All the Presidents' Pets by Mo Rocca Page B

after Laurie, copying off her notes.
    â€œYou hang in there, tiger,” said Candy as she gathered her things and put a cigarette in her mouth. “But take it from me: Stick with the crap line of questions.” She snapped her fingers toward Angle. “Hey, rightie, got a lightie?” Angle lit her up and they exited. I began to pack my things in my backpack and made a mental note to get a briefcase.
    â€œI liked your question,” came a voice from behind. I quickly turned, assuming it was Andrea Mitchell.
    â€œThanks, Andrea,” I said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Thomas. I thought you were—”
    â€œYou don’t need to be so formal. It’s Helen.” Standing next to me Helen Thomas was nearly a foot shorter than I. “Want some trail mix?” She held out a bag of what looked like dried leaves and grass.
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œSo I like the way you approached your question. It sounds like you know your stuff. You know, the only reason they gave you a hard time is because you had the guts to ask a tough question. A lot of them lost heart long ago.”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m afraid it was a bit of a convoluted question.”
    â€œMade sense to me. And don’t worry, the White House can handle smart questions, even if they try to make you think otherwise.”
    â€œWell, thank you for being so supportive,” I said. “Coming from you, I mean, you were a big reporter.”
    â€œI
am
a big reporter,” she snapped. “It’s just the typeset that got smaller.”
    â€œForgive me, Helen,” I blurted. “I meant to say that you’re an institution. Not that you’re old or anything!” I kept fumbling with my words, I was so nervous.
    She smiled. “I’m just kidding, dear. Of course I’m old,” she laughed. It was a strange warbling laugh. “But let me tell you, some things never change around here. Believe it or not, James Garfield’s press aide was even meaner, so don’t feel sorry for me or yourself.”
    I appreciated her reassurance, although it seemed an odd example. If Helen were talking about a press secretary she actually knew—for instance, JFK’s Pierre Salinger—I’d have been truly impressed.
    â€œI probably should take more time to read about our nation’s press secretaries,” I said, not quite sure how to respond. Still I immediately had a good feeling about this woman. She could have blown me off and yet she seemed much more human than anyone else here, despite her unusual appearance.
    She was a short squat woman with a small, almost beaklike mouth covered in lipstick. Where the lipstick had smudged I could see that her lips were a pale yellowish white color. Helen’s eyes, her best feature, were closely set and dark brown, almost black. Attractive and modest, from certain angles she looked like a cross between Nancy Walker and Anna Magnani. From pictures I’d seen, she rarely wore anything that revealed more than her face and neck. Up close her skin was redder than it appeared on TV and her brunette hair stiff. The roots appeared to be red.
    More important than her looks, Helen Thomas was a witness to so much history. If she was willing to talk to me, I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. “I’d love to pick your brain, hear some stories sometime, about all you’ve seen,” I said. “No one knows more about the presidency than you do.”
    â€œOh, I love to share what I know,” she said before leaning in and lowering her voice. “The most important thing is
to dig deeper.
” She was awfully close, but I didn’t want to be rude.
    â€œWell, that sounds like great advice. Listen, I packed a couple of sandwiches—trying to save money—so maybe we could go across the street to Lafayette Park and talk some more.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” she said. “Pastrami and sauerkraut