In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  Sharing camp stories with us, Bob describes an overly strict guard, nicknamed “Deputy Dog.” He also talks about one of “the guys” who tried to blow up his mother’s plane after he took out life insurance on her. Stimulated by the novelty of life at the camp, Non and Bob are chatty and lighthearted. Still unsure of myself, I remain quiet and withdrawn. I feel like the “odd man out.”

  Bob tells us that he lives in a multi-storied dorm with over four hundred other inmates. He is assigned a cubicle, which he refers to as his “house.” A five-foot-high partition defines his personal area, which contains a bed, desk, chair, and cupboard. Bob is subjected to inspections, head counts, and demerits, or “shots.” Tan khaki pants and blue oxford cloth shirts are the camp uniform. These are issued each week, along with shorts, socks, towels, and sheets. A washer and dryer are available, as well as a laundry service. Requests for certain personal items from home—such as clothing, books, sports gear, or toiletries—must be in writing. All letters and packages will be opened and approved before they are distributed.

  “Before long, I’ll be assigned to a job,” Bob says, looking pleased. “In the meantime, I have a temporary assignment at the power plant.”

  “I bet they put you to work in the office,” Non speculates. “You’re such a good manager, and you’re so organized.”

  Before we know it, our three-hour visit is over. The air is cooler, and wisps of fog are starting to creep across the patio. Along with the other families, Non and I follow Bob to the edge of the lawn.

  “This is as far as I can go,” he says, coming to an abrupt halt at the white line on the road. “I’m not allowed to step over that.”

  Bob’s words tell it like it is, and the line is a blunt visual reminder of where he is. Non and I try to put up a good front as we kiss him goodbye, but it’s difficult. Clutching our leftover picnic supplies, we join a straggly procession of mostly women and children on their way back to the parking lot. Behind us, Bob stands with his feet firmly planted on his side of the white line.

  Good Days, Bad Days

  Dropping me off at my sister’s house in Santa Ynez, Non faces the long drive back to Los Angeles alone. The Parkers’ rambling ranch-style home is about twenty-six miles from the camp, which is an easy commute for me. I plan to spend two nights here and visit Bob on my own tomorrow. On Sunday, the children will pick me up, so we can go together.

  Gay, David, and their four children live in a different world from mine. With their two Golden Retrievers, three horses, several chickens, and one unusually large pig named Piglet, it’s chaos. But it’s happy chaos, and I love being around all of them. It’s good for me.

  I’m up early the next morning, but Gay is already in the kitchen. Not only has she offered me her car for the day, but she sends me off with thermoses of hot coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice. On the way to the camp, I make a quick stop to pick up breakfast at a coffee shop in the quaint Danish town of Solvang.

  I can hardly wait to see Bob, but at the same time, I remember the uneasiness I felt yesterday. Also, I’m apprehensive about being alone with him for seven hours. It’s been a long time since the two of us have spent that much time together with no breaks. To be on the safe side, I bring Scrabble, backgammon, and two decks of cards.

  When I check in at the Visitors Center, I’m pleased to hear “Haldeman” pronounced correctly over the loudspeaker. A wheelbarrow full of pink, purple, and white stock sits next to the main door, and I’m surprised to see flower arrangements on several tables in the patio. A few of the chairs even have small, colorful umbrellas attached to them. When I comment on how pretty everything looks, Bob tells me that the warden has spruced up the camp to make a good impression on any important visitors Bob might have.

  As we take our seats at a picnic table, a couple of the inmates call out, “Hi, H. R.,” and Bob explains that’s what the guys call him. Eagerly opening the Styrofoam box with his breakfast in it, Bob spears some hardened scrambled eggs with a plastic fork, takes a bite of a jelly donut, and washes everything down with Gay’s juice and coffee. Digging into the pocket of his khaki pants, he hands me a scrap of paper with a list of things he wants me to send him: his windbreaker, two sweaters, white espadrilles, and four pairs of shorts and socks. At the bottom of the page, he’s added sweatpants and a zipper sweatshirt with a hood.

