In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  With Bob behind the wheel of our green Ford station wagon heading for home, I can relax. For a brief period, I have someone else to pay the parking attendant, battle the traffic, and settle the children’s arguments. It’s heaven.

  After dinner, the children go upstairs to do their homework, and Bob and I settle in the den. “Just like old times,” he says, collapsing onto the oversized chair in the corner. Giving a yawn, he stretches and puts his feet up on the ottoman.

  The phone rings. Answering it, Bob straightens up. As soon as he says, “Yes, sir,” and reaches for his yellow pad, my heart falls. Why does Nixon have to call now? It’s exciting to receive a call at home from the president-elect of the United States, but tonight I want Bob to myself.

  At least the conversation is short, and when Bob hangs up, he turns to me with a grin. “Well, you and the kids sure ‘one-upped’ the president-elect.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “He’s feeling pretty sorry for himself. His last words were, ‘Nobody had a welcome home sign for me today.’”

  The Inauguration

  January 1969

  All too soon, it’s the New Year. In twenty days, Richard Nixon will be inaugurated, and Bob will take over as chief of staff of the White House. To prepare for the job, he has been reading every book he can find on the subject and interviewing top staff members from previous administrations.

  Although Bob shuns publicity, I occasionally spot his name in the newspaper. It’s usually imbedded in an article which I eagerly cut out and paste into my scrapbook. I save everything I can to document this extraordinary time.

  Over the last month, each member of our family has been receiving beautifully hand-addressed invitations to various inaugural events. The countdown is on, and I throw myself into working out the logistics for our trip to Washington. Plane tickets have to be purchased, and hotel reservations made. Between Bob’s mother, my parents, our children, and Susan’s boyfriend, we have sixteen suitcases, containing three inaugural ball gowns, two sets of white tie and tails, three tuxedos, two fancy dresses, three fur wraps, and enough long underwear and clothes for four days.

  Once in Washington, our family checks into a large suite on the eleventh floor of the Statler Hilton Hotel. The cold weather and leaden skies can’t begin to dampen our enthusiasm, but the sight of armed soldiers posted on the surrounding rooftops is sobering. Because of a growing concern that antiwar demonstrators might try to disrupt the inauguration, the District police, the US Army, and the National Guard have all been deployed to maintain security.

  During the next few days we don’t see much of Bob. He is totally focused on the president-elect, as well as the last minute details for the turnover in the White House. The rest of us participate in every event we can. While Mother, Non, and I slowly move through long receiving lines at teas and receptions, the children tour Washington with their grandfather.

  On Sunday afternoon, Bob and I take advantage of a break to do some house hunting. A White House driver takes us to look at residential areas in the District, as well as Maryland and Virginia. It’s discouraging to find that nothing compares to our home in LA and prices are high.

  As we head back to the hotel, the army communications radio in the car crackles with an odd message: “Searchlight One to Welcome.” The garbled words make no sense to me, but Bob and our driver respond immediately. Sergeant Grill screeches to a stop at the corner of Foxhall and Reservoir Roads, and Bob scrambles out of the car. Darting across the street, he heads for the bright red public phone booth.

  “Sorry, Jo,” he apologizes, as he climbs back into the car. “That was the president-elect. He has no idea where I am, and I had to get back to him right away.”

  “What’s this thing about a searchlight and welcome?” I ask, confused.

  “They’re our White House code names,” Bob explains. “The Signal Corps assigned them. The president-elect is Searchlight, and the senior staff all have code names that start with ‘W.’ John Ehrlichman is Wisdom. Henry Kissinger’s Woodcutter. Ron Ziegler’s Whaleboat. And I’m Welcome.”

  “Welcome?” I exclaim. “It sounds silly.”

  “Don’t laugh. You’ve got a code name, too.”

  “Me? What is it?”

  “Welcome Two.”

  ◆

  Today, January 20, at exactly noon, Richard Nixon will be sworn in as the thirty-seventh president of the United States. At that moment, the dream Bob confided in me six months ago in the middle of Newport Harbor will become a reality.

