In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  Bob’s Caesar salad is delicious, but I wonder if he will ever use his prized Fedco card. With the exception of shopping for me at Christmas, our anniversary, and my birthday, he hasn’t set foot in a store for over a year.

  ◆

  The press gives high praise to the president’s efforts to increase the dignity of the White House and to allow more public access to events. The West Wing has been handsomely redecorated, and both White House Church and Evenings at the White House are acknowledged as successful ways to entertain more guests.

  On January 27, however, the pursuit of respect and dignity goes a little too far. The air is chilly, and the sun plays hide-and-seek with dark, foreboding rain clouds. The decision to hold the state arrival ceremony of Harold Wilson, the prime minister of Great Britain, on the South Lawn is delayed until the last minute. One of Bob’s young assistants escorts me to the stairs of the South Portico, where I find a spot on the fourth step to watch the ceremony.

  Buttoning up my navy blue wool coat and winding a cashmere scarf twice around my neck, I try to keep warm. My legs are cold, and I wish I could wear my new red plaid pantsuit. But I can’t. Women don’t wear pants at the White House. As drummers and trumpeters assemble on the balcony above me, Bob comes out a side door and scurries over to join me. Ruffles and flourishes are played, followed by “Hail to the Chief.” With the flags of the United States and Great Britain waving behind them, the president and the prime minister walk across the lawn to a temporary platform. Seemingly unaffected by the cold, Nixon is not wearing a coat. He speaks first, followed by Wilson. The pageantry of the ceremony creates a feeling of great respect.

  Then, I spot the White House Police. Standing at attention in their new uniforms, they look out of place. Their double-breasted white tunics, loops of twisted gold braid, and shiny black Napoleonic hats, trimmed with gold filigree, are like costumes from a Sigmund Romberg operetta.

  “The police look like the men’s chorus in The Student Prince,” I say, nudging Bob.

  “Someone sure goofed,” Bob replies, with a scowl spreading across his face.

  The press has a field day with the spectacle, but it is soon remedied. Three days later, when I return to the White House to observe a press conference, the police are back in their old uniforms.

  Mr. Haldeman, It’s the President

  The presidential press conference is another White House “institution” that the president is attempting to dignify. In the past, this occasion has been chaotic. Reporters would jockey for position and shout out their questions all at once. Tonight, they are seated and raise their hands to be recognized. The reporters are orderly and respectful, and the new system appears to work well. I observe from a seat in the back of the room, where Bob has told me to sit.

  Afterward, Bob and I meet up, and the two of us go downstairs for dinner in the Executive Mess. Located on the ground floor near Henry Kissinger’s National Security Council office, the wood-paneled dining room is available only to the president’s top aides. The navy oversees both the Mess and the Executive Mess, and the food is simple, but good.

  Tucked away in a booth, I almost forget about the outside world. It’s not often that Bob and I get to have time together like this. But it doesn’t last long. Shortly after we’re served our entrée, a steward appears with a phone on a long cord.

  “Mr. Haldeman, it’s the president.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bob answers, quickly swallowing a mouthful of carrots. “You did a monumental job tonight.” Pause. “No, sir, not at all. You hit hard on the questions, and what’s more, you aced those guys with your new system. There was a lot more respect than in the past.”

  Clearly, the president is unhappy with the quality of the reporters’ questions. Patiently encouraging and reassuring him, Bob compares Nixon’s press conferences to those of Charles de Gaulle. When he hangs up, he continues our conversation right where we left off.

  After dinner, Bob and I join six other members of the White House staff and their wives in a room on the ground floor. Rows of chairs face a large portable screen, converting the room into a theater. We have been meeting here once a week to watch a special showing of the popular BBC TV series, Civilisation, an introduction to art history narrated by Sir Kenneth Clark.

  Tonight’s subject is Early Christian and Byzantine Art, and we quickly become absorbed in the world of Constantine and Justinian. A phone rings somewhere behind us, and a steward whispers in Bob’s ear that the president would like to talk to him. Bob takes the call in the back of the room, and from what I overhear, it’s about the press conference again.

