All the Presidents' Pets (9 page)

A blind item from this Page Six caught my eye. It read: “Which strapping redhead has declared his own independence from conventional standards and taken on a new housebound gal pal?”

“My God, is that a reference to President Jefferson and—”

“—Sally Hemings. Yes, it was the first mention.”

I wanted to hear more but it was getting late, and tomorrow was a big day for me. President Bush was meeting with President Vicente Fox of Mexico. Immigration would be the major issue of discussion. Of course there would be no formal press conference. (The President had held a record few of those.) There would be a photo op, though, where the press would have a chance to scream a few questions.

“Just get in there and make yourself heard,” advised Helen.

That I could do. But as usual, trying to address any real issue, couched in the language of my peculiar beat, was going to be difficult. President McKinley had a Mexican yellow-headed parrot named Washington Post that used to whistle at women and say, “Oh, look at all the pretty girls.”

“Maybe that could be my way in,” I said.

“Sounds like a conversation stopper to me,” snapped Helen. “If you want some real background on the immigration issue, meditate on this.”

Once again Helen had her own reading recommendation. It seemed I'd befriended an amateur librarian—one with a particularly strange fetish, in this case talking-animal lit. Yes, the cover of the volume she pulled from one of her shelves featured another quadruped, this time a Siamese cat.
Miss Pussy and the President,
the title read. Apparently it had nothing to do with President Clinton. In fact the cover illustration looked like the art Sir John Tenniel created for
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

“This looks like a children's book,” I said.

“It
is
a children's book. I wrote it.”

“Helen, that's really cool! When are you being published?”

“I
was
published. It didn't sell very well,” she sighed, before glancing up coquettishly. “But it's a terrific story . . . wanna hear it?”

“Uh, sure.”

I guess I asked for it.

12

Thai Me Up, Thai Me Down

 

Helen came alive. “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!” she commanded me. She insouciantly threw the book aside, pulled her Murphy bed out from the wall and pushed me onto it. Then she hopped onto her ottoman. For a moment I thought she might start singing “Let Me Entertain You” and do a striptease, but she'd said it was a children's story.

“Now you know about Rutherford B. Hayes and his wife, Lucy. Lucy was a strict woman.” Helen threw on a black cloak to signify Lucy. “Very religious. No liquor in that White House.”

“Right, they called her Lemonade Lucy,” I said.

“Well, Lemonade Lucy had a whole bunch of pets. Mutts, pigeons, a goat. Real hillbilly pets. Lucy had taken them all in from the street, cleaned them up, and taught them to sing church hymns like ‘Rock of Ages.' But when they were alone they'd start jamming!”

Helen tossed off the cloak and started imitating the animals singing Stephen Foster in an exaggerated “redneck” voice:

I said, Oh, Susannah

Now don't you cry for me

As I come from Alabama

with a banjo on my knee
.
.
.

She pulled out a Jew's harp and a set of spoons and started riffing. Helen wasn't holding back—she went to town on the washboard—and I was instantly hooked.

“Then what happened, Helen?!”

“Well, one day the animals are doing their thing, strumming and plucking away in the Green Room—the floor all covered in hay, tin cans rolling around—when suddenly the doors fly open and they hear this gong sound.” Helen imitated the sound. “The animals stop what they're doing and go slack-jawed because standing right in the doorway is a cat. Now this wasn't an ordinary cat. She was slender, golden-colored, with perfectly matched dark paws and ears. And she was terribly mysterious.”

Helen grabbed a fan and fluttered it in front of her to represent mystery.

“ ‘Hello,' ” she purred in an over-the-top “Asian” accent, “ ‘I am Miss Pussy.' ” Helen shifted flawlessly back to her rednecky Jim Nabors voice.

“ ‘Well, I'll be, I think she's Chineeeeese,' said the mutt with a banjo.

