Citizens for Ike campaign headquarters at the Hotel Commodore took up the entire tenth floor. The room doors were propped open from one end of the long corridor to the other. Lower-level operatives scurried between bedrooms-turned-offices carrying mimeographed sheets and handwritten messages to those in command.
Jonathon loved the action. The tenth floor was less of a place to him than an organism that pulsed with political drama. At the end of the morning meeting, Sherman Adams took him aside to say that he’d be working with the branding genius Rosser Reeves on the television ads for Ike. Jonathon felt as if he’d won a prize. He’d be doing real work, maybe the most important work in the campaign. Jonathon believed that the rapidly growing reach of television had the power to shape thinking. No one had proven that better than Reeves. Now he’d be the man’s aide, hopefully his protégé.
“Hey, Walter,” Jonathon said, grabbing the arm of another young man who had rolled up his shirtsleeves, but whose tie was still snug. “How about grabbing some lunch with me? I found a great little spot the other day.”
As they stood in line at Maxine’s sandwich shop on 45th near Madison Avenue, Jonathon filled Walter Jackson in on his new assignment. Maxine’s was a linoleum-and-mirrors kind of place, tucked under the protective grandeur of the Equitable Trust Building. No place within a mile served roast beef as rare, piled as high, for so little money. The two young men took a two-top, with barely enough room for Walter to slide between the adjacent tables to the plastic-covered chair that abutted the wall. The proximity to other diners made Maxine’s an impolitic choice for political types who were throwing around the latest gossip and rumors. But there was a certain security in the clatter of plates, the rude cries of the servers announcing that an order was ready, and the cacophonous crescendos of the hungry lunch-hour horde.
Jonathon took quick note of the two women at the table next to him, who looked around his age. He couldn’t help but notice the one sitting opposite to him with her back against the wall. Her high-glossed nails matched her red lipstick, and complemented her thick, reddish-brown hair. He hadn’t had time for dating in the last two years, much less a relationship. Mary Hancock had wanted to get married, but that was a college fling. He was far from ready at the time. No one since had made him think of much more than a night of pleasure and release.
“I’m telling you, Walter, Reeves’s ads will make General Eisenhower a television star.” Jonathon had picked up the conversation as soon as the two sat down. “They’ll cement his lead, for sure…” Both men’s heads turned simultaneously as the woman with the painted nails made a short, distinct snorting noise, looked at her companion, and broke into a laugh. She had obviously been listening.
“Did something we say amuse you?” Jonathon asked without smiling. He placed his sandwich down with exaggerated care and looked her full in the face. She had almond-shaped eyes that couldn’t hide her amusement. One hand cupped her mouth, the bright fingers pointed upward. She was struggling to swallow.
“I…I’m sorry…just a sec…” She coughed loudly and took a long sip of soda. “Went down the wrong pipe.”
“I think your pipes are fine, it’s your manners that went wrong,” Jonathon said, turning back to his sandwich and looking at Walter as if they were alone. Walter’s lips had parted slightly, as if he had something to say but it had escaped his mind.
“Well, better my manners than my thinking,” she shot back as if speaking to her companion. “And, am I mistaken, Molly, or is there an ‘r’ in manners?” she went on, laughing at Jonathon’s accent.
“However you say it, lady, it means the same thing. If your conversation is so boring you have to listen to ours, why don’t you just ask—politely, if possible—to join in?”
Joan Black took her first good look at her antagonist. He seemed familiar somehow, but she didn’t remember meeting him. Even if I had, she thought, the part in his hair was too neat for her taste. Definitely not the panty raid type, she thought. And definitely not New York. Somewhere in Hicksville, she decided, like New Hampshire or Vermont, or maybe Maine.
“Well, if you insist,” Joan said, placing her hands flat on the table, as if she might launch herself into Jonathon’s face. “First of all, if you think General Eisenhower could be good on television, you must not have seen him on the air yet. He looks pasty and old. And those glasses! He needs to get rid of those, but then of course he wouldn’t be able to read, now would he? And that would be a problem since he doesn’t have a clue about running this country. Commanding the army and having a command of the Constitution and presidential authority are quite different. The American people are starting to see that, that’s for sure. I’m sure you will, too, if you ever read a real newspaper like the New York Times, or is that unavailable where you come from?” Joan asked with mock charm.
“Where I come from, women’s minds aren’t shut as tight as co-hogs and ladies don’t snap like bugs.”
“Bugs and co-hogs? Do you dig that, Molly, or have we traveled to another universe?”
“I would think someone as erudite as you seem to think you are would know what Mainer’s call clams and lobsters. But I guess you wouldn’t find that in the New York Times.” Jonathon’s hands were clenching under the table. What was so infuriating about this girl?
“Probably not,” Joan answered in a rising tone. “But you will find all the reasons why an informed person wouldn’t vote for Eisenhower. You think he’s going to get us out of Korea? Fine, but he’s going to start another world war, going around saying he’ll help arm the rebels in Communist-held countries and refusing to negotiate with the Soviets. But so what, right, Mr. Hip Man from Maine? Because you’re probably the type who would vote for the general just because he’s not a woman.” People at the back of the lunch line, which had pressed close to the seated diners, turned their heads as Joan finished with a near shout.
“And you’d probably vote for Mrs. Roosevelt just because she is a woman,” Jonathon said, the rising hubbub of the crowd being enough of an excuse to pitch his answer just below a yell. “Is that somehow okay? Or maybe because she was FDR’s wife? Those are really intelligent reasons to vote for someone with absolutely no experience running anything, much less the invasion of Europe.”
“Yes, yes I would,” Joan’s fury animated her face, “because she is a woman who knows and hates war, and can get us to peace. Because she’s a woman who cares about people being treated equally and about fair jobs and wages and about health care. And because it’s about time a woman was president of this country. What’s wrong with that?” Joan stood up and started to squeeze between the tables to leave. This guy was impossible—a typical Republican dimwit.
“Well, I’m not sure woman is the word I’d use for her, unless you want to call her a woman’s woman,” Jonathon said, the sarcasm thick in his reply. As soon as he spoke, he regretted it. The quizzical looks from Walter, Joan, and Molly made him sure of his mistake. He jumped up from his seat, trying to leave ahead of this annoying girl. But Maxine’s was like the subway at rush hour, and Jonathon found himself shoulder to shoulder with Joan as they edged their way out.
By the time they reached the sidewalk, Jonathon had cooled down. What could he expect working in the Democratic haven of New York? This was Roosevelt country, after all. “Look,” he said touching Joan’s arm lightly before she could rush off, “I’m sorry I rattled your cage, Miss…”
“Joan Black, and don’t feel you have to apologize, but feel free to come to Roosevelt for President headquarters and I’ll give you some literature. Maybe you can broaden your thinking.” For a moment, Jonathon was stunned, frantically trying to remember if he had said anything that the other camp shouldn’t have heard.
“You…you work for Mrs. Roosevelt?” he finally managed.
Joan nodded and smiled.
“Well, Miss Black,” he said, recovering, “my name’s Jonathon Chamberlain.” He held out his hand. “And if you want to broaden your thinking about Ike, you can find me at his headquarters.”
Suddenly, Joan remembered the picture in the newspaper during the convention. This was the guy who caught her eye. Jonathon was surprised to see her laugh without irony.
“I might just take you up on that offer, Mr. Chamberlain,” Joan said, as she motioned to Molly. “Come on, we’ll be late getting back.”