  During the break, Irish coffee and cookies are served. No sooner does Bob fill his plate than he is called to the phone once more. It’s the same subject, the press conference. Responding to the president’s questions, he agrees with him and compliments him. I’m fascinated to hear how solicitous he is of Nixon. Bob would never be this tolerant with anyone else.

  We return to our seats, and a powerful scene of the resurrection appears on the screen. Just as Byzantium springs to life, the phone rings. For the fourth time tonight, Bob and the president discuss his press conference. Nixon never asks where Bob is or what he’s doing.

  February 1970

  Peter turns thirteen on Wednesday, February 11, and our family plans to celebrate at dinner. Shortly after arriving home, Bob receives a call from the president, who has decided on the spur of the moment to go to Florida. This means that we have only an hour to be together before Bob has to take off again.

  Peter has requested apple crisp instead of a birthday cake. In order to keep things moving, I have to serve it right out of the oven. It’s so hot, it melts the candles, which droop and sag as he tries to blow them out.

  As Peter is opening his first present, a piercing call comes from the kitchen. “Mr. Haldeman, your car is here.” Standing at the kitchen window, Bertha has a good view of the road. She loves being the first to spot the arrival of the White House car and relishes the drama of shouting the news from the kitchen.

  Bob leaps up from the dining room table. “Happy Birthday, Peter,” he says, giving his son a clap on the back. “See you in four days. I’ll be home Sunday night.”

  Suddenly, Bob is no longer with us. A half-eaten dish of apple crisp is left at his place, and a crumpled paper birthday napkin lies on the floor under his chair. This is not the way things were supposed to go.

  ◆

  Thursday, February 19, is our wedding anniversary, which we celebrate at the White House. The president and Mrs. Nixon are giving an informal dinner party in honor of Andrew Wyeth, the American realist artist.

  Wyeth’s paintings are on display in the main hall, where they can be viewed both before and after dinner. A tempera painting titled Distant Thunder appears to attract most of the attention. It shows a young woman lying asleep in a meadow, unaware of an approaching storm. As Bob and I wait our turn to study it up close, he grips my waist with both hands and gently steers me through the crowd.

  “The girl reminds me of Susan,” he remarks.

  Leaning back against Bob, I momentarily close my eyes. I feel his closeness. My mind goes back to the night we were married. The church was large, and there were many guests. Bob was twenty-two, and I was twenty. We had met five years earlier, when his sister Betsy introduced us. She was my best friend in high school. How could we have ever known that someday her brother would become my husband and that he and I would be celebrating our twenty-first wedding anniversary at the White House?

  ◆

  Three days after the Wyeth dinner, I return to the White House. With the Nixons at Camp David and Hank and Peter skiing at Blue Knob, Bob, Ann, and I plan to attend the afternoon dress rehearsal of the Broadway hit musical 1776 in the East Room. Based on the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the show will be the entertainment for tomorrow’s Evening at the White House. Bob has offered t
o give Ann and me a special tour of the recently refurbished West Wing and his new office before the show.

  Instead of entering the West Wing by the side door on the ground floor and climbing up the back stairs to get to Bob’s office, Ann and I use the newly remodeled entrance on the North Front. A marine in full dress uniform steps forward and holds open one of the double doors.

  “Wow,” I hear Ann say under her breath.

  The press corps lounge is gone. Instead, an elegant reception room greets us. High quality Williamsburg reproductions have replaced the worn, over-sized leather chairs and sofas. No more discarded newspapers and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. With a rich blue carpet on the floor and historical paintings lining the walls, the conversion is remarkable.

  The receptionist recognizes me and buzzes for Bob, who appears at a side door. He asks what we think of the décor and explains that the press has been relocated. The White House swimming pool has been covered over, and a new Press Briefing Room has been constructed on top of it.

