(1980) The Second Lady (16 page)

Except for one thing. The reunion with Billie’s father the day after tomorrow. That was her last test. After that, it would be a breeze. After that, performing as she had today, she would truly be home free.

They were an hour and a half out from Los Angeles, heading toward the sun sinking in the west, when Vera Vavilova summoned Guy Parker to join her on the sofa of the presidential suite.

She had not planned to work, she said, but they had finished with her speech and she did not feel like napping. A

woman has a right to change her mind, she said. Now she felt like working. Yes, on the book. It would make the flight pass more quickly. Besides, the book had to be done.

Pleased, Guy Parker went for his portable tape recorder, pushed in a fresh cassette, and activated the tape.

‘The last full session we had,’ he reminded her, ‘was on our flight to Moscow. Let’s pick up from there.’

‘I’m ready,’ Vera said.

‘Early on, when we started talking, you told me a little about your first real job on the Los Angeles Times. You told me how, in your early courtship, you brought your husband to the beach to meet your father. On the plane to Moscow, we were on the subject of your courtship with Andrew Bradford. But before we finish with that, I’d like to finish with your reporting career on the Los Angeles Times. Let’s get back to that.’

‘Gladly. I think I’ve already told you about my first interview assignment for the Times. How I almost blew it.’

‘And George Kilday saved your neck. Yes, I —’

‘Not just Kilday,’ she said, ‘but Steve Woods, the rewrite man he had redo my story. You know all that?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I think maybe there’s something you should know. I heard it from Kilday himself a few days ago. I promised not to repeat it. But what the hell - you should know the truth. It’s a small thing, anyway. No Steve Woods rewrote your story. Kilday himself did it, rewrote it.’

She seemed annoyed. ‘He told you that?’

‘He did.’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘Then the poor man must be getting senile. Because when I learned Woods rewrote the story for Kilday, I actually went to Woods to thank him, and he admitted doing the job.’

‘Steve Woods admitted to you he had rewritten your story?’

‘That’s right.’

Parker tried to hide his astonishment. ‘I see,’ he said.

But he did not see.

Less than a week ago, George Kilday had said to him in

The Madison cafe: There was no Steve Woods to rewrite it. He didn’t exist.

Now, Billie Bradford had just insisted that she had gone to Steve Woods and told him how much she appreciated his help. Maybe she did not like to be contradicted. Maybe her memory had betrayed her. In either case, it was unlike her.

‘Well, that’s cleared up,’ said Parker; ‘Let’s go on.’

Cheerfully, Billie answered his questions.

After forty-five minutes, she stopped. ‘I think we’ve done enough for now,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to try to get in a catnap before we land in LA.’

Parker clicked off his tape recorder. ‘Thanks for all the choice stuff,’ he said.

‘Thanks to you, Guy. See you later.’

Parker walked out of the suite and slowly up the aisle toward his suite.

He was definitely shaken. It was the first time, to his knowledge, Billie had lied to him.

He wondered what was wrong with her.

It had been a curious day in Los Angeles, but now it was over and they were winging toward Washington DC.

Guy Parker tilted back in his seat, peered out the window into the black night, looked across the aisle at Nora, and observed that she and many of the others on the staff were trying to catch some sleep. He unlocked his seat belt, stretched against the rear of his seat, and nursed his Scotch and water thoughtfully.

After a while, Parker set his glass down next to the looseleaf folder that held his personal journal lying on the pullout table in front of him. Ever since he had agreed to work with Billie Bradford on her autobiography, he had been keeping this personal journal. He did not know what motivated him to do so. It was a burden, writing up each day’s events at the end of every day before going to sleep. Faithfully, he recorded what he had done and seen and thought during the day, often supplementing his work notes for the book with added observations and comments for his own

eyes only. It seemed a useless exercise, this journal - still it might jog his memory to recall certain things he had failed to include in his work notes.

Only fifteen minutes before, he had finished writing down a summary of the First Lady’s activities, and his own, from early morning until evening departure time in Los Angeles. The events of the day had fascinated him, and he wanted to review them. He took up the looseleaf binder, opened it to the pages he had just filled, and began to reread what he had written:

A really curious day with Billie in her native Los Angeles, her old stamping grounds.