  It’s bitter cold. Icy wind whips at the ends of my red wool scarf as I stand in front of the Statler Hilton. A large chartered bus pulls up, and our children and their grandparents join others on board. They will be taken to a reserved section of seats to watch the inauguration.

  Sergeant Grill drives Bob and me directly to the East Front of the Capitol, where thousands of people are already assembled. Along with other special guests, we climb the stairs and enter the Rotunda. When we step out onto the inaugural platform, the scene is striking. It’s a patriotic moment right out of the history books. The band is playing, flags are waving, and people are enthusiastically greeting each other. I pause and blink in wonder. Bob reaches for my hand. I can only imagine what this must mean to him.

  We follow the red-carpeted steps down to our seats, where I am between Bob and Dr. Henry Kissinger. Six rows in front of us are four empty chairs reserved for the incoming and outgoing presidents and vice presidents. Somewhere in the distance, our family is lost in a sea of American flags. Trying to spot them is hopeless, and a pang of guilt hits me. I trust they can see everything and are keeping warm.

  Shortly before noon, the band plays a fanfare, and everyone turns to look at the top of the steps. Flanked by an escort of three senators and three representatives, Richard Milhous Nixon stands erect. With a look of pride and dignity, he slowly proceeds down the steps. When he passes our row, Bob straightens up. It’s as if he were standing at attention. I, too, throw back my shoulders.

  Wearing a bright pink coat and a fur pillbox hat, Pat Nixon takes her place between Chief Justice Earl Warren and the president-elect for the swearing-in. In her hands are two family Bibles, both opened to Isaiah 2:4. A tight smile is frozen on her face, and I wonder what she is thinking. The chief justice administers the single-sentence oath of office: “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of president of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  We have a new president and first lady. A twenty-one-gun salute erupts, and the United States Marine Band plays ruffles and flourishes, followed by “Hail to the Chief.” President Nixon stands at the podium ready to give his inaugural address. His words and ideas hold such promise. Bob appears to be completely absorbed and moves only once, to give me a nudge when he hears a line he especially likes.

  “Until he has been part of a cause larger than himself, no man is truly whole.”

  I sense that this will become Bob’s creed, and I make a mental note to get a handwritten copy of it for him.

  With the speech ringing in my ears, I watch as President and Mrs. Nixon turn and lead the way back up the steps. Along with the other dignitaries who have been seated on the platform, Bob and I find our way back to the Rotunda. In front of us, the Nixons are abruptly ushered into a side room, and Bob cranes his neck to see where they are going. In his rush to catch up, he brushes against me.

  “Wait for me,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  A heavy wood door, with the number 206 on it, closes after him. I press myself against the wall to avoid the crowd of people streaming past me. Five minutes pass before Bob emerges. I know he’s upset as soon as I see the Haldeman look.

  “Somebody sure goofed,” he says. “There’s the president seated at a table, and
he’s handed his first set of presidential documents to sign…and guess what? No one has a pen.”

  “You’re kidding.” I say. “So what happened?”

  Giving a broad smile, Bob reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out his ever-present felt tip pen.

  Taking my arm, Bob navigates me through the crowd to the room where lunch is being served. We take our seats along with congressional leaders, members of the new Nixon cabinet, and presidential advisors and assistants. As we eat, Bob keeps checking his watch. At noon today, he became responsible for the management of the White House, and he’s anxious to get over there. We leave before dessert. Racing down the Capitol’s 165 steps, we arrive at the car where Sergeant Grill is patiently waiting with the engine running and the heater set on high.

  Pennsylvania Avenue has been roped off for the parade, but that doesn’t deter Sergeant Grill. He cruises along the empty road, passing enthusiastic spectators who have staked out their locations early. They cheer and wave small American flags. However, the atmosphere changes at Twelfth Street, where a group of antiwar protestors is gathered. Raising their fists, they shout, “Four more years of death.” Their anger is real, and it’s scary. I lean away from the window, closer to Bob.

