Jonathon Chamberlain’s problem started at the Hotel Commodore, which served as Citizens for Ike headquarters, or “CFI,” as everyone called it. Chester Turnbull, Sherman Adams’s top aide, came by Jonathon’s desk to ask if he wanted to go for a drink. Kingston Brand, Dewey’s liaison to the campaign, was already waiting at the elevator.
Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk some substance tonight, Jonathon thought, as the three took a corner booth behind some of the thick-fringed plants that gave the Palm Room its name. As they slid into the booth, Jonathon had the fleeting thought that Turnbull would get wedged between the booth and the table. Something about the man put Jonathon on edge, but he had enough political instinct to know that who you knew often counted more than what you knew. He needed these men to think well of him, especially Turnbull, if he wanted to get more responsibility in the campaign.
Brand loved the Yankees, and he was anxious to moan about the previous night’s game. Chicago White Sox pitcher Lou Kretlow had thrown his second consecutive two-hitter, and the Sox beat New York, 7–0.
“Do you believe that hurler Kretlow?” Brand asked as soon as the men were settled. He looked disgusted. “Well, they did have to play in Comiskey Park, I suppose.”
Turnbull replied, “Kretlow’s a journeyman. The Yankees won’t be down for long. Anyway, I want to talk about the campaign. I’ve got some new ideas I want to discuss with you two.”
Jonathon caught the word “two” like a soft pitch right to his glove and settled more comfortably into the booth. Maybe he’d read this guy wrong. He had overheard Turnbull discussing the campaign message at the headquarters. He basically agreed with the man’s argument that the campaign should play up Ike the war hero and Nixon the commie hunter to best contrast with Mrs. Roosevelt. “We’ll appeal to the security concerns of the lay-dees,” Turnbull had said. Taking a quick gulp of his martini, he launched into this latest campaign theory.
“It’s taken the females of this country thirty years to realize they got the right to vote, but by God, this election they’re going to vote in droves. I’m sure of it. And the most important thing to remember is they don’t see Mrs. R. as a female like them. They do not. She’s another animal entirely. In fact, I’m betting they don’t like the idea that a woman is running at all, former First Lady or not. So we’ve got to get ready to reel them in and make full use of them.” He punctuated the last four words as if his impatient index finger was punching hard on a stubborn elevator button just in front of his face.
“We need to make them feel comfortable and confident that Ike’s going to do the job the way they want it done.” Turnbull’s fleshy face went a ripe red, and his thin lips disappeared in a broad grin. Holding his glass up, he said, “And I’ve got the slogan they’re going to love: ‘General Eisenhower, the only man for the job.’” He laughed, so that Jonathon couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.
“The ladies want a man to save them from the Communists ’cause they’re scared for their babies, and they should be. Son,” he said looking straight at Jonathon, “do you realize that it was in this very hotel that Nixon trapped that pinko high-brow Hiss? Right here, goddamn it, he got Hiss. Right here’s where they had the hearing. That’s the kind of stuff you’ve got to know, son. Hiss tried to weasel his way around the fact that he knew that Chambers guy, but Nixon got him. Got him right here. Did you know that?”
But Brand interrupted before Jonathon could answer, overeager to back up Turnbull. “Our polls are showing that women are more concerned about getting out of Korea than men. And I don’t think they’re going to believe a grandmother has the answers.”
Jonathon decided to ignore Turnbull’s question. Just when I’m starting to trust him, he thought, the guy starts treating me like I’m an idiot. Everyone knew about the Hiss hearing at the Commodore.
“I agree on Korea,” Jonathon offered. “Women today are homemakers first and foremost. I think they’ll respond to messages appealing to security for their family and male leadership to do that. But I’m afraid there’s a problem there, too. I mean, with Stevenson’s divorce, we had a great contrast to Ike and Mamie and Dick and Pat. They’re two great couples, terrific families, all that. But now we’re running against the country’s most famous grandmother, I mean all those stories with her kids and grandkids. It all reminds everyone of her marriage to FDR. We don’t want voters seeing her as a surrogate continuing her husband’s…”
Jonathon’s words trailed off as he saw the smirk on Turnbull’s face.
“Not a problem, son. Not a problem. It’s not a problem now, is it Kingston?” The two men exchanged a conspiratorial grin. “Do you want to tell him how much it’s not a problem, or should I?” Turnbull asked.
“Go ahead. You’re the one who saw the proof.” Brand waved for the waitress to bring more drinks.