  On our way back to his office, Bob shows Ann and me the newly decorated offices and conference rooms. Even the hall has had a makeover. Plush carpeting and indirect lighting have replaced the linoleum floors and fluorescent lights of the Johnson years.

  Bob has moved from his former cubbyhole adjoining the Oval Office into the large, southwest corner office at the other end of the hall. It was originally assigned to Vice President Agnew, who has moved to the Executive Office Building (EOB), across a private street within the White House compound. Sunlight floods in through six tall windows. A fire is burning in the fireplace, and an arrangement of fresh flowers is on the coffee table. The oil portrait of Richard Nixon from Bob’s old office hangs on the wall next to an American flag in a brass stand.

  Ann plops down in her father’s desk chair and swivels around. “Your desk is humungous,” she says.

  “Yep,” Bob replies. “Nine feet long. I designed it myself.” The desk is immaculate. There are only a few personal items, including a couple of framed family photographs.

  Pointing to a panel of three lights, Ann asks, “What are those for?”

  “They show me where the president is—the Oval Office, the family quarters, or on the grounds.”

  On the way out, we stop at his secretary’s desk, and Bob points to another panel of lights. “Green tells Pat that I’m available; yellow, I’m with the president; and red, I’m not to be disturbed.” The way Bob operates, I’m sure she takes the lights very seriously.

  Before walking over to the East Wing for the rehearsal, Bob asks us to wait while he strides down the hall to the door of the Oval Office. Turning around, he retraces his steps, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. His shoes are size twelve, and he uses them as rulers.

  “…twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two,” he says. “Only thirty-two feet separating me from the president.”

  With only members of the White House staff present for the dress rehearsal of 1776, it doesn’t matter where we sit. Ann is relieved when her father suggests that she and I take seats in the front row, and he sits directly behind us. The show is captivating, particularly in this historical setting. When it’s over, Ann has found a new hero, John Adams. The American statesman was driven and demanded a lot of himself, as well as others. Traits that remind me of Bob.

  Flaps

  March 1970

  Subjected to an endless series of cold, wet days in early March, I jump at the chance to be in a warmer climate when Bob suggests a trip to Florida. The president plans to spend a long weekend in Key Biscayne, and there’s room for the children and me to fly down on a support plane.

  Hank chooses to stay home. Peter, Ann, and I are driven to Andrews Air Force Base, where we board a prop-driven Convair. Most of the thirty-six seats are filled with Secret Service and army communications personnel. Nixon’s doctor and his wife are also on board, as well as Manolo, who is in charge of the president’s new Irish setter. King Timahoe was a gift from the White House staff. Due to stormy weather and strong headwinds, the trip takes four hours, twice as long as usual.

  It’s pouring rain when we land at Homestead Air Force Base. Carrying umbrellas, two aides in dark suits and ties scurry out on the tarmac to escort the children and me across the runway to a small helicopter. Twenty minutes later, our Huey puts down in a parking lot in the Key Biscayne marina. A driver is waiting to take us to the Key Biscayne Hotel.

  Our villa has two bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs. Phones are everywhere, and each of them has eight lines. When the one marked “White House” rings, I answer it, and a White House operator informs me that Bob and the president are still in the Oval Office.

  Bob doesn’t arrive until 2:30 a.m. Climbing into bed, he describes the trip down as “a disaster.” The president vacillated on leaving Washington due to the bad weather, and when he finally decided to go, starter problems on Air Force One caused more delays.

  The four of us sleep late the next morning and awaken to bright sunshine and warmer temperatures. While eating breakfast at a poolside table next to Henry Kissinger, Bob tells us that the president and Bebe have left for Grand Cay and don’t expect to return until tomorrow.

  “Bebe’s the perfect companion for the president,” Bob says. “He never talks. Bill Safire says that the president likes solitude, and being with Bebe is just like being alone.” Bob chuckles gleefully, and it sounds like, “Hee, hee, hee.”

  When Bob adds that there is no phone connection on the island, I smile. Now we may finally have some uninterrupted time with him.

