15
FIRST FRIENDS
The President very distracted lately. I worry.
—JOURNAL, SEPT. 24, 1991
By early fall of our third year in office, a number of pressures were coming to bear on the President.
The leadership of the Democratic party was anxious for him to declare his intentions about running for the second term. His New York Times/CBS Poll approval rating of twenty-one percent (a historic low) had the party bigwigs scared. House Speaker Ferraro visited the Oval Office on September 28 and asked him seriously to consider not running. The President was not receptive to this advice, and relations between him and the Speaker became strained from here on in.
The situation in Bermuda by now had taken a nasty turn. During the riots of September 22–28 several more sweater concerns along Front Street were torched. The British Governor General, Viscount H. J. F. P. Rennett, had declared another state of emergency, and a detachment from the 52nd Gurkhas—the Queen’s Own—was en route. In Washington the President was under considerable fire from hawkish elements of both parties to show the flag, but had persisted in his conviction that the disturbances were “purely Bermudian.” With the Reverend Jesse Jackson championing the side of the black Bermudians as well as pressing his third presidential candidacy, President Tucker was of course anxious not to alienate black voters. He had also come into office vowing “No more Grenadas,” which would have made it very difficult for him to intervene, even if he had been inclined to do so.
I was deeply concerned, naturally, by these developments. I have always been keenly interested in foreign affairs. But at the time I was even more preoccupied with domestic matters. The strain between the President and First Lady had become aggravated.
One morning when the First Lady was away, I called Mrs. O’Dwyer, the housekeeper, into my office. I had a difficult question to ask, and felt embarrassed posing it.
“Are things between the President and First Lady as … er … conjugal as they used to be after they first arrived, Mrs. O’Dwyer?”
She told me it was none of my business.
I told her I understood that my question sounded indiscreet, but that it was not idle curiosity that compelled me to ask it. Moreover, I informed her, I was not accustomed to being spoken to that way by housekeepers. I do not enjoy interrogating elderly Irish ladies, but this was an affair of state.
“I don’t care how yer used to bein’ spoken to,” she said defiantly, but when I pointed out that there was no shortage of housekeepers, her tongue loosened up.
“Well,” she sniffed, “if you mean are they doin’ it on the floor, the answer is no. Beyond that I don’t care to say.”
I found this irksome in the extreme. “Mrs. O’Dwyer,” I said forcefully, “if you think I am asking you this question for reasons having to do with other than the harmony of this administration, you are most grievously and pathetically mistaken.” I gave her a good strong look just for good measure.
It was like squeezing a third cup out of a teabag, but I managed to get out of her the fact that of late the President and First Lady had not been sharing the same bedroom. This was deeply disconcerting intelligence.
“Mrs. O’Dwyer,” I said, “if word of this gets out, the consequences to the Presidency and the nation would be difficult to imagine. I trust you and the staff won’t go noising this about.” At this she became indignant and began remonstrating in a strenuous manner. I wrote it off to the Irish temperament.
As of yet, no one suspected what was going on in the boudoir of power; or rather what was not going on in the boudoir of power. The First Lady had maintained an exemplary civic profile. There had been no more talk of movie-making, and the press never failed to remark on how radiant she looked and on what an attractive First Couple she and the President made. She was, if truth be told, the one positive note in an administration beset by divisions and crises both petty and grand.
But toward October she was tired (as she had every right to be) and in need of greater stimulation than the endless round of congressional wives’ teas that the Legislative Affairs shop was forever pressing on us. This is not to say she did not personally like many of the congressional wives, but such settings were not her milieu.
“It’s odd,” she said to me one afternoon after they had departed, “how many of them used to be their husbands’ secretaries. I bet they don’t do it as much as they used to—on the sofa and over the desk, between appointments with constituents. I guess it’s not as much fun in bed.”
I must have blushed, because she looked at me in that girlish way and laughed. “Oh, Herb,” she said, “you’re such an old lady.”
It is not that I am embarrassed by discussion of sexual matters, although I certainly think they have their time and place. But after what Mrs. O’Dwyer had told me, I was wary of the subject. Perhaps I should have pursued it, but at the time I couldn’t find the words.
She did not form many very close friendships with Washington women, except with Joan Bingham, the Georgetown socialite and Democratic activist, a vivacious, enthusiastic woman with whom the First Lady often had private lunches at the Four Seasons restaurant. The two women had the same sense of humor, and Mrs. Tucker was fascinated by Mrs. Bingham’s work with South Africa and the Institute of Sperm Motility.
But her closest friends remained those she had made in the Hollywood and New York film worlds. They were a gay bunch, and as her ennui with the world of politics grew, their visits became more and more frequent. Mr. Henry Hoguet, Mr. Alexander Onanopoulos, and Mr. Ramon “Billy” Angullas-Villanueva were especial favorites of hers. Often they came as a group. Mr. Hoguet’s play Tender Gender was at the time receiving very favorable reviews. Mr. Onanopoulos dealt in fine art, and Mr. Angullas-Villanueva, the Spanish painter and set designer, was much in the news at the time, owing to his murals, controversial even by modern standards.
