“But, George, you don’t know the first thing about the game.
“Listen, Henry, if there’s one thing I learned at Harvard, it was how to pretend that I always know what I’m talking about.”
George and Cathy Keller quickly became the most popular young couple on the Washington social scene.
And George soon discovered that his wife had a remarkable gift for “party politics.” She could initiate a dialogue for him with anyone, and was especially adept at dealing with the Fourth Estate. The press “discovered” the up-and-coming Dr. Keller and wrote admiringly.
There was only one difficulty. George could not adapt to marriage.
There weren’t parties every night, and sometimes he would come home from the office and have no one to talk to but Cathy. He would discourse knowledgeably about the issues of the day. But he was really talking at her.
Marriage vows did not make him less guarded with his emotions. He could give, but he couldn’t share. He could make love, but he couldn’t make her feel loved.
Still she was undaunted, patiently waiting. Surely he would ultimately master the art of intimacy, the way he had every other challenge in his life.
But in the meanwhile she had her own life to live. George had his career, but Cathy had a cause.
Three years earlier, Congress had approved the 27th Amendment to the Constitution, prohibiting sex discrimination against women. If it could be ratified by two-thirds of the states, the equality of male and female would become the law of the land.
Cathy wanted to pack her bags and join the pro-ERA bandwagon to barnstorm the uncommitted states.
“Catherine, this is ridiculous,” George complained. “You’re the last person in the world who needs an equal-rights amendment. You’re strong, you’re independent, you’re a gifted lawyer. My God, if you’d apply yourself, you could become a Supreme Court judge.”
“But, George, isn’t ‘altruism’ in that vast vocabulary of yours? I’m not doing this for me. I want to stand up for the millions of people who are doing a man’s job and getting a woman’s pay.”
“Cathy, you’re starting to talk like a pamphlet.”
“Well, it’s only fair, George. Most of your dinner conversation is like an interdepartmental memo. Do you think it’s fascinating just because it’s about someplace like Afghanistan?”
“Are you accusing me of being boring?”
“No. I’m just accusing you of thinking that all that matters in the world is what goes on in your office.” She sighed in exasperation. “Can’t you appreciate anybody else’s commitment?”
George switched to a more personal plea. “Look, what really bothers me most is that we’ll be separated.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, and added sarcastically, “So why don’t you take a vacation and come on the road with me?”
His best arguments could not dissuade her. In the end, she even convinced him to drive her to the airport.
Cathy lost count of the number of speeches she made. Paradoxically, she often found the women harder to convince than the men. Most of them were actually frightened of losing their “second class” status. But she could empathize with their feelings; they had been so inculcated to be subordinate that they were afraid of being unable to stand on their own. Her job was to give them the courage of their own worthiness. And it was damn tiring.
In the space of three months, she and her fellow crusaders harangued, debated, and cajoled their way across Illinois, Oklahoma, and Florida in a heroic — if losing — effort.
Although they regularly spoke by telephone, she and George did not see each other till Memorial Day weekend, when they were Andrew’s guests at the Eliot summer house in Maine.
As they were flying back to Washington, Cathy remarked, “Your old roommate is lovely. Why isn’t a guy like that married again?”
“I’m afraid he lacks confidence,” George replied.
“I noticed. But I don’t see why. I mean, he’s so kind and considerate. And he’s got a great sense of humor. I think what he needs is a good woman to straighten him out.”
“That would take a lot of doing, Cathy. Do you know anybody up to the job?”
“There must be dozens of women,” she replied. “I mean, I could do it.” She smiled at him. “But of course I’m spoken for.”
“Lucky me.” He smiled back, taking her hand.
“You’re right, darling. I’m glad you finally noticed.”
Late one afternoon in November 1975, George was alone in his office, dictating comments on an area report, when Kissinger opened the door.
“What’s the matter, Henry? You look a little upset.”
“Well,” said the Secretary, as he sat down in an easy chair, “to tell the truth, I am a bit depressed.”
“Why?”
“It’s the view of Mr. Ford that one man should not be both Secretary of State and National Security Adviser.”
“But you’ve done both jobs brilliantly.”
“Yes, I thought so, too. But he wants me to resign the NSC. Frankly, I think it will undermine the perception of my position.”
“I’m sorry, Henry,” George said with genuine sympathy. But it’s not as if you ye fallen from power completely.”
“No, you’re right. In fact, it may make it easier for me to operate, since I have such a good relationship with my successor.”
“Who’s the new Security Adviser?”
Kissinger looked poker-faced at his one-time Harvard tutee and answered, “You.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 3, 1975
I saw my former roommate’s picture in The New York Times today.
George Keller’s been appointed to succeed Kissinger as the head of the National Security Council. He’s moving back into the West Wing of the White House, where he’ll be able to knock on the President’s door anytime he wants and really get to turn the steering wheel of government.
On the seven-o’clock news tonight some pundits were speculating that George is being groomed for something even bigger.
Rumor has it that Gerry Ford would be more comfortable with someone he himself selected as Secretary of State. They say if he’s reelected — which looks likely — he’ll bring in a fresh new team, starring George. What a coup! He’s really got the world by the tail. Fame, power — and a terrific wife. Some guys have all the luck.
Something occurred to me. If I phoned George at the White House, would he still take my call?
Telegrams and letters poured into the White House congratulating George on his appointment. At the end of the day, his secretary handed him two overflowing shopping bags so that he could read them with Cathy.
“I’ll look silly walking in the White House parking lot like this,” he protested mildly.
And then he thought, Hell, I’ll enjoy every minute of it. My car is parked inside the presidential compound now.
Cathy greeted him on the doorstep. “I’ve prepared a celebration feast,” she said, hugging him.
“Who’s coming?” he inquired. “Nobody. Now, are you ready for a drink?”
“Absolutely.”
As she pulled him toward the living room, she whispered, “I’ve got a surprise for you. It’s something I’ve been saving for a long time. Look.”
She pointed to the coffee table, where she had placed two glasses and a bottle of—
“Hungarian champagne!” George gaped. “Where did you get that stuff?”