All the Presidents' Pets (15 page)

“Oh, wow, Laurie!” I said, my vision blurred since my glasses had dropped to the bottom of the pool. “I think you saved me. Bebe Rebozo was going to poison me.”

“Are we rolling?” said Laurie.

Before I could ask what she meant, the scene came into more of a focus. Laurie was filming me, and we were live.

“Yes, Shep, I'm live at the Mall and while I haven't got anything to report on Barney and his rickets, I am witnessing a tremendous moment of a different kind. Mo Rocca, an MSNBC reporter, known to the hundreds of people nationwide who sometimes watch that network, has gone over the brink. We're looking at the self-destruction of someone who one day might very well have found a job at CNNfn.”

I was still disoriented. “Laurie, what's going on? Why are you doing this? The real story is Nixon. He's back. Just look up there.”

I looked up the steps, squinting hard enough to see that it was Lincoln, not Nixon, in the Lincoln Memorial.

“It's sad, Shep, to see a comrade fallen in arms,” said Laurie in her full-out “sad story” voice.

It appeared that I'd been framed and soon I would receive strike three from Eric. I needed to leave—with my Fala chew toy, of course.

But it was gone! I must have released it in the water. And whoever had tried to drown me had taken it away.

“How does it feel to have America watch you slip over the edge on live television?” Laurie asked. She didn't get an answer. I fished my glasses out of the Reflecting Pool and was running once again, this time back to the White House, to find Helen.

26

The Compromise of Helen Thomas

 

When I got to the White House, I immediately sensed trouble. A fire truck was parked in the driveway. I was already pushing through the turnstile as I flashed my ID to the security guard when he put his hand up.

“Whoa, there, big guy. No one's entering right now.”

“What happened? I have to know.”

“You and everyone else,” he said, motioning with his chin behind me. I turned to see six correspondents already reporting live from Pennsylvania Avenue, the White House as their backdrop. Ordinarily they would have been inside the gate, doing their stand-ups from the lawn.

“Next time wait for a lifeguard before you go for a dip,” the guard piped in. I could see that his little TV was turned to Fox News. Apparently he couldn't resist.

From what the correspondents were reporting, something deeply disturbing had happened.

“The explosion seemed to come from somewhere below the lower floor of the pressroom,” said Norah O'Donnell to camera.

Before I could imagine the worst, I felt a nipping at my pant leg. I looked down to see not Checkers, but Mr. Peabody looking up at me. So as not to draw attention to himself he was barking like any ordinary dog would. He was even wearing a leash—and holding the leash was Helen! Her eyebrows were singed but she was alive.

“Please, let's go somewhere,” she said under her breath. “Quickly.”

“THEY'RE CLOSING IN,”
she said. Helen, Mr. Peabody, and I were sitting in my apartment.

“Someone told them about the archive,” she continued. “They might have known about it for a while. It doesn't really matter. They did what I was afraid they'd do—destroyed it and all the evidence of the sacred animal.”

It wasn't a simple fire that had been set. The saboteurs dropped a daisy-cutter bomb from above—probably a spare from the war in Afghanistan. The lair was decimated and Helen had barely escaped.

“Thank goodness you were aboveground,” she said to Mr. Peabody.

“Yes, thank goodness,” he said emphatically. “I just can't imagine how they found out about your archive or why they struck now.”

“I'm afraid I might be able to tell you,” I said sheepishly. “They have the Fala chew toy.”

“What?!” squawked Helen. “But how?”

“It's a long and trippy story,” I said. “But I guess now that they have the complete Fala Grail they figured they could destroy the remaining archives, consolidate their power—”

“—and bury the truth forever,” said Helen wanly. “Poor Barney is on his own now. If they move against him . . .” She trailed off.

“There, there, Madame,” said Mr. Peabody, waxing her new feathers with some shortening I kept in my cupboard. “You can always hope for a miracle, as unlikely as that seems.”

“Wait a minute, Helen,” I said. “You don't need a miracle. You have your memory—the whole untold history of the White House is in your head. You know the past and if you choose to tell all, then—”

“That's impossible,” snapped Mr. Peabody. “Madame cannot divulge such things.”

“I still don't understand that,” I said. “It makes no sense.”

“Mr. Peabody is right,” she said. “I can't.”

“But why, Helen? The stakes are so high.”

Mr. Peabody was becoming more sharp with me than ever before. “It is not for you to know.”

“The hell it isn't,” I shouted back. “I'm sorry, Mr. Peabody, but it's not just that Bebe Rebozo nearly had me killed. I've been through too much with Helen already to be kept in the dark.”

