Apparently I am the last to be informed of my own resignation. Intolerable!
—JOURNAL, AUG. 15, 1991
The next morning at 7:45 I sat down to do what had to be done and wrote my resignation. It was not an easy task. I had been with Thomas Tucker for over twelve years, more than one fifth of my life. That is a long time. The memories crowded in around me as I sat with a nice cup of steaming hot water, writing in longhand. How ironic that the fountain pen I used was affectionately inscribed: TO HW FROM TNT. It was the sort of detail you’d find in one of those novels they sell at airports. I agonized over the wording, and by 10:30 a.m. it was done. I gave it to Barbara to be typed. I knew she would be stricken by the news. I stood there by the window of my office, looking out at the Darlington Oak planted by President Lyndon Johnson.
I had always liked the view from here. I would miss it. But there are trees in Idaho, and the air is good there, much better than in Washington. I’d had sinus problems ever since moving here. An odd sense of calm came over me. I’d always imagined that the end, when it came, would be more wrenching than this. I was aware of someone in the room with me.
“Mr. Wadlough?” It was Barbara. I hoped we would be able to avoid tears.
“Just one thing, sir. Did you want to make this effective immediately, or leave it as is?”
Good. She was taking it calmly. I’d always been impressed with Barbara’s grace under pressure.
“Barbara, I know this must come as a shock to you,” I said as gently as I could. Without going into the gruesome details, I explained that the situation had become untenable and that for family reasons I had decided to return to Boise. To soften the blow, I told her she could come back and work for me there.
She began to thank me rather effusively. Since I am uncomfortable with such expressions of gratitude, I smiled and said she needn’t thank me, and that I would be glad to have her.
“Actually, sir,” she said, “I’ll be staying on here.”
“Here?”
She explained she had been “offered” a job as assistant to the chief of staff’s personal secretary. In response to my mute stupefaction, she said that ever since July she had assumed my departure was a matter of time and had begun making “contingency arrangements.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“Only Margaret [Lleland’s secretary], Mr. Phetlock, Mr. Withers, Mr. Lleland, of course. Mr. Tsang. Mr. Jasper—”
“Stop,” I gasped.
She asked if she could get me anything. Even in betrayal she was solicitous.
“No,” I managed.
“Then shall I put through the memo?”
“This is not ‘a memo,’ Barbara,” I expostulated. “This is my resignation!”
“Yes, sir. It’s very well written.”
I sighed. “Thank you, Barbara.”
“I assume we should route it through Mr. Lleland?”
This was insupportable.
“Through Mr. Lleland? For your information, I have known the President for twelve and a half years. This is between him and me, and I am not going to route a highly private letter to him through—that man!”
Regaining my composure, I managed to conclude the discussion in a dignified manner. I resumed staring at the trees on the South Lawn, wondering what had become of Loyalty. I summoned Hu.
“Hu,” I said after telling him of my decision, “you have been a good and able assistant. If you would come to Boise with me, you’d be my right-hand man at Dewey, Skruem.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and said he was “unworthy” of my praise.
“Nonsense,” I replied heartily. But my reassurances did nothing to allay his nervous demeanor. After a few minutes of excavating, I mined from him the revelation that he had already accepted a position at OMB.
This was scandalous.
“Am I the last person to be informed of my own resignation?” I exclaimed. “This is outrageous!”
Hu became abject in his apology.
“You needn’t bother with that,” I told him. “And as far as I’m concerned, you can report to OMB today. Out. Out!”
What further nasty surprises awaited me that day? I wondered. Suddenly the South Lawn no longer looked stately and green, just hot and parched.
I checked the President’s schedule. Lunch with Jacques Cousteau. “Senior staff time” from 2:00 until 3:00. (That was the euphemism for Lleland.) Senators Dole, Hills, Garn, 3:00 to 3:30. (Another one of those ineffectual “reconciliation” coffee sessions.) Infrastructure Task Force, 3:35 to 3:40. 3:45 to 3:50, Commission on the Millennium. National Security Council, 4:00–4:15. That would run long. 4:30–4:45, Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board. 4:50–4:52, photo opportunity, Miss Connecticut. A lot of beauty-queen photo opportunities lately. 5:00–5:30, private time. 5:30–5:45, Ambassador Kutyadikov of the Soviet Union. 6:00, depart for reception, Organization of African States. 6:30, return residence.
Frightful scheduling. No wonder he couldn’t concentrate. I would probably be brought in between Miss Connecticut and the Soviet Ambassador. We had a lot of ground to cover. Maybe he’d cancel the Ambassador—better him than Miss Connecticut. He had an eye for the ladies.
