The White House Mess

by Christopher Buckley

  Two days later I was working feverishly on arrangements for the First Lady’s appearance at the Festival of Hydrangeas when Mrs. Metz told me Colin Socks of the New York Post was on the phone. I promptly told her I did not take calls from that scandal sheet, and went back to work.

  Half an hour later Joan was on the phone. She was agitated.

  “What’s wrong, my dumpling?” I asked.

  She said she had just received a call from Socks. I was livid. He had told her he had urgent need of speaking to me, and had told her, darkly, that it would be to my “advantage” to return his call.

  “Are you in trouble, Herbert?” she asked. It broke my heart. I reassured her all was well. How dare that sensation-mongering yellow journalist call my wife at home! She had been in the midst of baking a pound cake and it had come out too heavy. I boiled.

  I called Socks and gave him a large piece of my mind. But lecturing an Australian journalist is like trying to house-train a wombat.

  Straightaway he got to the point. Was there anything to the “rumor” of a “relationship” between Billy Angullas-Villanueva and myself?

  If he had asked me whether I had strangled my own dear mother, my reaction would not have been different. I was unable to speak.

  “You there?” The voice seemed to come from another dimension.

  I shook my head and pulled myself together.

  “Now you listen to me, Socks,” I said. “If I so much as hear one nanogram more of this revolting canard, I’ll see to it you’re deported back to that penal colony you came from and put to work mucking out sheep stalls for the rest of your life.”

  He seemed delighted. “Fantastic,” he said. “You’ll have me thrown out of the country?”

  “This conversation is concluded,” I said. I hung up; then stared at the walls for twenty minutes.

  Presently I was aware of Mrs. Metz, as if through a fog.

  “Mr. Wadlough? Mr. Wadlough?”

  After reassuring her that my pallid demeanor was the result of not having slept much the previous night, I picked up the phone and said to the Signal operator, “Get me Mr. Feeley.” I stared at the ceiling. The President was in Gary, Indiana, that day.

  Three or four minutes later there was the crackling on the line that meant an airborne patch to Air Force One. A voice said, “This is Frigatebird, Crown. Go ahead.” The Signal operator said, “Mr. Wadlough, I have Mr. Feeley. Be advised this is a radio call and there is no privacy.” I was glad for the reminder; I’m sure the Russian Embassy would have been delighted to know of the wretched business.

  “Herb, what’s happening?” came a cheerful voice.

  “Never mind that! I’ve just had a call from the New York Post wanting to know”—had to be careful—“about a certain rumor.”

  “Yeah?”

  I reminded him, as obliquely as I could, of our little talk and his brainstorm about planting the rumor about Mr. Angullas-Villanueva and Lleland.

  “Well, they think it’s me. Me!”

  There was a pause. “Son of a bitch. They got to us first!” He started laughing.

  “That is not funny,” I said. “This is horrible.”

  “Hang on,” he said. “Don’t do anything until I get back.”

  “Roger,” I said miserably.

  I was waiting for him in his office when he returned. I’d been unable to concentrate on the Festival of Hydrangeas. He came in trailing secretaries and pieces of paper. After he shut the door, he said, “I’ve got it all figured out.”

  “What,” I said, “what do we do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ This isn’t ‘nothing.’ This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me! What about Joan!” I put my head in my hands.

  “Listen,” he said, “the Post isn’t going to print it—I’m almost sure—so we just ignore it.”

  “But—”

  “Think like the enemy. They want you to deny it. And the second you deny it, everyone knows it’s true.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh. What if there are press queries?”

  “Queries?” He began to laugh. “Queries!”

  “Dammit, man!” I said.

  The next day at 12:14 p.m. I was in New York City, sitting in a booth at a restaurant called Mortimer’s, waiting for the arrival of Mr. Ramon “Billy” Angullas-Villanueva, fretting over Festival of Hydrangeas details.

  I had claimed a bad cold, put on one of the wretched disguises left over from my trips with Marvin, and come to New York aboard a commercial aircraft—my first commercial flight in years.