  Sergeant Grill drops us off at the west gate of the White House, where a guard checks our credentials. Opening an unobtrusive side door, Bob ushers me into the ground floor of the West Wing. He knows exactly where he’s going, and all I have to do is tag along behind him. On our way to the back stairs, he points out Henry Kissinger’s office and the Navy Mess. As we climb the steps to the main floor, I have to convince myself that I’m actually in the inner sanctum of the White House.

  This Place is a Zoo

  The White House has 132 rooms, and many of these are offices in the East and West Wings. At this moment, crews are hard at work converting them to meet the needs of the incoming administration. As Bob and I make our way down a hall in the West Wing, we are surrounded by organized bedlam. Painters are touching up scratch marks and repainting damaged walls. Housekeepers are polishing brass and dusting furniture. Old desks are being carted off as new ones are being delivered. New directories are being installed on the phones. Fires are being laid in the fireplaces, and fresh arrangements of colorful spring flowers are being placed in each room.

  Heading for the Oval Office, Bob and I step aside to avoid two movers carrying the last of President Johnson’s three television sets. Other movers are disassembling his two wire-service ticker tapes.

  “Johnson’s got a ton of electronic stuff in here,” Bob says. “President Nixon wants all of it to go. He’s adamant about getting rid of the taping system, too. He doesn’t see any reason to record conversations like Kennedy and LBJ did.”

  The small office adjacent to the Oval Office is Bob’s. The room is cozy with its bookshelves and crackling fire. Weak, winter sunlight filters in through a large window, and an oil portrait of Nixon hangs above the mantle. I try to visualize Bob working at the dark wood desk. Bob wants this with all his heart, and whatever lies ahead in the next four or eight years, I am confident that he can handle it. I’m so proud of him.

  Before moving on, Bob shows me a tiny closet next to the Oval Office. He explains that a navy steward was assigned to sit there during Johnson’s meetings to take drink orders for the president and his guests. Four colored lights in a box on the wall would light up, indicating what each person requested: red, white, green, or yellow—coffee, tea, Coke, or Fresca.

  As we check out the other offices, I note the hodgepodge of furniture. There are a variety of desks—metal, traditional, contemporary, and Swedish. Vending machines, teletypes, coffee machines, and water coolers fill the hallway. So many electrical cords run along the ugly linoleum floor, I have to be careful where I step. Above me, an egg crate ceiling diffuses the florescent lighting.

  Band music in the distance signals the start of the inaugural parade. Grabbing my hand, Bob leads the way along a temporary boardwalk to Pennsylvania Avenue. The White House lawn is frozen, and my breath forms in cloudy puffs. Entering the presidential review tent, we are hit by a blast of warm air, and once again, I worry about our family standing on a sidewalk in the cold. We slip into our reserved seats next to Reverend Billy Graham and Bebe Rebozo. The tall, fair, charismatic evangelist and the short, dark, unassuming Floridian banker have little in common, but both are close friends of the president.

  Pointing to the Nixon family seated directly in front of us, Bob whispers, “Watch the president. He’s like a little kid at Christmas. He loves a parade.”

  I enjoy watching Bob. He, too, loves a parade.

  ◆

  Tonight, Bob joins the family for a room service dinner in the dining room of our suite. There are ten of us, each formally dressed for the inaugural ball. Bob rises to give a toast. He taps his water glass with his knife.

  “To the president of the United States, Richard Milhous Nixon.”

  “To the president,” the rest of us respond.

  My father stands next. “To a special son-in-law, who brings us together tonight in our nation’s capital through his loyalty and dedication to a cause.”

  “To Bob.” “To Dad.” We clink glasses and sing two songs that are a Horton family tradition, “Hoch Sollst Du Leben” (“Here’s To Your Health”) and “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  Now it’s Non’s turn. She’s been itching to get to her feet. After proposing toasts to her son and the family, she toasts her late husband. “To my dear Bud, who is here in spirit, looking down on his son with great pride.”

  Poignant in their sincerity and simplicity, the toasts exemplify the love we feel for each other and for our country.

