Disturbing incident this morning in the Roosevelt Room. Doubt such undignified behavior ever displayed there since LBJ’s time. Spoke with Hardesty about the margarine stain. He appalled.
—JOURNAL, JUNE 25, 1991
I sensed the showdown which was coming.
For some months now Lleland and his henchmen had been feeding tidbits of prevarication to the press, saying the President was displeased with my handling of the Cora Smith business, the Cuban business, and so on. I’m surprised he didn’t blame me for the weather. While I didn’t doubt the President had better things to worry about—and he did—I found these vile canards distressing. And of course Joan was extremely upset by them.
The President, once contemptuous of flattery, now submitted to it; enjoyed it, even. Lleland and Marvin were ample purveyors of it, as were their deputies. Withers, I noticed, had adopted the royal custom of walking backward when he left the Oval Office. I resolved to have a real heart-to-heart with the President. But, to my dismay, every time I proposed we have “a chat,” he said he was too busy. “Next week,” he’d say, and then forget.
In all fairness to him, it was not a happy time. His marriage was under a strain. (The First Lady and I still had our little talks, and I was able to infer from them that all was not well at home. She spoke of taking a “sabbatical” to make another film. I tried to be both encouraging and discouraging at the same time.)
The President had always had a temper, but as Governor he had taken bio-feedback treatments for it, with happy results. Now, however ever, he had lost the knack of regulating his heartbeat—where was the time to practice?—and it showed.
During an interview he told columnist John Lofton of the Washington Times to “go soak [his] head” in response to his antagonistically phrased question about “destroying America’s economy and defense.” Lofton went with it, as they say, and appeared on TV shows playing the tape of the President screaming at him and ordering him out of the Oval Office.
A few days after the incident we were in the Roosevelt Room having our customary senior-staff breakfast. Lleland was there, as were Marvin, Feeley, myself. The “Big Four,” as we were called by the press.
Feeley had spent a rough couple of days coping with the fallout from the President’s ill-advised behavior. He called the President a “jackass.”
Now, if anyone other than Feels had said this, I would have been on my feet demanding a retraction. But Feels was—Feels. There was no question of his loyalty to Thomas Tucker. He loved the man almost as much as I did.
But in reply Lleland sniffed, gave the top of his soft-boiled egg a smart whack, and said, “I hardly think that’s appropriate. You’re talking about the President of the United States.”
“Bamford,” said Feeley, “why don’t you sit on that egg?”
Lleland put down his spoon. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
Feeley repeated what he had said, louder this time.
“I will not tolerate that kind of talk from a staff member,” said Lleland. He made it sound as if he were talking about the pantry maid.
Feeley laughed. “You’re just arrogant enough to think we’re working for you. Well, Bamford, this isn’t the crew of that barge of yours.”
Lleland smiled superciliously. “Actually, it’s a motor yacht, Feeley. But I wouldn’t expect someone of your background to understand the difference.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Feeley, flushing. “It’s a fucking disaster. All that communication gear—is that so you could stay in touch with E. F. Hutton?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I interjected. The President was due any moment in the Oval Office a few feet away. It wouldn’t have been very seemly for him to overhear all the shouting.
“Now look here, Feeley,” said Lleland, his lips whitening. (His lips lost color whenever he became annoyed. Feeley said this was common among upper-class Episcopalians and that it was due to centuries of inbreeding.) “You run a sloppy operation and it shows. It showed three days ago. Lofton’s a nut and he shouldn’t have been there. If you want to take your inadequacies out on me, I’m quite indifferent. But if you’re going to take them out on the President, then you will have to go through me. And I promise you that will be an un-puh-leasant process.” He finished the sentence with a slight raising of the eyebrows.
Feeley leaned back in his chair. “Sloppy?” he said.
“That’s what I said,” Lleland replied, returning to his egg.
“You know what’s sloppy?”
Lleland did not answer as he excavated a spoonful of yolk.
“This is sloppy.” With that Feeley hurled his English muffin. It flew sideways past my nose, curving in the manner of a Frisbee, missing its target and striking the magnificent oil painting by Bierstadt, “A Look Up Yosemite Valley.”
No one spoke. We looked at the Bierstadt. A small trickle of margarine glistened on the surface, just above the Indian village.
Feeley went over and dabbed at it with the corner of his napkin. Edelstein cleared his throat and looked at Lleland. Lleland looked at Edelstein.
“You know,” I said, trying to get conversation going again, “I’ve never really noticed that painting before. It’s quite beautiful. I mean, the way the light hits the sides of the mountains.” (I have always felt that mirth is a good way of releasing tension.) Feeley started laughing. So did Marvin, briefly. I joined in. But my comment seemed to have piqued Lleland. He called me a fool and stormed out.
After breakfast I went off to talk to Hardesty about having the margarine removed from the Bierstadt before it congealed and required the ministrations of an expert. He kept demanding to know how it got there. Attempting to jolly him, I told him I suspected the Soviets. He was not amused.
When we met with the President shortly afterward, Feeley told him what an unmitigated misery his life had been since the President told Lofton to soak his head.
“Lofton pisses me off,” said the President. “He questioned my patriotism.”
“Yeah,” said Feels, “well, now everyone’s questioning your sanity.”
A year ago the President would have laughed, but now there was not even a smile, only an abrupt change of subject.