by Jo Haldeman
As usual, Bob has covered all of his bases. His decision is clear to him, and he’s in control. However, I feel lost and empty, as if I’ve run out of gas. I’m glad that we’re going to church this morning. I need to turn to a greater power to sustain me.
True to his word, as soon as we get home, Bob calls our three out-of-town children, as well as our parents. I try not to think about the future. To keep busy, I make Bob’s lunch—cottage cheese, canned pineapple, Ry-Krisp, and iced tea.
The White House phone rings, and I instantly assume it’s that dreaded call from Nixon. The conversation is surprisingly brief.
“The president wants John and me to chopper up to meet with him at Camp David at one thirty today.” Bob’s steady eyes and unruffled demeanor are reassuring.
When the White House phone rings again, I fight to stay composed.
“That was Ron,” Bob says. “He’s at Camp David, too. The president now feels very strongly that John and I should volunteer to resign.”
My heart does a nosedive down to my stomach, and my voice is weak. “Is this it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bob confirms. “Ron said that the president figures we’ll be eaten alive if we take a leave of absence.”
He puts on his blazer and turns to me. Our eyes meet. He gives me a tender hug, and we kiss. Stepping out of our bedroom, Bob nearly collides with Ann in the hall. Wearing faded jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, she’s clutching a basketball and is in a hurry to leave.
“I’m going to the park,” she says.
“Hey, ‘Awful Annie,’ wait a minute,” Bob says, using his nickname for her, a play on Little Orphan Annie. “I’m taking off, too, and I want to tell you something before I go.” Ann stops on the landing, and Bob walks over and puts his hands on her shoulders. “There’s a good chance that I’m going to have to take a leave of absence from the White House.”
“Are things that bad?” Ann asks.
“Yes, they are,” Bob acknowledges. “They’re pretty bad.”
Bob leans down and wraps his arms around his daughter and the basketball at the same time. My heart is breaking as he follows Ann downstairs. Father and daughter step outside together. The press surrounds them. Putting her head down, Ann charges through the crowd and makes her way down the sidewalk. Bob climbs into the waiting White House car and is driven away.
I’m alone. Even the press is gone. I anticipate a long, agonizing wait, so I try to keep busy with mundane chores. I clean up Bob’s untouched lunch, pay bills, catch up on the ironing, walk the dogs, sew a button on Bob’s shirt, and sweep up the trash left by the reporters. In the late afternoon, I’m straightening up the living room when the ring of the White House phone startles me. I reach for the receiver and then draw back. Standing motionless, I eye the white instrument on the table in front of me. If I don’t answer it, I won’t hear any bad news. On the fourth ring, I give in. Gripping the receiver, I slowly bring it to my ear.
“Good evening, Mrs. Haldeman.” The voice of the White House operator is both cheery and respectful. “Mr. Haldeman is calling from Camp David and would like to speak to you.”
All of a sudden, Bob is on the line, and my heart is pounding. He tells me that he just finished meeting with the president. “It’s just what I expected,” he says. “The president asked John and me to submit our resignations. There’s no turning back this time.”
Keep talking, Bob. If you expect me to say something, I don’t think I can. Keep talking.
“I’ll be home before long,” Bob continues as if this were any normal day. “Will you call the children and our parents and give them the news?”
“Of course.” My reply is steady, but my hand is shaking. “I’m so sorry, Bob. I hope you’re all right. I love you.” Is that all I can say? There’s so much more. So much more. After hanging up, I stand and stare at the phone. Tonight, this constant intruder into my life has finally had the last word.
The fact that Bob asked me to contact our families is a lifesaver. Instead of breaking down, I have to maintain my composure. When I talk to Susan and Hank, both of them are concerned over how their dad is coping. Neither divulges much about his or her own feelings. Peter asks a slew of questions about the future. Bob will tell Ann when he returns.
