by Jo Haldeman
—Peter Goldman, Newsweek
Until he has been part of a cause larger than himself, no man is truly whole.
—Richard Nixon, Inaugural Address l969
My whole existence is pointed toward carrying out another man’s directives and being of service to him. That automatically changes one… I get impatient with trivia, and I get impatient with people who don’t figure out their own solutions and get them done… The great leaders are gone. The towering leaders are going. There aren’t any great leaders now, except Richard Nixon.
—Bob Haldeman, in various interviews
Bob’s commitment to a cause larger than himself is so strong and all-consuming, I sometimes think that I might be losing him to President Nixon.
—Jo Haldeman’s state of mind, March 1971
◆
On March 13, Peter, Ann, and I leave a gloomy, cold Washington to join Bob in Florida for a weekend in the sun. Instead of staying at the Key Biscayne Hotel, the four of us share one of Bebe Rebozo’s houses with Larry and Dolores Higby and their ten-week-old daughter. Located next door to the Nixons’ home, the contemporary one-story house is on the bay side of the key. A fried, brown lawn runs to the edge of a seawall instead of a beach. Staying so close to the president is convenient for Bob, but I don’t like it. I prefer our villa on the ocean side, where we are independent. I feel trapped here, and my stifled frustrations and anxieties start to get the better of me.
Sunday morning, it’s sunny and hot with very little humidity, and Bob and I are the first ones up. Carrying our breakfast trays to the enclosed lanai, we take seats at the wrought iron table. Neither of us says anything as we eat and read the paper. We are practically touching one another, and yet it’s as if a huge gulf separates us. My emotions well up inside me, and before I know it, they spill out.
“Bob, we need to talk.”
The words hang above me, like a black cloud suspended in the still morning air. We’ve been married for twenty-two years, and I’ve never spoken out like this.
“No problem,” Bob mumbles, hidden behind the first section of The Washington Post. “We can talk. Can it wait until this afternoon?”
“Sure,” I say, wondering what made me speak out. It’s not like me.
Soon, others join us at the table, and I’m grateful for the interruption. Larry looks as if he just stepped out of the shower, alert and eager for the day to begin. Dee follows him, carrying baby Jennifer. Peter and Ann have that fuzzy Sunday morning look. The chatter grows louder, food appears, spoons clink in cereal bowls, and newspapers are strewn on the table and the floor. The sun climbs higher, and someone switches on the air conditioner. Frigid air blasts, and we disperse.
Changing into trunks and polo shirts, Bob and Larry station themselves at the edge of the seawall. Arranging two chaises, they set up a place to work. A white phone sits on the lawn between them; its long cord stretches back to the house. While waiting for them to finish up, I join Peter and Ann for a swim in the bay, which is interrupted by the appearance of several giant manta rays. The two men talk until late in the afternoon. Bob finally puts down his yellow pad, and Larry gets up.
“It’s your turn, Jo,” Bob calls out.
My turn…
Passing Larry on my way out to the seawall, I give a weak smile. Withered blades of grass crunch under my feet as I take each step. I don’t really know what I am going to say. How do I go about conveying my insecurities to my husband, who is so put together? When I reach him, he flops over onto his stomach to allow the last rays of the sun to beat down on his back. His right arm dangles at his side, and his fingers rest on the receiver of the phone. Spreading my towel across the plastic ribs of Larry’s vacated chaise, I sit sideways, in order to face Bob’s prone body.
“I hate to bother you…” I say. It’s hard to start the conversation, and I regret beginning on an apologetic note.
“What’s up?” Bob asks lightheartedly.
Avoiding eye contact, I try to get to the heart of the problem. Bob likes people to come right to the point, but I’m not at all sure what my point is. “I want to talk about…us. You know…about our marriage.”
“What do you mean? Have I done something?”
“No, no. Not exactly,” I quickly respond, realizing that I have to be more specific. “It’s about your work…or rather, the effect of your work on me. You’re totally preoccupied with your job, and I feel that it’s driving a wedge between us.”
