Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

"What do you think?" Dick asked Pat ifter they'd read it. "1 think it's great," she said. "It's a real big honor. You should be mighty proud." "I probably wouldn't win," Dick said, 'even if I do tell them yes." "So what?" said Pat. "It'll probably get is back to Whittier, quicker than we'd jlanned . . . And if you lose, we'll get ourselves a little house there and we'll have our baby there, you'll open up a law sffice again, and — and meanwhile, Dick," she said, "a political campaign. I bet that'll be an awful lot of fun! It was night, • in California, several nonths later. DICK HAD WON THE NOMINATION a few days earlier. The campaign had officially begun. But now, this night, Pat lay in the hospital room, about to be taken to the delivery room, where she would give birth to her first child. "I want my husband," she said, groggily, to the nurse who stood alongside her. "Where's my husband?" "I phoned him, dear," the nurse told her. "Now don't you worry. He'll be here. Soon. . . " Dick rushed into the room a few minutes later. "Darling," he said, taking Pat's hand, "I just got the call. I was at the Elks', in the middle of a speech. I wanted to get here. To hold your hand ... To give you this." He bent and kissed her. "Dick," Pat asked then, "are you going to stay — while I'm inside?" He didn't answer at first. "Dick?" she asked. "I shouldn't, honey," he said then. "I should get back." She closed her eyes. "Pat," he said. "I've started this thing. For better or for worse. There are more than four hundred people back there, in that hall, waiting to hear what I've got to tell them. If I'm going to do this thing at all, Pat, I'm—" He stopped. And, after a moment, Pat could hear a chair being pulled up next to her bed. She opened her eyes. She saw that Dick was seated next to her. "I'm sorry, honey," she heard him say. "I'll stay. Of course I'll stay here with you. Nothing's more important to me than you. Pat ... I don't know what got into me just now." She looked up at him. She forced a smile as best she could. "No, Dick," she said. "I'm the one who's sorry. If you've got to go back, you've got to. "Please, Dick," she said, "go back to your speech. "I understand," she said. "Believe me, Dick, I do understand." And as she said that, she continued to force her smile; while, under the bedsheets, she clenched her fists, tightly, partly because of the pain inside her, and partly because of another pain ... a pain PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS The photographs appearing in this issue are credited below page by page: 9-13 — Curt Gunther of Topix, Alpha Photo Service; 14 — Black Star; 15 — Gilloon Agency; 19 — Wagner International; 20 — Maggi of Pictorial; 22 — Jacques Lowe; 29 — Topix; 30 — Topix: 32-34 — Larry Barbier of Globe; 35-39 — De Raimond from PIP, Pictorial Parade, Pix Inc.; 40-41 — Lawrence Schiller; 42-43 — Topix, Frances Orkin; 44-46 — Sanford Roth of RaphoGuillumette: 47-51 — Barbara and Justin Kerr, drawings on page 52 by Winifred Greene. she knew would never leave her and over which, she knew, neither she nor her husband would ever again have any control. . . . Dick Nixon won the '46 election. And he and Pat and Tricia (the first of two daughters) moved to Washington. For the next six years, first as a Congressman's wife, then as a Senator's, Pat learned fast that a perfect politician's wife must be silent, serene, well-controlled and always smiling. BACK IN THE EARLY DAYS, however, Pat's only concern was her usefulness towards her husband. Was what she was doing the right thing for Dick? He seemed unusually happv here in Washington. His star was rising. Was she ri-?ht in there, doing a good job for Dick, hewing him in the hun^rfH little wavs that ?he could? Finally, one night in July of 1952, it appeared to Pat Nixon that yes, she had done a good job. Dick stood on a platform, waving his arms, smiling at the thousands of convention delegates who had just nominated him for the next Vice-Presidency of the United States of America. And next to him Pat stood. Yes, it seemed to Pat, that night — everything had been worth it. Because everything, everything in Dick's life was just perfect now. . . . But then, another night, shortly after, things began to change. A few hours earlier, a story had broken in the newspapers and on TV. Dick Nixon had been accused of illegally accepting funds and gifts (quite a bit of money, it was reported, as well as a dog named Checkers) from