I catch my parents at Bay Island, where they are spending the weekend. As soon as I explain that I have news from Bob, both of them want to be on the line at the same time. This involves a long wait, while Dad comes in from planting a gardenia bush at the side of the house. I can hear Mother reminding him to leave his shoes outside. When I tell them about the resignation, they both express deep concern for Bob and his feelings. Their strong support helps to steady a gnawing ache that’s starting to grow in my stomach.
I take a deep breath. The next call is the hardest, and I’ve left it until the end. As I dial Non’s number, I picture her at the desert in her house at Smoke Tree. Soon the sun will disappear behind Mount San Jacinto, and long shadows will extend from the grapefruit trees to the swimming pool. Wherever she is, her West Highland terrier, Perky, will be at her side.
The phone rings twice. “Hello.” The way Non says “hello,” it always comes out in bird-like chirps.
“Hi, Non…I just heard from Bob. He’s still at Camp David with the president and John Ehrlichman, and he asked me to call you.” I wait for my mother-in-law to say something, but she doesn’t. She knows me too well and senses what’s coming. “Bob’s not taking a leave of absence after all,” I blurt out. “He and John are resigning.”
Silence.
“Non, are you there?”
“Of course, I’m here, Jo,” she answers. I think she’s annoyed that I would even question her not staying on the line. “I’ve been thinking about Bob ever since he called this morning,” she says. “I can’t imagine what the president will do without him. Who will replace him?”
“I have no idea,” I reply. “I don’t think the president has even thought about that yet.”
“Well, now more than ever, we must stand by our president. He needs our full support.” Non is emphatic, and suddenly it becomes clear that she’s the one encouraging me, rather than the other way around.
“You’re right,” I say. “Nixon’s giving a speech tomorrow night. Be sure and watch it. I’m sure he’ll be talking about Bob and John.”
“I can’t think of two finer men than the two of them,” Non continues. “The president was so fortunate to have both of them in the White House. Do you think they can get their side of the story out now?”
“I hope so. I know Bob would like to go public in some way. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything to report.”
“You better, Jo, and be sure and tell Bob that I’m so very proud of him.” Non pauses. “Remember, it’s not ‘all will be well’…it’s ‘all is well.’”
“All is well,” I repeat and hang up. I have nothing but admiration for Bob’s mother. I know her heart is breaking, but she won’t give in. She’s a fighter.
The Final Journal Entry
It’s dark when I hear a car door slam. The front door opens, and I rush downstairs to meet Bob.
“Hi,” he says, standing motionless in the entry.
“Oh, Bob,” I cry out, as I wrap my arms around him.
He holds me tight and mumbles in a tired voice, “Onward and upward.”
“Everyone in the family knows, except Ann,” I tell him. “She’s up in her bedroom.”
“I’ll talk to her now,” Bob says.
I follow Bob up two flights of stairs, where he lightly knocks on the door of our thirteen-year-old daughter’s room. He goes in and closes the door behind him. From the master bedroom across the hall, I can hear their muffled voices and then a burst of tears from Ann. Tonight, she discovers that her father is not invincible.
A call from Nancy Ziegler diverts my attention. In a shaky voice, she
explains that Ron just told her about the resignations, and she is devastated. She had no idea that Ron was at Camp David. Before leaving two days ago, he told her that he would be working on “a highly sensitive matter.” He had asked her to pack an extra suit for him.
After talking to Nancy, I have a strong desire to call Jeanne. We haven’t talked since Pat Gray resigned as acting director of the FBI after claiming that her husband John and John Dean had instructed him to destroy documents. My hand rests on the receiver of the White House phone. It’s so easy to ask an operator to get Mrs. Ehrlichman on the line, but I decide to wait. This is a private time for both of us, and we need to share it with our families. We can talk later.
As I get ready for bed, I can hear Bob dictating the events of this fateful day in his diary. His voice is low and steady. I can’t make out what he’s saying, and I don’t try. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.
