Loving Eleanor

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

On the second day, I managed to write the full note. Madam, dinner tonight, my apartment? 10 Mitchell Place, 2E, off 1st & 49th. I passed it to her and watched her unfold it and read it. She looked up, searched for me, and when she saw me, nodded and smiled. It seemed to me almost an eager smile, and my heart rang, like an answering bell.

  Between covering her three events that day and rushing to the AP office to type my stories and get them on the wire, there wasn’t time to cook, so I picked up egg rolls and sesame chicken and rice at a little Chinese restaurant on Forty-Ninth. At home, I scurried around cleaning up, then lit candles and put on a recording of Gieseking playing Debussy. It was just beginning to rain by the time she got there, bringing pink roses and wearing a fur wrap and an elegant maroon evening gown with pearls, a silvery glint of mist in her hair. I caught the faint, drifting scent of lilies of the valley when I took her hand. Prinz greeted her with a deferential restraint and thumped his tail on the floor as Madam turned in a circle, hands clasped, looking around the apartment, at the modest collection of modern art on the walls and the lights on the river below.

  “Oh, Hick, this is a delight! A view of the river, and so quiet and private. It’s perfect. How I envy you, having it all to yourself. And Prinz, of course.” she added, bending to stroke his ears.

  It’s perfect now that you’re here, I thought. “You have Val-Kill,” I reminded her, putting the roses in a crystal vase on the table. “It’s beautiful. And private, too.”

  She made a little face. “Beautiful, yes. But I share it with Nan and Marion. I’ve always shared my living spaces with someone—with a crowd, sometimes. This is yours.” With a rueful laugh, she added, “And I don’t see a single naval drawing. No ships’ models, either.”

  “You’re welcome here any time you can get away.” I got out napkins. “Next time, I’ll do the cooking. I promise it will be special.”

  “This is special,” she said simply, still caressing Prinz’s ears. “You can’t know how special it is.” I dared to look at her and found her smiling.

  When we sat down at the table, I said, “You’re dressed for a reception. How did you manage to get away?”

  “It was easier than I imagined,” she said. “There was a party for Franklin at the Harvard Club. I joined them for a half hour, told the host I had another engagement, got my wrap. I bought the roses from a vendor on the corner and was in the taxi two minutes later.” She clapped her hands like a child delighted by her very first delicious truancy. “I simply skipped out. As simple as that, Hick!”

  “Won’t Franklin wonder what happened to you?”

  “He won’t notice. Louis might, but everyone else is focused on the election.” She was suddenly sober. “That’s all they talk about, of course. That, and cabinet appointments and the banking crisis.”

  “And if Louis notices?”

  She raised her chin almost defiantly. “I’ll tell him I was with you. He likes you, you know, which I must say is rather surprising. Louis is a hard man to please.” Her eyes met mine. “Franklin likes you, too. At least, he likes to tease me about you.” She slipped into a droll, drawling mimicry of her husband. “He says, ‘You’d better stay on the right side of that Hickok woman, Babs. She’s smart. And shrewd. You listen to her.’”

  “He’s right. Smart and shrewd. Take his advice.” I smiled. “I advise you to play truant more often.”

  After we ate, we left the candles burning on the table and sat quietly together on the sofa, listening to Debussy. We talked about her projects and my work, about plays we’d seen, about ideas that interested us. We didn’t say a word about the campaign or the election, or what would happen after her husband became the president of the United States. When her fingers brushed mine, my heart seemed to open, to unfold, like one of the pink rosebuds in her bouquet.

  At midnight, when she sighed and said she had to go, I put on my coat and took an umbrella and Prinz and I walked with her to the corner to flag a cab. As she was getting in, I bent to kiss her.

  “Good night, Madam,” I whispered.

  She touched my cheek. “Will you come to breakfast at the townhouse in the morning, dear?”

  Somewhere deep inside me I heard the voice of the hired girl. Don’t do this, Hick. This isn’t for you. I closed my ears. “Of course I will,” I said.

  As Prinz and I watched, the taxi took her away through the glittering rain, its red taillights tugging my heart along behind.

  “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you.”