Mr. Peabody raised the canister of shortening over his head, as if he might strike me with it.

But Helen placed her claw on his shoulder. “Mo, I need to level with you,” she said. Mr. Peabody begrudgingly backed off.

It was, apparently, time for another confession. Little could shock me at this point. If Helen had somehow unzipped her coat of feathers, revealing the body of a coyote, I would have been bored. Thankfully her revelation was far more interesting.

“I once told you I was never a presidential pet. I'm afraid I was
more
than a presidential pet. As you know, 1848 was a big year for me.”

“Actually I didn't know that,” I said.

“Well, it was. President Polk was just completing his single extraordinary term. America's territory now stretched coast to coast, thanks to the Mexican-American War, and manifest destiny was reality. That was the year America elected Zachary Taylor president.”

“Old Rough and Ready, right? He was a hero of that war.”

“That's right. A fearless man. The question was, was he strong enough to deal with the slavery question? Years before I'd been invited to Nat Turner's uprising. It was a lovely affair, before it turned bloody, and the whole experience made me very anti-slavery. I wanted a President who could face down the southern slave interest but Taylor made me uncomfortable. He owned one hundred slaves himself. That's when I met a certain vice president from the state of New York,” she said dreamily.

“Millard Fillmore!” I said. “The only President to have no presidential pet.”

“You're only half right,” she said. “Let me explain. Millard and Abigail Fillmore were delightful. She was a teacher and fervently anti-slavery. And Millard, well, Millard had the most piercing blue eyes you ever saw on a vice president. My God, he made Hannibal Hamlin look like Garret Hobart.”

“He was that good-looking?” I asked.

“Hotter than Hubert H. Humphrey,” she said, fanning herself with her own wing.

“I got to spending some time with Millard and Abby . . . then just with Millard,” she added, lowering her voice and glancing down, a little bit shamefaced. “We got to talking—about my childhood with the Shoshones, his growing up in the Finger Lakes region of New York.”

“He built his own house in East Aurora, New York,” I chimed in. I'd been there for a tour and purchased a souvenir hot plate.

“Built his own house?” she gaily laughed. “Typical East Aurora hokum. Millard wouldn't have known a hammer if it banged him on his beautiful head.” She was clearly still enamored.

She continued. “One evening we got to talking about the congressional deliberations on the Compromise of 1850, a Whig bill meant to stave off war. It had some good provisions—admission of California as a free state and the elimination of slavery in D.C. But Millard seemed worried that President Taylor wouldn't sign it into law.”

Helen started pacing around remembering the details of her fateful conversation with the future thirteenth President.

“ ‘But he's a Whig, too,' I told him. ‘Surely he'll side with his party in Congress.'

“ ‘You silly bird,' he told me. ‘Old Rough and Ready's not dealing with a full deck. He's still shell-shocked from the Battle of Buena Vista.' ” This was a reference to one of General Taylor's triumphs in the Mexican-American War. “ ‘So really, there's no telling what Taylor will do about this,' ” Helen quoted Fillmore as saying.

“What about Old Whitey?” I asked, referring to Taylor's beloved horse.

“He was a sweet horse,” said Helen. “He'd fought with Taylor in Mexico. The trouble was, he lost his hearing, what with all the gunfire. So he was no use to us or him as far as counsel went. Things just felt precarious. That's when Millard made me an offer that I found difficult to refuse. ‘I want you to be my presidential pet,' he said. ‘Together we can do great things for this country.'

“I was flattered but I figured we'd have to wait until 1856, if President Taylor chose to run for reelection. It was then that I saw Millard look at me as he'd never looked at me before. ‘We can't wait that long, Helen,' he said. ‘We must act
now.'
”

Helen walked over to the window of my apartment.

“Helen, what are you trying to tell me?” I asked.

Helen was looking out toward the Washington Monument. The cornerstone of the 555-foot obelisk was laid on July 4, 1848. Two years later to the day, President Taylor made his last public appearance at the monument.

“It seems like yesterday,” said Helen. “Milk and cherries,” she murmured ruefully.

Ice-cold cherries and a pitcher of milk were what Taylor was said to have consumed on that blisteringly hot day in 1850. He dropped dead five days later. The official cause of death was acute indigestion, or gastroenteritis.

I stood and approached Helen. “Milk and cherries. Those
are
what killed Taylor, yes?”

Helen turned to me slowly. “Yes, milk and cherries would kill anyone . . . if they were laced with turkey buzzard E. coli.”

I felt as if my heart had stopped. I stumbled back. “No, Helen. No, Helen. No.”

“Please listen to me,” she said, approaching.