  I had come to warn Mr. Angullas-Villanueva of this scurrilous campaign of Lleland’s against me—and him. Lleland was obviously out to kill two birds with one stone. The faintest whiff of scandal would mean the end for me at the White House, and the end of Mr. Angullas-Villanueva’s visits there as well.

  I had told Mr. Angullas-Villanueva I needed to speak to him on an utterly confidential basis and asked him to meet me in a “quiet, out-of-the-way place.” He had suggested Mortimer’s, which I now realized cast some doubt on the man’s sense of discretion. Mortimer’s, in the heart of the upper East Side of Manhattan, was clearly an “in” restaurant. I did not recognize the people there by name, but they seemed very much “in,” the kind who used to be seen at the White House during the Reagan administration.

  I had worn my red tartan plaid jacket, the one I wear only on weekends. It was a bit on the loud side, but I assumed it would allow me to blend in with the chic New York set. Oddly, the maître d’ had looked at it with an unmistakably condescending air. I resolved to tip him only ten percent.

  I had been seated in a table in the rear—at least Mr. Angullas-Villanueva had some discretion—where it was dark. With my glasses on, it was difficult to see.

  Presently I heard the distinctive stentorian voice.

  “Jerbert! My God, what a horror you look!”

  • • •

  Because of my inability to see clearly, I was caught unawares by the hug and the kiss he planted on me. I am not in principle against physical expressions of affection between men; but even with Father I shook hands, and I am uncomfortable being kissed by other than my wife, Joan, or my daughter, Joan. Or by my mother and sister, Ernestine.

  I let him do the ordering, inasmuch as he was obviously familiar with Mortimer’s cuisine. He also, I might add, seemed familiar with the waiters. An unfortunate moment arose when he introduced me to one of them as the man who “run de whole Hwhite House.” It was necessary to remind him of my desire not to be recognized.

  Mr. Angullas-Villanueva’s neck kept periscoping every time someone walked in, and it also became necessary to restrain him from introducing me to a half-dozen fashionable acquaintances of his.

  “But you must,” he reproved me. “He practically run de Met.”

  I ate my “paillard” of veal—an unadorned but reasonably edible fillet of overpriced meat—and listened to his soliloquies on the beau monde of New York. He was an exuberant conversationalist, and I surrendered in silence to his narratives, feeling so awkward about presenting my own. But at length it could not be deferred any longer, and with a great heaviness of soul I plunged in.

  “A rather indelicate situation has arisen,” I said.

  Immediately he interrupted. “I lave indelicate thituation!” he said.

  Then try this one on for size, I thought. I then told him about my call from Socks.

  “It’s too divine!” he said.

  I had not counted on this.

  “You’re not … upset?”

  “I cannot wait to tell everyone! They will tell to me, ‘My God, Billy, what taste you jave!’ ” He gripped my arm. “No, Jerbert, I’m sorry. I don’t mean it against you. But it’s so—” He began laughing again. “They are so dreary in Washington. So serious.”

  With that he summoned “Johann,” our waiter, and told him to bring anise. I confess I was so shell-shocked by now that I actually drank th
e unpleasant liquor set in front of me. (It tasted of licorice.)

  With considerable heaviness of heart, I brought the subject around to the President’s problem. I explained that naturally the President would place no credence in the rumor, but that I felt it essential he absent himself from the White House for a few months until things had quieted down. He listened, and nodded.

  “Jerb,” he said, “you are right. We cannot go on as before. But we will always jave de memories, yes?” He put his hand on my arm and winked.

  I attempted a laugh, but really the whole business was very unsettling. Outside the restaurant he gave me another kiss—on both cheeks this time. (I believe this is the European custom; and I would point out that on the Continent, men kiss all the time.) My stomach finally quieted down for the first time in twenty-four hours on the shuttle flight back to our nation’s capital.

  17

  SLINGS AND ARROWS

  Wound in stomach appears not to need stitches. Things not going well.