  There had never been any serious doubt that Roosevelt would win. In the voters’ minds, the Republicans were saddled with the weighty catastrophe of the Depression. Some wag wrote that even a modestly talented dogcatcher could have been elected president on the Democratic ticket, and Hoover himself got a letter from a disgruntled farmer in Illinois who advised him to vote for Roosevelt and make it unanimous.

  On election night, at the Sixty-Fifth Street townhouse, the Roosevelts hosted an early buffet supper for friends, campaign workers, and the reporters who had covered the campaign. When Mrs. Roosevelt greeted me, she held my hand a moment longer than necessary, then bent to kiss me on the cheek. As she drew me into the room, she whispered, “It’s so good to have you here tonight, Hick, dear.”

  I stammered something unintelligible, for she had taken my breath away, and with it my power of speech. She was wearing a long white chiffon gown with a deep V-cut neckline and a train. She was statuesque, stately, simply beautiful. I slipped to the back of the room where I exchanged meaningless words with the other reporters and watched her as she greeted guests. My feelings for her—a kind of swooning, yearning wistfulness, quite impossible to subdue or even ignore—had sharpened my already keen awareness of her feelings, and under her practiced smile, I saw a bleak resignation. She knew that this was the night that would change her life, that her husband was going to the White House. Her fate was irrevocably linked to his. She hated it, and I hated him for what he was doing to her.

  Later that night, at Democratic headquarters at the Biltmore, each new number that was chalked up on the big board produced a jubilant cheer, a shower of confetti, and another chirpy chorus of “Happy Days Are Here Again.” FDR carried 42 of the 48 states, his astonishing 472 electoral votes swamping Hoover’s paltry 59. Mercifully, Hoover didn’t drag it out. He conceded before midnight, and in the Biltmore ballroom, a flotilla of balloons sailed to the ceiling.

  The next morning, I was awakened early by the telephone. “Please come, Hick,” she said tautly. “I need you.”

  I went, of course. I found her in her sitting room, still in her dressing gown. The New York Times was on the table beside her chair, folded open to a photo of the Roosevelt family, ER crowded between her husband and her daughter, her granddaughter Sisty on her lap, the Roosevelt sons lined up like grinning mannequins behind. Under the photograph was my latest article about her, headlined Mrs. F.D. Roosevelt a Civic Worker. Vice-Principal of School for Girls and Editor of Magazine “Babies—Just Babies.” She was red-eyed and hoarse and her hair was disheveled. I guessed that she had spent a sleepless night.

  “I can’t do it.” She fumbled for a handkerchief. “Franklin has won the thing he always wanted, Hick, but I’ve lost my freedom. I will never be able to live my own life. Never!”

  I could feel her pain like a twisting knife in my heart and I wanted to bleed with her, to fold her in my arms and comfort her. She needed that, I knew, but right now, she needed something different.

  “Let’s get you dressed, dear,” I said briskly, “and then we’ll have some breakfast. We’re taking the day off.”

  That stopped her. “Taking the day off?” She blinked at me, her eyes focusing through tears. “But I can’t, Hick. I have a full day’s schedule, and I’m already late getting started. I have to see—”

  “Forget the schedule,” I said firmly, heading for the telephone. “You’re playing hooky. You’ll need a woolen suit—the one you wore to Groton is fine—and a scarf. The temper
ature might not get out of the fifties, and we’ll be outdoors. Oh, and walking shoes.”

  She stared at me for a moment as if trying to decide if she should rebuke me for my audacity. Then she smiled a little. “Thank you,” she said. “Self-pity is such an unrewarding emotion.” With that, she went to get dressed.

  I picked up the phone, dialed the office at Democratic headquarters, and reached Tommy. “Whatever’s on the calendar, cancel it,” I said. “The Boss is taking the day off.”

  “Wonderful!” Tommy exclaimed. “Just what she needs, Hick. Get her out and away so she can stop feeling sorry for herself. Where are you going?”

  “This morning, the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Oh, grand!” Tommy said. “Do take her up to the crown. She told me last week that she had visited the statue several times, but never gone up. What else are you planning?”

  “How about this?” I asked, and told her. “Do you think you can arrange it?”

  “I’m sure I can,” Tommy said. “I’ll phone right away.”

