When a team from Good Housekeeping came to our apartment to do a story about our family, I insisted Doris be included in the photos. Mother of God.
Even the editors agreed with Miss Clavel; despite my protestations, they photoshopped Doris out of the picture. Ellie’s back is to the camera, with only her wavy brown baby hair visible. I had followed Jane Pauley’s sage advice to protect my child’s identity. So why did my good sense desert me with Doris?
28
Movin’ Out
WITH THE 1992 presidential race gearing up, I needed help on the home front more than ever.
At the time, politics were bleeding into the popular culture in unprecedented ways—Bill Clinton in Blues Brothers shades blowing his sax on Arsenio Hall, a self-made Texas billionaire who looked like a Keebler elf announcing his candidacy on Larry King Live…we couldn’t have ordered up better ratings bait. Especially when Ross Perot accused me and NBC’s Lisa Myers of “trying to prove our manhood” with our tough interview questions. The New York Post blared the phrase on the front page.
But my biggest moment of the campaign happened in the Blue Room, somewhere between Dolley Madison’s tea set and a portrait of James Monroe. In October, First Lady Barbara Bush gave me a live tour of the White House on the occasion of its 200th anniversary. I had spent days studying every nook and cranny of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, from the ball-and-claw feet on the Chippendale chairs to the bronze doré clock on the mantelpiece. It was the interview equivalent of a ladies’ lunch until I heard the pitter-pat of little paws—the unmistakable sound of an excited canine running down the hall. Suddenly, the president’s English springer spaniel Ranger came tumbling in. Followed closely by the president himself.
It never occurred to me that George H. W. Bush might show up. And yet here he was, the leader of the free world, standing a couple of inches away. Even though my prep for the First Lady hadn’t included politics, I knew I had to seize the moment, and swiftly pivoted to Bush’s charismatic opponent; I got Bush to say that Clinton should come clean about why he hadn’t served in the armed forces and mock his claim that he didn’t inhale. I was afraid I was going to run out of questions, but I had Jeff in my earpiece, urging me toward Iran-Contra. When I asked Bush about the Justice Department’s questioning of FBI head William Sessions, I saw the patrician grin fade and his upper lip start to twitch.
Jeff had made the game-time decision to kill the commercials and run the whole interview, an unimaginable 19 minutes and 38 seconds. It was nerve-racking—and one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. As I tried to squeeze in a few final questions, the First Lady was losing her patience—at a certain point, it looked like she might forcibly separate us and drag her husband out of the room. Bush smiled and playfully remarked, “I know what Ross Perot said about you…”
The impromptu grilling was a huge win. A few days later, I received a handwritten note on snappy Jazz Age letterhead. It read:
Dear Katie,
You were terrific with Mrs. Bush （you knew far more than she did） and nabbing the President was a real coup. You are so darn good! Bravo!
Barbara
As in Walters. She was always so supportive—she liked to say we were similar in that neither of us was particularly glamorous. I never quite knew how to take that, although being in Barbara’s mold was nothing but a compliment.
Tom Shales also weighed in: “Couric proved again yesterday that she’s worth her weight in gold. Actually, more. She doesn’t weigh all that much.”
In a piece overflowing with praise, that last sentence might have been my favorite part.
LABOR DAY WEEKEND. I was disappointed that Jay had to stay in DC and work, so I decided to rent a house on Martha’s Vineyard, a place I’d never been, where Doris, Ellie, and I could relax for a few days. The charming cottage, overlooking the water in Menemsha, belonged to Billy Joel. By then I’d met my fair share of famous people, but for some reason that really tickled me.
With Doris playing photographer, we took some funny pictures for my friends—me lying in Billy’s bed “smoking” a Bic pen, looking like I’d just had a roll in the hay; me looking shocked while holding a bottle of Sun In I’d found in the medicine cabinet （presumably his then-wife Christie Brinkley’s）; me pretending to sniff Billy’s gym shorts. Juvenile but harmless. Doris snapped away, snorting with laughter. She’d truly become my partner in crime.
By now, Jay had grown tired of commuting. He had tried to hang in there at Williams & Connolly, but living apart was too hard and not the life we wanted, so he took a job in the New York offices of Hunton and Williams.