  —JOURNAL, OCT. 15, 1991

  Four days after my meeting with Mr. Angullas-Villanueva, the First Lady asked me to stay after the morning staff meeting. She appeared more tired than I had ever seen her, except on the campaign trail. The bluish circles beneath her eyes were more accented. I confess to wondering how a man married to such a woman could bear to sleep in another room, even the Queen’s bedroom. I decided I would urge her to take some time off, what with the busy holiday season looming ahead.

  After the others had left, she turned to me and, in a voice suddenly cross, demanded, “Did you tell Billy not to come see me anymore?”

  I was caught completely off guard. “Ah,” I fumbled. “It’s rather complicated.” I should have known I couldn’t trust Mr. Angullas-Villanueva. Lord, what a mess.

  “Well?” Her arms were folded, her eyes boring right into me. As best I could, I explained about the call from Socks. I said I suspected Lleland or his people were bruiting it about, and that I’d gone up to New York to try to spare Mr. Angullas-Villanueva—and myself—the humiliation of being linked romantically in the press.

  She listened intently. When I finished, she began laughing. She laughed for some time. I was even tempted to join in, but I detected something wrong with her laughter. It was—well, it was uncontrolled.

  “You?” she said. “And Billy?” She went on laughing.

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s rather unlikely, isn’t it?”

  Presently she dried her eyes. They were moist, and dark as thunderclouds.

  “You bastards!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You and Lleland and him—my husband. You made this up?”

  “Madam,” I said, “I assure you—”

  “So you could drive my friends away!” She was standing and looking rather menacingly at me. I got up and edged backward.

  “No, no, no. The President likes your friends. I like Mr. Villa—”

  “Damn you, Herb!” With this she picked up a large chintz pillow and struck me. Struck me! On the side of the head. And with surprising force. My glasses were knocked off.

  “Mrs. Tucker!” I couldn’t see much without my glasses, but I managed to make it behind an armchair and crouched low. “Please! This is undignified!”

  “Undignified! I’ll tell you what’s undignified. Making up this ridiculous lie to hurt me, to hurt Billy.” There was a whoosh over my head which I soon recognized as another pillow being hurled in my direction.

  No oil will calm these roiling waters, Wadlough, I said to myself. I began to back toward the door. Mrs. Tucker was only an agitated blond blur.

  “I’d never do anything to hurt you. I’d rather—”

  I felt a thump against my abdomen and it became necessary to double over in order to facilitate breathing. As I did this, she began to belabor me with the wretched pillow on either side of the head. Deducing that this was not the time to explain I was not in a conspiracy against her with Lleland and her husband, I decided to try and make my escape. I turned and, still hunched over, stumbled in the direction of a dark rectangular shadow I took to be the door. But after a few steps my head came into contact with an object. It yielded after causing only moderate cranial discomfort, but as it did I found my feet caught up in something. There followed a crash and a rending of fabric and I fell to the ground.

  The blows resumed, this time augmented by sharper pains about my calf and shin, which I took to be her shoes. (I was grateful she was not wearing high heels.) My immediate concern was for a prompt egress, but I did give some thought to the fact that I had in all likelihood upset the Japanese screen, a very fine example of Yosaku Era workmanship which had been presented to the President and First Lady by Prime Minister Kundo. The Smithsonian had appraised it at $12,000.

  I thought I might buy some time by appealing to her feminine instincts.

  “Mrs. Tucker, the screen!”

  “Fuck the screen!” she said. She was still drubbing me with the cushion. In an attempt to protect myself, I put my head through the screen with a further tearing of silk.

  I grasped the base of a lamp in an attempt to pull myself up, but the lamp came down, and with it, me. I felt screen remnants in my eyes, so the First Lady’s outline was now even less distinct. My hope at this point was that she would tire out. Unfortunately, she kept very fit.

