All the Presidents' Pets (7 page)

8

The Lair Down There

 

All night long I thought about what the beagle had said to me. “A Salad Mincer.” Was this some sort of anagram? Anagrams were a passion of mine so I instantly decoded the beagle's message as an anagram for, among other things, “A Carnal Deism” and “A Manacled Sir.” But they didn't seem to mean anything.

The next day's White House press briefing was relatively quick. My question was also much more concise: “Mr. Secretary, Andrew Johnson left scraps of cheese for the mice that lived in the White House during his term.” True indeed. “Is the President concerned that Wisconsin's economic troubles may put that swing state firmly in the Democrats' column?” I must say it was a crafty way of asking a current-events question in the guise of my beat, and this time no one laughed. Granted, most everyone was hungover, including Scott, who had shown up at the party after I had left.

“No I don't think so . . . well, maybe . . . Whatever . . . it's all off the record,” Scott trailed off. “See you tomorrow.”

Candy got up to leave. “Hey, kiddo, join me at the Outback tonight at 8
P.M.
A few of us are getting together to throw back a couple. If you haven't been there before, the Bloomin' Onion is delish.” John King passed by, holding his gym bag. Candy couldn't resist taking a shot. “Hey, Johnny boy, need a lift to soccer practice?”

“Very funny, Candy,” said John pertly. “FYI, I'm going to a spinning class and I'm driving myself, thank you.” And he was off.

“So will I see you later?” Candy asked me.

“Sure, I'll be there.” I was only half listening. I wanted to catch up with Helen before she left the building.

I caught her just as she was walking into the pressroom. “Hello, Helen. Have you got a second?”

“Of course, Mo dear. I'm sorry our conversation ended so abruptly yesterday. I was awfully rude, I'm afraid. I hope you're not upset with me.” She seemed genuinely embarrassed.

“Oh please, Helen, that's absurd. I was afraid that you might not be well and I was just rambling on. Believe me, I have no bone to pick with you.” That last sentence seemed to make her wince. “I just wanted to take you up on your offer, to hear some old stories, get some advice. I think I'm going to need it.”

She smiled. “You're going to be fine, Mo. You've got to have tenacity in this business, especially with this White House. Something tells me you're pretty dogged.” That last word startled me, considering the previous night's canine occurrence. Of course I didn't want to let my imagination wander in Helen's presence.

“So what do you say?” I offered. “Can we maybe grab a cup of coffee? There's a Starbucks at Farragut North.”

She cut me off. “Follow me.” Then in a hushed tone, “I know where we can find some peace and quiet.”

“Careful, she likes 'em young,” snickered Dana Milbank as we left together, not onto the North Lawn, but down the stairs to the lower floor of the pressroom. I wasn't sure where Helen was taking me.

“Nut job,” coughed Nina Totenberg as we passed her on the stairs.

Helen took me to her tiny cubicle way in the back corner. It was fairly cluttered with books, papers, and issues of
Reader's Digest
dating back to 1911. The floor needed a good vacuuming, seeing as it was covered in a danderlike fuzz. A pair of sensible shoes sat by the wall.

“Are those Easy Spirit shoes?” I asked. “My great-aunt used to wear—Ouch!”

Without warning Helen had grabbed my wrist with her hand—it felt more like a claw—and yanked me under the desk. With lightning speed she pushed through the lower part of the wall. Suddenly we were crouched in some sort of crawl space.

The White House, like any old mansion, has all sorts of tiny nooks and crannies, maybe even secret rooms. Was this the room where Clinton had allegedly menaced Kathleen Willey? According to her testimony, she had a can of Diet Coke as a last line of defense. I only had my notepad and a copy of
Cat Fancy
magazine, which coincidentally had a great article on former First Cat Socks.

“Helen, what's going on?”

Helen wasn't wasting any time. She made sure the hatch behind us was closed tight, then dragged me down a passageway, through another door and down a long dusky stairwell. It all happened so quickly that I was convinced nobody saw us. But where were we? I knew there was at least one basement level; it was on all the available floor plans of the White House. It was my understanding that with the gutting of the White House during the Truman administration at the beginning of the Cold War, that another lower level was added—a bunker for the President and his staff for The Day After and beyond. But we seemed to be going lower than any imaginable bunker. Was this the secure location where Dick Cheney lived during orange alerts?

