Daisy Buchanan's Daughter Book 2: Carole Lombard's Plane (43 page)

As for me, it must’ve been soon after New Year’s that a call came I’d somehow expected since I laughed at Callie Sherman in Middleburg and said, “My guy won forty-four states.” Licking and sealing Pam’s first contribution to Gene McCarthy’s Presidential campaign, I picked up.

“I’m at the Mansion,” Cadwaller said a tad grimly. “You’re invited for dinner.”

“Hopsie, what are you talking about?” Not only were the formal White House events I’d gone to on his arm, seeing LBJ only in the receiving line, laid on months in advance, but there hadn’t been many of
those
in a while. “When?”

“Now. The meeting went late—three or four of us here from State and Defense. He wants company.”

“Can you talk? Are you trapped? Is it bad?”

“It could be,” he said with false casualness. “The First Lady’s in Texas, of course.”

“And
that’s
bad?”

He kept his voice light. “I’ve been told it can be very.”

Posted by: Pam

In spite of the protesters who by then scruffily gathered in Lafayette Square nearly at random to heckle its occupant, the Executive Mansion’s security was much less imposing in those days. Traffic flowed freely on Pennsylvania Avenue past a sidewalk as yet unridged by concrete dragon’s teeth to guard against truck bombs. Even so, to avoid inciting the demonstrators, I was told to park off the Ellipse and present myself at the South Gate instead.

Which I did, feeling uncomely. Hopsie hadn’t had time to give me advice on what I should wear, so I’d tried to approximate formality without ostentation in a high-collared blouse and long wool winter skirt. By good luck the gray brindle mop had recently been on a trip to the hairdresser’s—yes, I’d tagged along too—and looked decent enough in a back knot. All the same, I’d only been to the White House before in white gloves, a full evening gown, and a silk shawl I liked. Wearing wool gloves instead gave me pause, and in spite of the cold I tucked them into my purse before giving my name.

Escorted up the South Portico’s steps by a crisp Marine in dress blues—he was the one in white gloves tonight, and at least he wouldn’t die in Hué tonight—I got handed off to an usher in the icy blast that swerved around the large door as he opened it. He took me by elevator to the second floor of the East Wing, which I’d obviously never laid eyes on: never seen more than the big reception rooms downstairs. These were the family quarters, if not for too much of a family since Lynda and Luci both opted for matrimony.
The First Lady’s in Texas, of course.

It looked almost ablaze, since they kept all the lights on in every room until the President retired for the night. I had no clue what to expect. This was Lyndon Baines Johnson, whom I’d once heard relieving himself noisily in a Congressional office’s washbasin. Hopsie had been in the Cabinet Room the day LBJ stunned a visitor by standing, unzipping, hefting, and bellowing, “Tell me, does Ho Chi Minh have anything like
this?
”

My usher led me to the small family room off the Truman Balcony. Yes, past the chappie no doubt well versed in American dialects whose lap braced the briefcase containing new-kew-lear, nucleah, and nuclear codes. Of the five men and two other stunned wives seated on the three uncomfortably close striped couches that boxed in one big armchair at the far end, of course for me there were only two faces at first.

Cadwaller’s looked strained. Johnson’s looked, well, amazingly like Lyndon Johnson’s, rather more so than it ever had in receiving lines. Tieless and jacketless, shirtcuffs turned back on his arms and shirt’s pale nether billows leaking all over his beltline—four sartorial details distinguishing him from the other men in the room—he set down his glass and looked up. Though his eyes were as incapable of widening as those of any man’s I’ve known, their dark-lidded cavelets showed more of a brightening chink than I’d have expected.

“Well, now! This must be Mrs. Hopsie. Isn’t that what they call you, Cadwaller?”

Hopsie gave a tired smile. “Well, some do, sir, yes.”

“Think I’ll appoint myself one of ’em. Mrs. Cadwaller, you come give your Hopsie a nice kiss on the cheek. You other folks introduce yourselves, will you?”

The only unwifed man present aside from the President didn’t need to. “Why, hello, Carl!” I said.

Nodding exhaustedly, Carl [Last Name Redacted] shifted farther down on the couch to give me more room on its stripes next to Cadwaller. Sitting, I squeezed Hopsie’s arm briefly. Completing the usual extent of our greetings in public, he patted my hand.

“Aw, hell. I said a kiss, didn’t I?” LBJ grunted. “Are you another of these women who’s plumb forgotten how to treat a good man, Mrs. Cadwaller? Your Hopsie’s been at it all
day
.”

I felt like a seal being trained and my lipstick was fresh, redaubed by yellow light in the car’s rearview mirror before I got out. Puckering up like Fran Kukla in
Hamlet
,
I quickly smooched your great-grandfather’s cheek, atypically peppered since he’d shaved before dawn and it was past ten at night.

“Now that’s better,” LBJ said. “None of you knows just how hard your men work, but I do.”