Later, lying next to me in bed, Bob starts to talk. “Well, it was a pretty rugged time for all three of us at Camp David. At first the president wanted to meet with John and me at the same time, but I told him he should talk to us separately. I was first. I rode a bike over to Aspen, while John waited in Laurel. When I arrived, the president was already in terrible shape emotionally. He shook my hand…” Bob’s voice trails off and is almost inaudible when he adds, “…That’s the first time he’s ever done that.”
I groan. The formality of shaking hands is so typical of Nixon’s social awkwardness. How bitterly poignant that handshake with Bob must have been…
“The president wanted to show me how beautiful the tulips were, so we stood out on the porch for a while. When we went inside, he told me that he had done a lot of praying and that this was the hardest decision he’s ever had to make.”
“Oh, Bob,” I say in a hoarse whisper.
Bob continues, “The president got pretty sentimental. He said that John and I are the two best men he knows. I assured him that, although I disagreed with his decision to let us go, I would do everything I could to implement it.”
This is so characteristic of Bob. As soon as he knows that something is inevitable, he accepts it and moves on. “When did the president tell John?” I ask.
“Right after he met with me. I rode the bike back, and John walked over to Aspen. He was there about half an hour, and then the two of us worked on our letters of resignation.”
Moonlight filters through the cherry blossoms, softly lighting the room. I study Bob’s face. He is lost in thought, and there is no frown. “Did you see the president again?”
“Yeah. He asked John and me to come back to Aspen about five thirty. After reviewing our letters, he called in Bill Rogers, who listened to us read them out loud. Bill made a couple of corrections, and then the whole thing was over. That was it. As of tomorrow afternoon, John and I will no longer be working in the White House.”
I lie very still, fighting back tears. From Bob’s composed tone, I can tell that he’s not bitter, and he doesn’t feel sorry for himself. He’s reconciled and accepts his resignation as a fact of life. I’ll do everything I can to stand by him and support him. I love this strong, self-possessed man. There will be tough days ahead, but we’ll get through them.
I try hard to believe that “all is well.”
◆
April 30, 1973. In so many ways, this morning starts out just like any other day. Our newspaper lands with a thud on the slate terrace in the patio. The happy chatter of Amos, Ann’s parakeet, comes from her room. Down one flight of stairs, the fern (without bugs) sits on a blue-and-white Chinese garden stool. Next to it, the pugs are stretched out in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the French doors. The smell of fresh coffee comes from the kitchen, and in the dining room, the table is set for breakfast. Outside, sleepy-eyed reporters are starting to gather on the sidewalk. Several of them set up campstools, and it’s obvious that they plan to stay until they find out what’s going on. Some clutch Styrofoam cups of hot coffee and pass around bags of donuts. Three of them start tossing a Frisbee. Although I cling to the familiarity of the morning scene, I know that today will be unique. Like no other day I have ever experienced.
Wearing a tan suit, Bob steps into the kitchen to say goodbye before leaving. His composure and confidence reassure me. Stooping down to give Ann an extra-long hug, he tells his daughter, “When news of my resignation gets out this morning, you have to be brave.” Ann’s eyes glisten with tears as she nods.
Next, Bob turns to me. I wrap my arms around his neck, and I don’t want to let him go. Gently releasing my grip, he reassures me. “I’ll be okay, Jo.” Then he adds lightheartedly, “Well, off to another day at the office.”
A sea of curious reporters surges forward as soon as he steps outside. Smiling, Bob makes a few mundane remarks before climbing into the car. As the black Mercury pulls away from the curb and heads for the White House, the reporters turn and start directing questions at me. I shake my head and close the door. If only they knew what is coming.