  ◆

  There are six inaugural balls in different locations around DC. With rain coming down in torrents, we’re lucky to have one of them right here in the Statler Hilton Hotel. Our expectations are high, and I feel like royalty in my white moiré silk gown, with its jeweled yolk and mandarin collar. Bob proudly dons his father’s white tie and tails.

  Unfortunately, the ballroom is not the regal scene we envisioned. Jammed with people, the noise level is unbearable, making it impossible to talk, let alone hear. We wander around, trying to find someone we know. Our large gold tickets, with “Presidential Box” printed on them, are useless. I jam mine back into my evening bag to keep as a souvenir.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Bob shouts in my ear. “This place is a zoo.”

  “We can’t leave,” I yell back. “We just got here, and we have to dance.”

  “What?” Bob shouts.

  I raise my voice. “We have to dance. The inaugural ball is one thing my friends will ask me about when I get home.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Taking my hand, Bob pushes his way to the dance floor. With hardly enough space to move, we shuffle in place to the beat of the music. In the crush of people, I soon realize that no one can see my fancy new dress. It makes absolutely no difference what I’m wearing.

  After two dances, we give up and head back to our suite. Trying not to disturb our parents, who came up earlier, we quietly slip into our room. Bob changes into his pajamas and disappears into the bathroom. I take off my ball gown and hang it on the back of the closet door next to his tails. Feeling whimsical, I impulsively drape the sleeve of his jacket around the shoulder of my dress. I take a step back. You look good together, I muse. All set for that next chapter in your lives.

  Chief of Staff

  “That next chapter” begins the following morning when Harry Robbins Haldeman—husband, father, son, and son-in-law—is sworn in as White House chief of staff. Before leaving the hotel for the ceremony, however, the rest of us have to have our sixteen suitcases packed and in the lobby. We are on a countdown, and by tonight we will be back in California. Only Bob will remain in Washington.

  Today’s event is a Whi
te House family affair, and the East Room is crowded. Excited chatter wafts through the room, and some of the younger children work off their excess energy by running and sliding across the parquet floor. Others climb on the satin upholstered chairs that line the walls.

  In the main hall, three marines in dress uniform take their position at the foot of the Grand Staircase. As they raise their trumpets to play ruffles and flourishes, followed by “Hail to the Chief,” the room falls silent. A feeling of profound respect engulfs me.

  All eyes are on the president and the first lady, who stand motionless on the upper landing of the red-carpeted stairway. Together, they slowly descend and walk to the middle of the East Room, where the president delivers a short pep talk to his incoming staff and their families. When he tells us that we will each play an important part in his administration, it makes me feel special and needed.

  Chief Justice Earl Warren takes his place at a podium on a riser placed against the wall. A gold damask curtain hangs behind it, and the American flag stands on the left. Looking distinguished in his long black robe, the chief justice instructs the men and women in front of him to raise their right hands. My eyes never leave Bob as he solemnly repeats his oath of office. With his tucked-in chin and rigid posture, he resembles a Boy Scout, earnestly giving his pledge to God and country.

  Bob looks so trusting. He actually appears vulnerable. And yet, I have always considered him to be invulnerable.

  Bob knows what he wants and goes after it with resolve. He has done everything he can to prepare himself for this job, and he doesn’t doubt his ability. Bob firmly believes that the president of the United States deserves to have a White House that functions perfectly, and he’s convinced that he can provide that. Being chief of staff of the White House means more to him than anything he’s ever done…or ever will do.

  As soon as the brief ceremony ends, the family and I rush over to congratulate Bob. Non’s eyes tear up as she embraces her son. We are all so proud of him, and I wish I could hang on to this moment forever. Standing in this grand room, with its three gigantic, Bohemian cut-glass chandeliers, I have a sense of stepping into history. This is now Bob’s world, and soon it will be mine as well. I’m excited and a little scared of what lies ahead for me. But for now, the children and I will be finishing up the school year in Los Angeles, leaving Bob to settle into his new job here in DC.