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This is not a story of politics. It is a love story. It is the story of Patricia Nixon . . . and the day she watched helplessly while her man moved in the total darkness of defeat.
Pat Nixon waited alone for her husband to come home. She sat staring at the huge TV set a few yards away from her. The set was off now. His face was no longer there, nor was his voice. The picture of her husband suddenly pushing his way through the surprised mob, muttering, “It has to be said and I’m going to say it!” — this was gone now. Instead she stared at the blank TV. And only blank glass stared back at her.
Yet she could not forget the face. Her husband's. So confident only two nights before ... so sallow and sick-looking only a few minutes ago. And his voice — she could not forget that either. The voice which two nights earlier had said to her, “We’re going to win, Pat. I know they’ll vote for me. They trust me. They believe me. . . His voice, that same voice which then, only a few minutes ago, there, right there on that TV in front of her, had bitter
ly conceded the election for the Governor of the State of California. His State, his beloved State, where he had grown up as a boy, where he had lain in that little wooden bed in the tiny house in the tiny town of Yorba Linda and dreamed of traveling to far-off places and of big things to come, where he had studied so hard, where they had met, and fallen in love, and married, and had their children born to them; where they'd struggled for a while — he the young lawyer and she the young lawyer's wife and secretary. The State whose people they loved and whose people had loved them once ... not so long ago, not so very long ago . . . when they'd elected him first to the House of Representatives of the United States, and then on to the Senate, and then on to the second most important job in the U.S. — the Vice-Presidency. And now Pat knew (Continued on page 102)