Just as it turned pitch black, the stairs ended and we came up against a wall. Helen went rummaging through her big black purse, pulled out an ancient and oversize key, then unlocked a thick steel door. She pushed it forward and we stepped inside.

Suddenly we were standing in a Victorian parlor, or secret annex. Gaslight fixtures illuminated tattered dark red silk damask wallpaper. The floors were covered with contrasting and overlapping oriental carpets, all of which clashed with the walls, as was the fashion in the mid-nineteenth century.

In the middle of the room was a large round pedestal table onto which Helen tossed her purse. In the center of the table sat a majestic marble bust that looked eerily like Helen. It must have been a coincidence, though, since I recognized the initials at its base as those of late-eighteenth-century French sculptor Jean-Antoine Houdon. “You like the bust?” asked Helen. “Tony was the best.”

A small rosewood piano—similar to one I'd seen at the Ulysses S. Grant home in Galena, Illinois—sat close by. “It's actually a melodian,” Helen said. “And it's a heck of a lot easier to play than the harpsichord.”

On the far wall several ceiling-high shelves of books lined up perpendicularly to the rest of the room. It wasn't clear how far back they went.

Helen kicked off her shoes, plopped herself down on a Turkish daybed—not unlike one I'd seen at James Garfield's house in Mentor, Ohio—and propped herself up against a red velvet pillow. “Take a load off,” she said.

I was speechless. Rather than sit down on her horsehair ottoman—a dead ringer for the one at James Buchanan's Wheatland estate in Lancaster, Pennsylvania—I wanted to explore every inch of Helen's lair. No one would ever believe me when I'd tell them what I'd seen, but at least I could remember it for myself.

The most intriguing piece was a massive mahogany cabinet against the wall opposite where Helen now reclined. On display on one shelf were mementos and curios from Helen's career at the White House, chief among them autographed pictures of her with different Chief Executives dating back to Kennedy. But I was more interested in the shelf above, which was lined with pictures of all the different presidential pets. Digital, Polaroids, black-and-whites, daguerreotypes, even a miniature Gilbert Stuart portrait of what appeared to be Washington's beloved steed Nelson.

“What a lovely lithograph,” I said, pointing to another piece. “I've never seen a representation of John Quincy Adams's silkworms.”

“I like that, too. Getting Henry Adams to part with it was a bitch.” Peculiar. Henry Adams, grandson of John Quincy, died in 1918.

“There's so much I want to ask right now, Helen. For starters, where am I?”

“This is my home. It's been here for . . . a long time.” Helen paused, and she sat deep in thought for a moment. “I only want to tell you what I think you can handle, Mo. I'd rather we move slowly. It's better for the both of us.”

I was a bit indignant that I'd been dragged halfway to the center of the earth below the White House only to be told that I'd have to wait for the explanation. But I was also thrilled. Helen had literally opened a door to a place I didn't know existed. For the first time in my career I could very well be on to something big.

“Okay, I'll take it slowly. These pictures of the pets, naturally I'm curious. Why the interest?”

Helen came over to the cabinet and started looking them over. “Oh, let's just say I've always felt my own connection to the presidential pets. If they could talk, they'd tell you some stories.”

“Yes, some of them are cute,” I agreed.

“That's one way of putting it,” she answered curtly. She caught herself and spoke more gently. “Look at the Kennedys here.” She showed me a picture of Jack and Jackie with Caroline and John-John, tanned, healthy, and happy, with Charlie the Welsh terrier and Pushinka the beautiful white half husky. Pushinka was a gift to Jackie from Soviet premier Khrushchev and the daughter of the famed space dog Strelka.

Helen probably had especially fond memories of the Kennedy administration. She was a brand-new White House reporter back in 1961, full of ambition. Although she was restricted to covering Jackie (that was a “woman's beat”), her memories of the Camelot period were bound to be extra sweet. “Those dogs were special,” she said meaningfully.

“Oh, I'm sure they were lots of fun.” It was a lovely picture.

“I don't think you're getting me.” She looked hard at me. “Sit down.” I sat. She opened a drawer, pulled out a manuscript, and tossed it on my lap. It was an edited draft for a magazine piece that she'd written. Right off the bat the title was crossed out.