  “Sweatpants?” I question. “You don’t like sweatpants…and are you sure you want a sweatshirt with a hood?” Bob has never worn anything that covers his head. He doesn’t like the feeling, and besides, it might mess up his hair.

  Shrugging, he justifies his request. “The guys told me that I should have them.”

  The sun beats down, but it’s not overly hot. The flowers on the table fill the air with a lovely, soft fragrance. We play Scrabble, gin rummy, and double solitaire. The conversation flows naturally, and the hours pass quickly.

  For lunch, I drive into Lompoc to pick up fish and chips, which is one of Bob’s favorites. Unfortunately, the container of malt vinegar tips over in the car, and when I hand the bag to Bob, the bottom disintegrates. The food spills out onto the ground, and with the exception of two small containers of coleslaw, our lunch is inedible.

  Seeing our predicament, an inmate seated with his family at the next table comes to the rescue.

  “Enjoy, H. R.,” he says, dishing up two extra plates of spaghetti, meatballs, lasagna, green salad, and toasted garlic bread.

  “Thanks, Luigi,” Bob says, explaining to me that Luigi owns an Italian restaurant in San Diego.

  I’m overwhelmed with Luigi’s thoughtfulness, and I take it to heart. It shows me how well-liked Bob is, and it makes me realize how out of sorts I’ve been. I need to change my attitude. Instead of expecting the worst, I resolve to look for the good in this camp experience.

  After we clean up, I entertain Bob with my real estate stories, and he talks about the problems he’s having with his book. It’s difficult for him to find the time to work on it, and it’s virtually impossible for him to be alone without distractions. His publisher and collaborator are pressuring him to go into greater depth on Watergate. They want him to place the blame on others, but he’s resisting.

  As Bob and I talk, I feel a closeness between the two of us that I haven’t experienced for a long time. I’m reminded of the time at Bay Island when my parents agonized over the condition of a frayed electrical cord. I had longed to have the same sort of mundane discussion with Bob, but he was preoccupied with the White House. This afternoon, it’s finally happening. We talk about anything and everything. Nothing holds us back.

  When visiting hours are up, we’re still engrossed in our conversation, and I find it hard to leave. As we are reluctantly saying goodbye, one of the guys approaches us. In his arms are two huge bunches of purple and white stock, which he awkwardly presents to me with an embarrassed grin.

  “Thanks, Demetrius,” Bob says, clapping him on the back.

  I bury my face deep into the center of the blossoms and breathe in their heavenly fragrance. Peering over the flowers, I tell Demetrius that he has provided the perfect ending to a perfect day. This time, when I step over the white line, I hardly notice it. I just spent seven delightful hours with my husband.

  ◆

  On Sunday morning, June 26, I’m awakened by the Parkers’ hens clucking in the barn and the smell of coffee. Lazily climbing out of bed, I feel content and cared for. I am anticipating my visit to the camp with Susan, Peter, and Ann. Hank plans to see his father next week.

  On the way to Lompoc, the three children and I stop in Solvang to buy sandwiches for lunch. As soon as we pass the correctional facility sign, there’s a noticeable silence in the car. Sensing the children’s anxiety, I try to reassure them by taking a short drive around the camp. But my spirits plunge as we approach the parking lot. Across the road, Bob is standing behind the chain-link fence with other inmates. The sight i
s disturbing, and I worry how the children are going to react. Bob waves, and without hesitating, they wave back. Despite my concerns, they appear to be at ease during the check-in procedure. When the loudspeaker blasts their father’s name and he has to identify himself by a number, the three of them take it in stride.

  Two of the guys are saving a patio table for us, and Demetrius self-consciously hands me a large container of flowers to use as a centerpiece. As we set up lunch, I’m glad to see the children asking so many questions. The more they know about their father’s situation, the less anxious they will feel.

  Bob tells us that he likes his temporary job as a clerk at the power plant. Following an evaluation by the staff, he will be given a permanent job. He takes a two-mile walk around the track before and after dinner each night, but he must be in his dorm at 8:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. for “the count.” Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday nights are movie nights.