“No, I can't accept it, Helen,” I said, turning my head, ashamed.

“Well, you're going to have to accept it.” She grabbed my arm, wheeled me around, and looked me straight in the eye. “Yes, Mo. I killed Zachary Taylor. So deal.”

I pulled it together. “Helen,” I said. “Murder is a very serious crime.” It was a pretty stupid statement, but to be fair, I was in shock.

“Yes, Mo, it is. But I was seriously in love. Crazy in love. I believed in Millard—believed that he wanted to make this country a better place for all Americans. After he was sworn in we got right to work. One of the first things we did was prep Commodore Perry for his trip to Japan. Of course there was also time for fun,” she added coquettishly. “The first bathtub in the White House had just been installed.”

“Uh, Helen, TMI,” I cautioned her.

“Right. Well, everything was going along swimmingly until the final proposals of the Compromise of 1850 were presented to President Fillmore. The last one seemed just unimaginable. It was called the Fugitive Slave Act.”

The Fugitive Slave Act created a force of commissioners to hunt down runaway slaves, regardless of how long they'd been free, and return them to their owners at ten dollars a head. Citizens who refused to cooperate were fined. It was arguably the most inhumane act of Congress.

Helen continued. “ ‘You're not going to sign this, Millard,' I said. I actually laughed at the thought, it just seemed so ridiculous. But Millard wasn't laughing. In fact, he stared at me coldly.

“ ‘You stupid vulture,' he said. ‘You really think I'm going to stand up to Congress for some
slaves
?'

“ ‘But, Millard, you can't. After what I've done for you. I
never
would have pooped in President Taylor's cherry bowl if I thought this would happen. Please don't do this to me. To us!' ”

“ ‘Us?' he snarled. ‘You're dumber than a regular turkey.' ”

Helen sat down, she was so worked up. Mr. Peabody stood between her and me.

“If you please, my boy, I believe that Madame has upset herself quite enough for today.”

“I understand, Helen, and I'm sorry. Fillmore was a bastard to treat you and America's slaves the way that he did. But now you have a chance to come forward and save America's future—so that we don't all become ‘slaves.' ” It was a stretch, I know, but I was trying to draw a connection. Mr. Peabody rolled his eyes.

“Please, Mo. We've listened to enough of your hectic babbling. If Madame were to speak of what she knows, she would compromise her safety. With all due respect, Madame, you're in no shape to spend a whit of time in a federal penitentiary.”

“She won't have to,” I snapped.

Helen perked up. “If you've got an idea, what is it?”

I had to think fast, buy some time, before Helen lost heart.

“I'll tell you what you can do: Put on your best dress and get some new shoes. You're my date to the White House Correspondents Dinner.”

27

That's Infotainment!

 

It wasn't much of a plan. But it was the first thing that came to mind. Since 1920 the White House Correspondents Association dinner was one of Washington's most glamorous annual gatherings—luminaries from Washington, New York, and Hollywood dined together. What gave the event its cachet were the quirky guests invited by usually stodgy organizations. The
New York Times
might invite Ozzy Osbourne. Conversely former
Washington Post
editor Ben Bradlee had recently been the guest of
In Style.

There were few better places to drop a bombshell like Helen's. Everyone who was anyone in media would be there.

But from the moment we entered the Hilton Hotel ballroom it was clear that we were personae non gratae. We expected to be shunned by the White House press corps members. But even those we barely knew gave us the cold shoulder. As we passed by the
National Review
table, Naomi Judd and editor William Buckley whispered about us. The editorial staff of Germany's
Der Spiegel,
seated with David Blaine, were no friendlier. (Blaine had recently wowed the Germans when he scaled the Brandenburg Gate, removed one of his own kidneys, and swallowed it whole, live on TV.) “Harold
und
Maude,” Blaine cackled to his German hosts as he pointed at us.

The one welcoming person was broadcast legend Larry King. He was seated at a table with Phyllis Diller, Carol Channing, and four of Mickey Rooney's ex-wives. They'd just taped a very special episode of
Larry King Live
commemorating the twelfth anniversary of the death of Eve Arden. Next to Larry sat Jane Russell, encased in an iron lung.

Larry welcomed us heartily, but only because he mistook us for the late Martha Raye and her young husband, Mark Harris. Rather than disabuse him of that, we played along.

“How're the dentures workin' out, Martha?” he asked.

“Just fine,” Helen said with a grin, confused.

“Well, ya' look like a million bucks!” he said.