  “Good. I’ll call you back before we leave here and see what you’ve been able to come up with.” I hung up and called Bill Chapin to let him know that I would be trailing the First Lady-elect for the day and would file the story in the morning. A little later, Tommy phoned to say that it had all been arranged. A car would pick us up at Battery Place and Broadway, and our tickets would be waiting at the box office.

  An hour later, Madam and I were boarding the ferry at Battery Park’s Pier A. To my relief, none of the tourists on the boat with us seemed to recognize the tall woman with the fur collar of her coat pulled up around her neck and the brown felt cloche pulled down over her ears. As the ferry left the dock and moved out into the harbor, we went to stand in the bow, where we could feel the morning sun on our faces and the chilly salt breeze on our lips. Seagulls called overhead and a scattering of large ships and smaller trawlers shared the bay with us. The November wind was chilly, but there was life and energy in it and a heartening lift to the waves. I felt as if the fresh wind was blowing the past and the future away, leaving us cupped in this gray-blue circle of sea and sky, in this present moment, together.

  The sight of the statue, the indomitable symbol of liberty, always awed me, and I caught a glimpse of the same feeling on Madam’s face. Moved, I put my gloved hand over hers on the ferry rail. As the boat moved forward through the gray sea, she turned her palm up and clasped my fingers, and clasped my heart, as well.

  Soon, too soon, we reached the dock at the island and joined the queue of people making their way up to the statue’s crown. It was an easy climb for her, a breathless one for me, but when we reached the top, both of us were silenced by the panoramic view: the new George Washington Bridge over the Hudson, the jagged Manhattan skyline, the bridges over the East River, Governors Island. We lingered for an hour, then made our way down and back to the ferry and Battery Park. We had hot pastrami sandwiches and sauerkraut at a Jewish deli, and when we were finished, I looked at my watch.

  “Time to go.” I stood. “Come on, dear.”

  She took my hand like a girl, eager and caught up in the spirit of an adventure. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise,” I said. “Trust me. It’ll be fun.” I delighted in the look of sheer pleasure that crossed her face. When, I wondered, was the last time anyone had made an effort to surprise her? When was the last time she’d had fun?

  A black Buick was waiting at the corner of Broadway and Battery Place. The driver, a good-looking man in a smart gray business suit, was leaning casually against the fender. When he saw us, he straightened, took off his gray fedora, and came forward.

  “Mrs. Roosevelt,” he said, holding out his hand. “Congratulations on last night’s landslide victory. Your friends are still celebrating.” He shook hands with me. “Miss Hickok, good to see you again.”

  “Why, hello, Mr. Putnam,” she said with a genuine smile and looked at me. “I’m to be surprised, am I, Hick?” She bent over and looked into the car. “Amelia isn’t with you?” she asked the man.

  “She’s waiting for you at Floyd Bennett Field,” he said, opening the passenger door for her.

  “Does that mean—” she stopped, and her voice lifted as it did when she was excited. “Does that mean we’re flying today?”

  “Flying indeed,” George Putnam said, as I got into the back seat. The man who had picked us up was Amelia Earhart’s publicist, promoter, publisher, and husband. “You can thank Miss Hickok for arranging this, Mrs. Roosevelt. Amelia is looking forward to seeing you again. Today’s flight is her own special congratulatory gift on your victory.”

  “What glorious fun!” Madam said. She turned back to me. “Such a wonderful surprise. Thank you, Hick. Thank you!”

  “Thank Tommy for making the arrangements,” I said. “But I’ll take credit for the idea.” I’d known that Putnam would say yes when Tommy called. He was always on the lookout for publicity for his wife, and he’d want to oblige the new First Lady, who had always wanted to fly. Tommy had told me that she’d applied for her student pilot’s license, but that FDR wasn’t happy about it.

  Floyd Bennett Field, on Jamaica Bay, was New York City’s municipal airport. It was usually a half-hour drive, but Putnam drove fast and we were there in twenty minutes. Amelia, looking remarkably like Charles Lindbergh in her flying outfit, was waiting for us, a Ford Tri-motor warmed up and ready to take to the air.

  We all climbed aboard, Mrs. R, full of excitement, in the co-pilot’s seat. From a seat behind her, I watched her with my heart, feeling her enjoyment in the takeoff as if it were my own and glad that she could be released, if only for a few hours, from the burden of her future. If I gave any thought to my own future, I don’t remember it. That day was all the future I wanted.