Bob looks puzzled. “I don’t understand how you can feel that way, Jo. I include you in everything I possibly can. I’ve got a heck of a lot of demands on me, and it’s not like I have a whole lot of time to be with you and the kids.” He pauses to wipe a trickle of sweat running down his neck. “I realize that this has got to be tough on you, but I don’t know what more I can do.”
“The children and I can deal with your not being around. It’s just that…that when the two of us are together in public, you so often ignore me, and…” I lower my voice in embarrassment. “…it makes me feel left out. Also, it’s demeaning to write notes when I need to talk to you. It would be nice if we could have normal conversations about the children or routine things that come up around the house.”
“You write notes because it’s the best way for us to communicate,” Bob says. “As you well know, my job is to serve the president, and that consumes more hours than there are in the day. I have to prioritize…which should not be news to you.”
As always, Bob doesn’t mince words. He is businesslike, direct, and clear.
“I know, but I don’t see how you can keep humoring the president the way you do. Wherever we are, or whatever we’re doing, you always put him first. It’s as if you were married to him rather than to me.”
“Oh, come on, Jo. That’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
I do know it, and I instantly regret saying it. Bob is irritated, and I worry that I may have crossed the line. After a strained silence, he speaks. “I work my tail off trying to put things in a positive way for the president. He gets nothing but negative stuff dumped on him all the time.” Bob gives a resigned sigh. “I deal with an incredible number of issues every day. When we talked in California, before moving to DC, I told you how time-consuming my job would be…I thought you understood.”
“Oh, Bob…I did…I do. It’s just that it was a lot easier to accept at the time than it is to deal with it now.”
“I’m sorry, Jo. In the future, I’ll try to be more aware of things.” Bob’s fingers start to drum on the White House phone. He’s ready to move on. Clutching his brightly colored beach towel around his shoulders, he stands.
“I’ve got a suggestion,” he says, looking pleased. “How about flying out to California for ten days? Larry and I were just going over the logistics for a presidential trip to the Western White House at the end of the month. You could come along with us.”
“That’d be really nice,” I say, making an effort to sound enthusiastic. “Thanks.”
I know that Bob is trying to be helpful, but a trip to California is only a Band-Aid. He has no concept of the depth of my feelings. I blame myself for not expressing them well. He responded in character—the ever-efficient chief of staff. I love his self-assurance, and I appreciate his attempt to understand me. These qualities will help me get through the next five and a half years. In the meantime, I plan to savor being a part of history in the making.
Together, Bob and I walk back to the house. In his right hand, he carries the white phone.
Tennis Lessons
April 1971
Four days after returning from the trip to California, I’m on my way to Colonial Williamsburg for Easter with Bob, Peter, and Ann. We fly down in a marine helicopter and stay in the Norton-Cole house on the main street of town. It’s a historic home and has no phone connection, which means the children and I have Bob all to ourselves. The
Nixons are at Camp David, and for almost two full days, Bob cannot communicate with the president. With no interruptions, we dye Easter eggs and then hunt for them in the charming garden filled with lavender, daffodils, and blooming fruit trees.
When we return to Kenwood, spring is at its height, and sightseers flock to the area to see the cherry trees. Capitalizing on all of the activity, Ann and a neighborhood friend devise a way to make more money than a lemonade stand. All they need is a dog, a bucket, and a sign. With light pink cherry blossoms collecting on the ground like snow, the two little girls drag Bea Alice’s old, black Labrador retriever, Cinders, out to the curb, where they have her sit. In no time, they have cars lined up and eager customers waiting to drop their nickels into a plastic pail. Propped up in front of them, a cardboard sign reads, “PAT THE DOG. FIVE CENTS.”
In late April, the antiwar protestors are back in full force. Two thousand veterans camp on the Mall. Seven hundred of them gather at the Capitol to toss away their war medals in protest. On April 24, five hundred thousand demonstrators call for an end to the war at the “Vietnam War Out Now” rally. In an attempt to shut down the government, they stop traffic. The police move in, and several thousand people are arrested.
