New York City, September 21, 1952
Joan found O’Brien as soon as she arrived at campaign headquarters in the morning, and asked if they could talk in private. He had turned a hotel bedroom into a personal office and meeting room, but when he and Joan walked in, a gaggle of staff members were folding and stuffing envelopes at a long aluminum table.
“Come on, we’ll get the back booth downstairs and have some breakfast,” Larry said. The hotel coffee shop had become a favored alternative spot for small staff meetings. As Joan waited for her favorite, blueberry pancakes, she told Larry about Eisenhower’s letter and Marshall’s reply.
“Don’t go far,” O’Brien told Joan. “We’ll meet as soon as Eleanor can free up some time.”
Joan sat in nervous anticipation in the suite reserved for top-level meetings. Rayburn walked in, looking grim and speaking in low tones to Eleanor. O’Brien followed with his usual legal pad of notes, and closed the door behind him.
“Well, Joan, why don’t you explain about the letter.” When he thought she had finished, O’Brien started to go on, but Joan interrupted.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Brien. Um, there’s one more thing.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at Mrs. Roosevelt, so she stared at the tip of her brand-new navy stiletto heels.
“It may be nothing, but…” She told them about her conversation with Jonathon, but, as she fumbled to describe what she thought his innuendo meant, Eleanor interrupted her.
“Joan, I appreciate your reporter’s nose for the story behind the story. Let me stop you there.” Eleanor took a breath, and then she told her team about Hoover and her love letter.
“That goddamn slimy piece of crap…” O’Brien was fuming and looked like he was ready to rush out of the room and find a baseball bat to cave in Hoover’s head. But Rayburn acted like he’d just heard that Eleanor had been caught wearing last year’s fashion.
“That settles it,” the Speaker began. “Hoover went to Ike’s people so he wouldn’t be tarred with this. So we need to let them know that we have a bomb, too—that we know about the Marshall letter.”
“But it’s locked up in the Pentagon. We can’t prove…” Larry began.
“No, Larry,” Rayburn interrupted. “Truman has the Marshall letter. He called me last night. He’d heard some rumors that the Taft people were trying to get their hands on it to have something over Ike. He was heading them off.”
O’Brien smiled at Eleanor, and she managed a slight smile in return.
“Leave it to Harry,” Eleanor said. She thought of Lucy’s letters that she had found so long ago. Did Mamie know about Ike’s affair? Eleanor had had suspicions about Lucy. Did Mamie live in a world of doubt and fear as she had, reading every look and comment as a sign? How odd that she and her opponent’s wife would share the cancer of betrayal. Mamie seemed to lack affectations, a spritely, smiling woman in tune with her times, happy to support her man. Or so it seemed. Somehow, Ike’s letter gave Eleanor a different kind of determination about winning. Maybe Mamie would thank her if she did.
“What’s the president going to do with the letter?” O’Brien asked. “He’s not thinking of using it, is he?”
“I’m sure not,” Eleanor replied, “but I’ll call Harry.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Ike just announced a swing through Missouri. Why doesn’t Harry invite him to the house as a show of bipartisanship and goodwill? Ike will be hard-pressed to say ‘no’ to the president.”
“I like it,” O’Brien said, also thinking out loud. “They have a few minutes alone. Truman shows him the letter, assures him of discretion, and tells Ike he expects the same.”
“All right,” Rayburn cut in. “But we have to be sure Ike’s team really has been contacted by Hoover. Maybe this young man of Joan’s meant something else, or was referring to an old rumor.”
“Joan, can you have a talk with him? Use all those good reporter skills you have and find out if your hunch is right? And do it right away.”
“Okay, I think I can do that,” Joan said, nodding and wishing she hadn’t been such a smart aleck with Jonathon Chamberlain.
Jonathon agreed to meet Joan in Bryant Park, far enough from their respective headquarters that they could have privacy. Still, Joan picked a bench in a corner far from the sidewalk and sheltered by the low-hanging branches of a large pin oak. Indian summer had settled over the city, with warm moist air brushing against cheeks like invisible tufts of cotton, muting car horns, and turning harried businessmen into strollers on the crowded sidewalks.
Joan had arrived early, telling herself that she wanted to get settled and feel prepared, while trying to deny that she was at all anxious to see the smug Mr. Chamberlain. Bolstering her courage the night before, she had made an emergency visit to Lord & Taylor on Fifth Avenue. Three hours and countless dresses later, she had settled on a sleeveless black rayon jersey dress by Claire McCardell. The V-neck had a vaguely Roman look, with the narrow folds of the bodice crisscrossed at the waist by thin cloth cords that tied in the front. In a sop to modesty that Joan had spent a long time debating, the V-neck also had cords that could tie it closed at the top.
“Don’t worry,” the saleswoman had said, seeing Joan frown as the bodice pulled closed. “You can loosen these top strings and show as much as you want,” and she had given a meaningful glance at Joan’s cleavage.
