by Jo Haldeman
Nixon’s valet, Manolo Sanchez, lets us in. As the heavy, wood front door closes behind us, we cross an inner patio with a tiled fish pond in the center. When we enter the living room on the far side, Bob gives a nod of approval. He likes what he sees, and so do I. Next, we check out the four bedrooms. Each has its own fireplace, and Manolo plans to have the fires lit when the Nixons arrive.
Manolo’s wife beams when we walk into the kitchen. The Cuban couple has worked for the Nixon family for years, and they know Bob well through past campaigns. Wiping her hands on her rumpled apron, Fina gives him an enthusiastic hug. Manolo points to two steaks sitting on the counter and says that he will be barbecuing them for the Nixons’ dinner.
The phone rings, and Manolo reports that the president’s helicopter has just landed at the Coast Guard station next door. The Secret Service will drive them over to the house in a golf cart. Manolo grabs a freshly pressed white jacket, and Fina changes aprons. Taking my arm, Bob walks briskly over to the front door.
“We’re outta here!” he calls over his shoulder, as we step outside.
With the windshield wipers set on high, Bob drives slowly down the long driveway and heads toward the freeway. In an hour we’ll be at Bay Island, where our children are staying with my parents.
Dinner tonight at #11 is drawn out longer than usual. Knowing that Bob has to leave for Washington the next day, no one wants to break up the gathering. With Mother and Dad seated at either end of the rectangular table, three generations of Hortons jabber away. Empty dessert plates remain in front of us, and a half-eaten homemade Bundt cake sits on the sideboard. The leftover leg of lamb and green beans have been put in the refrigerator, and the dirty dishes are in the dishwasher. We talk until 11:00 p.m.
What an extraordinary day.
◆
When I wake up this morning, although I am sad that this special time with Bob is coming to a close, I am excited about our day today. I will be accompanying Bob right up to the time that he boards Air Force One.
Everyone is still asleep when the two of us quietly open the kitchen door and slip outside. It’s high tide, and I can hear the water lapping against the seawall at the end of the island. The lawn in the middle green is damp with dew.
There is nothing comparable to Bay Island with its twenty-three houses, caretaker’s cottage, tennis court, and large flower garden. Separated from the rest of the world by a footbridge, the tiny island is charming, but difficult to access. The residents have to use push carts or golf carts to transport their luggage and groceries. Located at the far end of the island, my parents’ house has unobstructed views of the bay. From the front porch, we see up the channel, including the Fun Zone and Balboa Pavilion. From the dining room in the back, we look out on the turning basin, where the afternoon sailboat races take place. Seated at the dinner table, we are treated to fantastic sunsets.
Walking along the cement path, Bob’s hard-soled shoes grate against grains of sand. In his business suit, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a garment bag in the other, he looks out of place. Once we reach the motor pool car, Bob throws his bag on the back seat, and we opt to take the ferry to the mainland. The captain is a gangly teenager in torn jeans and a beat-up straw hat. He gives two quick toots on the whistle and closes the gate after the third car. The engines grind as we push away from the dock. When we reach the middle of the channel, I look to my left to catch a final glimpse of Bay Island. At #11, Daddy is raising the American flag. A breeze catches it, and the stars and stripes slowly unfurl.
The morning sun breaks through the clouds as we drive thirty-five miles down the coast to San Clemente. When Manolo welcomes us at the house, he gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and Bob responds with a thumbs-up of his own. He’s relieved to see that the March weather has warmed up enough for the president to work in the patio, where an open briefcase and some papers have been left scattered on an empty chaise.
“The Boss is up there,” Manolo says, pointing to a small turret at one end of the house. “He’s on the phone.”
Bob excuses himself and heads for an outside staircase, leading up to the hideaway office. Manolo ushers me into the living room, where Pat Nixon, John Ehrlichman, and Adele Rogers are discussing campus unrest.