“The right to demonstrate for peace abroad doesn’t include the right to break the peace at home,” the president states in an impromptu news conference.
I continue to be concerned about the impact these large, angry gatherings might have on our children—particularly Hank and Peter, who are more independent. I’m not at all sure I know what is going on, and I think Hank may be smoking marijuana. After he returns home from one of the demonstrations, I decide to ask him, hoping his answer will be no.
“Did you smoke pot this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
I’m taken aback and search for the right follow-up question. “Were you experimenting?”
“No, Mom. I’ve done this before.” Hank looks me right in the eye, which I appreciate. But it’s also unnerving.
“Oh? Where?”
“At concerts.”
“Oh, really?” I’m at a loss. I know so little about this sort of thing. I hope Hank can’t sense how vulnerable I feel. “Well, be careful,” I advise. “Don’t do anything foolish.”
“I won’t.”
I don’t respond, and Hank walks away.
Irritated with myself, I turn to Bob later, who reminds me that Hank was honest and up-front about the incident. “He’s a good student, Jo, not some wild-eyed liberal. Wait until he gets into real trouble. Then, we’ll clamp down.”
◆
I rarely call Bob at the office, and when I ask to speak to him today, the White House operator tells me that he can’t be reached. This is the first time this has happened, and it concerns me.
These operators are famous for their skill in tracking people down—anywhere, anytime. When I question the operator further, she finally concedes that Bob is at the Chevy Chase Country Club. I’m dumbfounded. It’s the last place I would expect to find him. When I ask why, there’s a long pause.
“Mr. Haldeman wanted to surprise you, Mrs. Haldeman,” the operator explains. “He’s been taking tennis lessons.”
Tennis lessons? Instantly, I regret pursuing Bob’s whereabouts. I ruined his surprise, and I put the White House operator in an awkward position. Bob isn’t a natural athlete, and I’m touched that he would do this. I look forward to playing doubles with the Ehrlichmans and the Higbys at Camp David and the White House.
May 1971
Bob would like to show off his new tennis skills at Camp David over the weekend of May 14, but he ends up in Florida with the president instead. Non, the children, and I follow through with our plans to join the Ehrlichman family at the mountain retreat.
At breakfast on Saturday, Pair informs us that Mrs. Nixon will arrive this afternoon. My relationship with the first lady is distant and impersonal. She has her own set of friends from California, who often stay at the White House. When my friends ask if I spend much time with Pat, they are surprised when I tell them that I rarely see her.
This weekend is no exception. Following Bob’s repeated instructions, we do everything in our power to stay out of sight. However, on Sunday morning the eight of us are caught off guard at the bowling alley. The phone rings in the middle of our second game, and John leaps up to answer it.
“Hold the presses, everyone,” he calls out. “Mrs. Nixon’s on her way over here.”
We know the drill well and swing into action. In no time, the bowling balls are lined up according to size, shoes are returned to their cubbyholes, and the hand towel is neatly folded. We tear the used score sheets off the score pad and jam them into our pockets, leaving no telltale trash behind us. Whisking Non out the door, we make a mad dash through the woods to Laurel.
“This is silly,” Non exclaims, once we are all safely inside. “It’s not natural to run away from Pat. She’s here alone. Why don’t you ask her to join us?”
Jeanne nods in agreement, but I know better than to question Bob’s orders. When I explain to Non that her son is the one who made the rule, she concedes. She will readily accept anything he suggests.
I wonder if Pat has any idea of what we go through to give her privacy. It must be hard to always be in the public eye, and I don’t envy her. By her expression, she often gives the impression that she doesn’t much care for her official role as first lady. I think she puts up with it and does what’s required of her to be a good team player. In fact, I can think of only two couples who seem to thrive on a political life together: Joyce and Don Rumsfeld and Nellie and John Connally. All four of them appear to be completely at ease in public.
