“He hates ‘God bless you,’ ” said Feeley. “We’ll end it here with the bit about how the dream doesn’t die but goes on flapping in the wind.”
“Flapping?” said Petrossian. “Where does it say flapping?”
“Waving. Whatever. This isn’t a fund-raiser, we can afford to leave God out of it.”
I interjected that it was cavalier to discuss God this way.
“Shut up, Herb,” said Feeley.
Beller said, “I want this out. Where it says, ‘The good that men do is often voted out of office with them.’ It stinks and I don’t get it.”
“I don’t get it either.”
“It’s gone.”
Petrossian said the President had put it in himself.
“It’s still gone.”
I added: “Maybe he should say something about the Virgin Islands.”
“We can’t mention everyone who voted for him.”
“Why not?” said Sig. “It would only take a paragraph.”
“Can we finish this, please? Can we just finish?”
“ABC wants to know why we haven’t gone down yet. They say the Bush people are calling us ungracious for not conceding.”
“Tell them we’re in the bathroom passing a kidney stone.”
Just before eight o’clock we were about to go down. There was a kafuffle at the door. It opened and in walked the First Lady.”
I personally was delighted. But there were others on the staff, notably Bamford Lleland IV, who were resentful of her for having accepted Mr. Weinberg’s offer.
The President’s marital situation during the campaign—rather, the lack of one—has been dragged through the mud of at least a half-dozen White House memoirs, and I do not propose to do the same here. But there she was, stunning in red fox and black leather pants. She had flown in from location to be with him in his hour of defeat. I have always said that Jessica Tucker was a woman of character.
If anyone of the senior staff had any doubts as to whether or not the President and she still loved each other, they were dispelled moments after she walked through the door when they embraced. Frankly, I was worried that they might fall to the floor, they were so demonstrative. I immediately shooed people out of the suite so they could have a moment of privacy before going down to face the cameras.
After ten minutes had gone by, they still had not emerged from the presidential suite. By now Sig and the others were frantic, saying that we had to concede or it would look really terrible. So I knocked. And knocked. And knocked. Finally I was prevailed upon to open the door, which I did, only to find it chained.
It was a good forty-five minutes before the President and First Lady appeared. I must say that he looked more refreshed than he had in months, and the First Lady, but for a hair or two out of place, looked radiant.
EPILOGUE
We promised George Bush the best transition in the history of transitions, and I believe we made good on that promise. The President put me in charge of it. He also took the extremely unusual step of publicly firing Bamford Lleland IV shortly after the election. I would be dishonest if I said I regretted his departure. To judge from the vindictive tone of his memoir, he seems to have found the experience quite humiliating. I cannot say that I blame him.
As I look back on that postscript to my four years at the White House, the thing I most often remember was a little ceremony that to this day has remained a secret.
Two days after that last Christmas in the White House, Theodore died. The First Hamster succumbed to something called “wet tail,” a disorder, I believe, of the lower GI. Firecracker had stayed up with Theodore all through the night. In the morning the First Lady came in and found them. Firecracker was standing at attention, saluting. On the ground, covered with a small American flag, was Theodore.
Firecracker was incensed when later in the morning his mother suggested it was time to flush Theodore down the toilet. He asked me to take charge of the funeral arrangements.
So, early on a cold, crisp morning in December, the seven-man Army Honor Guard arrived from Fort Meyer. In honor of his special contribution to the Tucker Presidency, Theodore was laid to his final rest to the accompaniment of a nineteen-gun salute. The President himself gave the eulogy. It was one of his better efforts, in fact; an oration, as Charlie would say, not a speech. I am told that the little marker is still there, beneath the American Elm planted by John Quincy Adams.
As for me, I had always expected to return to Boise, but such was not to be.
Old man Skruem passed away in December; Skruem fils came in. He was one of the new breed of CPAs, and a bit too flashy for my money. So when it became apparent that my old job at the firm was no longer open, Joan and I had a heart-to-heart talk. The children had made friends at school—though not the best kind, perhaps—and Joan had made close friends within her church social group. We decided to stay on in Washington.
Quite a few firms in town tried to “headhunt” me, dangling large salaries and perks in front of me. But after you’ve worked at the White House, you become a bit blasé, as the French say. After taking my time looking around, I accepted a high-level position with the National Association of Part-Time Railroad Employees. With the extra money I took Joan on a two-week cruise of the Caribbean, which she greatly enjoyed, despite a slight case of sun poisoning. (She has always been sensitive to sun.)
It was for her, in the end, that I wrote this book. After all poor Joan had been through, I couldn’t ask her just to turn a blind eye as all these mendacious tomes climbed the best-seller lists and tongues wagged at the checkout line. As for those who have yet to publish their memoirs of the Tucker years, let them write what they will about Herbert Wadlough. Only the Good Lord and your tailor know your true measure, as Father used to say.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to a number of people. My wife, Joan, typed and retyped the manuscript, kept me supplied with endless cups of hot water, and urged me to go on when I would have faltered. My personal physician, Dr. Robert Ascheim, was also a great consolation.
I would also like to thank Martha Brown, Andrea Nash, Catherine Smythe, and Julia Woody of the TNT Library in Boise. I should also thank Christopher Buckley, who rendered editorial assistance in the preparation of the manuscript.
Finally, I would like to thank former President Thomas Nelson Tucker and Jessica Heath Tucker for giving me a unique opportunity of serving them during a difficult period in this nation’s history.
The White House Mess Page 24