“I’ve been meeting with the student body presidents from USC, Stanford, and Cal Tech, among others,” John is saying as I walk in. “These guys are bright, capable young men, and I actually think we can ride out this rebellion stuff. The secret here is not to overreact.”
When Bob and the president join us, they are both looking at me. “Got your camera, Jo?” Bob asks. He knows that I always have my Kodak Instamatic with me. I enjoy taking photos as much as he enjoys taking home movies.
“Mrs. Cotton would like a picture of the president and the first lady in her home,” Bob explains. “We’re counting on you.”
Counting on me? I rush out to the car to get my camera, but when I see that there are only two pictures left on the roll of film, I panic. What if they don’t turn out? I return to the living room, where the Nixons are patiently waiting. For the next few minutes, I’m the one issuing orders, suggesting that the president of the United States and the first lady pose by the fish pond in the patio.
“Face the sun,” I tell them. “Stand closer together… Now say ‘cheese.’”
I concentrate on the lighting and the composition. I like the contrast between his dark blue suit and her three-piece, brown plaid dress. I click twice, and when it’s over, I hope that I’ve done everything right to capture that “Kodak presidential moment.”
At 9:30 a.m., two helicopters noisily approach the Coast Guard station next door. While Fina and Manolo wave goodbye from the front door, the president and his entourage cross the driveway and walk over to the waiting choppers. Following Bob, I climb aboard the first one. As soon as the Nixons take their seats, the blades start to rotate, and we slowly rise from the pad. Suddenly, the helicopter starts to vibrate wildly. Banking to the right, it hovers only a few feet above the ocean. Like everyone else, I instinctively lean to the left, desperately trying to compensate for the severe tilt. The shaking continues for about thirty seconds, which seems like an eternity.
“If it weren’t for the honor of riding in this presidential helicopter, I would be making the trip by car,” Henry Kissinger mumbles when we return to the pad.
The second attempt to take off goes smoothly, and twenty minutes later, there’s an audible sigh of relief when we put down at El Toro Marine Base. Next to us, Air Force One looks big and safe.
Pat Nixon joins Bob and me as we walk over to a crowd of supporters, who are standing behind a wire fence at the far end of the field. Pat wants to speak to my parents, who are here to drive me back to Bay Island. When it’s time for Bob to board, it’s hard to say goodbye. Facing another indefinite separation, we exchange a hug and kiss. Then he’s gone.
It’s Called the Watergate
On March 28, five days after Bob returns to Washington, he calls late at night from Camp David. Dwight Eisenhower died today, and I’m anxious to hear what Bob has to report.
He speaks hesitatingly. “It’s been a tough day for the president…I was with him in the Oval Office when he got the news…about Ike’s death… He was pretty choked up.”
“That’s got to be rough on you, too,” I say, moved by Bob’s description.
“It has been hard,” Bob agrees. “The president’s sentimental, you know. He even broke down and cried. It was pretty awkward, but he feels better now that he’s at Camp David. Mamie says it was Ike’s favorite place.”
April–May 1969
Time drags over the next couple of months. The war continues to be the biggest issue in the news, and the North Vietnamese army launches a small but savage attack into South Vietnam. In Santa Barbara, the oil slick starts to cause major problems, and drilling is suspended. Governor Ronald Reagan dispatches th
e National Guard to Berkeley after students clash with the police over “People’s Park.” Convicted of assassinating Senator Robert F. Kennedy, Sirhan Sirhan is sentenced to death.
I miss Bob. Normally, he’s a great help around the house, and there’s a lot to do to get ready for our move. Relying on long-distance phone calls, we do our best to make decisions together. In order to keep track of all that I need to accomplish, I make a large chart on a roll of shelf paper and tape it to the kitchen wall. At the top, I write, “JO’S JOBS” in capital letters. Under it are several categories: List Home, Buy Home, Schools, College, Moving Company, Utilities, and Dogs. Some of these I can quickly check off; others will take longer.