On stage Condoleezza Rice was just finishing Rachmaninoff's grueling Etude Tableau in E-flat Minor. Apparently it was a brilliant performance because tears were streaming down Laura Bush's face. “Condi, the music you have played has touched all of our hearts,” said the First Lady.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bush,” said Condi with a short quick bow. “After dessert I'll be doing an original composition on the French horn—on skates, naturally—per the President's request.” She turned on a dime, then marched offstage.

On the dais with the President and Mrs. Bush sat various administration officials and honored guests, as well as Republican comedian Gerald McRaney (TV's Major Dad). He was the only Republican comedian who had yet to perform at one of these events. He rose to address the crowd.

“As a former member of the armed forces,” McRaney said cheesily to a smattering of laughter, “I am proud to honor our war President.” More applause here. “But now the real show begins. Nothing I say could compare to the entertainment you're about to see. Put your hands together for Hannity and Colmes.”

Much to everyone's delight, Hannity and Colmes came out onstage in tramp outfits!

The music started vamping and Hannity and Colmes began swaying to the beat.
We're a couple of swells,
they sang as the audience applauded in recognition.

“Christ, that was a great picture,” said Larry King, referring to
Easter Parade.
It was. Naturally Hannity made Colmes take the Judy Garland part, but both of them were terrific.

Helen seemed nervous. “Why are we here, Mo?”

“To tell you the truth, Helen, I don't know exactly. I'm hoping that there's someone here who will listen to your story.”

“Well, let's figure it out. I'm not feeling good about this.”

Hannity and Colmes were finishing up their number.
Yes, we'll walk up the avenue till we're there!
they sang in conclusion, then scurried offstage as lights came up on a couch. Seated on it were the three hosts of Fox's morning show,
Fox & Friends:
they looked just like Gene Kelly, Donald O'Connor, and Debbie Reynolds.

As the music segued they sprung up from the couch and launched into the “Good Morning” number from
Singin' in the Rain.
By the time the three ended up back on the couch laughing and falling backward, the crowd was going crazy. I could even hear Jane Russell applauding from inside her casing.

Then the lights faded to black and the audience fell silent.

“What's happening?” whispered Helen anxiously. David Gest (the former Mr. Liza Minnelli and a guest of the
New England Journal of Medicine
) shushed her.

Center stage a single spotlight had come up on Fox News contributor Mara Liasson, dangerously sexy in a black satin sheath dress. She leaned against an upright piano played by fellow contributor Juan Williams. Curls of smoke rose from below as she began crooning her ten o'clock number:

Oh Mr. Ailes, I love him so

He'll never know

All my life I sang the blues

Then came Fox News

It was clear that, like Fanny Brice, Mara was not simply a comedienne. She was also a brilliant chanteuse.

Now I'm a cable TV star

So it's so long to N
.
.
.
P
.
.
.
R
.
.
.

The way she held and caressed the “R” in “NPR” made everyone feel as if she were singing to him or her alone—the mark of a great performer. Mara was heartbreakingly good.

The spotlight faded on her again and the music swelled as a voice-over announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Roger Ailes and the fairest, most balanced starlets in the entire cable news universe!”

From stage left and right, a line of Fox starlets, each in identical gold lamé leotards and platinum blond wigs, came tap dancing out, Busby Berkeley style. The mournful jazz piano was replaced by a rollicking big band that slid in on a platform upstage right, as the girls sang along uptempo:

What's ailing you?

Red White and Blue

No need to feel so lonely!

What's ailing you?

Come on, be true

Fox News is here for you only!

The tune was infectious and the girls were gorgeous. And then there were the guys. A line of movie-star-handsome Fox News men in matching gold tuxedos came tapping out and paired off with the girls. Shepard Smith and Judith Regan made the most dazzling pair.

“They're cookin' with gas!” said Larry King, slapping his hands together. The dancers were perfectly in sync, pausing only for a wailing cornet solo by
Weekly Standard
editor Fred Barnes. That's when dance soloist Morton Kondracke started doing “wings,” always a crowd-pleaser. When all the dancers joined back in, the glass ceiling tilted forward so that the audience could see the reflection as the dancers came together in a pinwheel, before spreading out to spell “News Corp.” President Bush was slack-jawed, a kid in a candy store.

The number was approaching a climax as everyone on stage parted in the center and a giant Lucite staircase rolled forward from the back of the stage. The dancers all gestured toward the top and sang:

Hey look up there

Balanced and fair

Here come the pair of the hour!

With a cymbal crash all the music stopped. The dancers were frozen and we were all on the edges of our seats. We knew what was coming but a subtle drum roll still built suspense.

