In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  Bob explains that most incoming administration families move in January, at the time of the inauguration. However, we decide that it would be better if the children and I wait until the following summer. This delay would avoid disrupting their school year and allow Susan to graduate with her high school class. Hank would be entering a new school as a junior. Peter would go into the seventh grade, and Ann, the fifth grade.

  “A delay works for me, too,” Bob says, as we glide along the glassy water. “It’d give me more time to familiarize myself with my job. I could put in as much time as I need at the office and not feel guilty.” He pauses. “One thing’s for sure, though. If I do get a job in the White House, my salary will take a big cut. And I won’t be getting any month-long summer vacations either.”

  Advertising has been Bob’s sole career. He started work in New York as a twenty-two-year-old research assistant at J. Walter Thompson Company. Now, at age forty-one, he is vice president and manager of the Los Angeles office.

  In the lee of Harbor Island, the sail remains limp, and the sun beats down. Reaching into the pocket of his madras trunks, Bob pulls out a ChapStick and liberally applies the lip balm. Feeling stiff, I shift positions. The Sunfish rocks with my movement, and the boom swings across, grazing Bob’s head. Annoyed, he frowns at me—furrowed brow, steely eyes, and tight lips. I call it the “Haldeman look.” It’s intimidating but fleeting.

  We drift in silence, and my thoughts wander. The only involvement Bob has ever had in politics has been with one man, Richard Nixon. It started when Bob was at UCLA in the 1940s and Nixon took an uncompromising stand against communism in the Alger Hiss case. This made a deep impression on Bob, whose grandfather had strong anticommunist beliefs.

  Bob didn’t meet Nixon until after we were married. On a trip to Washington in 1951, he was introduced to Senator Nixon by a friend who was a secretary in his office. Five years later, J. Walter Thompson gave Bob a leave of absence to volunteer as an advance man for Nixon in the Eisenhower/Nixon reelection campaign. Since then, he has followed Nixon’s career, gladly giving his time and energy to get him elected. Describing Richard Nixon as brilliant, Bob believes that there is no other world leader living today who has his unique vision and grasp of international affairs.

  A light breeze fills the sail, and the boat gathers speed. “How long do you think we’d be living in Washington?” I ask.

  “Eight years max,” Bob says. “That is, if Nixon’s reelected.”

  Eight years sounds like a long time to be gone from Los Angeles. This is our home. Both Bob and I were born here. Our children are fifth generation “Angelenos,” and all of our relatives live in the area. The two of us are active in the community, the children’s schools, and our church. Bob would have to give up serving on the boards of the California Institute of the Arts, Coro Foundation, and Junior Achievement, as well as the UCLA Alumni Association and the University of California’s Board of Regents.

  “Don’t worry, Jo,” Bob says, guessing my thoughts. “I promise that we’ll pack up as soon as the second term’s over. I’ll want to get back to LA as much as you.”

  Heading for Bay Island, we reenter the main channel. The wind picks up, and Bob leans back to stabilize the heeling boat. I get doused with water. “One more thing,” he says, raising his voice. “Although I have no intention of taking on a high profile job, it might be hard to remain anonymous. To the press, public figures are public property. You should be aware of that.”

  I can tell that Bob is studying me for my reaction, but his concern about publicity seems pretty far-fetched. I don’t bother to respond.

  “Just want you to know that in DC, no one’s immune from the press,” he adds.

  “Interesting,” I say absent-mindedly. My mind is already racing ahead to the election and what it might mean for our family.

  Nixon’s the One

  As much as I want to share everything Bob has told me, I keep it to myself. At night, I lie in bed, imagining what our lives will be like if we move to Washington. I get goose bumps when I think about the possibility of Bob’s working in the White House. On the other hand, it’s a daunting time to be in our nation’s capital. This has been a year of great social unrest and terrible violence. The Vietnam War divides our country, and race riots endanger our cities. In March, President Johnson announced that he wasn’t going to seek a second term because of the war. In April, Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Last month, Sirhan Sirhan shot and killed Bobby Kennedy in the Ambassador Hotel here in Los Angeles.