June 1969
Susan’s graduation from Marlborough School is a happy diversion. Bob makes a point of being home for the event, and we host the Father-Daughter Tea Dance that follows. All thoughts of Washington fade as I watch our seventeen-year-old daughter and her father dance an old-fashioned fox trot. It’s a poignant moment.
No sooner do I start catching up on things here at home than there are problems with the contractor in Chevy Chase. We keep hitting snags, and I’m anxious to have everything completed in three months when the children make the move. Mother is a big help. Not only does she have a decorator’s license, but she agrees to come to Washington with Hank and me at the end of the month.
As a summer boarder at St. Albans, his new school, Hank will undergo a rigorous six-week course in English grammar. In the meantime, Mother and I plan to spend one week with Bob in his new two-bedroom apartment. The recently completed complex overlooks the Potomac and is a convenient commute to the White House. Several members of the Nixon cabinet live here, as well as Rose Mary Woods.
It’s called the Watergate.
When Bob leaves for work each morning, a White House driver takes Mother and me out to Chevy Chase, where we spend our days looking at paint chips, swatches of fabric, carpet samples, and wallpaper books. The residential area of Kenwood is picturesque with its meandering stream and lush cherry trees lining the streets. The lawn in front of our home on Chamberlin Avenue has been freshly mowed, and the dogwood trees and azalea bushes are in full bloom.
Before we return to California, Bob invites Hank, Mother, and me for dinner on his new patio. When we arrive at his office, Bob’s secretary informs us that he’s in with the president. It’s a balmy evening, and we wait outside on the small terrace, which is completely enclosed by bushes and the canopy of a large walnut tree. A garden table has been set for four; opposite it, birds flutter down to drink from a birdbath. The setting is serene, with the exception of the cicadas. Their buzzing is so loud it makes it hard to carry on a conversation.
As soon as Bob joins us, a navy steward from the White House Mess appears. Taking our dinner orders, the young man is so formal, he appears to be standing at attention the entire time. The food is simple and somewhat bland, but eating al fresco in this hidden patio at the White House is beyond anything I ever imagined.
As we are scraping up the last crumbs of our mocha angel food cake, a movement inside Bob’s office catches our attention. “Good grief, it’s the president,” Bob says. “But what’s he wearing?” Leaning forward to get a closer look through the window, he exclaims, “It’s a smoking jacket! I didn’t even recognize him.”
“Does the president often work late?” Mother asks.
“No,” Bob replies, looking concerned. “Actually, I have no idea what he’s doing in my office at this time of night.” Pushing back his chair, he stands. “I’d better go and check. Be right back.”
Mother, Hank, and I watch in fascination as the shadowy forms of the president and Bob move into the Oval Office. When we can’t see them anymore, we continue our conversation in low tones.
Half an hour later, Bob returns and apologizes. “I’m sorry. The president was in one of his pensive moods and wouldn’t stop talking.” He pauses. “Of course, he had no idea that all of you were out here. He just assumed that I was working late.”
Why didn’t Bob just tell the president that he was having dinner with his family? Mother looks over at me but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to; I know what’s going through her mind. She has the same question I do.
◆
President Nixon announces that the US will withdraw twenty-five thousand soldiers from Vietnam as part of his program of “Vietnamization.” Georges Pompidou is elected president of France, succeeding Charles de Gaulle. In an apartment in London, Judy Garland is found dead.
When I return to California, my life feels fragmented. I have a husband, a son, and a home in Washington, as well as three children, four dogs, and a home in Los Angeles. In Kenwood, the painter is delaying my tight schedule, and in Hancock Park, I’m dealing with termites.
The Nixons have bought the Cotton estate, where they plan to spend most of the summer. This is good news for the children and me. It means that Bob will be able to stay with us when our family is at Bay Island.
July 1969
The Fourth of July provides us with a wonderful opportunity to be with the extended family at Bay Island. Each year, Hortons and Haldemans gather at #11 to celebrate the occasion. While everyone helps with the decorations and the food, Bob’s contribution is homemade peach ice cream.
