All the Presidents' Pets Read online

  “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 . . .”

  Kennedy dogs Charlie and Pushinka. Their “negotiations” averted a nuclear nightmare.

  The thirteen stressful days of October will never be forgotten. Many believe that things turned out peacefully because the President and his staff had such a wonderful environment in which to resolve the conflict, thanks to Mrs. John F. Kennedy.

  The truth, however, is that Pushinka and Charlie—and Butterfly, White Tips, Blackie, and Streaker—reminded an isolated President of the potential costs of a decision that was ultimately his and his alone—and in doing so saved the planet from an unspeakable fate.

  Helen saw that I’d finished reading. “Pretty interesting, huh? Sometime I’ll tell you how Caroline’s pony, Macaroni, helped write the Atmospheric Test Ban Treaty.”

  I didn’t really hear her. I was floored by what I’d read, but not by the talking animals. I assumed this was some Orwell-for-kids rhetorical device employed by an overly experimental young reporter. It didn’t surprise me that the animals’ “words” had been blacked out by Helen’s editor. Some readers might have actually thought Helen was being literal.

  What concerned me more was how very close we’d come to Armageddon. The edited version didn’t convey that. “Why wasn’t this published, Helen?” I asked.

  She averted her eyes from mine. “It just wouldn’t have been appropriate. There were other priorities—like Mrs. Kennedy’s fall collection ’62, which really did change the way we all thought about empire waists and formal gloves,” she said, more than a little bit defensively.

  “Well it’s a good thing this is documented. Someone should know this.”

  “Yes, that is important.” Then she looked deeply into my eyes. “There’s so much to tell and it’s very important that someone know it.”

  I was more than happy to be the repository for Helen’s collected wisdom. “I’m fascinated, Helen. I want to know it all.” A rustling sound from the dark beyond the bookcases broke the tension. Helen began shooing me away.

  “You should go now. We’ll have plenty more time to talk.” She opened the entranceway and pushed me out. “There’s a shortcut out onto 17th Street. Climb halfway up the stairs, then follow the tunnel on your right. It will lead you up through a manhole in front of the Old Executive Office Building.”

  I did exactly as directed. It was a tight and smelly squeeze—and it was blocked at the top by an ice cream truck. I waited till the sun had fallen and the truck had moved to push out the manhole, then hoisted myself up and onto the street. A D.C. cop noticed me climbing out.

  “Hey you! What do you think you’re doing, climbing out a manhole next to the White House? We’re under orange-level alert right now.”

  “Actually,” I stammered, “it’s only yellow alert right now.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Sorry to bother you.”

  I was off to the Outback.

  10

  The Alien and Sedition Acts, or How I Went to the Outback Steakhouse with Coulter, Crowley, Hannity and Colmes and Almost Lost My Mind

  “Jesus, you smell!” bellowed Candy as I slid in on her side of the booth at Outback. “You been swimming in the sewers or something?”

  “You could call it that.” I’d barely had a minute to wipe off.

  “Hey, Miss Joe McCoulter, lemme bum another butt,” said Candy. “Anything to overpower the stench over here.” Ann Coulter sat on the other side, squeezed between Sean Hannity and Alan Colmes. She’d nearly filled her saucer-turned-ashtray to the brim and she was still puffing away. A copy of her latest best seller, Sedition—the last in her “Love It or Leave It” trilogy—was on the table.

  “You remember Ann, don’t you, Mo?” Candy asked as Ann gave her a cig.

  “Of course I do.” I had met Ann on several occasions. She was a lightning rod, someone who believed more than half of what she said, remarkable by Washington standards. She was also a lot of fun, if you could keep her off politics. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Mo, fine. I’m just trying to explain to our Clintonista pal over there”—she gestured to Candy—“and this little bozo over here”—she elbowed Colmes; he smiled awkwardly—“that Mussolini in fact was very funny. It’s all in my book. And seriously, Candy, I challenge you to find annotated proof anywhere that Mussolini was never in fact charming.”

  “Christ, Ann, maybe we should be eating somewhere where you can order Chicken Pol Pot.”

  “No, Candy, NO.” Ann was becoming agitated. “The fact of the matter was that Pol Pot was a dickless son of a bitch. A complete and total pussy who let the Vietnamese drive him off course, not surprising since he was an extremist Liberal. So don’t give me that shit.”

  “That’s my girl,” Hannity said, his arm around Ann. Ann nearly swallowed her cigarette, she was so worked up.

  I had to intervene. “Guys, I know I just got here but can’t we just relax?”

  Colmes spoke up ever so softly and haltingly. “I think that Mo has made a very good point.”

  “Shut your pie hole!” Ann snapped at him. He winced. She then turned to me. “You’re absolutely right, Mo. Let’s talk about you,” she said, surprisingly sweetly. “Haven’t seen you in ages. I’m so glad you’re off that Traficant show. What a communist.”

  “Jim was many things, I’m just not sure he was a communist. But I appreciate it. I’m happier now.”

  “Cool beans,” said Ann.

  An earthy but attractive waitress with a “Free Saddam, Hunt Down Bush” T-shirt and John Kerry for President button approached us. Hannity instinctively stuck out his chest. The waitress didn’t notice. “Excuse me, you two. But the restaurant has a strict no-smoking policy.”

  “Then I’m going to stop killing myself right this instant,” said Candy, who put out her cigarette in the saucer and popped a Nicorette. Ann looked straight ahead and defiantly took another drag on her cigarette. The waitress wasn’t cowed.

  “Miss, it’s a no-smoking policy. No exception.”

  Ann turned to her with the fakest smile she could muster. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I must not have heard you, hon.” She placed the cigarette in the saucer, then exaggeratedly slapped her hands against each other, as if she were finished with her dirty work. “All done!” she grinned with a mock-girlish enthusiasm.

  The waitress’s eye roll was a giveaway that she recognized Ann. She left, shaking her head.

  Ann dropped the Shirley Temple act instantly. “John Kerry for President,” she scoffed. “Commander-in-Chief?! Dammit, I’m embarrassed to have a vagina.” She picked the still-lit cigarette up and ostentatiously resumed puffing. “You realize that that little slut is a living breathing example of sedition, don’t you?” As Ann finished her cigarette, Colmes was waiting with one freshly lit by him.

  “Ann, I agree that the T-shirt is a little much but sedition is a pretty serious—” I
began.

  “I’m not talking about the T-shirt, Mo. I’m talking about the Kerry button. Anyone conspiring to ‘overthrow, put down, or destroy’ the government of the United States is guilty of sedition. And that’s what the Kerry voters want—to put down this government.”

  “Yes, by voting it out,” I said. I could only accommodate her so much.

  Ann shook her head hard and kept puffing. “Voting it out, putting it down, what’s the difference? It’s still sedition. And according to Title 18, Section 2384 of the United States Law—which I, for your information, did not make up—it is outlawed. The only thing I’d change is I’d make it punishable by death.”

  This got a rise out of Candy. “Death? Christ, Ann, you want everyone who votes for a Democrat to be put to death?”