Mrs. Nixon: A Novelist Imagines a Life

by Ann Beattie

  What should I say? Mr. Nixon is staring into his empty glass. Mrs. Nixon has stopped talking and seems to be mesmerized by the fire. Wasn’t there a line in one of Brautigan’s books, when someone says: “There is some of each of us in the fire”? Those titles! The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster. Not something the relatives would have read. Doesn’t my father-in-law like the short stories of Maupassant, though? Amazed he wouldn’t hate the guy because he’s French. Bet he’s not reading anything now unless it’s a transcript of a tape. And all those messages from Haldeman and Ehrlichman, keepers of the gate. What was the name of that dog who guarded the gates of hell? Cerberus. Maybe they should rename King Timahoe Cerberus. Never comes when he’s called, anyway—he’s too busy eating the pillows.

  Well, if the Nixons have a good, cheerful evening, that’ll cheer up Julie, as well. Is there anything I’m not thinking of that might amuse them, get their attention?

  Possibly: “Remember that Mimi kept buttons for Mr. Nixon’s campaign by my grandfather’s bedside in the hospital?”

  Or: “Remember the time we were campaigning in New Hampshire and Julie and I weren’t married yet, and they put me far away from her at the Holiday Inn, to make sure everything would be proper?” No: neither of the Nixons would smile about that, even now.

  Better: “Mr. Nixon, if you’d been Alger Hiss—impossible, I know, but just for the sake of argument—do you think you would have asked to appear to refute Whittaker Chambers’s accusations, or waited to be called? What I’m asking is whether there’s an advantage to going on the offensive, and how might that vary from situation to situation.” An interesting thought, but my mother-in-law wouldn’t say another word the rest of the evening.

  Best: “Another scotch, a little ice? Ginger ale? Let me see what Julie’s up to.”

  Or possibly: “Mrs. Nixon, I know what resolve you have, what optimism and energy. Do you think if you’d had a different background, you might sometimes see things as being more open-ended? Because your life didn’t exactly proceed by your being flexible, did it? It proceeded by doing what you had to do.” That’ll be the day, when I say that.

  Go with: “Another scotch?”

  The Death of Ivan Ilych

  Ivan Ilych has already died when Tolstoy’s story begins. We go back in time, and Ivan Ilych’s movement toward death is narrated. We see that he suffers, as does his family. If you replace the idea of dying with Richard Nixon’s misery about Watergate, you can almost make an exact substitution. Section VI of the story begins: “Ivan Ilych saw that he was dying, and he was in continual despair.” Read: “Richard Nixon knew that he could not put Watergate behind him, and he was in continual despair.” Tolstoy’s story continues: “In the depth of his heart he knew he was dying, but not only was he not accustomed to the thought, he simply did not and could not grasp it.” Substitute: “In the depth of his heart he knew he could not escape the results of his actions, but not only was he not accustomed to the thought, he simply did not and could not grasp it.” This is why—as the tapes reveal—Richard Nixon goes around and around, conjecturing, entertaining a frightening variety of thoughts, keeping farfetched and more cogent thoughts at bay, letting them come to the surface, acknowledging them only those times they seem to rise to the surface unexpectedly, like a drowned body. Tolstoy’s story continues: “The syllogism he had learnt from Kiesewetter’s Logic: ‘Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal,’ had always seemed to him correct as applied to Caius, but certainly not as applied to himself.”

  Correct, because we know our enemies are always trying to undercut us, tell lies, make every molehill into a mountain, because some have the time for that, while others have to lead the country. So let me ask you this: who’s the President and who’s some chump in a short story?

  Mrs. Nixon Joins the Final Official Photograph

  I said, “Oh, Ollie, we’re always glad to see you, but I don’t think we need any pictures now.”

