a cow or something. Everyone so serious and unsmiling. I guess it wouldn’t have been appropriate to be grinning. A photograph was expensive, and nothing to laugh about. I’d know Dick anywhere, because of those level eyes. To think he was once a little blond boy, standing at his mother’s side.
A pretty balanced article. Very informative about Dick’s early years. So many friends are mentioned. Now, there are really only a few. Bebe, and Bob Abplanalp, Murray Chotiner. Become famous, and you leave so many people behind. Even if you’re not famous, you do. Friends are for your youth, not so much for your adult years. Though without Helene, I’d die.
(Mrs. Nixon flips through the magazine, settles on Letters to the Editors.)
I missed the magazine with the piece Clare Luce wrote on that Ibsen play. Look how excited she got one reader! “Sirs: I was just about to scrub the bathroom floor when I noticed Clare Boothe Luce’s article, ‘A Doll’s House, 1970’ (Oct. 16). I became so engrossed I decided the floor and all the other chores could wait—maybe forever. Viva la Luce!—Anastasia Kelly, Forest Hills, N.Y.” She probably still has to scrub her floor, but she wants her moment in the limelight, claiming to be a women’s libber. Who’d name their child Anastasia, after what happened in Russia? I wouldn’t name my daughter Emma, after Madame Bovary. Or Zelda, after that poor woman who went crazy. Anastasia! You wonder what they’re thinking of.
And another letter: “Sirs: So Nora is leaving Thaw to find fulfillment as a woman—the new cop-out for the over-30 set. In my short-lived career (before marriage), I had important ‘work of the world’ to do, I dined at elegant restaurants daily. It is an empty world. Give me a peanut butter sandwich with my kids any day.—Patricia Gallagher, Fremont, Calif.” Well, I do agree, but why can’t both things be important, work and children? What “important work of the world” do you think our Miss Gallagher did? Was she a lawyer? A banker? She wasn’t a pioneering photographer like that talented gal who’s really made it in a man’s world, Berenice Abbott, that’s for sure! I don’t see why it has to be a choice between peanut butter sandwiches, which I never made, or fine dining. You can make a lovely meal in your home, for very little money, and please the children, too. If you’re a mother, that’s what you’re supposed to think about. I still do, though I’m lucky to have so much of the deciding delegated to someone else these days. What if I said, “Either I’m a mother or I’m the wife of the President of the United States”? Would someone insist I choose? Patricia Gallagher might realize it’s not always easy to have what some would consider a privileged position. I’m happy for her that she thinks she’s made the right decision, though. Better that than being in an endless quandary. So many people remain indecisive. There are those who see Dick as being a bit that way, but I see it differently. He weighs the pros and cons because he’s responsible, not because he can’t make a decision. He has
such important matters to think about. In a way, everyone on Earth has important things to think about, but more of the weight of the world rests on Dick’s shoulders. He’s thinking for a lot of people—for the good of a lot of people—not just about what he thinks is best. I’m glad he doesn’t strut around like Bob Haldeman, who’s never in doubt about anything. I’d hate to be married to a man like that. I don’t envy Mrs. Haldeman. He’s fiercely loyal to Dick, and I approve of that, but he tries to intimidate people, and I don’t have any respect for such behavior. You can always take a few moments to explain something, if you’re so sure you’re right. What if I acted that way toward Julie? She’s young, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and by golly, she married young, but right from the first, she was more sure than I was that she’d found the one for her in David Eisenhower. My Julie’s a girl with pluck, and I admire a bit of pluck. Take any advantage you have and make the best of it, I say. Of course, I wouldn’t want to seem to be cheering her on too much, as though she needed a pep team! She’s smart and kind, and she’ll do just fine, even if she might be annoyed at those Secret Service fellows doing their job, following her everywhere. Why, sometimes with Dick, in the early days, it was like he was the Secret Service, following me—or wanting to—everywhere I went.
(Lights second cigarette from the package of Larks.)
And here’s a man with a lot of spunk. “Sirs: After reading ‘A Doll’s House, 1970’ I feel for the first time that I understand what all those Women’s Lib types have been getting at. Yes indeed. For a woman, Clare is a real fine writer.” Well, she is a “real fine writer,” and I know you’re being witty, mister, but you know, maybe it’s time to stop kidding around and listen. The same way the Nixons wanted to have a dignified photograph for posterity, maybe letter writing is wrong when it’s dashed off instead of thought about carefully. You have to listen to that other voice inside your head that asks you a question, or that makes you feel uneasy, as if what you’re saying might not be true.