The President enjoyed their company—he was not a classical homophobe of the Kennedy school. He was, however, mindful of appearances, and Mr. Villanueva and company certainly were flamboyant figures. During weekends at Camp David they would wear caftans most of the day instead of more customary attire. Once or twice the President joked, semi-seriously, that they might be taken for representatives of the PLO.
One Sunday afternoon, returning from Camp David, television cameras recorded the President, the First Lady and Firecracker disembarking from Marine One on the South Lawn. They also recorded Mr. Villanueva, conspicuous in mauve suede trousers and carrying his sulfur-crested cockatoo, Perseus, in its Victorian bamboo cage. The President did not pause to speak with the waiting reporters.
Early the next morning Lleland’s secretary, Faye Blaine, called and said he wanted to see me at three o’clock. I told Mrs. Metz to tell her that would be inconvenient. The First Lady was having a reception for the Motion Picture Association that evening and I was being besieged by hysterical Capitol Hill staffers frantic to wrangle last-minute invitations for their principals. Word had gotten out that Polly Draper, the actress, would be there, and the more hormonal Senators and Congressmen were desperate to be invited. In any case, I was unavailable at three o’clock.
Mrs. Metz reported that Lleland’s secretary was “insistent.” I said her insistence was of no concern to me. She buzzed me back and said, apologetically—Mrs. Metz was in all respects exemplary—and said that Ms. Blaine would not desist in her insistence. This was too much.
I picked up the phone and said, “It may come as a great surprise, Miss Blaine, notwithstanding that the sun rises and sets only at the pleasure of Mr. Bamford Lleland IV, but I am occupied with the affairs of the First Lady this afternoon. Consequently, a three-o’clock appointment is not only inconvenient, it is out of the question. It is therefore my earnest hope that you will carry that message back to His Eminence and arrange with Mrs. Metz, who is empowered to speak for me on this and all such matters, an alternate time. Good morning to you.”
She hung up angrily. The arroga
nce of those people. I may not have been a West Winger any longer, but I was not about to be summoned over there like some browbeaten summer intern.
His Eminence called me fifteen minutes later. “Herb, old man,” he said. This was his chummy tone, one he did not wear well and which almost always portended treachery or some other nastiness. “What did you tell Faye?”
Dryly, I said, “Exactly what I have a feeling I am about to tell you.”
“Well, don’t worry. I won’t tell the President about it.”
Really. “You may send the President an inter-agency report on the matter, for all I care,” I said.
He didn’t like that. “I’m calling about those queers.”
“Those what?” I said.
“The First Lady’s friends.”
I stiffened. “I haven’t the faintest idea whom you mean.”
“Don’t be coy. That scene yesterday on the South Lawn. It’s unpresidential. We’re going into an election, Wadlough, in case you haven’t looked at your calendar.”
I sat up straight. “If it’s signals you’re worried about, why don’t you get rid of that floating embarrassment of yours?”
The remark hit home. Just a week earlier Newsweek had broken the story about his sending the Compassion to Mexico to have her decks replanked. (It was cheaper to have it done there than in an American yard.) Labor had taken a dim view of this, and George Bush was mentioning it in his speeches.
He took umbrage at my remark. “I didn’t call to submit myself to abuse from a member of the President’s wife’s staff. The President wants the problem taken care of,” he said very quietly. “And he wants you to take care of it.” He hung up.
I didn’t believe him for a moment. He was always telling people the President “wants it taken care of” when it was Bamford Lleland who wanted it taken care of. However, a White House chief of staff is the second most powerful man in government, and is not to be taken lightly.
What to do? I wasn’t about to burden the First Lady with it. She might believe Lleland and think her husband was trying to bar her friends from their home, and that would only damage an already strained domestic situation. I decided to discuss the problem with Feeley, even though that meant I had to confide the Tucker marital problems to him.
“It’s worse than you think,” I said as I swore him to secrecy. “I am reliably informed they’re not sharing the same sleeping arrangement.”
“They’re not fucking?” he said.
“Please,” I said, “endeavor not to be revolting.”
“Jesus. Used to be they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Remember the swimming pool?”
“Yes.”
“I always wondered …” he said. “I bet she’s great in the sack.”
“You are speaking of the First Lady!” I said heatedly. “I will thank you not to share your disgusting speculations with me.”
When he had calmed me down, I asked him what I should do. Feeley had a mind for dilemmas. Also, his insight into this matter would be sharpened by his dislike for Lleland, which had grown exponentially.
He stirred his coffee with his index finger, a habit he had picked up on the campaign trail, where the coffee is never hot.
“I can solve your problem,” he said. When he smiled and kept stirring, I became impatient.
“This isn’t a novel,” I said. “Stop being dramatic.”
“Okay. We leak it that Villanueva is having an affair with Lleland.”
I was annoyed. “I thought you wanted to help.”
“I do. Listen, it’s terrific.”
“It’s preposterous.”
“It doesn’t matter if no one believes it. All we have to do is get it to where he has to deny it and everyone will assume it’s true.”