“ ‘I am Siamese!' said Miss Pussy proudly. ‘But China and Siam both in Asia.' ”

I was so engrossed in Helen's unfolding mad scene that I almost forgot that the Hayeses were in fact the recipients of America's first Siamese cat, a gift from David Sickles, the American consul to Siam. Presumably he was bucking for a better assignment. Helen continued.

“The American animals were naturally spellbound as the blue-eyed Miss Pussy slinked around the room. When she rubbed up against the goat, he stomped his foot wildly.” Helen stomped her foot. “Miss Pussy purred.” Helen purred, then spoke in her Miss Pussy voice.

An illustration from Helen's children's book.

“ ‘I come by steamer from Bangkok to Hawaii to San Francisco. Many Chinese workers in San Francisco. They help build railroad. I take railroad to Washington.'

“Then one of the pigeons spoke up. ‘Pardon our staring. It's that we done never seen a cat like you. You're like a tiger, but purty like.'

“Miss Pussy laughed.” Helen gave a girlish laugh. “ ‘I am not so different from you when you know me. In Bangkok I meet teacher from England. She sing song I now sing for you.' ”

Helen, as Miss Pussy, began sashaying around the room, as if she were a cat.

Getting to know you,

Getting to know all about you.

Getting to like you,

Getting to hope you like me.

Helen sounded great on this. She was totally in the zone. (I made a mental note to request “I Enjoy Being a Girl” from
Flower Drum Song
at a later time.) She continued.

“The animals were riveted as Miss Pussy sauntered this way and that. Then without warning she slipped into her native tongue.”

Helen started singing in Thai!

“Now don't ask how,” said Helen, “but the other animals joined in.

“Oh my God, Helen,” I broke in. “How did that happen?”

“I said don't ask. Just go with it,” snapped Helen, before resuming her narrator's voice.

“Months passed and Miss Pussy and the other pets became the best of friends. They taught her how to whittle. She taught them about spring rolls and fan dancing. ‘You American pets so afraid to be sexy!'

“But Miss Pussy soon began worrying. She read that the economy in California had slowed down and Chinese workers were being blamed for stealing jobs. Some Chinese workers had been killed in riots. To make matters worse, Congress had just passed a ban on Chinese immigrants, the first ban on any group in U.S. history.

“ ‘What's eating at you, Miss Pussy?' asked the goat one wintry day.

“ ‘Your United States Congress. They want to keep out Chinese immigrants after ten thousand help build railroad for little money and many die. Without them, there be no train!'

“ ‘But I thought you said you weren't Chineeeese,' said the goat. ‘So why do you care?'

“ ‘I am Siamese, but I have many Chinese friends. Besides, in such an increasingly interconnected world, we are less separated than ever by racial and ethnic classification.' ”

(This line struck me as anachronistic, but I didn't want to interrupt Helen.)

“One of the mutts spoke next. ‘Well, maybe President Hayes won't sign that there legislation, if you can convince him.' ”

Helen's Miss Pussy suddenly turned dark. “ ‘I fear there is little time, mutt. You see, Miss Pussy not feel so good.' ” Helen dramatically coughed, in character. She stumbled over to a chaise longue and collapsed on it. It was a turn I didn't expect and I found myself sitting on the very edge of the bed.

Helen continued, Camille-like. “ ‘Bangkok not so cold. Miss Pussy become sick.' ” She coughed again.

“ ‘Maybe she just needs a shot of moonshine,' said the goat.

“ ‘Is too late for moonshiny,' ” said Helen's Miss Pussy weakly. “ ‘I have only few moments left.' ”

My eyes welled up as Helen zipped over to the other side of the room, grabbed her cloak, then reentered as Lucy Hayes.

“ ‘Lord in heaven, there's something grievously wrong with Miss Pussy!' said Mrs. Hayes, aghast at the scene. ‘Rud, come at once!' she called to her husband, who was at that very moment meeting with anti-Chinese lobbyists in the Blue Room.

“President Hayes rushed in.” Helen had a top hat ready for this part. “ ‘What is happening?' he asked.