“ ‘The Cuban Missile Crisis: The Honest to Dog Truth,'

by Helen Thomas,
Ladies' Home Journal.
First draft, October 29, 1962,”

“Don't stop now,” she said.

9

How the Pupniks Saved Civilization

 

As a rookie gal reporter in our nation's capital, there's no place more exciting to cover than the White House, home of our Commander-in-Chief. Recent events have had all of us feeling a bit on edge but that hasn't stopped Mrs. Kennedy from continuing her stunning restoration of the presidential mansion. Already it's come a long way since the days when Abigail Adams hung laundry in the East Room.

Last year the First Lady invited me to follow her around during a series of visits spanning eighteen months. The first took place in April of 1961. Mrs. Kennedy's press secretary, Miss Letitia Baldrige, led me to the beautifully refurbished elliptical Blue Room, where I waited for the First Lady, who was understandably delayed by the innumerable obligations that come with her position as Chief Hostess.

With a spectacular view of the South Lawn, the French Empire Blue Room, with its suite of gilded furniture and marble-top center table, was the site of Grover Cleveland's 1886 exchange of wedding vows with the beautiful Frances Folsom, and an appropriate place for cooling my heels. The Clevelands were the last couple before the Kennedys to raise small children in the White House and the oh-so-precious gold-plated miniature carousel I found there, a gift from Charles de Gaulle, demonstrated that it is indeed a long way from Cleveland to Camelot!

Mrs. Kennedy rushed in, flush with excitement and trailed by her dashing friend and designer to the stars, Oleg Cassini. Mrs. Kennedy, as entrancing as the photographs suggest, and Mr. Cassini were accompanied by a short Spanish man with a cello case, all three weighed down with shopping bags from all the best boutiques.

“Miss Thomas, please forgive me! Saks is a terrible labyrinth. But Oleg and I have conceived of the most
new
look for me today. It's really too exciting. Oh pardon me, have you met world-famous cellist Pablo Casals?” The cellist greeted me warmly. “Senor Casals joined us for espresso. I insisted he stay on.” Mrs. Kennedy's White House is indeed a salon to rival any in Europe.

Just then a beautiful white dog, part husky, pulled up the rear.

“Oh, and you must say hello to Pushinka, the latest addition to the family.” The recent gift from Soviet premier Khrushchev to Mrs. Kennedy of Pushinka, the daughter of pioneering space dog Strelka, was rumored to have been a source of some disagreement between the President and First Lady. Dare I ask?

“Oh, the President is a man and any man can be incorrigible.”

Just then the President himself came in, trailed by his Welsh terrier Charlie, a fine-looking dog with the swagger of a young Bill Holden. The President greeted the First Lady:

“Jackie, have you seen my corticosteroids? Damned Addison's is flaring up again.” Almost an afterthought, the President smiled tightly at Mr. Cassini, Mr. Casals, and yours truly. Mr. Cassini gave an extravagant bow.

“I'm sorry, Jack, I haven't,” said Mrs. Kennedy, then under her breath added, “It wouldn't hurt to smile at Pushinka. She's such a sweetie.”

The President responded in a similarly hushed tone. “We've been through this before, Jackie. You cannot accept gifts from the enemy and expect me to be happy about it. We're in a Cold
War,
I've got a Bay of Pigs fiasco on my hands,
and
I'm out of Lomotil!”

Naturally the rest of us pretended not to hear this heated exchange. I turned to the dog in question and she said to me, in quite a thick Russian accent, “Stupid Americans.” I was the only one who heard. I must say I was surprised by Pushinka's outspokenness—and the President's.

“Pushinka can stay as long as she checks out with the doctors at Walter Reed,” said the President.

“But, Jack, she doesn't need a doctor. She's in perfectly good health. Why, if she were a horse, I'd fit her with a bridle this very instant!”

Mrs. Kennedy did look particularly smart in jodhpurs.

“Jackie, we can't mess with security. She could very well be bugged by the KGB.”

Pushinka turned back to me and banged her paw on the floor indignantly. “ ‘Bugged'? I am certainly cleaner than American dog.”

