My Turn Read online

  Also, there were so many people to thank for the fact that Ronnie survived. There were the doctors and nurses at the hospital, some of whom we were able to invite to a state dinner. There was Officer Delahanty of the Washington police force. There was Tim McCarthy, who had been willing to give his life for Ronnie. There was Jim Brady. And finally, there was Jerry Parr, the head of the White House Secret Service detail.

  When the shots were fired outside the hotel, nobody knew that Ronnie had been hit. He himself didn’t realize it. The first bullet hit Jim Brady in the forehead. The second hit Officer Delahanty, the third hit Tim McCarthy. The fourth shot hit the car window, right in front of Ronnie, and the fifth hit the car door and ricocheted into Ronnie. The sixth bullet missed completely. According to eyewitnesses, Hinckley continued pulling the trigger even after the gun was empty.

  As soon as the shots rang out, Jerry Parr threw himself against Ronnie, crashing him down onto the floor of the limousine. Another agent pushed their feet into the car, slammed the door, and yelled, “Take off!” The whole procedure took only thirteen seconds.

  As they drove away, Jerry remained on top of Ronnie to shield him.

  “Jerry, get off me, you’re hurting my ribs!” Ronnie said. Jerry had pushed him so hard that Ronnie’s head hit the doorway of the car, and he landed face-down on the transmission hump in front of the rear seat. Neither man realized yet that Ronnie had been hit.

  By then they were speeding back to the White House. But when Ronnie started coughing up blood, Jerry saw the bright red color and knew it had come from his lungs. Thinking that a rib had indeed been broken, and that Ronnie’s lung might have been punctured, Jerry told the driver to turn right on Pennsylvania Avenue and to rush to George Washington University Hospital—less than a mile away. The entire drive from the hotel to the hospital took three and a half minutes. Although he didn’t know it, for the second time in two minutes Jerry had saved Ronnie’s life. If they had driven to the White House, we would have lost him.

  When they arrived at the emergency room, Ronnie still didn’t know he was hit. He insisted on walking in on his own—but the moment he entered the hospital, his knees buckled.

  I’ll always be grateful that Jerry insisted on bringing Ronnie straight to the hospital—even if it was for the wrong reason. Dr. Aaron said later, “He was right on the margin when he got here.”

  Fortunately, too, Ronnie arrived at the hospital just as a big staff meeting was ending, so all the doctors were on hand. And there was a shift change coming up, which would double the number of people there to help.

  I also thought about the young man who pulled the trigger, and especially about his parents, who had sent me a moving apology. I could imagine how awful this must be for them. As a mother, I knew that although most of us do the best job we can, it doesn’t always work out. But while I certainly felt compassion for John Hinckley’s parents, I could not find it in my heart to feel compassion for their son.

  Ronnie is different. On his first weekend home, Patti described how angry she felt toward John Hinckley. “You know,” Ronnie replied, “when I was lying there in the hospital, looking up at the ceiling and wondering if I was going to die, I spent a lot of time praying, and I knew I couldn’t just pray for myself. I had to pray for John Hinckley, too. And if God loves me, then in spite of everything, He must also love John Hinckley.”

  I couldn’t help thinking about the fact that John Hinckley had been obsessed with the movie Taxi Driver, about a deranged man who stalks a politician. He had seen the movie repeatedly and had then started stalking President Carter. When Carter was defeated, Hinckley began to stalk Ronnie.

  Movies make a powerful impression on people’s minds—especially the minds of people who may be unbalanced. I think there’s too much violence in films and on television, and it’s one of the reasons for our terrible problems with crime. It used to be that when a character was shot on screen, the cameras didn’t zero in and show you the blood pouring out of his wounds. People today are too accustomed to seeing violence.

  The shooting also made me question my attitude toward gun control. Ronnie’s position didn’t change; he just doesn’t believe this is where the problem lies—a point he repeated more than once while he was still in the hospital. He favors the California system, with a waiting period for anyone who wants to buy a gun. After what I saw in that hospital, I’m not sure I agree with him.

  As for the Secret Service, I differ from some occupants of the White House, who have felt hemmed in by the agents and have resented the loss of privacy. No, I’m grateful to have the Secret Service around. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t have a husband.

  Looking back now, I see that I was in a state of shock for much longer than I realized, and that the psychological effects of March 30 were more enduring for me than they were for Ronnie. Ronnie understood this better than I did; even in the hospital he remarked on how pale and drawn I looked and urged me to go home and get some sleep. “You don’t need to stay here all day,” he would tell me.

  Later, he suggested that I attend Prince Charles’s wedding because he thought the trip would be good for me. As close as we are, we both had to go through our separate traumas. His was mainly to the body; mine was to my spirit.

  I expected that the memory of the shooting would fade with time, but it never has. For the rest of Ronnie’s presidency—almost eight more years—every time he left home, especially to go on a trip, it was as if my heart stopped until he got back.

  I was so shaken by the events of that spring that it took me a couple of years just to say the word “shooting.” For a long time I simply referred to it as “March 30,” or, even more obliquely, as “the thing that happened to Ronnie.” For me, the entire episode was, quite literally, unspeakable.