  Dick refutes me. “Oh, come on, Ollie. Take a few shots.” Tricia gets up and suggests we link arms. We form a line, and Ollie takes his place in front of us. If I looked over my shoulder, I know Dick would be smiling, and, really, I couldn’t take that. Julie’s been in tears, I have. What happens if you’re a Rockette, and you have a cold? You go out there and take your position, that’s what. A bit of medicine to bolster you would make sense. But medicine or not, out you go—out we go, indeed! When have we not rushed ahead, in spite of any protests made to Dick?—and you smile the family smile, and you try to get through the seconds, the minutes, until the helicopter takes off, and if anyone wants to photograph that, which they no doubt will, they’ll see nothing but a machine, rising, flying, becoming smaller, disappearing. They’ll read a lot into that. Right now, though, our hearts are breaking. They’ve already broken. If it has to be done, it has to be done. Ollie’s been there for all of it, so of course he’s here for the final photograph of the Nixons in the White House. Then we must speak to the staff, of course. They did their best to serve proficiently and politely, but forget manners, forget politely, they really cared, they have to know it didn’t go unnoticed. We’re not the only ones under examination here, yet we’re the ones whose picture is being taken for posterity. Rose Mary hasn’t been asked to sit at her desk for a final picture. Haldeman and Ehrlichman are long gone—otherwise, they’d be standing with us. Julie’s at wit’s end, Dolly feels that she’s been drawn into a whirling tornado that might eventually put her down on safe territory, but right now she can’t go anywhere.

  The last picture needn’t be posed, a perfect reminder of what we looked like in positions we never took, as if we were a chorus line, or paper dolls. David could be consoling Julie, Eddie could be doing the same, drawing Dolly’s head into his chest, as if he were a barrier, and if she could not see beyond it, nothing would really be happening on the other side. The plane will transport us. California is there, earlier in time, young. California is young. And Dick: what is he thinking? That until the last, we have to be a united family, united for posterity, and also to act as the cross in front of the vampire, to ward off evil and repel anyone who wants to transgress against us, because we are the Nixons, like a lineup of suspects: that’s the person who said the war had to continue; he’s the one who explained to the nation what was best, and his wife, why isn’t she looking into the camera, why isn’t she trying harder? She became mute long ago, her younger daughter became the family spokesperson, the older one retreated, the husbands . . . they are the husbands. Yet I find myself yearning toward one of them, toward the possibility he represents. Maybe David or Eddie can change the way the picture will look, because if I step forward and see Dick in my peripheral vision, Dick will be smiling, seeming amused, in control . . . is there a chance Eddie could leap out of the picture, as he wants to, mess up the choreography, elicit a real expression from Dick? Who would have thought he’d bring in Ollie for this moment, as if it was just another day, as if Ollie would be here tomorrow for breakfast, and Dick could have him photograph Julie eating her muffin and David drinking his coffee? Dolly having her orange juice, Eddie having his boiled egg and toast? That would certainly surprise the nation: the Nixons, enjoying a last breakfast, still in the White House. From left to right—no political joke intended—Edward Cox (boiled egg; toast on the side); Mrs. Cox (orange juice only, thank you); David Eisenhower (English muffin; scrambled eggs; milk; coffee; tomato juice); Julie Nixon Eisenhower (coffee, as a prop); and me: I must be photographed with something, since a slender First Lady arouses suspicion, but who would be able to eat, at a time like this? Talk about my weight all you want, but answer me this: would you want to eat? And Dick: the full breakfast, starting with an English muffin, ending with a slice of melon and a lime wedge? Would he dare pick up the lime and let anyone see that his hand trembled? But tomorrow morning is a lifetime away, and what follows is farther away, still; La Casa Pacifica, California, the clock turned back—truly turned back; there are three m
ore hours in which to accomplish things, three hours more in which to avoid errors that might damn you for all time. What to do with all that luxurious time? He gave me a clock once and I loved it, but I didn’t know that every time it clicked, the future would become inevitable. We’re lingering on the edge of time, doing what’s expected, trying to make the best of things.

  Just a minute before the photograph, Manolo came in with the dogs, who wanted what they always wanted: fun; food; attention. So many times, dogs have been brought in to be the recipients of our love, but there are certain moments in which dogs are extraneous, and their presence might as well be arrows, or whatever signifies our end, including the pop of a flashbulb that might as well be an assassin’s bullet.

  Picture made, what happens? We escape the picture frame and do what, exactly? Wait inside the airplane cabin. How much longer until we get to the West Coast? How much longer before we can attempt to resurrect our lives? After the last photograph, how much can anything done for future generations matter? You can only hope Dolly and Julie will have normal lives, and not have to pose anymore. Their husbands—let’s be honest—are no help at all.