  I regained my bearings by dead reckoning. I found the wall and groped my way along it, keeping my head low so that my upper torso would absorb the brunt of the blows. It was with considerable relief that I felt the door molding. Then I found it was the hinged side, which gave the First Lady the advantage of leverage. She swung the door against me, pinioning me between it and the wall. This did, however, make it impossible for her to continue striking me, for which I was grateful. I could hear her exertions on the other side as she leaned against the door, attempting, I would guess, to inhibit the flow of oxygen into my lungs. She was in part successful, although by this point my breathing was irregular anyway.

  “I helped you,” she said. She was crying. “They were out to get you and I protected you. And you do this. You and them.”

  My heart went out to her. “Oh, Madam,” I said, “I’m not with them!”

  “I trusted you.”

  She stood back from the door. It swung back.

  I was on the verge of making one last plea when I was propelled backward through the open door. My legs gave out from under me and I fell over. The door slammed shut.

  I lay there a few seconds, trying to take stock of my injuries. I did not feel at all well.

  I felt arms assisting me. It was Hurley, one of the Secret Service agents on the First Lady’s detail.

  “You all right, Mr. Wadlough?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine, thank you,” I answered. “How are you doing, Joe?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  With Joe’s assistance, I made it back to my office. I would have had to grope my way there without him.

  “Gott!” Mrs. Metz exclaimed. “What is it? Terrorists? In the residence?”

  I didn’t want the household staff buzzing about this. “I lost my balance and had a fall.”

  “You are bleeding.” She dabbed at my lip with her handkerchief. I gave myself over to her ministrations. My left shoulder felt swollen and stiff. My entire left leg, which had borne the brunt of the kicking, was in pain, and my face felt hot and sore. I flushed most of the Japanese screen particles out of my eyes, and took an aspirin.

  “The President wants to see you right away,” said Mrs. Metz with a stricken look when I got back from the bathroom, and she reminded me that I had asked her to send my spare set of glasses to be repaired. She was putting a few finishing touches to me when she said, “Your jacket is ripped behind.”

  “Never mind that,” I said. “Hurry up.”

  “Your lip is bleeding again. Wait.” I felt a wet handkerchief on my lip followed by an astringent, searing pain, and an overwhelming smell of her perfume, a scent of which
I was not fond.

  “What have you done, woman?” I cried.

  “It will stop the bleeding. And clean the wound.”

  The phone rang. It was Betty Sue Scoville, the President’s secretary.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Metz. “He is coming, coming.”

  She led me down the stairs, past the family theater, through the long, vaulted, red-carpeted hallway on the ground floor. I was just as glad not to be able to see the looks on the faces of those we passed. Senior staff with ripped jackets, bleeding lips, and reeking of German perfume are an uncommon sight in the White House. We went through the door at the west end of the hallway and through the Rose Garden colonnade, the one visible on the back of twenty-dollar bills.

  “Don’t let any reporters see me,” I hissed at her as we went in the door of the West Wing next to the press room.

  “We will go this way.”

  She took me back through the door and to the right, past the windows of the cabinet room and toward the outside of the Oval Office. The Secret Service gets apprehensive when people even walk on this part of the colonnade. I saw shadows approaching us. Mrs. Metz explained that we desired to avoid the route past the press room. I recognized the voice of Bradshaw, one of the agents on the PPD (Presidential Protection Detail).

  He led us through a door into Betty Sue Scoville’s office, next to the President’s. Betty Sue was surprised.

  “Mr. Wadlough,” she said. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Never mind, Betty.”

  She picked up the phone. “Mr. Wadlough’s here, sir. Yes, sir.”

  Turning to me, she said, “You can go in now.” Something in her voice worried me.

  I had the ladies lead me to the door. “Open the door and point me in the direction of the President,” I said.

  “The statue,” whispered Betty Sue. “Look out for the statue.”

  I nodded. The President had acquired a sculpture by Frederick Hart called “Javelin.”

  The door clicked open. “He’s right ahead of you,” whispered Mrs. Metz.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” I said, striding purposefully toward the desk.