Then it happened. Appearing at the top of the staircase were Laurie Dhue and Roger Ailes—Laurie in a radiant gown, Mr. Ailes in top hat, tails, and a cane. The music resumed more lushly than before as the dancers “aah”-ed in harmony and a beautifully lit fountain of water began gushing downstage.

As Laurie and Mr. Ailes descended, each step they touched lit up. When they got to the bottom, Laurie turned to Mr. Ailes and in a voice as warm as Doris Day's sang out:

Hey there, hey you

I'm Laurie Dhue

There is no need to be lonely

Typical promo for Fox News.

Mr. Ailes smiled. Laurie continued:

Don't you be blue

I'm here for you

I'm here for Mr. Ailes only

It was a thrilling moment as Laurie tore off her gown—she wore a sequined body stocking underneath—and went into her fiery, some might say manic, Ann Miller dance. Much to my surprise, Helen was less interested in the show.

“I've had enough,” she snapped, getting up from the table and marching into the hallway.

“The good ones always get away,” said Larry King to me in his guy-to-guy voice, looking after Helen. I chased after her, right into the ladies' bathroom.

“Helen, what's wrong?” I said.

“I can't do this. No one will believe what I have to say. It's too late anyway.”

“What do mean ‘too late'?”

“Come on, Mo. They say Barney has rickets. Even if the President loves him, the press office has probably already finished him off.”

“But you can still talk, Helen. To someone, anyone.”

“Why would someone believe a presidential assassin?” she asked.

Before I could make up an answer, the door flew open. Former UN ambassador Jeane Kirkpatrick and teen sensation Mandy Moore rushed in and frantically started primping in the mirror.

“What's going on?” I asked. They were so excited they didn't even ask why I was in the ladies' room.

“Barney's here!” squealed Mandy.

“And we're getting our pictures taken with him!” shrieked Ambassador Kirkpatrick. The two girls ran out as quickly as they'd come in.

“He's here,” said Helen. “That means . . .”

“. . . we can talk to him directly,” I said. “Helen, this may be our one and only chance.”

“Right on,” said Helen with surging confidence. “We've got to talk to Barney.”

Helen and I headed toward the bathroom exit when one of the stall doors swung open, blocking us.

“Watch it!” I said, before I was looking down the barrel of a gun. Standing at the entrance to the stall, holding a gun in his black gloved paw, was none other than Mr. Peabody.

“Mr. Peabody, what are you doing!” I asked.

“I'm detaining you
—
permanently,”
he said. This wasn't a joke.

“But I don't understand,” said Helen.

“No, you don't, Madame,” sighed Mr. Peabody. “You really don't. I tried to spare you this fate. I wanted to let you die a natural death. Killing isn't one of my favorite pastimes. Really it isn't. But sadly you had to persist.”

“Mr. Peabody, you can harm me but you can't—” I began.

“For once in your life, shut up!” he snapped, then turned back to Helen. “I let you bring your little boy-toy in on your secret. I assumed that once you passed, he would continue flailing about on basic cable. If he ever tried to tell all he knew, he'd never be believed. But then you got a little too serious. And you made the big mistake of giving him the Fala chew toy.”

“So you're the one who grabbed the chew toy?” I asked.

“Come now,” said Mr. Peabody. “Even I'm not that pale.”

It was Gephardt the Albino who'd grabbed it. And Mr. Pea-body was the short figure in the cowl. It was all coming together now.

Mr. Peabody continued. “And now you've come here. Your
final
mistake.”

I had to speak up. “Mr. Peabody, the First Dog is right out there and he won't be silenced by people like you.”

“You fool,” Mr. Peabody laughed. “First of all, I'm a dog. Secondly, I'll soon be the
First Dog
!”

Helen shook her head, uncomprehending. “But why, Tad? You had such a promising career in academia.”

“Publish or perish,” Mr. Peabody snarled bitterly. “Without an offer of tenure I was screwed. But soon I'll have more clout than any pissant liberal arts department chair in America.”

“You'll never pull this off,” I said.

“I won't, will I?” he laughed. “You don't think I can become a national icon? I can't bark like a First Dog?” He barked. “I can't beg up?” He begged up. “I can't slobber?” He slobbered. “I can't roll over?” He rolled over. “I can't be adorable?” He posed, sort of adorably, I have to admit. “I can't frolic, you say?” He started frolicking and laughing at the two of us. “See there, I'm frolicking! Tad Peabody is frolicking!!”

Mr. Peabody was so into his frolic, gun in paw swinging about, that I saw my chance. With both hands I grabbed his paw, right below the gun. (That area of the dog is actually called the pastern.) There was a struggle. He was stronger than I thought.