“With the greatest effort Miss Pussy turned her head toward the President and spoke. ‘Please, Mr. President, I have dying wish.'

“The President knelt down beside the bed, surrounded by the other pets. ‘What is it, Miss Pussy?' he asked, grabbing her paw.”

Helen, back on the chaise, was fading fast. “ ‘Mr. President, Chinese Exclusion Act is wrong. Please veto . . . in name of Miss Pussy.'

“ ‘Miss Pussy,' said one of the mutts. ‘You can't die on us now. We was just getting to know you.' ”

Helen, as Miss Pussy, smiled wanly. The lighting in the room mysteriously dimmed, and Helen was cast in a soft glowing beam. Then barely audibly she began: “ ‘Getting to know you . . . Getting to . . . know . . . all . . .' ”

I sat on the edge of the bed, riveted. I'd already grown attached to Helen's cat character. I wanted her to live forever.

“Oh, Miss Pussy,” I softly cried—but to no avail. Helen took one last breath, then shut her eyes tight, signifying the death of Miss P. The other pets continued humming the melody to the song.

Helen donned the top hat again and made one final statement as President Hayes. “ ‘We cannot forget this day. To honor Miss Pussy I am going to veto the Chinese Exclusion Act.' ”

A mournful gong sounded, supported by a lovely string orchestra. The lights faded to black, then came back up. “The End,” said Helen with a bow, clutching a bouquet of flowers. It was over.

“Think on that and you'll do just fine tomorrow,” said Helen.

I was emotionally spent from Helen's bravura performance. She was better than Nicole Kidman in the “Spectacular Spectacular” scene from
Moulin Rouge.
Just how it would help me address the issue of immigration with President Bush I didn't know, though I was unlikely to forget it. I dabbed my eyes, then headed home to study up for tomorrow.

13

The Fox and the Pussy

 

The next morning the press corps were herded out through the West Wing colonnade and into the Rose Garden area. Security corralled us into a tight area next to where Presidents Bush and Fox would soon appear. I could barely breathe. Helen, in her wisdom, was skipping this event.

“Uh, 'scuse me. Please, like, stop pushing,” Norah O'Donnell snapped.

Norah was always so sharp with me, and I couldn't quite understand why. “You know, Norah, we both work for the same company. You could be a little nicer.”

“Uh, hello-o? Not. I'm NBC, you're
MS
NBC. Major diff, got it?” Ouch.

Behind me, John King was furiously scrubbing his hands and arms with Purell, an afternoon ritual. A sound man accidentally brushed his boom microphone across John's hair. “Makeup!” King screamed. Instantly someone was on hand to regroom him.

Up in front stood Laurie. She wore a gorgeous green and red print dress, in honor of the Mexican colors, and a bright paper flower in her hair. Needless to say she looked terrific.

The doors of the Oval Office finally opened and Scott and his press aides—including Gephardt the Albino—entered. The two presidents followed.

I'd never seen the President this close up before and I was impressed, not least because of his natural jocularity toward the press corps. Before the press op was officially started, he gave a shout out to most of them, one after the other: “Binky . . . Cooter . . . Shrek . . . Tuna . . . Grabbyhands . . . Stinky . . .” Each time a reporter's name was called you could feel the excitement. Campbell “Taco” Brown shrieked when her name was called. When David “Frenchy” Gregory and Terry “Wombat” Moran heard their nicknames, they butted chests in celebration. I was hoping I might get a nickname, but serious business began before the President ever caught my eye.

The President opened things with a short heartfelt statement: “President Fox of Mexico is a man . . . a man from Mexico . . . Mexico is a country . . . a country that is . . . next to America.” Despite his warm feelings for our neighbor to the south, the President made it clear that he opposed “amnesty blankets.”

President Fox delivered a longer statement in Spanish. Then came the opening for questions.