several wealthy Californians. Within these few hours since the story had appeared, public reaction had become nearly hysterical. There had been cries from the Democrats, and from many Republicans, too, for General Eisenhower to throw Dick Nixon off his ticket. PAT HAD READ THE STORIES, heard the accusations. She'd tried to rub them from her mind. She sat there now, this night, in her living room, with her mother-in-law, silently, still trying. When, suddenly, she heard the cars pull up the driveway — first one, then another, then a third. A moment later, the front doorbell rang. Pat didn't move. "Aren't you going to answer?" asked Dick's mother. "No," said Pat. "Not tonight, I'm not . . . Dick's inside, writing his talk. The children are asleep . . . I'm not going to have anybody disturbed tonight." But then, after a while, when it seemed as if the bell would never stop ringing, Pat rose, and headed for the front door. She opened it, quickly, nervously. "Mrs. Nixon?" a reporter called. "Yes?" she asked. A flashbulb popped. She blinked. "Yes?" she asked again. "We'd like some shots of your husband . . . and a statement." "I'm sorry," she said. "He's in his office. He has a speech to give on television tomorrow. He's busy." "How about the dog then? Can we get ^ picture of him?" • "I'm sorry, but — " "Aw, c'mon, Mrs. Nixon. The whole world wants to see this pooch." „j_„ "What do you say, Mrs. Nixon." "C'mon, Mrs. Nixon." "It's our job, lady. We've got to get that picture." Pat found herself nodding. "All right,'-' she said. "All right . . . but please, be quiet as you can. The girls are sleeping. I don't want to wake them." "Sure thing, ma'am." "Don't worry. Mrs. Nixon." She opened the door wider. The newspaper people rushed past her. "Please now — " she started to say. But they were already far past her, on their way up the stairs. They thumped up the stairs. And they shouted to one another. They acted like kids on a lark. Pat watched them, unbelievingly. "Mama," she heard a voice call out to her, suddenly. She looked up, to the top of the stairs. A door was open there. In the doorway stood her two little girls, in their pajamas. the;r faces covered with fear. "Mama," asked Tricia, the older one, "is anything wrong?" Pat stood there, staring at her girls. "Mama!" "I don't know. Tricia." she said, finally "Hey," one of the reporters called out to the girls. "Is this the door to the dog's room?" "Yes," the girl said. The men barged into the room. "Mama." Julie, the younger daughter, called now. "what do they want with Checkers? What do they want with my doggie?" "Nothing, sweetheart," Pat said. "They're just going to take his picture. That's all . . . Go back to your room now. Both of you. Go back to bed now." She watched the two girls as they stepped back and closed their door. And then she walked back into the living room and over to a window. "What's wrong, child?" her mother-inlaw asked. "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE," Pat said, =tarinq out of the window. "I know," her mother-in-law started to say. "It's hard on you all sometimes. But — " "I iust can't take it any more." Pat went on. "It's too hard on the girls, too hard on me. And now, Dick — it's too hard on him." "What are you going to do?" her motherin-law asked. "I'm going in to Dick, and talk to him.' Pat said. "What are you going to talk about?" "I'm going to ask him to quit, to quit. " Pat said. "I'm going to tell him that I want to go home. With him and our daughters. Home where we belong. Not here. Not here, where they scandalize us, and hurt us so much. Not here — " She turned from the window and she faced her mother-in-law. "You're his wife, Pat," the woman said "You know best." "Yes," Pat said. She took a deep breath. And then she began to walk towards her husband's office. Dick looked up at her. He'd been working hard and long and his eyes were tiredlooking, verv tired-looking. "Yes, Pat?" His voice was weary. She stood there, in the doorway. She looked at him for a long time. And as she did, she saw that there were tears in his eyes. She had never seen him cry before. Not once, since that first time they'd met. "Yes, Pat?" he asked again. In that moment that followed, she threw aside everything she had meant to say. "I only wanted to see how you were, Dick," she said, instead. " — And ... to tell you . . . please ... to go on." Then she walked over to where he sat And she put her arms around him. "Go on," she said, again. Then she, too, began to cry. . . . END