Washington, D.C.
August 23, 1933
I dress with more care than usual, selecting a sweater set and skirt in colors I know Franklin prefers. Rather than quickly rolling my hair into a simple chignon and surrounding it with a hairnet to keep it in place, I make a more complicated style, without the hairnet that Franklin so dislikes. Hick dislikes it, too, and Hick’s opinion matters more and more to me.
Just yesterday, she stopped by my sitting room in the late afternoon before a dinner with Franklin, Louis, his wife, and several other couples who are formidable Democratic Party donors. “What will you wear tonight?” she asked after I told her about my evening plans.
Her question surprised me, particularly since Hick’s predilection for baggy, masculine clothes means she is no dandy herself. “What’s wrong with this?” I exclaimed, glancing down at the full-skirted floral dress in muted shades of brown I’d been wearing all day.
She laughed. “One of the things I love about you is your obliviousness to some of the unimportant minutiae most women are obsessed with—like clothes. Even still, you could get gussied up sometimes. What about wearing one of those solid-hued silk dresses that hugs your figure a little more?”
Love? Did she say “love”? The word thrilled and scared me. I was temporarily speechless. We whispered words of affection to each other in the dark of the night in the White House guest bedroom or in hotel rooms when we traveled together, but those always came on the heels of physical affection. And neither one of us had ever said the word “love” about our feelings for the other before.
Hick didn’t seem to notice my reaction. “And that love is one of the reasons that I cannot be a journalist covering the White House any longer.”
I stammered. “W-what do you mean?”
“Eleanor.” She folded her fingers around mine. “I’ve told you how I feel before, even if I haven’t specifically mentioned ‘love’ until today. And I know you aren’t ready for that sort of commitment in our relationship, which is fine. But I cannot sit idly by, pretending to cover you and your husband’s presidential term for the AP with anything close to objectivity. I’ve got to go.”
A desperate pang took hold of me, and I blurted out, “But I don’t want you to go.” I knew I was being selfish, because I had Hick to myself whenever convenient—nearly every day I inhabited the White House—without making any sort of promises to her. “What if there was a job for you with Harry, assessing the New Deal programs?”
Her eyes lit up at the idea of working for Harry Hopkins, the chief administrator for three huge New Deal departments, but she didn’t smile. “It’s not just about the job, Eleanor. It’s too hard being here with you and not knowing where I stand.”
I touched her soft cheek with my free hand and said, “What if I told you that you belong here with me, at my side?” And I kissed her.
The memory of that kiss makes me flush. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m still not sure what to call our relationship, but it’s so pleasant to have someone in my corner who’s just mine.
In the morning, as I step out of my bedroom to walk through the many corridors to the South Portico, I feel strange. It’s as if I’ve gotten gussied up for another date with my estranged husband rather than for what it really is: a business meeting masquerading as breakfast.
Although Franklin and I don’t often have breakfast together—in fact, he almost always has a breakfast tray served to him in his bedroom—I know his schedule and patterns well. On this particular morning, I learned from Mrs. Nesbitt that he’ll be up and at the informal breakfast table on the cool South Portico instead of taking breakfast in his bedroom, due to an early meeting. I arrive at the table before he wheels in, bracing myself with a cup of the dark, bitter coffee he likes, an unusual blend made from ground green coffee beans. I thank my lucky stars that my mother-in-law is in Campobello instead of breakfasting with her beloved son, as she likes to do whenever possible. Her presence could easily make my strategy go awry.
Franklin’s eyebrows rise in undisguised surprise to see me, but he doesn’t say anything other than “Good morning.”
We chat pleasantly about the day’s schedule and less pleasantly about the state of Anna’s divorce as plates of his favorite corned beef hash with poached eggs arrive on the arm of a maid. I usually stick to tea and toast in the mornings, but I take a bite of the dish and shudder. The eggs are barely cooked and the corned beef hash is somehow hard. Franklin continues on as if the meal is delicious. He’s used to it.
Mrs. Nesbitt may have sanitized the White House kitchens and modernized the equipment, but with the exception of dessert, she hasn’t elevated the food, even after I supplied her with shelves of recipe books. I see why guests grumble over official meals and cartoonists have taken to lambasting our offerings. But I will not make a fuss. Countless Americans are struggling to feed their families. The White House fare should be simple and nutritious, not lavish and fussy, and I try to serve what the average citizen can afford.