“Thank goodness for another warm day,” Joan thought as she walked up, stopping short as she saw Jonathon pacing near the bench they had chosen. She quickly put on her best “working the room” face and gave her hair one more pat, wishing she could check her lipstick, too.
“Nice to see you again,” Joan said, extending her hand as she marched toward Jonathon. He had on a very starched-looking bright white shirt with a blue paisley tie. At least he left his jacket in the office, Joan noticed, thinking he didn’t look as stuffy as she remembered.
“Nice to see you,” Jonathon said, waving a hand toward the bench with a mock flourish and a smile. “After you.”
Joan sat at one end and turned slightly with her legs crossed, feeling prim. She lit a Fatima hoping her hand didn’t look like it was shaking. Jonathon sat facing her, although he brought one knee up onto the bench and threw his arm over the back as if he were ready to talk about baseball scores.
“First off, I want to apologize, Mr….”
“I told you on the phone, please call me Jon. I really would prefer it.”
“Okay, well then, call me Joan, of course.” Joan gave a stiff smile, trying not to think about how his eyes reminded her of her grandmother’s blue willow china. “I am sorry, anyway, for coming on so strong when we met. I think people can respectfully disagree, and obviously we do, I mean with our choice of candidates.” She stopped short, not sure where she was heading or how to get to the main reason for their meeting.
“Look, I was pretty unpleasant too. Let’s call it even.” There was that smile again. What was it, Joan wondered—something like a little boy, but not cute, more like endearing and vulnerable. She looked down and pretended to tighten the tie on her dress.
“Hey, what did you do before you made the mistake of working for Mrs. Roosevelt?” Jon asked with a teasing laugh.
Joan laughed, too, and they chatted for a while about their backgrounds until Joan realized she had forgotten why she was there.
“So how do you like campaign work?” Joan asked, trying to pivot to her main purpose.
“I like it a lot. I’ve gotten to do some amazing things. More than I expected.”
“Yeah? That’s great. Campaigns aren’t always fun. Sometimes some really nasty stuff goes on.” She watched his face, but he didn’t react.
“I mean, I have to read all these columns all the time, like Jack Anderson and Drew Pearson, to keep track of what’s being said about Mrs. R., because my mom told me people used to leak things, even untrue things, just to get stuff in these gossipy columns and try to ruin a campaign.” She could see Jonathon’s face redden slightly.
“I suppose that happens,” he mumbled, tilting his head up and reaching his hand out as if distracted by a falling leaf.
“I just think that kind of thing is so wrong, don’t you?” Joan asked. “I know Mrs. Roosevelt would never allow that kind of thing in her campaign. Of course, I can’t imagine the general would either,” she added quickly.
Jonathon’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at her as if examining her face. “No,” he spoke slowly, “I can’t imagine the general doing anything like that either.”
“I mean, I’ll tell you truthfully, Jon, there’ve been rumors around our office about the general, and I can tell you, Mrs. R. made it clear we couldn’t even talk about that stuff in front of her.” Joan sat up straighter and lifted her chin a bit.
“What kind of rumors?”
“Really, Jon. I wouldn’t even dignify them by repeating them. Why, you’ve probably heard some too, I’m guessing, about Mrs. Roosevelt. I mean, anyone who’s on the inside in a campaign, like you seem to be…” He didn’t answer. “You have heard something about her haven’t you? Come on,” Joan tapped her fingernail on his knee and put on a conspiratorial smile, “haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
Joan arched one brow and blew a trail of smoke over Jonathon’s head. “Maybe? That sounds like a ‘yes’ to me,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Okay, sure, of course, but I’m sure it was untrue, and frankly, between you and me, it was disgusting. I am absolutely certain the general would throw someone out on their ear if he knew they talked about it. But, yeah, there was a rumor about your candidate, too.”
“That’s good to hear about the general. That he’s so ethical, I mean. After the Nixon thing, I think people had some concerns.” Jonathon frowned and started to say something.
“Sorry, sorry,” Joan said quickly. “Jon, really, I want you to know I respect General Eisenhower a great deal. Are you traveling much?” She decided it was time to change the subject.
“Oh yeah, quite a bit. All over the Midwest, a western swing, and then down to Texas a couple weeks before election day.”
“Really? Well, let’s keep in touch. I think we’re going down to Texas toward the end, too. That’s Rayburn country, you know?” She smiled.
“Maybe,” Jonathon said amiably, “but the Interstate Theaters’ poll shows Ike leading by better than 30 percent in Texas.”
“Check out the Burden Survey. It has the race a lot closer than that down there.”
“Ike has the ranchers, don’t forget.”
“Uh-huh, but Mrs. R. has labor, Negroes, and the small farmers.” They both laughed.
“Okay,” Jonathon stood up and offered Joan his hand. As she took it and balanced onto her five-inch stiletto heels, he said, “Let’s agree, if we’re in Texas at the same time, we’ll finish this debate over steaks and Manhattans.”
“Martinis, but otherwise I agree,” Joan said, thinking she finally had a reason to look forward to going to Texas.