  Our next president will be facing monumental challenges.

  August 1968

  When Bob asks if I would like to attend the Republican convention, I am thrilled. He also arranges for Susan and Hank to go, as well as Susan’s boyfriend.

  The air is hot and humid in Miami, but the delegates hardly notice. They live in an air-conditioned world from sunup to sundown. Wearing a red, white, and blue paper dress and a plastic “straw” hat, Susan works as a “Nixonette,” distributing campaign buttons. Hank is a “runner” and is given a press badge for clearance on the convention floor. Susan’s boyfriend monitors convention events on a battery of television sets in a trailer.

  At 2:00 a.m. on the third night, the delegates elect Richard Milhous Nixon. An avalanche of colored balloons cascades from the ceiling, and the band plays “California, Here I Come.” With Nixon buttons carefully pinned onto the lapel of my white knit suit, I wave a “Nixon’s the One” pennant and cheer until I’m hoarse. I’m surprised to see how caught up I am in all of the hoopla. Next to me, Bob’s seat in our reserved box is empty. He is watching the convention on television with Nixon in a penthouse suite at the Hilton.

  The next afternoon, Bob and I, along with the three children, attend a small party honoring the new Republican presidential nominee. The mood is jubilant as Mr. and Mrs. Nixon welcome family members, friends, and top staff. Hank, Susan, and her boyfriend chat with the Nixon daughters, Tricia and Julie, and Julie’s fiancé, David Eisenhower. After pounding out “Home on the Range” and a few show tunes on the piano, Nixon circulates among the guests to work the room. He tries to be personable, but his awkwardness shows. He approaches me and extends a hand.

  “Well, how’s the drinking member of the family?” Mr. Nixon asks, knowing full well that I don’t drink and never have. Ill at ease, he relies on this joke, and I laugh politely.

  That night, the convention comes to a climax, and this time, Bob is seated next to me in the box. At exactly 11:00 p.m., Richard Nixon steps up to the podium. Glancing at his watch, Bob nudges me and points to the hour.

  “Take note, Jo,” he says, with a smug grin. “Prime time television.”

  “America is in trouble today,” Nixon warns, “not because her people have failed but because her leaders have failed. When the strongest nation in the world can be tied down for four years in a war in Vietnam with no end in sight… When the nation with the greatest tradition of the rule of law is plagued by unprecedented lawlessness… My fellow Americans, tonight I accept the challenge and the commitment to provide new leadership for America.”

  Once again, I am on my feet, cheering and waving my pennant. I am convinced that there is only one man who can do the job. The United States needs Richard Nixon. And Richard Nixon needs my husband. My heart bursts with pride to be Bob Haldeman’s wife.

  ◆

  After four exhausting days in Miami, everyone is ready to head home. Susan’s Nixonette dress is torn, and the band on her hat is missing. Hank has blisters on his feet from wearing his dress loafers every day, and Susan’s boyfriend’s eyes are bloodshot from monitoring so many hours of television. When Bob asks me to join him on Nixon’s chartered jet for the flight back to California, I eagerly accept, and the children return on a commercial flight without me.

  I’m excited to be included with the top staff of the Nixon/Agnew cam
paign, but it’s unnerving to be in the presence of these two men who might become the future president and vice president of our country. When they come down the aisle, I find it difficult to engage in light conversation. It’s easier to chat with Pat Nixon and Judy Agnew, who follow their husbands through the cabin.

  Halfway across the country, we make a brief stop in Austin, Texas, where the Nixons and Agnews plan to make a courtesy call on President Johnson. Watching Bob board the helicopter to fly to the LBJ ranch, I try to remember each detail so I can describe the scene to his parents later. They love hearing about his involvement in the campaign.

  As we step off the plane in Los Angeles, I spot Bob’s mother, Betty Haldeman, waving wildly in a sea of enthusiastic supporters. A little over five feet tall, “Non” generally gets lost in a crowd, but today she’s easy to find. Bedecked with Republican jewelry and campaign buttons, she’s wearing a “Nixon’s the One” straw hat and waving a pennant. There’s no question which candidate she favors, but I know that the stars in her eyes are for her son, Bob.