This morning, at nine, she held three separate interviews in her Century Plaza presidential suite with feature writers from the Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Examiner, and United Press International, about her visit to Moscow, about her feelings upon returning home to Los Angeles (always worth some new quotes, no matter how often she returned to LA), and her thoughts on accompanying her husband to the London Summit with the Soviets next week. Nora, who is not always at her most pleasant in the morning, was full of good humour. She thought the interviews had gone extremely well. Billie had proved surprisingly knowledgeable about Russia, and had been very sharp on all matters.

I accompanied the First Lady and her party down to the Century Plaza’s Los Angeles Ballroom for her nationally televised report on the findings of the International Women’s Meeting in Moscow delivered to delegates attending the Women’s Clubs of the United States Convention. The place was set up for a huge lunch affair and every chair was filled. Everyone was on hand automatically. The First Lady has glamour and drawing power, no question.

There was a minor confusion, minor embarrassment, at the head table when Billie was being seated. Nora had briefed Billie that she would be seated between the president of the Women’s Clubs of the United States and Agnes Ingstrup, her oldest friend in Los Angeles. One of these two women was already in place when Billie settled into her chair. Billie immediately took her arm, greeting her with, ‘Agnes, dear!’ The woman looked dismayed, saying she was not Agnes Ingstrup, but the Women’s Clubs’ president. That moment, Nora brought another woman to the table, saying to Billie,

‘Here’s your old friend Agnes.’ Then Billie profusely apologized to the lady president, explaining, ‘Sorry I was confused. There’s too much going on.’

I had been place-carded next to Nora. They started to serve lunch, when I heard Nora emit a small groan. I wondered what was the matter. Nora said, ‘I goofed. I should have told them, but forgot. Billie won’t eat oysters. Look, as a starter they’re serving oysters. Well, c’est la guerre. She won’t touch them.’ I cast a covert glance at Billie. She was gulping the oysters down. Nora couldn’t believe it. I said, ‘Maybe she’s just being polite.’ Nora shook her head. ‘She’s never been polite about that before, but thank God she’s being a good sport.’

After those two minor fumbles, by Billie and by Nora, everything went smoothly. The meal was finished, and Billie was introduced. She rose, and with perfect poise, she delivered her speech. It was a wonderful speech, if 1 must say so, especially the part she insisted upon putting in, the part where she castigated the nations that had not yet given women the vote, including India and Pakistan who allow women to vote only in regional elections, not national ones. The speech was interrupted with applause throughout, and given a standing ovation at the end. A big hit. Nora was excited enough to grab my hand spontaneously.

As Billie was being hustled out of the hotel, she was told that there was a last minute change in her schedule, personally approved an hour ago by the President. Billie had been scheduled to be driven directly to Malibu, to have a few hours with her family before getting, ready to return to Washington. Now, the family reunion had been postponed for a short time while the First Lady was taken to Dodger Stadium to throw out the first ball in an intramural charity baseball game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the California Angels. In the limousine, Billie looked bewildered and protested. ‘It wasn’t on my schedule,’ she said. Nora tried to placate her. The owner of the Dodgers had phoned Tim Hibberd, the President’s press secretary, last night, inviting Billie to the game, saying the presence of the First Lady would help the charity event. Hibberd could not get to the President until this morning. The President thought this would be an unexpected treat for Billie, since her father had been a baseball fan and had brought her up as one, too. ‘You’ll have to stay just two innings,’ Nora promised. ‘Then we can go on to Malibu.’

I could see Billie was not happy about the matter. At last she sighed and gave her consent. All the way to the ball park, she sat bemused and uncommunicative.

At the stadium, we were effusively welcomed by the owner of the Dodgers, and escorted to one of several reserved front-row boxes. The loudspeakers announced the First Lady’s arrival, and she was noisily cheered and photographed as she entered the box.

The California Angels had taken the field when Billie was led to a seat. The Dodgers’ owner handed her a ball. She accepted the ball gingerly, rubbing the seams. The owner helped her to her feet and pointed to the Angel catcher whose round glove was beckoning. Billie just stood there, as if she was uncertain what to do next. I could hear the Dodgers’ owner saying to her, ‘I hear you have a great arm, Mrs Bradford. Now you can show it. Just toss the ball into his mitt.’ Billie stood there, as if she hadn’t heard him. The owner then gestured throwing the ball to the catcher. Suddenly, Billie nodded enthusiastically, reared back and threw the ball wild. A roar went up, and in minutes the game was underway.