  Pointing to his khaki pants and blue oxford cloth shirt, Bob asks the children how they like his “jail clothes.” I’m puzzled. This isn’t like Bob, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to be funny or if he wants to shock us. In any event, the children don’t react. When he requests some more personal items, I make a list in my spiral notebook: a Casio calculator, two books (The Silmarillion by J. R. R. Tolkien and The Once and Future King by T. H. White), a belt, and tennis shoes. The shoes must be ventilated, canvas Tretorns, size 12-D.

  “Canvas Tretorns?” I question.

  “Yes,” Bob confirms. “For jogging.”

  “Jogging?!” the children exclaim in unison.

  “You’ve never jogged,” I add.

  “I need the exercise,” Bob says. “The guys here jog around the playing field, and they think I should, too.”

  Our visit goes well, until it comes time to leave. As we’re packing up, Susan turns to her father and says, “This is just so frustrating, Dad. It’s such a waste of time and money. It doesn’t serve any purpose.”

  Turning to face his older daughter, Bob places his hands on her shoulders.

  “Look, Sus, you know as well as I do that there are many things in life that we don’t understand. This experience may appear to have no purpose, but I know that no matter how wrong or unfair it may seem, it’s part of my growth and progress. Right now, this is where I am, and I plan to make the best of it.” He pauses and then adds, “The toughest part for me is seeing how hard this is on each of you.”

  The children and I take turns giving Bob hugs. The final act of stepping across the white line is inevitable. Seeing us hesitate, Bob quips, “Hey, guys, just think of all the picnics you get to have in prison!”

  The four of us laugh halfheartedly and then reluctantly trudge back to the parking lot. As we drive away, Ann rolls down her window and waves to her father. “That white line’s like a ten-foot wall,” she says, dejectedly.

  No one talks as we head back to Los Angeles. We are tired, and each of us is lost in his or her own thoughts. When I stop for gas in Santa Barbara, however, we are brought back to our senses. It’s a nightmare. The car won’t start, and the attendant tells me that I need a mechanic. Today is Sunday, and there are no mechanics available. My only option is to have the station wagon towed to a garage and leave it. By the time I do this and rent a car, we’ve added another two hours to our drive home. It’s long past dark when we finally reach Hancock Park.

  In bed, I reflect back over the past three days, which seem more like three weeks. First, there was Bob, who appeared to be adjusting well. Next, Non, who as always, saw her son in the best light. Then, the children, who took their father’s imprisonment in stride. And lastly, me. I think I handled some things well, and others, I did not. At times, I struggled to keep a positive attitude. Tonight, I am very tired.

  ◆

  The alarm rings first thing the next morning. Instead of reporting to Coldwell Banker, I have to return the rental car to the local agency in Hollywood. Peter will meet me there and drive me to Santa Barbara to pick up the station wagon.

  Things do not go well. Inspecting the rental car, the mechanic falsely claims that I dented it in three places. Already at my breaking point, I burst into a flood of tears. Not only do I embarrass myself, but also the mechanic, the owner of the agency, and Peter. Anxious to get rid of me as quickly as possible, the owner waives the charges and escorts Peter and me out the door.

  On the road, Peter and I don’t talk much. I’m still trying to get control of my emotions, and the Volkswagen engine is so noisy it drowns out most of our conversation anyway. I’m content to lean back and think my own thoughts. A memory comes to mind of last Christmas, when I put a massive green bow on top of this little red Beetle, and Bob drove it to the airport to pick up Peter from college. I smile.

  By the time we reach Santa Barbara, my station wagon is ready, and I’m back on the road in no time. On the way home, I stop at a Hollywood sporting goods store to buy Bob his sweatpants, hooded sweatshirt, and Tretorn tennis shoes. I’m in a hurry, but the shoe salesman is inexperienced and can’t find what I need. Witnessing my frustration, a nearby customer asks why my husband doesn’t buy his own shoes.

  Losing my self-control, I snap, “He can’t. He’s in prison.”

