Thomas Mallon: Finale: A Novel of the Reagan Years

His tone froze her for only a moment. “Well, since that’s not an option,” she declared, “you need to come up with something else, and you need to do it soon.”

The injustice of the reporter’s statistics seemed self-evident to her. Didn’t the work of the presidency always go on right here in the Santa Ynez Mountains? Her husband had signed bills on the house’s patio; they’d entertained the queen and Prince Philip in this very room. And this morning, before Barney arrived, Ronnie had put in a good half hour on a third draft of his latest letter to Gorbachev. Cap Weinberger and that ridiculous new national security advisor with the pipe, Poindexter, had so overstuffed him with contradictory arms-control facts that the letter was all bollixed up.

“I was actually calling about something,” Regan said.

She remained silent. She was already angry enough with him that that slight stammer might come into her voice, and if it did she would lose the game, or at least this inning of it. She counted to ten, until one would have thought the line had gone dead.

The chief of staff blinked first: “We’ve got to get the president to Alabama and New Orleans in mid-September.”

The first lady said nothing, though she knew how crucial the midterm elections were. If the Republicans were to hold the Senate, they needed to get Ronnie out campaigning one last time.

“So how would September eighteenth be?” Regan asked. “Would that be a good day? A bad one?”

The sarcasm in his voice earned him further silence.

“Maybe an in-between one?” he persisted.

“I’ll have to get back to you,” Nancy said at last.

“Well, maybe you can tell your ‘friend’ that we need her to be quick with the forecast.”

They both knew — how she wished she’d been able to keep him in the dark! — that the friend in question was her astrologer. The “forecast” was Joan Quigley’s reading of Ronnie’s prospects on days when the White House staff wanted him to travel.

“I’m not wild about October first,” said Nancy, shifting the subject in a way guaranteed to further exasperate the chief of staff.

“That can’t be changed,” Regan said crisply.

“Hmmm,” said Nancy.

Regan, as usual, had reached a fast boil. “The president cannot fail to be present at the dedication of his predecessor’s library.” After six years of traveling the Third World and hammering together those houses for the poor, all of it accompanied by relentless criticism of Ronnie, Jimmy Carter was finally going to cut the ribbon on the building in which scholars could now go to research his miserable four years in the White House.

“Hmmm,” was all Nancy said, again.

“Well,” said Regan, “get back to me as soon as possible about September eighteenth. Enjoy your day.” He hung up the phone.

It was unclear to her which of them had won. Maybe neither. But she tried to sit herself back on the couch with a nonchalance that would make her feel and look like the winner, if only to herself. Opening up the Style section of the Post , she went right to page 7 for Ronnie’s horoscope, which she always read before her own:

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20–Feb. 18): Following initial delay, money will be received. You’ll locate needed material, pieces will fall into place. Refine techniques, streamline procedures. You are going places! Pisces, Virgo persons play roles.

She never much liked Sydney Omarr’s forecasts — she needed Joan’s customized charts for anything important — and this one annoyed her by failing to deliver the instant feeling of applicability that made you say Of course . “Money”? After “initial delay”? Maybe that had something to do with the vote on the tax bill, but the ambiguity peeved Nancy; as did the absence of a Cancer, her own sign, from the list of persons who’d be playing a role in Ronnie’s life today.

And yet, Gorbachev — March 2—was a Pisces. The recollection of this fact prompted her to reread the short paragraph. It still didn’t add up to much. But if Ronnie wanted to “streamline procedures,” he should find a new chief of staff and replace the odious man she’d just spoken to. The only thing she liked about Don Regan was his marriage. He and his wife were almost as close to each other as the Reagans, though the protective balance with them was reversed in a way that Nancy secretly envied. Don Regan organized much of his own life around his wife’s terrible arthritis, always making sure that Ann wasn’t overburdened. It would be nice, Nancy imagined, to have someone doing that for her, instead of her always having to do it for Ronnie. But that’s how things were, she thought, without regret, as she regarded the dried lavender in a nearby vase. The flowers in here were always dried, because freshly cut ones made Ronnie sneeze.

She would spend much of today on the telephone, the way she did in the White House. No one there had been so glued to a receiver since Lyndon Johnson had occupied the place like some caged stallion. It had recently occurred to her how much LBJ would have liked the new cordless phones. Right now the one on the couch cushion was ringing again.

“Mrs. Reagan, I have Mr. Griffin on the line.”

“Oh, good!” Merv was always fun.

“How are you, Merv?” she asked, as if she’d just sat down on his talk-show couch.

“Thrilled,” he replied, in that familiar, excitable purr. “Now that I’m talking to my favorite first lady.”

“Aw, you’re sweet. I heard that you just taped your last program.”

“It airs September fifth,” said Merv. “I didn’t dare ask you to come on, you’re so busy.”

“Oh, I would have!” said Nancy. Don Regan, or one of the young men who worked for him — known around the White House as “the mice”—should have been smart enough to arrange it.

“ No! ” said Merv, conveying what sounded like real disbelief. “Oh, well. The whole show — forty-eight hundred episodes! — is beginning to fade from my mind. I’m buying hotels!” he announced, like a retiree who’d just discovered tennis or bridge. Only months ago he’d sold his production company to Coca-Cola for a quarter of a billion dollars.

“The Two Hundred and Fifty Million Dollar Man!” enthused Nancy, with the surprisingly personable giggle that sometimes managed to bubble up through all her anger and anxiety. “You know, I’ve been meaning to call you. We’re planning a Gershwin evening at the White House this fall.” Joan had already okayed October 26, though there was little to fear, since Ronnie wouldn’t be leaving the grounds for the event.

“Ooh,” said Merv. “ Great idea.”

“We’ve got Marvin Hamlisch putting it together.”

“ Super talent.”

“And Kitty Carlisle.” She pronounced the name with the slightest hesitation, hoping he’d hear it and reassure her. “I haven’t seen her in years, and I know she’s a very active Democrat.”

“She’ll be fine ,” Merv purred. “You know, she even dated Tom Dewey before he croaked. He wanted to marry her.”

“No!” said Nancy, giggling again, this time with relief. But seconds later she thought she should do a little more checking.

“Sarah Vaughan?” She won’t make any kind of Lena Horne or Eartha Kitt trouble, will she?

She didn’t have to be specific. Merv could always tell what she was after: “No problem there, either.”

She again felt better. Merv really did know everybody, and his judgment was excellent. She ought to ask him about Just Say No — it was running out of steam and could use some fresh celebrities — but a glance at the clock told her that she needed to get ready for her afternoon ride with Ronnie. The chain saws had stopped, and she bet he was already on his way to get the saddles from the tack barn.