Secretary of Defense Bob McNamara suddenly poked his head in the door. “Mr. President, we've got a Bay of Pigs Fiasco meeting in ten minutes. The Joint Chiefs are losing patience with you.”

“And I've got to meet Balenciaga at four!” exclaimed Mrs. Kennedy, suddenly noticing her watch. The White House is indeed a very busy place.

On my next visit Mrs. Kennedy showed me the wonderful work she'd done on the Red Room, the more intimate space favored by another great hostess, First Lady Dolley Madison, for her Wednesday night receptions. The walls are covered in a red twill fabric with a gold scroll design in the borders, the furniture upholstered in a silk of the same shade.

Joining the First Lady today were the poet Robert Frost and the artist Ben Shahn. And in a kind of inauguration for the room, Rudolf Nureyev had accepted Mrs. Kennedy's invitation to dance for her.

Mr. Nureyev had only just begun pirouetting when the President entered in his still-wet swimming trunks, looking for a painkiller for his abscess. “I was just splashing around with Fiddle and Faddle when it started acting up. Dr. Feelgood says I need a shot of procaine and some phenobarbital.”

I took this opportunity to slip out and do some exploring on my own.

Up in the glorious Solarium former ambassador Joseph Kennedy Sr., a tumbler of Scotch in one hand, was sitting in front of the TV, nodding off.

This sunny room is a cozy place for the First Family to gather and watch TV. Ambassador Kennedy was watching a Gloria Swanson film marathon.

Next to Ambassador Kennedy Pushinka and her new pal Charlie the terrier sat on the floor, snuggled awfully closely. Inquiring minds want to know.

“At first I hate him,” confessed Pushinka. “I think him stupid. Like American government who make me have X-ray.” Pushinka had been cleared of espionage aspirations. “I really don't understand him at beginning.”

Charlie looked on adoringly. “I called her a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside a very cold kennel.”

“I call him pygmy like Premier Khrushchev call President Kennedy. Then one day he put on Mrs. Kennedy's pillbox hat and dance for me.” She laughed, then turned wistful. “In Mother Russia we love the burlesque.” Charlie drew her closer.

But don't current international politics make their relationship difficult?

“Pushinka and I believe that we can do our part to show that this Cold War is pointless,” said Charlie. “After all, only pit bulls like Air Force General Curtis LeMay would want to destroy each other. If that man is capable of love, it must be a very strange love.

“We will remind them of what ordinary people want.” Pushinka was passionate. “Unless of course we are doomed from start,” she added, with a sudden far-off look in her eyes. “Oh, I want to go to Moscow.”

Charlie laughed. “That's my Russkie. Too much Chekhov and not enough Chaplin.”

They are a wonderful couple.

Mrs. Kennedy burst in with her friends Vogue editrix Diana Vreeland and step-cousin Gore Vidal, both of whom had just dropped in to say hi. “Miss Thomas, I'd wondered where you'd gone off to!” she chirped. “Don't you just love the Solarium?”

It was a gorgeous setting.

“I'm so glad you like it,” she continued. “Now I'm afraid I must run. I'm hosting a state dinner for the Queen of Thailand. Oleg!” she cried, rushing out.

There's never a dull day for America's First Lady.

My most recent visit to the White House was October 28. The nation was on high alert after the discovery of Soviet missiles in Cuba. A naval blockade of the island had been in place for seven days, yet Soviet carriers had not changed their course. We all feared the end might be near.

Mrs. Kennedy had arranged an exquisite luncheon and tour of the refurbished West Wing for her dear friends Norman Mailer and Marcel Marceau. It promised to be a lovely occasion.

Mrs. Kennedy is that winning combination of glamorous and prudent. “When we enter the Oval Office we should probably keep our voices down. The President and his advisors are trying to concentrate.”

“Pardon me, folks,” came a voice from behind as we made the approach to the most important office in America. It was none other than Vice President Lyndon Johnson.

He'd just been to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription of Trasentine for the President's chronic diarrhea.

“Forgive me for bargin' through. The President needs me right fast,” then added under his breath, “Son of a bitch spavined hunchback should find someone else to git him his dope.”

Just outside the door, nestled in a box on the floor, was my old friend Pushinka. Charlie was standing guard over her. It seemed like they were up to something.

