7th March. The Oval Office is in darkness, it’s 9 p.m. Now Jack Valenti leads the way in, switching on the lights, followed by President Johnson, who goes to sit behind his huge desk.
Johnson I hate to drag you away in the middle of your dessert, Jack. Terrible thing to do to a man.
Valenti Oh, that’s all right, Mr President.
Johnson Although I think the special assistants to President Kennedy, they had it harder. For example, when he met a woman, lotta times he couldn’t remember if he’d fucked her or just made her husband a ambassador.
Valenti Or both.
Johnson That’s right. And then there was all the injections he had to have for his condition and the fancy footwork smuggling all those dames in and out of the place and remembering the names of all the nephews and nieces and what-all. Compared to that, looking after me’s as easy as a pig eating a daisy.
The telephone rings on Johnson’s desk.
Johnson What time is it, Jack?
Valenti 9:03.
Johnson picks up the phone and listens.
Johnson Yeah … Right … Everything go off OK? … No casualties? … Uh-huh … uh-huh … What do you mean, turn on the TV? … Oh … Oh, I see … ABC? … OK.
He puts the phone down; then, from a console on his desk, he activates a bank of three huge televisions, each showing one of the networks, and makes an adjustment so that he gets the sound from the ABC network. ABC has broken into its evening movie to show the day’s pictures from Selma: on what was to become known as ‘Bloody Sunday’. Here, by and on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, State Troopers are firing tear gas into what had been an orderly crowd; and then, in their gas masks, many of them on horseback, are charging the panicking marchers and attacking them unrestrainedly with billy clubs or lengths of rubber hose laced with spikes. It’s like a scene on a battlefield. Johnson and Valenti watch for a while, transfixed.
Oh, my good God.
He shakes his head, appalled.
It’s that fucking Wallace.
Valenti He said he was going to take whatever steps necessary to prevent the march.
Johnson Jesus.
They keep watching. Presently Lady Bird Johnson steps into the room in her dinner gown. She’s a small, immediately sympathetic woman of fifty-two, full of genuine concern, younger-looking than her age.
Lady Bird I thought you boys might like some coffee or a piece of pie …
Johnson raises a meaty hand to silence her.
Johnson Look at this, Bird.
She joins them, watching the unfolding events with them for a time.
Lady Bird Is this Alabama? It’s terrible.
They watch some more.
Is this why you came over?
Johnson No. No. I came over because I just sent two Marine battalions into Vietnam. They landed at Red Beach 2 in Da Nang at 9:03. The first land combat troops.
She’s looking at him, wide-eyed.
Well, what the hell else am I going to do? I couldn’t finish it with what I had.
As the television pictures continue, Lady Bird goes over to him and takes his big hand.
I know every mother in the country is going to say uh-oh, this is it.
Lady Bird nods in agreement and looks up at Johnson with an expression of genuine anxiety, which he seems to interpret as reproach.
Shoot, Bird, anyone who can pour piss out of a boot knows I’m doing the right thing in Vietnam.