Things got off to a rocky start when Jonathan Alter shouted a question about Mexico's opposition to the American invasion of Iraq. President Bush didn't seem to hear this. Gephardt the Albino did. He simply nodded and two sentries carried Alter away. The other reporters stood awkwardly, pretending not to notice. (Apparently this was protocol.) Then Laurie was recognized:

“Señor Presidente,” she began with gravity. “Por favor, what do you think of Presidente Bush's perro, Barney?”

Scott and his press aides suddenly laughed easily—all except Gephardt, who never cracked a smile—as a wide warm grin spread over President Bush's face. He looked like a proud father.

President Fox turned to President Bush. “¿Quien es la bonita rubia con los labios suculentos?”

President Bush cheerfully answered in his charmingly clunky Spanish. “Es una reporter de Fox News.”

President Fox instantly brightened. “Ay, claro. ¡Las chicas bonitas de Fox News son muy famosas!”

Laurie blushed but pressed for an answer to her question, ahora mismo. “¿Por favor, Señor Presidente, un answer to my question?”

President Fox was happy to oblige. “Entonces, el perro Barney es un perro muy inteligente y guapo.” Once the interpreter had explained that President Fox thought Barney was intelligent and good-looking, there were laughs all around. Even the press corps applauded.

I was impressed by Laurie's ability to charm, but this was a rare opportunity to ask the President of the United States, in the presence of another world leader, an important question. I wasn't going to pass it up.

“EXCUSE ME!” I screamed as the President and his entourage had already begun filing out. There was a stunned silence. I shocked even myself with my volume, but it got their attention. Then without thinking, I blurted out my question: “What do you say to the hardworking immigrant who is often the scapegoat of disgruntled American workers?” I could have stopped there; the President actually looked like he was going to answer the question. But suddenly Helen's story, fanciful as it was, popped into my head and I couldn't stop myself: “I mean, Mr. President, are you going to do the right thing and honor Miss Pussy?”

President Bush's eyes widened suddenly. Scott and Gephardt the Albino shot me looks of death.

“Oh my God, you did NOT just say pussy,” said Kate Snow incredulously.

“Easy, Mo, we're not in the army,” said Jim Angle.

“¿Que es pussy?” asked President Fox.

There was no point in trying to explain myself. Scott addressed the press corps: “There will be no further questions. Mo, rest assured I will have words with Mr. Sorenson.”

“Just remember, NBC has
nothing
to do with MSNBC,” said Norah O'Donnell as everyone left.

Candy placed a hand on my shoulder. “Next time,” she said, “try ‘poon tang.' It might go over a little easier.”

ERIC WAS SO ANGRY
that I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

“How could you possibly use that kind of language? And in the Rose Garden of all places?” he shouted.

I was momentarily distracted by Howie Kurtz's
Washington Post
Media Notes column and his reference to my gaffe: “Rocca's Big Meow Mix-up.”

“Mo, I don't think you're hearing me,” continued Eric.

“Sorry about that, Eric. I'm listening. Look, there's an explanation.”

After a pause, Eric gave me an opening. “I find that impossible to believe, but please explain.”

“Well, in case you didn't know, Rutherford B. Hayes had a cat,” I began, “the very first Siamese cat in America. Her name was Miss Pussy. And just as Chinese immigrants were being scapegoated during the 1870s economic slowdown, she contracted some sort of fatal bronchial infection and died. It was a very heartbreaking scene.” I started petering out here. “So if you think about it, Eric, there was actually a very clear connection to the whole Mexican immigration issue.”

I must have sounded touched because Eric suddenly became very gentle with me.

“Okay, Mo, we're going to slow things down a little for you. I know you've been under pressure so I'm not going to let you go just for this. Now I promised the White House that you wouldn't make a habit of this kind of behavior.”

“But Eric—”

Eric's voice regained a little of its edge. “Three strikes and you're out seems fair. You're 1–0 right now.”

We said our good-byes, then I headed out the door. I had a score to settle.