We promised George Bush the best transition in the history of transitions, and I believe we made good on that promise. The President put me in charge of it. He also took the extremely unusual step of publicly firing Bamford Lleland IV shortly after the election. I would be dishonest if I said I regretted his departure. To judge from the vindictive tone of his memoir, he seems to have found the experience quite humiliating. I cannot say that I blame him.
As I look back on that postscript to my four years at the White House, the thing I most often remember was a little ceremony that to this day has remained a secret.
Two days after that last Christmas in the White House, Theodore died. The First Hamster succumbed to something called “wet tail,” a disorder, I believe, of the lower GI. Firecracker had stayed up with Theodore all through the night. In the morning the First Lady came in and found them. Firecracker was standing at attention, saluting. On the ground, covered with a small American flag, was Theodore.
Firecracker was incensed when later in the morning his mother suggested it was time to flush Theodore down the toilet. He asked me to take charge of the funeral arrangements.
So, early on a cold, crisp morning in December, the seven-man Army Honor Guard arrived from Fort Meyer. In honor of his special contribution to the Tucker Presidency, Theodore was laid to his final rest to the accompaniment of a nineteen-gun salute. The President himself gave the eulogy. It was one of his better efforts, in fact; an oration, as Charlie would say, not a speech. I am told that the little marker is still there, beneath the American Elm planted by John Quincy Adams.
As for me, I had always expected to return to Boise, but such was not to be.
Old man Skruem passed away in December; Skruem fils came in. He was one of the new breed of CPAs, and a bit too flashy for my money. So when it became apparent that my old job at the firm was no longer open, Joan and I had a heart-to-heart talk. The children had made friends at school—though not the best kind, perhaps—and Joan had made close friends within her church social group. We decided to stay on in Washington.
Quite a few firms in town tried to “headhunt” me, dangling large salaries and perks in front of me. But after you’ve worked at the White House, you become a bit blasé, as the French say. After taking my time looking around, I accepted a high-level position with the National Association of Part-Time Railroad Employees. With the extra money I took Joan on a two-week cruise of the Caribbean, which she greatly enjoyed, despite a slight case of sun poisoning. (She has always been sensitive to sun.)
It was for her, in the end, that I wrote this book. After all poor Joan had been through, I couldn’t ask her just to turn a blind eye as all these mendacious tomes climbed the best-seller lists and tongues wagged at the checkout line. As for those who have yet to publish their memoirs of the Tucker years, let them write what they will about Herbert Wadlough. Only the Good Lord and your tailor know your true measure, as Father used to say.