Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [215]
We left the president to his never-ending work and followed Barbara Bush on a tour of the White House. If I had not been aware she was the First Lady, I would have never guessed it from her behavior. She was talkative, witty, and completely devoid of any air of celebrity. She reminded me of my mother. I could easily picture her baiting a hook or hoisting a beer or throwing another log on the campfire.
We stepped into an ancient elevator for a trip to the upstairs living quarters. With five astronauts, five wives, Mrs. Bush, and an assistant, we were cheek to jowl in the small volume. Mrs. Bush was directly behind me and I did my best to resist being crushed into her front. Before the elevator door closed, Millie, the first dog, somehow managed to wiggle under our feet to make it an even tighter squeeze. As the box crept upward, the silence was total. In spite of Mrs. Bush’s easy manner we were all very self-conscious of her company. To occupy the uncomfortable seconds we watched the elevator indicator panel with the same intensity as an astronaut watching a space rendezvous. Some of us moved slightly to accommodate the dog. Chris Casper, John’s wife, finally cracked under the oppressing silence. She nervously offered an icebreaker—“Oh, I feel it between my legs.” While it was obvious she was referring to Millie’s wagging tail, the words hung over our sardined group like really bad flatulence. A reference to anything between a woman’s legs was tough to comment on in polite company, much less in the company of the First Lady of the nation. Chris quickly realized her mistake and tried to recover by amending her words. She nervously added, “I mean I feel the dog between my…er…my legs.”
It was just too much for me to keep my mouth shut. She had served up a ball just begging to be spiked. I couldn’t resist. “Are you sure it’s not John’s hand?” I inquired. My comment elicited a few snickers and an elbow jab from Donna. As had frequently been the case in my life, I immediately wished the joker in me would have kept quiet.What was Mrs. Bush thinking? I wondered. Maybe this time I had gone too far.
I need not have worried. As regret shot through my brain, I felt Mrs. Bush’s hand lightly pat me on a butt cheek as she said, “That’sJohn’s hand.” Then she winked at Donna and said, “I’ve got him right where I want him.” I was stunned. She was a Mike Mullane clone. She couldn’t let a perfect setup fall to the sand—she had to nail it.
Upstairs her joking continued. She halted in front of a painting of some daughters of a forgotten nineteenth-century president. “What do you think about this portrait?”
We were all mute. The women in the painting had a striking resemblance to hogs wearing wigs and gowns. They were creatures right off of Dr. Moreau’s island of horrors. As our collective silence was fast approaching embarrassment, Mrs. Bush took the heat off and answered her own question. “This is the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen. The women were part of the First Family, for God’s sake. They could have requested some artistic license. What were they thinking? For my official portrait I intend to get an artist who will make me look good.”
She led us to a room with a view of people waiting to begin their White House tour. The crowd screamed in delight and grabbed their cameras when they saw Mrs. Bush waving. She was a queen who deported herself in every way as a commoner.
She was also a proud mother and grandmother. On every table and mantel were framed photos of her family. I didn’t see a single photo of her posed with any of the multitude of stars she had certainly met in her life. Clearly her VIPs were her children and grandchildren. She spoke of her philosophy of life: “In your old age you will never regret the contract never signed, the trip never taken, the