  Let’s Win this One for Harry

  Three weeks after the Republicans convene in Miami, it’s the Democrats’ turn to hold their convention in Chicago. The chaotic scene that unfolds is in sharp contrast to the well-organized, united Republican event. The Democratic Party is split over the war, and there are violent confrontations both inside and outside of the International Amphitheatre. Comfortably seated in our den, I watch the events live on television. I wince when I see the New Left protestors being beaten by the police, who are accused of using “Gestapo tactics.” It’s hard to accept that this scene is taking place in the United States.

  On August 29, Vice President Hubert Humphrey and Senator Edmund Muskie of Maine are eventually chosen as the Democratic presidential and vice presidential candidates.

  Nixon sees the chaos at the Democratic Convention as a good opportunity to jump in and make a strong stand for law and order. When I hear that he intends to kick off his campaign with a motorcade through Chicago’s Loop, it seems to me that it’s a risky move. I worry that it will incite the “peaceniks” and there will be more riots. I’d give anything to talk to Bob about it, but I don’t. Even if I knew how to track him down, I wouldn’t pursue it. Bob has always kept his professional life separate from his home life, and I don’t interfere.

  September 1968

  At noon on September 4, half a million people turn out to greet Nixon in Chicago. In contrast to last week’s violence at the Democratic Convention, the crowd showers his motorcade with confetti. The press writes glowing reviews of the event, and I realize how wrong I was to worry.

  Nixon takes a substantial early lead over Humphrey, but when Governor George Wallace of Alabama declares his candidacy for a third party, it cuts into the conservative vote. Wallace has the Deep South wrapped up, and the race tightens. The overriding issues are the war in Vietnam, law and order, and the loss of respect for America. Campaigning is tough, and none of the candidates is exempt from heckling. Angry demonstrators frequently interrupt their speeches and shout obscenities.

  As chief of staff of the campaign, Bob lives out of a suitcase, often working eighteen to twenty hours a day. He gets home infrequently, and we communicate by phone. Most of our conversations start with his asking, “What’s up with the kids?” No matter how tired, he always wants to know what’s going on with the children and me.

  October 1968

  Early Friday morning, October 25, my world turns upside down. Bob’s father undergoes emergency heart surgery and doesn’t pull through the operation. I desperately need to reach Bob. All I know is that he’s somewhere on the East Coast.

  Harry Francis “Bud” Haldeman led an active life, and his passing will shock his oldest son terribly. Standing in a cold hospital hallway, I place call after call from a pay phone. With a pile of quarters dwindling in front of me, I finally get Bob on the line. I try to break the news as gently as possible, but there are long silences between my words. On the other end, I hear his voice grow husky. He falters and breaks down. In my mind, I visualize his tear-stained face.

  Three days later, Bob takes time off from the campaign to join family and friends in Los Angeles for his father’s memorial service. He brings with him a handwritten letter of condolence from Nixon to his mother. “Let’s win this one for Harry” is scrawled across the bottom of the page. Non is deeply touched. She frames the letter and hangs it in the living room of the Haldeman vacation home in Palm Springs.

  Mr. President-elect

  November 1968

  It’s Election Day, November 5, and the race is a toss-up. A Harris poll shows Humphrey winning by three points, but the Gallup Poll shows Nixon leading by two. I wake up feeling both apprehensive and excited. This is going to be one of the longest days of my life. Immediately after the children leave for school, I walk around the block to my polling place.

  The sight of the American flag hanging over the entrance to my neighbor’s garage gives me a rush of patriotism. As I proudly mark my ballot for Richard Milhous Nixon and Spiro Theodore Agnew, I feel my palms getting clammy. Today, my future rests in the hands of seventy-three million Americans.

  After voting, I meet up with Bob, who voted by absentee ballot. Leaving the children at home with Non and a housekeeper, he and I will fly to New York on Nixon’s chartered jet. As part of a group of only five top advisors and their wives accompanying the possible future president of the United States and his family, I am humbled and overwhelmed.