Turnbull swigged the last of his martini and looked at Jonathon. “I’m going to put it to you bluntly, son. But remember, it’s real explosive stuff and we’ve got to handle it very carefully.” Turnbull’s eyes were oddly large in an otherwise porcine face, but they narrowed as he spoke to Jonathon. He’d been wondering about this clean-cut kid who hadn’t loosened his well-knotted tie and whose shoe leather was overpolished and underworn. Probably just here because his daddy has a lot of dough behind Ike, so his pretty-faced kid gets to ride the campaign train. Well, let’s see how prep-school boy handles the real shit. If I can get him to run home to mama, I could get the governor of Wisconsin off my back and bring in his kid.
Turnbull took a dramatic pause, pretending to move his glass to an invisible mark on the white tablecloth, and then he looked at Jonathon.
“She’s a dyke, pure and simple and no doubt about it,” Turnbull said. “There’ve been rumors, maybe you heard about them?” Turnbull leaned forward as if waiting for an answer, although he was certain Jonathon wasn’t privy to political gossip. “Anyway, there have been rumors, but so what, right? Well, so what is that we just saw a letter, and it’s proof positive. No ‘so what’ anymore. Proof just as pure as twelve-year-old scotch, if you know what I mean.”
Jonathon’s face had flushed well before Turnbull finished, and he sat back in his chair as if he’d been shoved hard. “You’re telling me Eleanor Roosevelt is a queer?”
“That’s right, son. And it’s a vice. Not to mention, it’s a mental illness. Not to mention, mind you, that it’s just plain disgusting,” Turnbull answered.
Jonathon was nodding slowly as he regained his composure. “What kind of letter?” he asked carefully. “And, how did you see it?”
“That shouldn’t concern you, but it’s from Mrs. R. to one particular former AP reporter named Lorena Hickok.”
Turnbull would be damned before he’d tell this kid the source, although anybody who knew Washington could have guessed pretty easily. Turnbull had gotten the call from Hoover two days before.
“I want you to get a message to your boss, Adams,” Hoover had said without preliminaries. “I had Mrs. Roosevelt in for the meeting.”
Turnbull understood. The FBI director made it a practice to invite potential political foes, even presidential candidates, to his office for a chat where he would reveal embarrassing information he’d dug up on them. Duly warned, few people had the courage to cross him. He’d run the agency since 1924, and he intended to be there for a lot longer. That’s why Hoover had asked Mrs. Roosevelt if she would see him in his office shortly after she got the nomination.
“Mrs. Roosevelt.” Hoover had sprung up from behind his desk to greet her, holding the chair for her to sit down, then circling back to his own perch where papers were spread out before him.
Eleanor had never liked the man. She had talked to Franklin many times about firing him, but he said Hoover had too much political power. She couldn’t see why. He had the look of a bulldog past its prime—sagged, slow, and growly. Franklin wouldn’t even take action after Hoover came to him with a phony tape recording of a supposed sexual interlude between Eleanor and her friend, Joe Lash. Eleanor had been furious, but Franklin was oddly passive, and Hoover stayed.
Eleanor gave Hoover’s hand the briefest touch as she sat down. The room felt close and smelled of wood soaked in cigar smoke.
“You know I’m always quite interested in the work of this agency, Mr. Hoover. Please tell me what I can do for you.”
“Oh, Mrs. Roosevelt. I want to help you, you see.” Hoover shuffled some papers with portentous motions, finally pulling one out and handing it to Eleanor. She recognized her stationery, saw the date of February 1934, and recognized her own letter to Lorena Hickok. She didn’t have to read it, she had done so many times before sending it, and even this many years later she knew it spoke explicitly of her longing and love. Eleanor laid the letter on the desk in front of her and looked Hoover in the eyes. He was repressing a smirk, and she fought the urge to walk out and let him think he’d won.
“I had been told that your agents were in the Hyde Park Post Office opening and reading people’s mail,” Eleanor began, speaking with slow deliberation. “But at that point in my life, I was too naïve to believe that any government official would so subvert the Constitutional freedoms of American citizens. I have since become much wiser, Mr. Hoover.” Eleanor stood up and leaned over the desk toward the FBI director, who didn’t move from his chair. “You are abetting the worst elements in this country in their zeal to label anyone they disagree with a Communist. That little people have become frightened, that we find ourselves living in the atmosphere of a police state, where people close doors before they state what they think, that can be laid at the doorstep of this agency and this office.” Eleanor walked to the door, turning just before she opened it.
“Do what you will, Mr. Hoover. Your time is short.”