  People keep their own distinct space in a photograph. If they don’t, the photographer explains the necessity of standing this way or that, politely tucks a wisp of hair behind your ear, asks that you turn just a bit to the side. Then the photographer calls for another picture, just when everyone is self-conscious and anxious. A sincere smile is requested, one last time. Everyone matters in the lineup, ostensibly. Dick and I know otherwise.

  “The Dead” in New Jersey, 1990

  When the Nixons lived in New Jersey after his resignation, trick-or-treaters came to the door, and one Halloween someone stood there in a Nixon mask. Nixon had a face easily caricatured: the nose, in particular. The forehead, like something you’d rappel. The black, unctuously wavy hair. So there stood Nixon, facing a version of himself. This was a man who liked to try out possibilities verbally, posing hypothetical questions and answering himself seriously, playing solo devil’s advocate and sometimes deciding in favor of the devil, sometimes deciding for his own better angels, but most often calling it a draw and leaving open options in which paranoia could fester. Here, behind the mask, was a mass-produced version of someone famous enough to be recognizable, but also manufactured with editorial embellishment: Nixon as seen in a fun-house mirror.

  Imagine a holiday, an evening that held the possibility of providing a happy time, a yearly routine. That was Halloween at the Nixons’. A similar scenario also describes the early pages of James Joyce’s masterpiece, “The Dead.” But because it’s fiction, we anticipate that the story will be exceptional, which often makes us more prescient than the characters involved. The characters are always inside the situation, so their perspective is different; we, on the other hand, are always outside. We read on a literal level, and we also hover more knowledgeably, canny about context. If we read the sentences “It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan’s annual dance. Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friends of the family, the members of Julia’s choir, any of Kate’s pupils that were grown up enough and even some of Mary Jane’s pupils too. Never once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid style as long as anyone could remember . . . ,” we know instantly that we will be observing the evening that proves to be the exception.

  Richard Nixon, however, opened his door as someone whose expectations were not sensitized by having understood how fiction operates. He also opened it as the President and the ex-President, as a person who had many expectations, though those expectations were always limited—tempered—by what could so often prove problematic. He opened the door as an Old Guy—even in the White House, he had been called the Old Man behind his back. He opened the door as someone affluent, being called on by his affluent neighbors. As a corny fellow, but one unabashed: he liked to play old songs on the piano; he liked musicals; he liked—he really liked—Patton, which he watched in the White House screening room over and over. He liked formality, too. Uniforms for the White House staff. For the women of the house, dresses and skirts, not pants. He’d always felt tugged in two directions, thinking it advantageous to fit in and be one of the common people, but having a taste for good French wine, so that he’d arranged to have his personal bottle wrapped in a white napkin when poured, while the unsuspecting guests drank inferior wine. What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.

  He opened the door as someone not in the best health, shamed (but only if he admitted that), conflicted about celebrating—which meant including others—in his life of near solitude. “Well, Mr. President, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” the man in the mask said. Monica Crowley writes: “A few other visitors in the crowd sported Reagan and Bush masks, leading Nixon to remark that he had seen more American presidents that day than he had in his entire life.”

  We can believe that he did make this remark, but it’s difficult to believe that it’s the way the story ended, or that what happened had the same emotional effect on RN as it does for us. For that, we’d have to go to fiction, where the writer could either imagine the more immediate thoughts of RN or extend the moment, so something beyond the obvious setup would be revealed. In fiction, the reader would be more informed by knowing the thoughts of the person who put on the Nixon mask, or by Mrs. Nixon’s perceptions and reaction, than by RN’s. How many seconds elapsed before RN spoke? What was he thinking in that time? Was he aware of Mrs. Nixon, and if so, what did he think her thoughts might be? What were the thoughts of the little boy who accompanied his masked father? This is exactly the unexpected moment that always gets things going in fiction, and a perfect detail, as well, in that it’s both surprising and comprehensible: it’s Halloween. This moment could only sustain itself briefly, though, before becoming the pivot for the story to change and move in an unexpected direction.