  As soon as we step inside the plane, red, white, and blue balloons and streamers engulf us. A victory cake, decorated with the White House and inscribed with “Richard Nixon 1968,” makes me feel uneasy. Bob keeps saying that this election is up for grabs, and I hope the cake and decorations aren’t premature.

  Uncertainty creates tension, and I don’t hear anyone predicting victory. Bob Finch, the former lieutenant governor of California, nervously paces the aisle. A long-time personal friend and advisor of Nixon, he broods about the outcome of Nixon’s last presidential election.

  “The Boss lost to Kennedy by less than one hundred twenty thousand votes,” Finch mumbles, attributing the narrow defeat to the “flagrant voting fraud in Texas and Illinois.”

  As always, Bob appears to have his emotions well under control. While I work on my needlepoint, he fills in a Los Angeles Times vote-tally sheet. The way he quickly writes down his projected numbers reminds me of how he does crossword puzzles. Using a pen rather than a pencil, he’s fast and decisive.

  “If my addition’s correct, Nixon has two hundred fifteen electoral votes in the bag,” Bob says, handing me the tally sheet. “It takes two seventy to get elected, so it’s still too close to call.”

  Later, Mr. and Mrs. Nixon invite the five wives to come up front to their private cabin for a brief visit. I know they want to be gracious, but the conversation is stilted. As much as I would like to say something pertinent and meaningful, I end up simply wishing them good luck and commenting on the decorations and the cake. I feel more comfortable talking with Tricia, Julie, and David, who are seated in the rear of the main cabin. The three of them are outgoing and relaxed, and Julie and David talk about the plans for their wedding in New York next month.

  When we land in New Jersey, it’s dark. Most of the country has voted, but in the West the polls are still open. I am physically and mentally exhausted, and yet we still have a long night ahead of us. As soon as he gets off the plane, Bob climbs into a limousine at the head of an extended motorcade. I am directed to take a seat on a chartered bus at the end. With a police escort running interference, we careen through the empty streets of Newark and New York City. For those of us bringing up the rear, it’s a wild ride. I feel like I’m at the tail end of a game of mobile “Crack the Whip.”

  I’m grateful when the bus finally arrives at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. Bob is already with the Nixons in the penthouse
on the thirty-fifth floor of the Waldorf Towers. I push the elevator button for the eighteenth floor, where three other staff wives and I have been assigned a suite. Jeanne Ehrlichman is the wife of John Ehrlichman, an advance man. Nancy Ziegler’s husband, Ron, handles the press, and Dolores Higby’s husband, Larry, is Bob’s assistant.

  Anxious to see the latest election returns, we head straight for the TV. Still wearing the suit that I traveled in, I sprawl on the floor in front of the screen. Two phones are beside me. The black one is for hotel calls. The pristine white one is a direct line to Bob.

  11:00 p.m. The white phone rings. Bob sounds upbeat. “Hi. How are things going with you and the ladies?”

  “Great,” I answer. “But what about Humphrey’s lead?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s too early to tell anything.” Bob pauses. “Pat and the girls have gone back to their suite, and I’m here alone with Nixon. He’s superstitious about watching television or listening to the radio, so he’s been relying on me to keep him posted. For the last three hours, I’ve been giving him the latest count.”

  3:00 a.m. The white phone rings. Bob sounds frustrated. “Nixon wants to make a victory statement. He believes that it’s ‘historically significant’ to do it at the exact moment that he had to concede to Kennedy. I’m trying to talk him out of it.”

  4:00 a.m. The white phone rings. Bob’s voice is energized. “Watch Illinois. This is it. If the rest go as projected, we’re going over the top.”

  8:36 a.m. The white phone rings. Bob is ecstatic. “It’s over! We did it! ABC just signed off. We won, Jo! We won. Nixon’s going to the White House!”

  “Oh, Bob, I’m so thrilled. Congratulations!”

  I return the receiver to its cradle and remain motionless on the floor. The White House. President Nixon. President Richard Nixon in the White House. My eyes feel scratchy, and my body is stiff. Standing up, I look at myself in dismay. My pleated skirt is a mass of wrinkles, and I can’t find one shoe.