I couldn’t help wondering if the other two couples had been put through the same performance, and as you may have noticed, we hadn’t obeyed LBJ’s other instruction. I never did learn their names. The Army bird colonel’s lady had streaked blonde hair and about eight or nine cheekbones before I quit counting: the Fort Bragg version of a fashion plate. Measuring everyone’s hemlines and then glancing down at her pumpkin knees, the Pentagon civilian’s wife was not only as chubby as Judy Agnew but shared her simpleton gift for beaming into the abyss with as much paralyzed joy as if it were a vanity mirror. You won’t know who that is and won’t ever need to, bikini girl, but for reference, the Second Lady of the as yet unborn Nixon Administration spent most of it looking like she’d missed her calling as some better carnival’s dunking clown.

Fumbling a bit, LBJ pressed a button. Kaboom? Clearly not, as here I sit inputting almost forty years later in a world more or less in one piece. The mess steward’s time matched any mushroom cloud’s, though.

“Felix,” said LBJ, “you can go tell the kitchen we’re about ready to eat.”

“Right away, Mr. President. What would you like to have?”

“God
damn
it! Do I have to make every puny decision in this damn mousetrap? I do not give a plug damn. Food! Just so long as it’s meat. Burgers, sirloin, buffalo for all I care. Cut Hubert’s leg off, you jackass. Oh, and find out what Mrs. Hopsie here might care to drink.”

“If I could just have a club soda with lemon, that’s fine,” I squeaked. Not Pam’s usual register or cocktail request, but there’s a first time for everything.

“No, no, no, no, no,” warned LBJ, a Presidential finger instantly waggling. “Both these other damozels tried that one too. My God, doesn’t anyone know how to unwind anymore? Scotch or bourbon?”

“Scotch. Water and ice,” I told Felix faintly. It came in under a minute.

“There now. That’s better,” LBJ told us. “You know, I always like spending time with young folks, I do. Ask my old Congressional staff. ’Course back then they more or less had to be young, considering what I could pay ’em and how hard I worked ’em.”

If a single one of us there wasn’t past forty, I don’t know wrinkles and creased necks from holes in the ground. And of course, thanks to the hour and their jobs, the men looked even older than they probably were: Cadwaller’s age in advance, you could say. By then all the real youngsters were in Lafayette Square, or holding teach-ins at Columbia or Berkeley, or being inducted, or dead.

“Mrs. Cadwaller, your husband plays it pretty close to the vest. I wasn’t sure I believed you even really existed and that is a fact. But now I can see why he’s kept you away from the White House.”

This wasn’t the moment to explain he’d met me four or five times at receptions—differently dressed, to be sure. With any President, there is no such thing as that moment. You take your lumps.

“Why, thank you, Mr. President,” I said, no doubt sounding perplexed. Even the Buchanan gams weren’t what they had been, one reason my hemline made Judy Agnew’s look like a miniskirt.

He leaned in like my confessor. I could smell his breath, which was loamy. I could practically smell his deodorant souring in its two crinkled Alamos. “So tell me,” he said. “What’s Cadwaller’s secret?”

Recall, Hopsie was sitting right next to me. On the facing couch, poor Judy Agnew’s eyes had just glazed with fear. She’d glanced at her husband to recall whether he had a secret and she knew it.

Startled enough to put a hand to my high-collared blouse, I laughed nervously. “I’m sorry! I don’t have a clue.”

“’Course you do. What makes your Hopsie tick? You can trust me.”

“I’m afraid there’s no secret at all, Mr. President,” I floundered as best I could. “As the kids say these days, ‘What you see is—’”

I suspect mentioning the kids was what did it. When addressing the man for whose public pronouncements the term “credibility gap” was invented, quoting “What you see is what you get” might not’ve been stellar either.

“Balls. Harvard men,” LBJ roared, “
always
have secrets. They damn sure have ’em from me! And
West
Pointers, now,” he went on, making the Army bird colonel’s fidgety hands nearly do something West Pointers never do—hide the ring—“are just a bunch of smug Freemasons dressed up as soldiers, you know that, Mrs. Cadwaller? By God, if Congress would let me, I’d let ROTC take over the works and have you gold-ring nuggeted bastards put under arrest as an illegal cult. How’d it come ‘Country’ comes
third
in your book? I went to Southwest State Teachers’ College, San Marcos! Where in hell’d you say you went to school, son?”

The Pentagon civilian not only hadn’t but clearly didn’t want to: “Rensselaer.”