However, for one I know to be an avid baseball fan, Billie appeared somewhat uninterested in the first inning. In fact, she seemed to give most of her attention to the occupants of the adjoining box. An elderly gentleman was speaking to his granddaughter, and through much of the first inning Billie leaned toward them to listen. Once, she spoke to them. In the last half of the second inning, Billie perked up and followed the play on the field. At the end of the second inning, it was time to leave. Billie and the others left their seats and climbed up the aisle toward the exit.

I lingered behind. I wanted to know what she had said to the elderly man and little girl in the next box. He was honoured to have exchanged a few words with the First Lady, of course. ‘What did she say to you?’ I asked. He beamed as he repeated her first words. ‘Your granddaughter is very pretty. I overhead you explaining the game to her. Do you mind if I listen, too?’ He told Billie she wouldn’t learn much from him that she didn’t already know. Then she said, ‘But I want to learn how to explain baseball to children.’ Odd episode.

We were followed up Pacific Coast Highway by a bus-load of television crews and still photographers. Billie was withdrawn and preoccupied throughout the long drive. The house her father Clarence Lane owned was a two-storey frame structure, forty-feet wide. on Carbon Beach. As I recalled from my recent visit to Billie’s family, it had a fair-sized living room with a wall of books, stone fireplace, and a glass picture window looking out on a wooden terrace and the blue ocean.

As the two limousines, the police escort, and the photographers’ bus parked, and we left the cars, the front door of the house opened, and Billie’s younger sister Kit burst out and flew into Billie’s arms. The photographers were spilling to the ground, shooting or setting up to shoot. Billie and Kit made an attractive contrasting pair. Kit was brown-haired, pug-nosed, shorter. They continued to hold each other and talk animatedly, to give the photographers a chance to catch them.

Soon we started into the house, trailed by two pool photographers. By the time I got inside, Billie had already greeted her father and drawn him off into a corner for some privacy. They chatted warmly, at some length, while Kit poured and served coffee and English biscuits.

Eventually, after Billie passed out some of her Russian presents, we settled down around the coffee table, with the photographers kept at a distance. The talk was mostly about Billie’s trip and the Russians, about London, about movies seen and books read, when the doorbell rang. Kit popped up and admitted her husband and son. I recognized them at once. Norris Weinstein, dentist, Billie’s brother-in-law, and fourteen-year-old Richie, her nephew. Billie kissed her brother-in-law, stooped to kiss her nephew, then gripped him by the shoulders and held him off to study him. ‘Good heavens, Richie, I can’t keep up with you,’ Billie said. ‘I mean, how much you’ve grown in the year since I last saw you.’

Kit stepped forward. ‘What are you talking about, Sis? A year? You saw Richie less than a month ago. Have you forgotten?’ Billie seemed rattled.

‘Not even a month ago,’ Kit persisted. ‘Don’t you remember? I had him East to look at prep schools and we dropped in unannounced to see you at the White House?’

Billie slapped her hand to her head. ‘Where’s my mind,’ she groaned. ‘Forgive me, Richie. When you get to be my age the brain cells go fast.’ She brought Richie to her for another kiss. ‘Of course, I remember.’

Norris Weinstein started for the door. ‘You have one more visitor waiting to see you,’ he called back. ‘Just hold on.’ He rushed out to his car, and a half-minute later he was back carrying a black bundle of fur. I recognized the small black Scottish terrier that Billie once told me about. She had left it with the Weinsteins

because it was arthritic and needed the California sun. The dog’s name was Hamlet. Weinstein dropped the dog to the tile floor. Billie squealed with delight, quickly knelt and put her arms out for the dog. ‘Come say hello, Hamlet,’ she called out. The dog made no move toward her. It stood stock-still, sniffing, then stiffly backed away, barking at her angrily. Billie tried to coax the dog to her. but it continued to bark. Billie rose, embarrassed. ‘1 raised him from a puppy,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘He’s always jumped into my arms and kissed me. What’s wrong with him?’ She wagged a finger at the dog. ‘Naughty boy, Hamlet. If you’re not nicer, I won’t come see you again.’ She laughed with the others, and changed the subject. We talked for a half-hour more and then we had to leave.