Washington, October 1991
The house on M Street was full, and of course Priscilla had been right; the evening had to be organized by caterers. “There’s no way Nellie and I can take care of fifty, sixty people—”
“Twenty or thirty people.”
“—even if we gave them nothin’ but popcorn. Reuben, think of just the drinks!”
“I thought we could get Dover to serve the drinks. He’s done that for us before.”
“So he does drinks. You got in mind offering anything anybody wants? Like mint juleps? Reuben, you should have had 60 Minutes provide for this party. They’re responsible, aren’t they?”
He was now exasperated. “Look, Priscilla, they’re going to feature me Sunday night, and they’re going to say that I’m running for president and that I’m going to declare my candidacy the next day. But it’s my candidacy that makes the news, not the fact that they are featuring it on 60 Minutes.”
“Well, you go and tell that to the people comin’ here to see the 60 Minutes show—why doesn’ that make it a 60 Minutes night?”
“Never mind.” He shuddered at the thought of such logical quagmires every week, once the campaign got under way, for…October–December 1991, eleven weeks; January–November 1992, forty-three weeks.
Fifty-four weeks. Shee-yit.
Meanwhile there was Sunday night to worry about. Hell. Okay. Let the caterers—after all, there were four of them—figure out a way of handling all that. Keeping two dozen people well hosed for a couple of hours…not an impossible assignment for skilled Georgetown caterers.
Reuben was pleased by the reaction he got on Sunday afternoon from Susan Oakeshott and Bill Rode. He had brought them together, most confidentially, to give them a preview of what he proposed to say at eleven A.M. the next day at his press conference.
He tried the script out on them in a pretty dramatic way. He stood—doors locked—at one end of Room 220 of the Senate Office Building, which was where he would be making the announcement tomorrow. The room, frequently used for important political events, was permanently wired for television cameras. There was provision for five cameras, and for as many print reporters as turned up. Some of the guests who would be coming to the house to watch 60 Minutes tonight would also be there tomorrow. But they would not have heard this preview of his announcement. Just Susan and Bill.
His tryout was designed as a dress rehearsal. No interruptions. Bill read out the exact text of the introduction that would be given tomorrow by North Dakota’s senior senator. Then Reuben spoke, and they clocked him at twenty-one minutes.
Not bad, he smiled. Not bad, considering that he had given advice on domestic policy and foreign policy, especially Iraq. He would inform the assembly that he planned to visit Israel the following week: “I think that any American official who plans to have a voice in foreign-policy decisions owes it to himself—and to the United States, and to the whole civilized world—to visit personally the Holy Land and try to understand what the people of Israel have done to preserve their ancient homeland.”
In a copy of the text, Susan marked the passages at which Reuben could expect applause. There were eight such. Susan suggested a minor change in the formulation of Reuben’s criticism of President Bush on the Iraq question. Reuben digested it, made the change, and then gave the corrected speech to Bill, who would have copies ready for distribution to the press at ten-thirty tomorrow, the big day.
There were twenty-six people at the modest house in Georgetown. They had begun arriving at six, and their mood was exuberant.
“This is a historic moment,” Linda Bridgehouse said. “And a fine scoop for Mike Wallace.” She smiled weightily.
Everyone had a chair and a drink by the time the famous tick-tick began. Then, to the universal dismay of the company, the screen went back to an unfinished football game. The screen indicated the time left to play in the fourth quarter: 2:12. “Oh, God!” Priscilla said. “They still have two hours and twelve minutes left to play.”
“No,” Reuben snapped at her. “It’s two minutes twelve seconds.” He was visibly embarrassed by Priscilla’s ignorance and then by his own impatience. “But with time-outs added to the minutes of play that could mean a delay of ten or fifteen minutes,” he acknowledged. “So,” he looked around, “everybody! Have another drink!”
“And another hot dog,” Priscilla said. This brought on a round of applause, because little hot dogs indeed had been served, the buns nicely warmed, the mustard Dijon, the coleslaw fresh and spicy.
A quarter of an hour later, the evening’s 60 Minutes line-up was announced. There would be a segment on Joe Montana, who might be the greatest football player ever. Then an exposé on the drug company that produced Lipitor. Then the segment on Reuben Castle.
The third segment, when its turn finally came, was heralded by a head-on shot of the senator. There was august silence in the room. The screen showed Senator Castle in a half dozen situations—speaking, presiding over a committee meeting, substituting for General Westmoreland, at home in Georgetown—two-second spots.
“Tomorrow, 60 Minutes has learned”—Mike Wallace’s assured voice was even, but he managed a hint of drama—“Senator Reuben Castle will announce his candidacy for president of the United States. But there are certain things in his past which he won’t be talking about.”
On-screen, without identification, was a still picture of a young man looking down at a recent newspaper shot of Senator Castle. The camera turned then to a photo of a second young man. Mike Wallace said, “This was Reuben Castle when he was twenty years old.”
Reuben froze in his chair.
There was no way to stop the irreversible footage, the irreversible story.
At the end of the segment there was silence. Bill Rode reached to turn the television off.
The guests filed silently, most of them, out the door. Some attempted a word or two with a cheerful edge. Reuben stood by with Priscilla, shaking hands. But after a minute or two he slid back from the doorway, leaving it to Priscilla to say good night, and good-bye.
In the kitchen, Reuben stretched to the telephone box and disconnected the two lines.
Susan arrived just after ten, by taxi. She kept her finger on the doorbell.
Priscilla finally peered through the venetian blind, and opened the door.
“Where is he?”
Priscilla pointed upstairs.
Reuben was seated in his study, watching the television news.
He turned the sound down. “What are you here to tell me, Susan?”
“What I guess you expected. We should call off the announcement tomorrow.”
He nodded. “You heard from Kaltenbach?”
“Yeah. Nice twenty seconds on the phone. He said, ‘Tell Reuben don’t call me, I’ll call him.’”
“You want a drink?”
“No.”
Neither of them spoke. The sound was off, but pictures were being screened of Senator Reuben Castle and of the young man. Susan could discern that there were cameras outside an apartment house; the caption said it was in Boulder, Colorado, “the home of the first Mrs. Castle.”
They both looked at the screen, and imagined the words being spoken.
“Okay, Susan. Call the announcement off.”
She rose. “Good night, Senator.”
He nodded. “Good night.”