“You’ve been reading too much Allen Drury. Or Gordon Liddy, for that matter. Either way, I don’t care to continue this conversation.”
But he was quite taken with his idea, and trying to get him off the subject was like whistling after a bird dog hot on the scent of a rabbit.
“They were all on that fucking boat of his over Labor Day weekend, weren’t they? On the way up to Monhegan.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Yeah. Him and the other one. The Greek, Onawhatsis.”
“Onanopoulos.”
“Yeah. Remember Lleland was all bent out of shape because she included them?”
“No, I don’t remember. Can we change the subject?”
His eyes had that conspiratorial shimmer. “Where’d they pick up the boat? That town near Lleland’s summer house.”
“Provincetown.”
“Provincetown! That’s right. What a zoo that was! Never seen so many antique shops. In a beach town, for Chrissake.”
“I really don’t know, Mike.”
“Perfect. It’s perfect.”
For a few moments he was lost in devious reverie. Then, as if speaking to himself, he said, “Can’t you just fucking see Lleland? ‘I am not a homosexual.’ ” He laughed and slapped his hand on the counter.
“Michael,” I said in a firm tone, “you’ve been under a strain. I shouldn’t have brought this silly thing to you. Forget it. As if you don’t have enough to worry about.”
He wasn’t listening. “You never know, come to think of it. Didn’t he go to boarding school?”
“I went to a boarding school. Do you think everyone who went to a boarding school is gay, for heaven’s sake?” He had me so flustered I was swearing.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “Not everyone.”
I signaled for the check. “This conversation is over,” I said. “What’s more, it did not take place, as far as I am concerned.”
“Absolutely. We need to hold this tight. I wouldn’t even tell Joan.”
“I have no intention of telling Joan,” I protested. “Why should I tell Joan about a conversation that didn’t take place?”
He winked—winked—at me. “You got it,” he said, and left.
BOOK FOUR
DISARRAY
16
PEACOCK AND PETUNIA
Just returned from New York. Bizarre assignment. Feeley has lost his mind.
—JOURNAL, OCT. 7, 1991
On Friday, October 4, I was woken by the White House operator at 5:30 a.m. and told the President wanted to see me at 6:15 in the Oval. It had been a long time since I had received such a summons. Obviously, it was important. I wondered if it involved national security. I enjoyed very much working for the First Lady, but I missed the old West Wing and its headier concerns, its moods, its crises, its air of excitement, of puissance.
When I arrived, he was in his pajamas behind the desk, smoking and drinking coffee. He was wearing his commander-in-chief frown. I knew right away it was national security. Perhaps the Bermuda situation had exploded.
“Jane and the kids fine?” he asked with a smile that resembled a squinting into harsh sunlight. I decided not to remind him that my wife, whom he had known for almost thirteen years, was named Joan.
“Couldn’t be better,” I said brightly, despite the hour. “She sends her best.”
“Good,” he said through clenched teeth. “She’s a good woman, Jane. Ought to bring her around here more often.”
I also saw no point in reminding him that he had last spoken to her four days ago at a reception for East Bloc diplomats.
“She’s a great admirer of yours,” I forced myself to say. This was excruciating.
“Yes. Well, you give her my best.”
“I certainly will.” I was earnestly hoping the President would get to the point. Had I been woken out of a warm bed at 5:30 a.m. for small talk about my wife, whose name is not Jane?
“Things aren’t going so well,” he said.
I nodded. “The Congress is being difficult.”
He shook his head. “No. Upstairs.”
“Oh.” It was the first time he had brought up the matter of the First Marriage. “Well, you’ve been working
hard. I think she misses you.”
“She could be more affectionate, you know.”
Tread lightly here, Wadlough, I said to myself. I found myself looking at my shoes. I said, “Perhaps if you could carve out a little quality time. Say on weekends.”
“She’s got her friends on weekends. They’re up there all the time. You know what the Secret Service has code-named Billy and Onanopoulos? Peacock. Peacock and Petunia.
“Jesus,” he said. “I thought I was in Istanbul. These caftans they wear all the time. What would Ike say?”
I agreed it was best the former President was no longer around to see it.
“I don’t see why they can’t wear ordinary clothes.”
I said I did not understand either.
“Lleland thinks they’re bad for my image,” he said.
I said so I gathered.
“He thinks I shouldn’t have them at Camp David anymore. But Jessie loves them. So what the hell.”
So—that swine Lleland had not been acting on presidential authority when he told me to ban them from the White House. Probably I should have told the President about it. But looking at him, chain-smoking in his pajamas at 6:30 in the morning, lonely for the wife he loved, despised by the Congress, held in historically low regard by the American people, I decided not to burden him with it. As much as I loathed Bamford Lleland, the President had made him his chief of staff and relied on him, trusted him. Let it go, Wadlough, my better nature urged me. And so I made my disastrous decision.
“I’ve been busier’n a cat shooting peach pits trying to keep from getting eaten alive by those hypocrites”—he waved in the direction of the Capitol—“and I may have been a little inattentive lately. So I understand about her wanting some company weekends. We’ve had a few—disagreements, you might say. But we’ll survive.”
The White House Mess Page 11