  The four of us spent a memorable hour flying over the city: up the East River, circling the new Empire State Building and skimming the length of Central Park, then north along the Hudson as far as the Palisades, where November had left a few brilliant swaths of autumn color. Then back south over the river, under the recently opened George Washington Bridge and across New York Harbor, over Ellis Island and around the Statue of Liberty, and back to the field.

  Flying under the bridge was definitely a barnstormer’s stunt, but Amelia shrugged it off. “If anybody comes looking for me,” she said with her lopsided grin, “I’ll just tell them that Mrs. Roosevelt was flying the plane.” We all laughed with her, Madam happiest of all.

  As we disembarked, George Putnam said, “We should have arranged for a photographer.” Mrs. Roosevelt replied, very seriously, “I am so glad you didn’t.”

  “Of course.” First and last a promoter, Putnam smiled. “But soon, I hope. Amelia needs to keep her name before the public. She has big plans.”

  “Bigger than the transatlantic flight?” I asked in surprise.

  “Oh, much bigger,” Putnam said expansively. “Much, much bigger.”

  I would think about that when Amelia disappeared a few years later, swallowed up in the vastness of the Pacific on a flight that was to carve her place in the record books.

  Looking back, I remember the glorious day like a cake glazed with happiness, my happiness in Madam’s pleasure. And that wasn’t the end of it. Putnam and Amelia drove us back to the city and dropped us at Mitchell Place, so I could look after Prinz. Then Madam and I walked a couple of blocks for dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant. Afterward, we taxied to the Alvin, on Fifty-Second, west of Broadway, just in time to pick up the tickets Tommy had arranged for us. We were in our seats when the curtain opened on Music in the Air, Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein’s new musical. It was a wonderful end to a truly remarkable day.

  I was still humming “I’ve Told Ev’ry Little Star”—my favorite of all the songs in the show—when the taxi pulled up at Mitchell Place. “It’s just eleven,” I said. “Come in with me, won’t you, Madam?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “I won’t t
onight, dear. But Franklin is going back to Albany tomorrow. Why don’t we plan on dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Nothing I’d like better, Madam.” I leaned toward her to kiss her quickly on the cheek.

  She stopped me with her fingers on my lips, her large eyes luminous in the dark. “Hick, I don’t know how to thank you for today. You rescued me from my worst self. I dread the thought of moving back to Washington, but you’ve shown me that there can be moments, even hours, of freedom. Such a gift, and I love you for it.” She took my hand and kissed me softly, her lips just brushing the corner of my mouth. “Sleep tight, dear one.”

  For the space of a half-dozen thudding heartbeats, I sat frozen, flooded by a hope I had not felt since Ellie. Was it possible? Was this to be mine?

  A car honked behind us. I took a deep breath and opened the taxi door. “You, too, Madam,” I said as lightly as I could. “See you tomorrow.” I bounced up the stairs singing “I’ve told every little star” under my breath.

  The next day, I filed the first of the series of three articles that were to go out on the AP wire and appear with my byline in hundreds of newspapers nationwide. It began with a direct quote meant to catch readers’ attention and drop a few jaws: “‘If I wanted to be selfish,’ said Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt, “‘I could wish that he hadn’t been elected.’” She went on to say that she was “sincerely glad” for FDR, but “I will have to work out my own salvation.”

  It might be hard to understand now what a bombshell admission this was then. It was the first time a president-elect’s wife had spoken so revealingly to a wire service reporter, perhaps because, for the first time, the wire service reporter was a woman. But also, I dared to hope, because I was that reporter and she trusted me to tell the truth—her truth. She trusted me to speak for her, to be her voice.

  The articles didn’t read like puff pieces. They followed the AP’s rule of “restraint” and I got a great many compliments from colleagues who envied my near-exclusive access to the new First Lady. But I didn’t tell them that while the articles might appear objective, I had done something I shouldn’t have done, professionally speaking. I had shown all three stories to both Louis Howe and Mrs. Roosevelt before I filed them—ostensibly for fact-checking, but really for approval. And all three were crafted to fit the theme of the “reluctant First Lady” that Howe had approved. Even loose as things were at that time, I had crossed the line between being a reporter and being a publicist.