One of my guests, a young woman, stood before me. She had an attractive face with large brown eyes and a short bob of stiffly coiffed dark hair, on top of which rested a straw hat with pale blue flowers. I knew her last name; she was the wife to a junior senator by the name of Lyndon Johnson. From which state? These senators filed in and out of the city so often. The woman looked shy as she stepped forward and said, “Mrs. Davies, I have to introduce myself and thank you. My name is Lady Bird Johnson.”
“Mrs. Johnson, of course,” I said, accepting her gloved handshake. “So good of you and the senator to come.”
“Well, we wouldn’t miss it. I knew this meant I had to buy a fancy new hat,” she gushed, and with that her southern accent triggered my memory—her husband served from Texas. “It’s just such a treat to be invited. To meet you, Mrs. Davies. I was telling Lyndon, my husband, everything you touch seems to turn to beauty.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Mrs. Johnson,” I answered. Just then a flurry of activity near the door, followed by the appearance of several dark-suited men, drew my attention away. “Ah, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Johnson. President and Mrs. Truman have just arrived. But it is lovely to meet you. Lady Bird, you said, right?” She nodded, her gaze following me as I crossed the garden.
I greeted the president as Bess Truman pulled me in for a friendly hug. Photographers snapped us from all angles as we talked. Across the garden, Alice Roosevelt had a small group of congressmen laughing beneath my crab apple tree. Of course Betty Beale was circulating with the bearing of a well-dressed German shepherd, less interested in the passed appetizers than in gobbling up morsels of delicious District gossip.
Yes, everything was as it should be as the sun set and my candles dispersed their twinkling glow. Even the weather had cooperated, with just the faintest breeze to keep my guests cool. But the one thing I could not control was Joe’s mood; as the night went on, even though the air stayed lovely and my guests enjoyed their way through cocktails and then dinner and finally dancing, my husband’s face went from sulky to surly.
I tried my best to ignore it, for the moment, and play the part of hostess. I knew it had been cold comfort to finally have an answer to the stomach pain that had bothered him for years, almost since the beginning of our marriage: intestinal cancer. With the diagnosis, Joe had undergone treatment. I’d nursed him through the months of recovery, and our follow-up appointments had brought with them the best news for which we could have hoped: he was clear of cancer and thus free of the stomach pain.
And yet, his mood had seen no improvement. If anything, I felt that it had gotten worse in recent months. On that night, my husband—the diplomat, the onetime gregarious center of any gathering, the friend of presidents and world leaders—sat stiff and unsmiling in a chair on the far side of the darkening garden. I saw it, but I wasn’t going to let it spoil the evening, not when I’d worked so hard to pull it off.
I made the announcement at nine o’clock that we would begin the dancing. “It’s called square dancing. If you’ve never heard of it, I just ask that you give it a try. I can’t keep up with these dances the youngsters are doing. What do they call it now—rock ’n’ roll? Anyhow, gentlemen, please feel free to take off your jackets. Ladies, feel free to kick aside your heels. I want this to be fun!”
My string octet had packed up for the night, and now a fresh set of musicians started up, this one playing fiddles and banjoes, drums and a harmonica. Having been plied with plenty of champagne and lighthearted chatter, my guests gamely made their way to the dance floor. Joe had told me before the party that there was no way he would dance, so I grabbed Nelson Rockefeller and pulled him to the center of the dance floor with me. My guests filled in the space beside us: Ike and Mamie Eisenhower, Betty Beale paired with General Omar Bradley. Even Harry and Bess Truman joined in, the president’s dinner jacket tossed aside and his sleeves rolled up.
After the set, I excused myself, saying I was going to catch my breath with a glass of lemonade. I made my way toward my husband and took the empty seat beside him. Sipping my glass of lemonade, I leaned close. Then, sounding more chipper than in fact I felt, I proposed, “Come on, Joey. Dance one with me?”
He scowled, shaking his head. A moment later, Alice appeared at our side. I noticed with a pang of embarrassment that my husband did not turn to greet her, nor did he offer her his chair. She didn’t seem to mind, instead saying,“Darling, it’s a wonderful evening you’ve put on. And to think, you once worried you had no friends in this town but little ol’ me.”