My Library

Ruth said: "There’s some behind the scenes talk going on down there -- and it involves YOU." I stared blankly at her. "We were asked, unofficially of course, for our opinions of you." I thought they were joking, so I replied: "Well, Al, I trust you didn’t tell them I’m a chicken shit who dresses up in your old Army gear." Al said quite seriously, and Al is really SERIOUS, "Don’t be surprised if you are asked back to Stanford." "Will you please explain this to me? Who is interested?" Ruth started to reply. "Powerful people . . .", but Al shushed her. "Can’t say more," Al said. "Don’t tell anyone of this, but we thought you’d like to know." While Ruth and I were having coffee, Al busied himself doing the dishes in the TINY kitchen. I moved round the living room looking at the photos: of Ruth with Churchill, of Ruth with Mohandas Ghandi, of Ruth with Franklin Roosevelt, Ruth with Eleanor Roosevelt, Ruth with Eisenhower, Ruth with Nixon, of Ruth with EVERYONE. "You must have been very powerful and influential," I mused. Ruth was silent for a moment. "I did stories people liked of themselves, and one led to another. I loved people, and all those people had something admirable about them. I told that story. But it was all just a game, you know. One needs to play the game." She seemed to emphasize "play the game" -- not obviously, but in the tone of voice. Al came into the living room drying his hands on a remarkably tattered towel. "You want a brandy?" Yes, indeed I did. Their air conditioner wasn’t working very well.