  Although Bob spends time with the children and me on the beach both Friday and Saturday, he’s also on the phone a lot. He tells me that he’s dealing with “flaps.” When a press boat gets too close to Bebe’s yacht, the Julie, it creates a flap. When the White House mistakenly releases inaccurate information about the number of men killed in Laos, it creates another flap. Bob is particularly frustrated when the White House press corps makes no attempt to correct the report. I hear Bob using the term “flap” more and more these days. Ordinarily, addressing a flap is a two-part effort: first, resolve the issue, and second, put the best light on it.

  Following a partial eclipse Saturday morning, Bob and I walk to the lighthouse. When we return to the villa, we are surprised by the delivery of three huge platters of cold cuts. They were given to the Nixons, but the Secret Service won’t allow the first family to accept any gifts of food. Bebe had the trays sent over to us. Feeling like the “king’s tasters,” we ask friends to join us in sampling the array of meats, cheeses, dips, salads, fruits, and breads.

  Sunday, the heavy rumble of thunder, followed by torrents of rain, wakes us up. From the porch, I watch as the surf angrily lashes at the beach, leaving scads of jellyfish stranded on the sand. Bob is on edge all morning. Larry looks haggard.

  The phone rings, and after a brief conversation, Bob calls out, “Get packed, Jo. We’re leaving in half an hour. You and the kids are coming with us.”

  The president has had enough of Florida’s stormy weather. By 2:30 p.m., we are standing on a rain-soaked helipad, adjacent to the Nixons’ house. Bob boards Marine One. Peter, Ann, and I follow Tim, the Irish Setter, aboard a second helicopter.

  At Homestead, we meet up with Bob on Air Force One for the flight back to Washington. We take our assigned seats in the first two rows, on the right side of the VIP section. As soon as we are airborne, Bob starts working on The New York Times crossword puzzle, and I work on my needlepoint. Behind us, Peter and Ann put on large, padded headsets to listen to music in stereo.

  ◆

  Two weeks later, on Sunday, Bob is at the White House, dealing with a major flap. The postal workers’ walkout in New York City threatens to turn into a national strike. If the Air Traffic Controllers and the Teamsters also strike, it could cripple the country. The president has cancelled his plans to go
to Camp David and is holed up in his office at the Executive Office Building.

  Bob is extremely busy, and I’m surprised when he asks if the children and I would like to join him at his office. Home for spring break, Susan is the only one interested in going. She and I meet Bob in the deserted lobby of the West Wing. The offices are dark, and the halls are empty, with the exception of a few people with tense expressions who scurry by.

  Trying to stay out of the way, Susan and I settle by the fire in Bob’s office. We keep our voices down and quietly observe all that goes on. One minute Bob is on the phone, and the next, he’s conferring with the secretary of labor, the postmaster general, the domestic affairs advisor, and the press secretary. He dashes off a few memos and makes more calls. In between, he meets with the president in his EOB office.

  Lunch is put off until Bob is able to take a break. Being a Sunday, the Mess isn’t open, so the three of us do the next best thing. We get hot dogs, hamburgers, and ice cream bars from the vending machine on the ground floor and eat in Bob’s office.

  “This is amazing, Dad,” Susan comments. “I can’t believe that I’m having a picnic in the White House in the middle of a national crisis.”

  The afternoon is memorable. Watching Bob on the job is fascinating. I’m impressed by his clarity of thought and ability to make quick decisions. By the time Susan and I leave, we have a much greater understanding of what Bob’s work entails.

  The next afternoon, the president declares a state of national emergency. In a seven-minute statement, he calls on the US Armed Forces and National Guard to distribute the mail in New York City.

  April 1970

  On Sunday, April 5, the postal strike is finally over. Lasting two weeks, it was one of the largest wildcat strikes in our nation’s history. The following Wednesday, I’m in the Senate gallery witnessing another one of the president’s battles. This time it’s his second attempt to fill a vacancy on the Supreme Court.