The day after we return from Camp David, I attend a luncheon given by the cabinet wives in honor of the first lady. When they present her with an elegant bed tray and breakfast set, she smiles weakly and thanks them.
Pointing to the gift, the woman next to me asks, “Does Mrs. Nixon often eat breakfast in bed?”
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“You don’t know?” The woman looks puzzled. “I thought she was a friend of yours.”
“No. Not really.”
“Oh?” The woman’s eyebrows go up.
Once again, I try to explain that although the president and Bob have a close working relationship, that closeness doesn’t extend into our social lives. The woman looks dubious.
Here Comes the Bride
At noon on May 20, Nixon announces that the United States and the USSR have agreed to a limitation on antiballistic missiles, which is a “significant development” in the SALT talks. To improve Sino-US relations, Nixon eases a twenty-year-old embargo on trade with Communist China. An American table tennis team will soon be playing ping pong in Peking. For a president who wants détente with Russia and China, things finally look promising.
June 1971
On a hot Saturday morning in early June, Hank graduates from St. Albans. The ceremony is impressive in the huge National Cathedral with its pointed arches and flying buttresses. Bob and I are proud parents as Hank walks down the aisle with fifty-five members of his class. Next fall, he will enter UCLA as a freshman.
A week later, on June 12, Bob and I attend Tricia Nixon’s wedding to Edward Ridley Finch Cox in the Rose Garden of the White House. Because of a threatening storm, the ceremony is delayed. Planes circle above us, trying to get an accurate read on the weather.
Standing at the edge of the lawn, looking up at the ominous sky, Bob says, “The president’s hanging tough. He and Tricia are determined to have this outside.”
As a few scattered drops start to fall, he leaves to confer with Nixon, and I seek shelter under the eaves of the West Colonnade. Soon a light steady rain is coming down, and water begins to collect in puddles on the plastic runner that extends down the middle of the lawn and ends at an arbor at the far end
of the garden. Hovering near a stack of gilt chairs with members of the White House staff, I wait for a decision to be made. As soon as the rain lets up, Lucy Winchester calls out, “It’s a go,” and we swing into action.
Grabbing two chairs, I put them in place and go back for more. Each time I walk across the lawn, I can feel it squish beneath my green satin shoes. By the time the last chair is in place, the guests are being ushered in. They have been “on hold” in the South Hall for the last half hour. Bob and I take seats on the aisle in the last row, where he’s in a good position to film the ceremony. Behind us is the tulip tree, where Susan and I hid yesterday to watch the dress rehearsal.
The air is warm and fragrant, and the black clouds above us create an iridescent lighting effect. The bright oranges, yellows, and greens in my dress are muted, and the garden has an ethereal look with its lush greenery and many arrangements of white roses.
Tricia looks like a princess on the arm of her proud father, who is beaming. Wearing a soft-pink dress, Pat appears relaxed and sparkly, with a glowing smile. Holding hands, she and the president are gracious and gregarious as they follow the bride and groom back up the aisle. I’ve never seen Nixon look so genuinely happy. Even his social awkwardness has left him, and for once he doesn’t joke about my “drinking problem.”
After a reception in the East Room, the guests wave goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Cox from the steps of the West Portico. Back inside the main hall, the president approaches Bob and me. He’s jazzed up, and his voice is loud as he greets us.
“Hey, Bob,” he says, clapping him on the back. “How about coming up to the residence for a few minutes? Pat and Julie’ll be there, and we can talk over the wedding.”
“Yes, sir,” Bob responds. Turning, he hands me his camera. “Thanks, Jo. I’ll meet you in my office.”
Without a backward glance, Bob is gone. A long red carpet separates us. In the midst of the dispersing crowd, I am alone. As the early evening shadows lengthen, I retrace my steps to the West Wing, slowly walking along the West Colonnade. The deserted wedding setting is serene, bringing to mind the lingering memory of the president and Pat holding hands. For one brief moment, they emerged from their protective shells and exposed a softer, more human side. Their emotions appeared genuine and uninhibited.