  Tears well up in my eyes. People around me stare. I am embarrassed, and so are they. Why would I blurt out something like that? First of all, it’s not my nature. Secondly, I vowed I would never use that word as long as Bob is at “the camp.” What’s happening to me?

  The Sewer Plant and Poppies

  With the weekend finally behind me, I return to work. I love what I do, but it’s exhausting. Not only are the hours long, but I’m constantly striving to emulate Lucy. When we started working together a year ago, I was her “gofer” and was paid a salary. Now I’m her partner and receive a percentage of the commission. It’s a world of buyers and sellers, interest rates, mortgages, listing agreements, and sales purchase contracts. With twenty-one homes in escrow, six deals pending, and a long list of clients, Lucy is constantly on the go. She has so much business, it’s almost more than the two of us can handle. Her newest listing sets a record. The white brick English home on South Hudson is listed at $900,000. I appreciate the fact that Lucy encourages me to take time off to enjoy Newport, but when I do, I feel guilty missing work. Besides, Bay Island is not the same without Bob.

  July 1977

  Friday, July 1, is a particularly long day. I leave Newport and drive to LA to have lunch with Non and Betsy, before continuing up the coast to have an evening visit with Bob.

  Before checking in at the camp, I pick up a bucket of Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner. The weather is warm, which means Bob and I can be outside. He looks good. His hair has been “styled” by one of the inmates, and he has lost weight from jogging. The guys have told him that their wives like them to wear their own clothes rather than “jail clothes,” so he’s dressed in a madras shirt and blue denims that I sent from home.

  Searching through the chicken for a piece of white meat, Bob looks up and casually announces that he has his permanent job now. “After a thorough evaluation of my talents, the powers-that-be assigned me to…the sewer plant.”

  “The sewer plant?” I ask. “That’s where you work?”

  “Actually, I couldn’t ask for a better spot,” Bob explains. “The processing basins are located in a deserted ravine not far from here, which gets me away from the camp and gives me some privacy. A prison bus drives the other guys and me out there each morning and picks us up at the end of the day. All we have to do is to run a few chemical tests on the sewage for a couple of hours, and then we have our afternoons free.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I say, trying to absorb what Bob is telling me. “I thought you’d be assigned to the office.”

  Bob waves away a wasp that’s hovering over a leftover chicken bone. “The location’s kind of pretty, and it’s quiet. We have
a small office with a cooktop, a refrigerator, and a washer and dryer. And best of all, there’s a typewriter. My publisher’s been bugging me to get the editing done on my book. Now that I have a typewriter, I won’t have to write everything out in longhand anymore.”

  “Sounds good, but…” I hesitate. “Does it smell?”

  “The odor’s carried downwind, and it’s not that bad.” Bob pauses. “The guys call the sewer plant the ‘shit house.’” Another pause. “Just think, Jo, I must have set some sort of record. In the last four years, I’ve gone from the White House to the shit house!” He laughs, “Hee, hee, hee.”

  Bob is amused at his joke, and once again, his words startle me. I don’t know why he says things like, “shit house” and “jail clothes.” It doesn’t sound like him. What makes him talk like this?

  Helping himself to a piece of my mother’s Harvey Wallbanger Bundt cake, Bob continues. “Periodically, we have to search for drugs. When the hard-core prisoners in the penitentiary across the road think they might get caught, they put their drugs into plastic bags and flush them down the toilet.” He looks over at me and adds, “Don’t say anything about this to Mom when you talk to her. Just tell her that I’m a chemist and I work in an office at the disposal plant.”

  “I will,” I assure him, knowing that no matter what Bob does, Non will be proud of him.

  Between Bob’s stories of life around the camp and mine at Coldwell Banker, our three-hour visit passes quickly. On the whole, it’s been a good day today. Saying goodbye isn’t as hard as it has been, and I’m staying nearby with the Parkers. It’s still light at 8:00 p.m., and the drive along the two-lane country road is lovely. The sight of a full moon rising directly in front of me is breathtaking. I pass dairy cows contentedly grazing in lush green fields, and in the distance, Lompoc’s flower beds look like a giant, multi-colored patchwork quilt. I am at peace with myself.