“Mm-hm. Another bright fellow who’s had all the answers since he was in didies. Sonny, do you know the one thing you have not said to your President since four goddam p.m.? ‘I don’t know, Mr. President.’ ‘I’m just not sure, Mr. President.’ Good goddam Christ. If McNamara just once, just once in his sanctified life, had said ‘I don’t know, Mr. President’—‘I’m not sure, Mr. President’—‘No goddam craphouse idea, Mr. President! We’re as slaphappy as poontang from Pyongyang and you’d do better not counting on us. This thing could go either way or somewhere else or nowhere or Jupiter or all up in smoke, but we can’t say which for pigeon shit in an envelope and the Lord sure does work in mysterious ways.’ Had you said that just once to me or to God knows Jack Kennedy, why then
maybe!
Just maybe. But no, damn it, you don’t—”

He’d heaved to his feet, one forefinger sweeping north. “You don’t, you won’t ever, sonny, even in your worst nightmares, won’t hear all of them in the park shouting, ‘Hey, hey—
Rensselaer Institute!
How many—how many—did you—did you’—
fuck!
”

Quaking, he dropped back in his chair. Passed a weary hand over his face before squeezing the bridge of his nose. “What about you, Carl?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t tick anymore, Mr. President,” said Carl [Last Name Redacted]. “I did once, but no more. Just not worth it.”

“Moot question, you mean?”

“Yes, sir. Moot question.”

“I stuck it out two years at Barnard before quitting,” I said brightly. “I just couldn’t see much point—not with that great big wonderful world waiting out there.”

Johnson’s big grateful paws clamped on Pam’s future Rheumas. “Then, little missy, you just may be the smartest woman—smartest
person
,
hell—in this room. I remember that great big wonderful world awful well.”

Not as well as he thought he did, but it
had
been the quickest lay of the 20th century. “Well, I don’t have so much to show for it,” I apologized.

“Hell, look at me,” LBJ said. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

Posted by: Pam

We all rose as he did. Then the President led us out into the hall and through a portico into the family dining room, where places had been set for nine. Only Mrs. [Last Name Redacted] was either unavailable or nonexistent. “Felix! Where in hell is our food?”

“Coming right away, Mr. President.”

“Well, get us all another round while we’re waiting. Make mine double.”

The drinks beat the food by about thirty seconds. But the food took three mess stewards to bring. So far as I could tell, they’d emptied the larder: plates of steaks, ribs, and burgers with and sans cheese. No rump roast of Vice-President Humphrey, but I could see how you’d want to baste that a bit. We each had individual bottles of ketchup, mustard, Worcestershire, A-1 steak and hot pepper sauce at our place settings.

“Anybody here got a cigarette?” LBJ asked and the table froze.

With one possible exception—Judy Agnew, who’d started fumbling in her lap with a beatific peer into the good old vanity-mirror abyss before she recalled that she’d left her handbag back in the sitting room and didn’t smoke anyhow—everyone at that table must’ve known the man asking had quit a three-or-four-pack-a-day habit after a near fatal heart attack in summer ’55. Bull market in those too that year: President Eisenhower’s, which very nearly let us enjoy President Nixon much earlier in life, came along under three months after Senate Majority Leader Johnson’s.

Heart attacks were to the Fifties what shootings were to the Sixties. I’d even used to worry about Gerson, though not because of undue tobacco or boozing—just because he was under such pressure to be Gerson, Gerson, Gerson all the time. Try to remember the kind of Ike era.

“Oh, give me a break,” LBJ wearily told our still faces. “One to be sociable now and again ain’t going to kill me. And say it did? Say it did. Let’s all
reason
together over just how real a heartbreaker that’d be by now to my fellow Americans except Lady Bird and our girls. I can’t even be sure about my goddam sons-in-law. Now, Hopsie! Don’t you think those kids out in the park would finally learn just how good marijuana tastes with champagne?”

“Mr. President,” Cadwaller protested.

“Mmm. I’m not done yet. Let’s see. Now, Bobby Kennedy and old Gene McCarthy would be waltzing arm and arm around a maypole—trying to trip each other up the while, of course, but that’s politics and boys will be boys. Hubert’s whole fat Woody Woodpecker trip would go into overdrive as he leapt nimbly over my body to take the damn oath. A few of the servants down at the ranch might feel bad, but Hill Country people are no strangers to death and they’ll still be on the payroll. I don’t think I’ve left anyone out. Now will somebody please give me a cigarette?”

“Mr. President,” said Cadwaller again. LBJ held up a hand.

“No, no, no. As you can all hear from my tone of voice, I, Lyndon Johnson, am not being one bit sorry for myself. I’m only trying to analyze a situation cogently,
just what the four of you bored me half stupid by not managing to do all afternoon after years of
assessing
this crap. Your C Street striped-pants crowd won’t be weeping much either,
Hopsie
,
if one lonesome old cigarette does kill me bang, dead, just like that right in front of your eyes like you’re all worried it will. Well, then turn your backs on me, damn it! Let me have my one little smoke to be sociable. You know the funny thing,
Hopsie
,
is I always say State’s the one that never let me down. That because I never gave ’em much say to begin with, but neither did Jack and you all loved his ass.”