We entered the Oval Office and found the President at work, surrounded by his top advisors, also known as the ExCommers, civilians and military men sharply divided on the question of how to proceed: continue the blockade or attack Cuba.

“I've got two letters from Khrushchev here, men,” said the President, his handsome face slightly marred by the emergence of several painful-looking sores. “In one, he's playing nice, he wants to make a deal. In the other he's picking a fight. Which do I respond to?”

“Mr. President, we really don't want to fight, do we?” counseled the professorial UN Ambassador Adlai Stevenson. “Respond to the first missive and maintain the blockade.”

“Shut up, egghead,” snapped Air Force General LeMay. “It's really pretty clear, Mr. President. You gotta fry 'em or you're gonna look like a coward and we'll have another Munich on our hands. So just give the word and we'll get cooking.”

“Blockade them, I say!” said Stevenson.

“Firebomb 'em back to the Stone Age!” said LeMay.

“Blockade!”

“Fry 'em!”

While this heated discussion went on, Mrs. Kennedy pointed out the desk, a gift from Queen Victoria to President Hayes, built from the timbers of the HMS
Resolute.
Quite an impressive piece.

While Mrs. Kennedy described the presidential seal on the ceiling of the office, I slipped back into the hall to visit with my canine friends.

Pushinka didn't look well. And Charlie was in distress. “Tell me she's going to be okay,” he said to me.

Pushinka moaned. “Charlie, what is happening is natural.”

From the other room, we could hear the President growing more desperate. “Bobby, what should I do?”

“Jack, I don't know. The generals do have a point. I mean, that Bay of Pigs really was a fiasco. But this time you have to take responsibility.”

“It really does afford a gorgeous view of the Rose Garden,” Mrs. Kennedy said to her guests.

“I'm hungry for some huevos rancheros! FRY 'EM!!” screamed LeMay.

Pushinka turned to me, “Miss Thomas, hand me forceps. We cannot wait a second longer.” I handed her a pair of salad tongs that she must have smuggled from the kitchen. Charlie turned away as the miracle of life began unfolding.

“Bobby,” said a nervous President from the other room. “Write down the following message for Ambassador Dobrynin to carry to the Premier . . .”

Just then Mrs. Kennedy breezed back into the hallway, took one look at Pushinka's handiwork, and exclaimed, “Puppies!” Indeed Pushinka had just given birth. We were all in a state of delighted shock. Marcel Marceau's mouth was in a perfectly formed circle, his hands up by his face to signify astonishment.

The President's advisors quickly gathered round, followed by the President himself. Before them, huddled together were proud parents Charlie and Pushinka and their four newborns. Everyone tried to move closer but Marcel Marceau used his hands to cordon off the area around the new family, so that Pushinka could eat her placenta in peace.

The President was moved. “Do you mean to tell me that my American dog fell in love with that Soviet dog and they went and had kids?!”

Mrs. Kennedy had tears in her eyes. “It's true. They're a brand-new family. Oh, Jack, now it's settled. We
must
include the doghouse in our restoration. I'm seeing something in Veronese green!”

The President shook his head, moved by the scene before him.

“So maybe the Russians and we aren't so different. Gosh, I'm feeling something I haven't felt for a long time.”

“Uh-oh, I hope it's not your tinnitus acting up again,” said Bobby.

“No, Bobby, I've got Librium for that. It's something different.”

“I know what it is,” said McNamara. “It's empathy.”

“Empathy for the enemy,” said President Kennedy, looking at the pupniks' mother. “Sorry, General LeMay, I'm going to choose the
sane
option and make a deal with the Soviets.” The President looked down at the puppies. “These little pupniks deserve it.”

Then the President pulled a vial from his pocket and raised it. “Testosterone for everyone!” he toasted as everyone except the Joint Chiefs cheered. Marcel Marceau mime-clapped. General LeMay punched him.

“Now if you'll excuse me,” said the President, “I've got some work to do.” The President, gracious as always, went back into his office and resumed his dictation. “Bobby, take this down: We'll guarantee that we won't attack Cuba and we'll even pull those missiles out of Turkey so that he can save face. But the Premier's got to pull out of Cuba completely . . .”