Barbara buzzed me to say that Peter Nelson, the Post’s political correspondent, was on the line.
“What does he want?” I said.
“He wants to confirm you’ve resigned.”
“What?”
Hopping mad, I picked up the phone.
“Peter!” I said, bubbly, “what utter nonsense is this my secretary is telling me?”
He told me two “senior” West Wing sources had already confirmed that the President had accepted my resignation.
“Well, I don’t know who your sources are. But I’m certainly not going to comment on something as ridiculous as that.”
“Then will you confirm you’re being appointed to Mrs. Tucker’s staff?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you going over to the First Lady’s shop?”
“Mrs.—?” I couldn’t speak.
Gathering my wits, I told him to address all further inquiries through Feeley’s office.
“I’ll put you down for a ‘will neither confirm nor deny,’ then.”
“Now see here, Peter,” I said hotly, “I have nothing more to say on the subject. You’re not going to trick a quote out of me.”
I immediately called Feeley and told him what had happened.
“Yeah,” he said languidly. “I heard.”
“But I only sent it in an hour ago. It hasn’t even been accepted!”
“I think it has, Herb.”
“This is outrageous!”
Feels urged me to calm down, then said, “Listen, I gotta get back to you. He’s just vetoed the B–IB [bomber] again and the place is going batshit.”
I was still sputtering when the green button on my console lit up. I punched it without even putting Feeley on hold.
“What?” I said without thinking.
“Herb, old friend.”
It was the President.
“Why, hello. Sir.”
“Great to hear your voice.”
“Uh, great to hear yours, sir.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Fine, Mr. President.”
“Great. Busy as hell, I’ll bet.”
“Well, actually—”
“I’ve been busy as hell, I can tell you.”
“I can imagine—”
“How come I never see you anymore?”
“I—”
“I miss you, Herb.”
“I miss you too, sir.”
“I’m really going to miss you.”
“But—”
“I understand, Herb. The pressure here is killing.”
“Nothing I can’t handle, sir.”
“ ’Course it’s not like you’re going back to Idaho.”
The President cleared his throat. “You won’t be far, anyway. I want you to stay in touch. Keep me informed.”
I said I would do my best.
“And Herb?”
“Sir?”
“I can’t tell you what this means to Jessie. The world.”
“Mr. President, I think we need to have a talk.”
“Anytime. But right now I’ve got to go. You wouldn’t believe my afternoon.”
“Yes I would. How about five o’clock? You’ve got a window between Miss Connecticut and Ambassador Kutyadikov.”
“Details. I really don’t track the details, Herb. Check with whoever does my scheduling. You know, things have gone to hell since you left. How’s the commission going?”
“The commission?”
“Yeah. Listen, gotta go. Speak soon.”
I must have been holding the silent receiver against my ear for a full minute when Barbara walked in. My head felt numb.
She began puttering about with papers on my desk.
“Barbara, have I been involved with a commission these last few months?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Nothing? That AIDS thing? The citrus farmers?”
“No, sir. Those were last year.”
“Then bring me a cup of tea and get Mr. Lleland on the line.”
Just after three Lleland returned my call.
“Great news, Herb. The President is delighted.”
I was in no mood to be patronized.
“I’m in no mood to be patronized,” I said. “This is your handiwork.”
“Nay, nay, old chum.”
“Stop calling me ‘old chum.’ I didn’t go to Harvard.”
He found this amusing.
“Never mind that. Why have you done this thing? Apart from your normal treacherous inclinations, I mean.”
“I wasn’t aware the position of chief of staff to the First Lady was to be sniffed at.”
“I am not sniffing at it.”
“I would have thought you’d be grateful for the opportunity to make a difference.”
“Don’t quote campaign slogans at me!” I was growing heated.
“Look at it this way,” he said. “We’ll be co-equals.”
“You’re enjoying this, I take it.”
“What I most enjoy about this job is the chance to serve the President.”
“Borscht!” I exclaimed. You’d have thought he was taping the conversation. The thought gave me a mischievous inspiration.
“You can turn off your taping device, Bamford,” I said. “I find that a highly distasteful practice of yours, by the way.”
His voice was suddenly hard and emphatic. “What are you talking about? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your administrative habits are of no concern to me,” I continued. “But their potential for bringing disgrace on the office of the Presidency is reckless in the extreme.”
With that I hung up, cradling the receiver gently for the first time that day.