I’m not used to dealing with a situation like this, and it’s as if I am in a fog. I can’t think straight. My feet feel like they have two heavy weights holding them down, and it’s an effort to get through my morning chores. After Ann leaves for school, the house is deadly quiet, and I’m terribly aware of being alone. My mind still won’t focus, and I find myself wandering from room to room. First, I check on Peter’s wax begonias. Then, I rearrange some magazines on the coffee table in the living room and run my fingers along the keys of the piano. Absent-mindedly counting the steps as I go upstairs, I poke my head into Bob’s office. His White House calendar is on the desk. On today’s date, under the number 1,361, Bob has written a single word. “Resignations.” He is l,361 days short of completing the most exciting, challenging, and rewarding job he could ever hope to have.
Patrick Anderson wrote, “The president, when he leaves office, has at least been president; the assistant, when he leaves has been—what? A man who stood in the shadows of power, who played a mysterious role in a complicated process, a man who got little credit for his successes and ample blame for his mistakes, a man who will seem a braggart if he seeks credit, but whose good works will soon be forgotten if he does not.” Bob won’t seek credit. That’s not his style. And, in the climate of Watergate, his “good works” will never be remembered.
I don’t fight the tears as they flow down my face.
By 10:00 a.m., I’ve pulled myself together enough to make my daily calls to Mother and Non. Although I had every intention of bolstering them up, they are the ones reassuring me. In the kitchen, I look out the window to check on the reporters. They are bored, and two of them are helping my neighbor unload plants for her garden. They still don’t know about the resignations.
11:00 a.m. The time has come. Ron Ziegler is announcing the resignations of Bob, John, and Attorney General Richard Kleindienst, and the firing of John Dean. Tonight, the president will address the nation.
Bob’s career at the White House is over. Instead of the customary promotion or recognition that has always come so naturally, he is out of a job.
The ring of the White House phone jars me. It’s Henry Kissinger calling to tell me how sorry he is to hear about Bob. His voice is solemn, and his words are sincere. They mean the world to me right now.
◆
At dinner tonight, Bob talks matter-of-factly about his final day at the White House. “This morning, when John and I told the senior staff we had submitted our resignations, they were really caught off guard. Later, Billy Graham, Ted Agnew, and John Connally called me. Each of them thought that it was the right move.”
As 9:00 p.m. approaches, Bob turns on the television. “The president was in terrible shape today,” he says. “I hope he can make it through his speech.”
Watching Bob settle back in the chair and put his feet up on the ottoman, I realize that he’s never been home when Nixon has addr
essed the nation. Bob doesn’t belong here. He should be at the White House, conferring with the president’s inner circle of advisors. How can this driven man bear the thought of not being needed?
Suddenly, we see Nixon seated at his desk in the Oval Office. There’s a bust of Lincoln on one side of him and a picture of his family on the other. The camera zooms in closer, and my immediate reaction is negative. The setting is too exact and looks staged. I don’t like the carefully placed bronze sculpture and the precisely angled photograph. Everything’s wrong. This whole situation is a nightmare. I’m not sure I can watch this.
“Good evening,” the president begins. “I want to talk to you tonight from my heart on a subject of deep concern to every American.” He continues for five long minutes without mentioning Bob. I nervously twist my engagement ring around and around on my finger. Could it be that the president has changed his mind about the resignations?
“Today, in one of the most difficult decisions of my presidency…” I can’t look. I close my eyes, and I want to cover my ears. “…I accepted the resignations of two of my closest associates…Bob Haldeman and John Ehrlichman—two of the finest public servants it has been my privilege to know.”
The speech is hard for me to track. The words fade in and out as I make an effort to follow them. At last it is over, and Bob’s resignation is official. No more drama or indecision. What had to be said was said, but Nixon’s words seemed trite to me. They were window dressing, like the bust and the photo on the desk. I’m left with a hollow feeling in my stomach.
Bob stands and stretches. “Not one of the president’s finer efforts,” he says, with his arms extended. “He’s clearly shaken…I should give him a call.”
Picking up the receiver, he asks to speak to the president. He waits, and then his look of expectancy dissolves. I watch in dismay as he hangs up. With his fingers still resting on the White House receiver, he says, “The president’s not taking calls.”