  I also felt guilty that I hadn’t been with Ronnie at the hotel. Maybe I could have done something. I know this is irrational; I can’t imagine what I could have done to change things. But for a long time I believed that if I had been with Ronnie that day, nothing would have happened.

  In retrospect, I don’t think I would have been quite as shocked had the shooting occurred when Ronnie was governor of California. He held that office, after all, during the late 1960s and early 1970s, which was a period of frequent demonstrations and a great deal of anger and hostility toward elected officials. But in 1981 there seemed to be so much good feeling from the American people that violence was the last thing I worried about. I knew in the back of my mind that something like this was always possible, but until it actually happens, you just don’t think it ever will.

  Although Ronnie recovered quickly, he continued to be upset that three other people had been hurt. He felt especially bad about Jim Brady, who was permanently disabled. (Under the circumstances, the fact that he was alive at all was a miracle. Today, Jim is vice chairman of the National Organization on Disability.) As soon as Ronnie could, he went to visit Jim in the hospital, and he promised he would hold the position of press secretary open until Jim was able to return. Although most of Jim’s duties in the press office were taken over by Larry Speakes, as long as Ronnie remained in office, Jim retained his title. Ronnie knew that the bullets that struck the others had been meant for him, and he was tormented that they had been shot simply because of their association with his presidency.

  A few weeks after the shooting, I told Ronnie I felt panicky every time he left the White House. He said, smiling at me, “I don’t understand what you’re worried about. I knew all along that I’d be fine.” But I continued to be haunted by what had happened, as well as by what had almost happened.

  2

  Nothing Prepares You

  WHEN we arrived in Washington, in January of 1981, I honestly thought I understood the demands and pressures of being the first lady. I had been married for almost thirty years to a well-known actor and television personality, and I had been a movie actress myself. I wasn’t a newcomer to politics either, having spent eight years as first lady of
California—the largest state in the nation and the most media-conscious place on earth. While I knew that Washington was different, I thought I was prepared for living in the public eye.

  But I found out the hard way that nothing—nothing—prepares you for being first lady.

  In those first few months, as controversy after controversy swirled around me, I often thought of what Helen Thomas, the veteran UPI reporter, had said to me shortly after the election. We were sitting together on the campaign plane, discussing the possibility that Ronnie would be elected, when Helen mentioned the enormous pressures on the first lady. I nodded and said, “I’m sure you’re right, but there will always be a part of me that is private, that’s mine.”

  “You may think so,” Helen said. “But you have no idea what it’s really like. I don’t see how you can know until you get there.”

  Well, it didn’t take me long to find out what Helen meant.

  From the moment I walked into the White House it was as if I had no privacy at all. Everything I did or said, whether as first lady, wife, or mother, was instantly open to criticism—to interpretation, speculation, second-guessing. My clothes. My friends. My taste in decorating. My relationship with our children. The way I looked at my husband! My entire life was suddenly fair game for comment by the press and the public alike. Looking back, I think my own naïveté, and that of my staff, added to this, and perhaps even prolonged it. Washington can be a tough town, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I suspect we all would do things differently if we had it to do over again.

  Virtually everything I did during that first year was misunderstood and ridiculed. I sometimes had the feeling that if it was raining outside, it was probably my fault.

  But the first big controversy was over the renovation of the White House.

  I have always been a nester, and my first priority in any new house has been to get that house in order. That’s just the way I am. I like to be organized, and I also like to provide a warm, restful, and welcoming home for my husband. I always did, but it seemed especially important now that Ronnie was president. And I think it made a big difference to him, whether he knew it or not.

  I knew the White House needed work, but it wasn’t until we moved in that I began to realize how much work was actually required—especially in the private living quarters. Some of the bedrooms on the third floor hadn’t been painted in fifteen or twenty years! The floors hadn’t been touched in ages. There were cracks in the walls. The long, wide Center Hall, which runs the entire length of the second floor, was virtually empty.

  When I realized the magnitude of the job that faced me, I was overwhelmed. After all, this wasn’t just our house; it was the White House. We would be living here for four years, or perhaps eight, but the White House belongs to all Americans. It’s supposed to be something we’re proud of, but I was dismayed by how shabby it was when we first moved in. I was sad and disappointed that it had come to this.

  Most of the immediate problems were in the residence, but over in the Oval Office and elsewhere in the West Wing we actually found half-eaten sandwiches and empty beer cans in some of the drawers.

  While I had no desire to turn the White House into an imperial palace, I did want to reclaim some of the stature and dignity of the building. I’ve always felt that the White House should represent this country at its best. To me, this was so obvious that I never dreamed that I would be criticized for my efforts. If anything, I expected to be applauded.

  Nor did it ever occur to me to think in terms of a public-relations campaign. I just went ahead with the restoration without thinking about public opinion. I hadn’t yet realized that my actions might provoke anger or controversy. Perhaps somebody on my staff should have, but they were as inexperienced in these matters as I was.

