notice I haven’t gotten up to mix myself an actual drink. I’m back to playing blood bank this week.”
“Easier than donating bone marrow, I suppose.”
“You think?” said Alsop, grimacing as he swallowed more tea.
“Poor Stew,” said Alice. “What a nuisance.” Reflexively, she looked out into the hall, where an old stuffed tiger had lost a paw the last time Stew was here and decided to shake hands with it. “Slice yourself more cake.”
Joe declined, and she admired his discipline. What a preposterously fat young man he’d been when he arrived in town in the thirties to cover Franklin and the New Deal. A reporter with a Harvard diploma; silly. She supposed he’d slimmed down to please the boys.
Suddenly, Joanna’s voice came up the stairs.
“I’m off, Grandmother!”
“Enjoy yourself, dear!” Alice cried in response. “Try not to be home before midnight!”
“Where’s she off to?” asked Alsop. “And why doesn’t she come in here to say goodbye? Or, for that matter, hello?”
“She probably thought Mrs. Braden was still in here. For God’s sake, Joe, she’s twenty-five. I haven’t the slightest idea where she’s off to.”
“Doesn’t she eat with you? What, in fact,
are
you going to eat tonight? Does she let you live on cake and tea? Is there a servant left in this whole place?”
“Janie’s off for the night. Don’t worry. Joanna will come home around one o’clock and bring me a lovely veal chop from Anna Maria’s, that little place up on Connecticut Avenue. And it will be
exactly
what I want.”
Alsop knew that Alice’s routine hadn’t varied for decades. She would read through the night, until almost dawn, when she’d mark her place, probably with the bone from the veal chop, and then fall asleep until noon.
“Tell me,” he asked. “Are we related to Elliot Richardson? Are
you
, I mean.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“Elliot
Lee
Richardson? Not one of your Boston Lees?”
“I cannot imagine. I should think that in the forest of Lee family trees I’m fewer branches away from Robert E. or Lorelei.”
“I spent half the afternoon with him at HEW. An interview, supposedly, but there was a camera crew traipsing through the office taking ‘footage’ ”—he said it as if the word were new—“for some film they’ll show at the convention.”
“What possessed him to leave State?” asked Mrs. Longworth. “Even being one of Rogers’s undersecretaries has to have been more interesting than sending out welfare checks.”
“He left because he was asked to.”
“By your
homme sérieux
?”
“Of course,” said Alsop. “And this won’t be the last job he’s given to do. Nixon
needs
him from time to time. Almost the way he needs Ed Brooke.” He referred to the Senate’s only Negro, a Republican to boot. “Richardson is somebody to put in front of the cameras when they have to show a bit of probity and class—all the Harvard, high Establishment stuff Nixon’s usually able to do without.”
“You sound as if you’re back on the New Frontier, Joe.”
“No,” said Alsop, loudly putting down his teacup, as if the gesture might reaffirm his new fealty toward the incumbent. “But Nixon’s going to require Richardson’s type a little more than he thinks.” He pointed to a copy of the
Washington Post
. “Kay seems determined to make something serious out of this burglary, doesn’t she?”
“Dick’s second-story men?” asked Mrs. Longworth. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Well, my dear, I wouldn’t dismiss it just yet. A CIA connection one day; a link to the White House the next.” The
Post
had today run a report of Howard Hunt’s involvement.
“I
almost
like Kay,” said Mrs. Longworth. “Her mother detested me.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I’m glad she did. I detest their paper. That copy you’re pointing to belongs to Mrs. Braden, not me.”
“Ah, of course,” said Alsop. He had his own problems with Kay Graham, who had
“Easier than donating bone marrow, I suppose.”
“You think?” said Alsop, grimacing as he swallowed more tea.
“Poor Stew,” said Alice. “What a nuisance.” Reflexively, she looked out into the hall, where an old stuffed tiger had lost a paw the last time Stew was here and decided to shake hands with it. “Slice yourself more cake.”
Joe declined, and she admired his discipline. What a preposterously fat young man he’d been when he arrived in town in the thirties to cover Franklin and the New Deal. A reporter with a Harvard diploma; silly. She supposed he’d slimmed down to please the boys.
Suddenly, Joanna’s voice came up the stairs.
“I’m off, Grandmother!”
“Enjoy yourself, dear!” Alice cried in response. “Try not to be home before midnight!”
“Where’s she off to?” asked Alsop. “And why doesn’t she come in here to say goodbye? Or, for that matter, hello?”
“She probably thought Mrs. Braden was still in here. For God’s sake, Joe, she’s twenty-five. I haven’t the slightest idea where she’s off to.”
“Doesn’t she eat with you? What, in fact,
are
you going to eat tonight? Does she let you live on cake and tea? Is there a servant left in this whole place?”
“Janie’s off for the night. Don’t worry. Joanna will come home around one o’clock and bring me a lovely veal chop from Anna Maria’s, that little place up on Connecticut Avenue. And it will be
exactly
what I want.”
Alsop knew that Alice’s routine hadn’t varied for decades. She would read through the night, until almost dawn, when she’d mark her place, probably with the bone from the veal chop, and then fall asleep until noon.
“Tell me,” he asked. “Are we related to Elliot Richardson? Are
you
, I mean.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“Elliot
Lee
Richardson? Not one of your Boston Lees?”
“I cannot imagine. I should think that in the forest of Lee family trees I’m fewer branches away from Robert E. or Lorelei.”
“I spent half the afternoon with him at HEW. An interview, supposedly, but there was a camera crew traipsing through the office taking ‘footage’ ”—he said it as if the word were new—“for some film they’ll show at the convention.”
“What possessed him to leave State?” asked Mrs. Longworth. “Even being one of Rogers’s undersecretaries has to have been more interesting than sending out welfare checks.”
“He left because he was asked to.”
“By your
homme sérieux
?”
“Of course,” said Alsop. “And this won’t be the last job he’s given to do. Nixon
needs
him from time to time. Almost the way he needs Ed Brooke.” He referred to the Senate’s only Negro, a Republican to boot. “Richardson is somebody to put in front of the cameras when they have to show a bit of probity and class—all the Harvard, high Establishment stuff Nixon’s usually able to do without.”
“You sound as if you’re back on the New Frontier, Joe.”
“No,” said Alsop, loudly putting down his teacup, as if the gesture might reaffirm his new fealty toward the incumbent. “But Nixon’s going to require Richardson’s type a little more than he thinks.” He pointed to a copy of the
Washington Post
. “Kay seems determined to make something serious out of this burglary, doesn’t she?”
“Dick’s second-story men?” asked Mrs. Longworth. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Well, my dear, I wouldn’t dismiss it just yet. A CIA connection one day; a link to the White House the next.” The
Post
had today run a report of Howard Hunt’s involvement.
“I
almost
like Kay,” said Mrs. Longworth. “Her mother detested me.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I’m glad she did. I detest their paper. That copy you’re pointing to belongs to Mrs. Braden, not me.”
“Ah, of course,” said Alsop. He had his own problems with Kay Graham, who had
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