Two blockbuster news events take place this month. On July 19, Senator Ted Kennedy drives his car off a bridge into the water on the island of Chappaquiddick. He leaves the scene, and his female companion drowns. The next day, Apollo 11 astronaut Neil Armstrong becomes the first man to set foot on the moon. Reaction to the first is shock and morbid fascination; to the second, wonder and pride.
Susan, Peter, Ann, and I watch the moon landing on live TV. We are spellbound as Armstrong steps out of the lunar module and declares, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Bob watches in the Oval Office with the president and Apollo 8 astronaut Frank Borman.
When the astronauts return to Earth four days later, Bob is with the president on the USS Hornet, witnessing the splashdown somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. From there, they continue on an around-the-world tour, visiting Guam, Djakarta, Bangkok, South Vietnam, New Delhi, Lahore, and Romania. President Nixon is the first American president ever to visit a Communist country, and the tour is proclaimed a great success. Bob’s first words on his return are, “I’m pooped.”
H. R. H. His Royal Highness
August 1969
Our home in Los Angeles has sold and is in escrow. Susan is getting ready to attend Stanford; Hank completes summer school at St. Albans; Peter returns from camp in Colorado; and Ann is mad at me. In packing for the move, I gave away the stuffed elephant collection that her father gave her when he was on the campaign trail in 1960. All four children are anxious to get out of this cluttered house and move to #11 Bay Island for the month.
From the outside, my parents’ blue and white Cape Cod summer home looks deceptively small for having six bedrooms and six baths. The cozy L-shaped living room is decorated in bright blues and yellows. Sliding glass doors open onto a large front porch. It’s a place where nothing ever seems to change. Other than a coat of paint every ten years, #11 and its furnishings remain the same. Even the summer routine is totally predictable.
Every Friday around noon, my mother and father arrive from Los Angeles and park in the garage on the peninsula. Loading up the family’s tomato-red golf cart with their suitcases and groceries, they drive across the bridge onto the island. After getting settled, my parents spend much of their time sitting on the front porch. Daddy also enjoys tinkering with his thirty-one-foot power boat, while Mom gets out her canvasses and oils to paint scenes around the island. On Monday mornings, the two of them return to their home in West Los Angeles, where my father goes into his law office three days a week.
On Saturday, August 9, President and Mrs. Nixon arrive in California for what is be
ing billed as a “working vacation.” While they are transported by helicopter to the new Western White House, Bob joins us at #11, which has been thoroughly checked out by the Army Signal Corps and Secret Service. The island and the footbridge have been declared “secure,” and three phones with direct lines to the White House switchboard have been installed.
The American flag waves from the flagpole at the side of the house. Bob’s suitcase lies open on the bed in our downstairs bedroom, and in the living room a long white cord snakes its way out to the White House phone on the front porch. The chief of staff is in residence, and we all feel the excitement.
Monday is Bob’s first day of commuting to the Western White House. Wearing a blue-and-white-striped seersucker suit, he joins me for breakfast on the porch. The morning sunlight reflects off his small American flag lapel pin.
The air is still, and the bay is glassy smooth. Seagulls screech and dive, as they follow a live bait boat out the channel. An eighteen-foot US Coast Guard boat cruises toward the island, slowly passing a sleepy-eyed pelican perched on a buoy.
“Here’s my ride,” Bob says, watching as two young men in immaculate white uniforms expertly dock the boat. After wrapping the bow line around a cleat, one stands at attention while the other remains seated at the wheel.
Grabbing his suit jacket and briefcase, Bob gives me a kiss and strides out to the dock. The gold monogram on the briefcase glints in the bright sunshine. “H. R. H.” Harry Robbins Haldeman. Or, perhaps, His Royal Highness… I smile. Both Coast Guard men salute as Bob steps on board. They cast off, and the boat slowly moves away from the dock. From his seat in the stern, Bob turns to wave to me, as well as neighbors who have come out from their houses to see what’s going on.