  A fiction writer sees that this can’t be a self-sufficient anecdotal moment, like the caption to a New Yorker cartoon. Told as a funny story, it can package the moment, cuing us to admire RN’s quick repartee, but the fiction writer would have to rewrite the dialogue, for the verbal response is too clever, and therefore seems contrived (the writer’s problem, not a psychological problem of the person adept enough to return the volley). We become suspicious, for we’re asked to believe that the mask-wearing provocateur and a man who hated to be provoked patiently played their parts in sitcom time. This account all happens on the surface. Fiction lives in depth, layers coexisting with the spatial and temporal inevitability of an archaeological dig. Which is not to sound dutifully systematic, for fiction makes its escape when something original and informative, that seems slight, and therefore unorchestrated, blows past like a thistle, yet is later understood to have anchored itself with a taproot. Fiction may often try to mimic chronological time, but really it thrives on chronological liberty. As recounted, RN seeing the mask and RN making a clever comment happen in either real time or the conveniently speeded-up time of anecdote. The fiction writer would want to address slowed-down time.

  Seconds, when you are recording them, are long. Like a poet or musician, the writer fingers them jealously, holding them in reserve, unlike someone who thinks of a story as a joke of sorts, culminating in a punch line, so that time can be marched through, because the goal—the end—is clearly in sight. The fiction writer would insist that we stumble. That we look at the many facets of what’s happening. The idea is to make the reader not comfortable, but uncomfortable. When the reader is comfortable, he or she is essentially passive. To get the reader into the text, the reader has to be captivated or discombobulated. There are acting exercises in which the actor plays, for example, the roles of both the powerful and the powerless person. The actor doesn’t want to fall into stereotypes, though, so she can’t merely cringe when powerless, or continually bully as the powerful person. Of course, within each type we assume its opposite lies buried; we’re familiar with the cowardly bully. Ma
ny truths have to be hinted at, so it doesn’t seem the actor (or fiction writer) has merely come to a simplistic conclusion. How do you do that? It’s revealed about you, as opposed to emanating from you, if you’re a public figure. It will be recorded that you say “nucular” instead of “nuclear,” and that you have habitual gestures you’re unaware of, or that are interpreted differently than you intend. Public figures are easy, because they’re on display. You have to catch them in a private moment to really know something. To know Mrs. Nixon in her early days on the farm, and then as a college student in California, as someone on the campaign trail, in the White House, behind the walls of La Casa Pacifica, in New York City, and in Saddle River, N.J., would of course reveal different Mrs. Nixons. We’re all changed by time and context.

  So how, exactly, would you begin to tell a story about the wife of an ex-President, on Halloween night, both contextualizing her and also ready to be ambushed by her (the character simply, unexpectedly, says something the writer didn’t anticipate and doesn’t know what to do with), or else you have to ambush her—put her in a context in which she can’t immediately adapt, can’t get away with being her usual self—and in that way expose something meaningful.

  Let’s say it’s Halloween, and it’s understood that she’s a bit old-fashioned, a gentle creature who avoids the spotlight and who thinks the slightest thing (a few holiday decorations, or some special cookies) constitutes fun. Could you write the scene so that something in the mixing of the cookie batter prefigures what’s to come, although neither you as the writer nor she as a character knows what that thing is? What is ever better than a knock on the door (unless, as Raymond Carver said, it was the telephone ringing; once, a person calling the wrong number inadvertently informed Carver that what the story he was working on really needed was a character named Nelson), let alone on a night when this knocking would be expected, so you can play with expectations? You, as the writer, might not see the Nixon mask until the moment it’s there, in your story. If it is there, though, it won’t go away any more than it will in real life. It means to be there. Perhaps writers, like Pantheists, believe that everything has a soul. So the mask is suddenly a given, and we have to watch for Mrs. Nixon’s reaction. Does she see it first, and if so, can we see her expressing, or stifling, a reaction? Can RN be absent—not home, for whatever reason? Off bobbing for apples with Henry Kissinger? Should either of her daughters or their families be present? Probably she wouldn’t be doing this if she were alone. What if it’s one of the grandchildren, who becomes afraid of the masks before the Nixon mask pops up? Like any grandmother, she would be attuned to her grandchild, and it might have more impact if she saw it through the child’s perspective.