Eleanor felt herself shaking as she walked out of the office, at the same time wondering what Hoover had brought to Franklin to keep her husband in line.
Hoover had turned bright red and grabbed the telephone as soon as the door shut behind Eleanor. That’s when he’d gotten Turnbull on the phone, arranged to show him the letter, and told him it was available to get into play in the campaign.
Turnbull was happy to take the job, and he was relishing the discomfort on Jonathon’s face as he pressed the salacious news.
“This Hickok lady and the First Lady, they got close after FDR’s first election in ’33. Very close.” Turnbull gulped his drink and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “And Hickok didn’t really bother to hide the fact that she played for the other team. For a while she even moved into the White House. She and Mrs. Roosevelt had some nice trips together. For a couple of years, they were always together. Of course, Hickok’s friends in the press kept it quiet, but, like I said, there were rumors.”
Jonathon still looked skeptical. “What did the letter say?”
“Oh, I can remember the high points, something like ‘I want to put my arms around you…can’t wait to hold you close…I look at your ring and know you love me’…that kind of thing. Really sickening stuff, I’m telling you, just sickening, sickening stuff.” Turnbull folded his arms and sat back with a satisfied look on his face.
Jonathon’s astonishment had faded. Instead, he looked worried. Waiting for the waitress to leave their drinks and walk away, he spoke slowly to the other two men.
“Assuming it is true, what do you expect to do with it?”
“Come on, son.” Suddenly, Turnbull’s familiarity felt grating to Jonathon.
“It’s the nail in her coffin, but we put a real thick cloth over the hammer. Know what I mean? Everyone already thinks she’s an odd kind of woman. Why else would she run for president? It’s a man’s job, plain and simple. And the rumors about her woman friend have been out there for a while.” Turnbull’s voice took on a slight tone of exasperation as Jonathon’s expression turned stonier. “We just let some key people know that we can show them proof, that’s all. Someone like Cholly Knickerbocker over at Hearst. He loves this shit.”
“Yeah, or what about Hedda Hopper at the LA Times?” Brand offered eagerly.
“Right,” Turnbull agreed. “Just tarnish her image enough to help the voters. Let them know that she’s not the kind of person they want running the country. See what I mean?”
Jonathon felt his stomach begin to churn. Ever since he was a child, his emotions seemed to settle in his gut, and he recognized the familiar tightening, as if someone were reaching in and squeezing his intestines. He wondered if the general knew about this, but he decided not to ask. He excused himself as soon as possible, saying he had an early meeting. As he walked out, Turnbull raised his glass to Brand. “There’s a kid I’m betting we won’t be seeing again.”
Jonathon’s mind was feeling as heavy as his legs as he trudged up five flights to his tiny apartment in Greenwich Village. He tried to remember that he was lucky to have a place of his own. The tide of returning vets was straining all of the city’s resources, but especially housing. Jonathon’s ties to the Eisenhower political apparatus was pull enough to get him his airless space in an old tenement building, but every newspaper story about a vet left him feeling a mix of guilt and envy. He’d missed going to war by one year. Jonathon hoped he could make up for that by helping the war’s great general become president.
As he got ready for bed, taking a cold shower to wash away the sweaty grime, Jonathon thought about the cool evenings of Maine in summer. By contrast, Manhattan nights gathered the thick daytime soup of sun-boiled air and served it black. He fell into bed like a man drunk beyond consciousness. At 7:00 a.m., the alarm clock exhausted its ring to no avail. Jonathon woke and panicked more than an hour later. The morning campaign meeting started at 9:00 a.m. sharp.
As Jonathon hung from a strap on the screeching, careening subway car, he tried to shut out the mass of people pressing against him and the fact that some of them were already rank with sweat. He wanted to focus on the problem that still roiled his mind. He tried to convince himself that, as Turnbull put it, they were just playing the “rough-and-tumble game of politics,” but Jonathon couldn’t reconcile himself to the rules. He didn’t want to seem naïve, or worse yet, weak. He felt sure he could play with the “big boys,” the old political pros, because he had an unshakable confidence that they needed new ideas. But this lesbian thing, it wasn’t about ideas, it wasn’t even about politics. As far as Jonathon was concerned, it was about winning at any cost, even if that meant savaging the reputation of the most admired woman in the world. Did he believe the end justified the means? He didn’t think so, but this was politics, and maybe he had to change his thinking.
“What if she is a homophile?” Jonathon thought. “What if it is true?” As he jogged toward the Commodore, he alternated between worrying about Turnbull’s revelation and whether or not he’d look like a sweat-soaked mess by the time he reached the office.