“What about you, Eleanor?” Franklin asks. “What does your schedule hold today? Hosting one of your famously well-attended teas?”
I see that he has been paying attention. My teas, which usually have a theme and host a couple of hundred people and, in one instance, nearly two thousand, are my way of highlighting issues and connecting numerous like-minded people at once, primarily women.
Smiling, I say, “Yes, although we’ll be serving cool lemonade and iced tea, since the day promises to be sweltering.”
“Sounds wise.”
“I do have one unusual item on my agenda today to discuss with you.”
“Ah? And what’s that?” he asks, his attention more on the eggs than on me.
I sip his bitter coffee, trying not to wince. “Well, if something rather catastrophic hadn’t happened recently, I might be here today to discuss your creation of the Office of the Special Adviser on the Economic Status of the Negroes.” I cross my arms as I speak.
He removes his glasses, places them on the table, and grins. “I thought you’d be pleased with that.”
“So pleased that it would override the courtesy of keeping me informed about a decision in which I am very invested? So pleased that it’s fine I found out in the newspaper like everyone else?”
Placing his glasses back on—his subtle way of distancing himself from me—he says, “I thought you’d be happy that the needs of the Negro are being addressed.”
“I don’t like finding out through the headlines. Not to mention I was very clear about the importance of placing a colored person in that role. I gave you a long list of candidates.”
“Ickes told me Foreman was the man for the job, and his is the recommendation I have to follow. Maybe I should have discussed it with you first, but I thought you might find it a welcome surprise.” He looks—and sounds—like a disappointed child. This is my signal to abandon this part of the conversation.
“In any event, that’s not the most pressing agenda item.”
“What, then?” His petulant tone remains, and I wonder if I’ve erred by leading with my disappointment over the special adviser announcement. How we continually add salt to each other’s wounds.
“I want to talk about George Armwood.”
“Not this,” he says, wheeling back from the edge of the dining table.
“Yes, this,” I say, my voice firm.
“It’s not that I don’t feel terrible about what happened to George Armwood. This business of lynching is abominable. But it’s a veritable quagmire for me; you know that better than anyone.” He lowers his glasses to stare at me, knowing that I’m vulnerable to his naked gaze. When I don’t agree with him, he continues, “If I back the anti-lynching bill, I can kiss the rest of the New Deal goodbye. I’ll give up the ability to help millions of desperate Americans with my legislation, rather than a few persecuted Negroes.”
“ ‘A few persecuted Negroes’?” I squeal. “Do you know that ninety people are lynched each year? How can you call the horrific murder of ninety human beings the loss of a few Negroes?”
I notice a figure silhouetted in the screen door to the South Portico. As the person presses his face closer to the screen, I realize it’s Earl. He’s always looking out for me, whether I realize it or not.
“Eleanor,” Franklin says in a tone so unerringly calm I want to scream, “how can I walk away from lifting up millions of citizens from starvation and poverty and homelessness and joblessness with the New Deal—to save ninety people a year?”
This sounds like one of the arguments he makes to the parade of Northern politicians who pass his office day after day. But I am not one of his supplicants, and I am determined to wield the limited power I’ve been given as the First Lady in the way in which my Aunt Edith urged—in accordance with my own sense of justice. Political expediency cannot rule the day. My conversation with Mary about this most recent, terrible lynching in Maryland has my compass pointing in a very specific direction, and I cannot allow the horror of lynching to go unaddressed.
Bracing myself, I recite some of the horrifying description Mary shared with me, details Franklin is unlikely to hear from anyone else. Franklin looks sick and pale. He pushes away his plate, with the remains of the eggs and hash still piled high. I have his full attention.
I then slide the images of George Armwood’s body and the smiling mob across the table. “How can you stay silent about lynching now? It’s more than a gruesome murder. It is a wielding of power. And if the president of the United States doesn’t condemn it, then it could continue in perpetuity.”
“I will do something about it, Eleanor,” he says in a near-whisper.
I watch as he lifts the newspaper photographs up and examines them one by one.
“Good. Because otherwise, this could be the legacy you leave this country.”