  The White House is an important symbol in our country, and I thought—and still think—that people want it to look its best. Every morning, thousands of tourists line up for a brief look at some of the public rooms. I think they want to be impressed.

  Whenever a new family moves in, Congress appropriates fifty thousand dollars for renovations and upkeep. Ronnie and I decided not to accept this grant: For one thing, it wasn’t nearly enough to make up for years of neglect. For another, we thought it would be better if the money came from private contributions, not from the taxpayers.

  Our goal was to raise two hundred thousand dollars, but we soon raised more than four times that much. It was true, as all the papers reported, that some of our wealthier friends were very generous. But so were many other Americans who were excited to be part of this historic project and who sent in smaller donations—twenty dollars, ten dollars, even one dollar. They didn’t get their names in the paper, but I was grateful that they cared.

  I was angry that so much attention was paid to the big donations. The media made it look as if the donors were some kind of exclusive, wealthy club, and it wasn’t that way at all.

  Without the help of Ted Graber, who had helped me decorate our home in Pacific Palisades, I don’t think I could have done it. I love decorating, and I’ve never worked harder than I did during the first three weeks after the inauguration. Ronnie and I normally go to bed early, but sometimes, at night, it would suddenly occur to me that a lamp or a painting might go better in some other spot. At eleven o’clock, Ronnie would call out, “Honey, where are you? It’s late. Come to bed!” I would be down the hall in the Yellow Oval Room, moving an end table or wrestling with a chair.

  I didn’t want to redo the White House in my own image, but I did want to restore it. Some of the White House treasures were tucked away and out of sight—for instance, the lovely Persian rug with semiprecious stones that had been hanging on the back of a door on the first floor, where nobody could see it. I moved it up to Ronnie’s study, where it could be enjoyed, and hung it behind his desk.

  Many other items were in storage, so together with Rex Scouten and Ted Graber, I drove out to the White House storage facility in Alexandria, Virginia, near National Airport, which consisted of a World War II warehouse and two Quonset huts, with no temperature control. It broke my heart to see hundreds of historic pieces from the White House, some of them over a century old, deteriorating and in urgent need of restoration. I couldn’t understand it: Why keep all of these beautiful objects sitting in a warehouse? Why not display them so they can be seen and enjoyed?

  When Ted and I began taking pieces out of storage, the people at the warehouse were delighted. “Take more, take more,” they kept saying. “These things shouldn’t be here.” We selected dozens of chairs, desks, tables, and mirrors, had them restored, and moved them into the White House.

  Because so much money had been raised, we were also able to refinish many of the mahogany doors and hardwood floors. We restored the marble walls on the State and ground floors, cleaned the floors with acid-etching, and cleaned all twenty-nine of the White House fireplaces.

  We also took care of other problems in the residence that hadn’t been touched since the Truman administration. Some of the original handmade plumbing fixtures for the bathrooms and kitchens had to be replaced with modern fixtures because those items hadn’t been made in years, and it cost a small fortune to repair them. We embarked on a long list of mundane but essential improvements, including rewiring, replacing worn carpeting, repainting, and fixing the heating and air-conditioning.

  The most dramatic and visible improvement was the newly renovated Center Hall. The walls were painted a light yellow to make it seem brighter, and we created several sitting areas by using items that had been in storage, including a reproduction Sheraton sofa and two bergère chairs, and a Chippendale-style bench, which was covered in rose fabric. To break up the long expanse, Ted inserted an eighteenth-century English octagonal writing desk that had been donated to the Kennedys by Jules Stein, the founder of MCA. When we came across it in storage, I recognized it, and I called Jules to tell him it was back in the White House. He was so pleased, and I was particularly glad I
had made the call when I learned of his death shortly after.

  I’ll never forget the moment that made it all worthwhile. One evening, after most of the second floor had been finished, Ronnie and I were having dinner in the sitting area in the West Hall. We were served by one of the butlers, who had been there for thirty-seven years. As he was setting down the tray in front of me, he looked down the Center Hall, smiled, and said, “It’s beginning to look like the White House again.”

  I felt as if I had just been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

  Around that same time, Ronnie convened a meeting of the congressional leadership in the Yellow Oval Room. After the group had left, Tip O’Neill came back up on the elevator to give Ronnie a message: “Please tell Nancy that I’ve never, ever, seen the White House look this beautiful!”

  But the reaction outside the White House was very different, and I was totally unprepared for it. On television, reports of the renovation were contrasted with rising unemployment and homelessness. Some commentators suggested or implied that the renovation had been paid for with public funds. Other reports criticized the fact that many of our personal friends had donated money for the restoration, as though this were somehow inappropriate. But once the press started in on this theme, they kept on it like a dog with a bone.

  I was particularly hurt by a column by Judy Mann in the Washington Post, who wrote that instead of helping all Americans, “Nancy Reagan has used the position, her position, to improve the quality of life for those in the White House.”

  This was so completely different from how I viewed my work that I was devastated. All I could think of was Clare Boothe Luce’s famous line that no good deed goes unpunished.