Free All the Presidents' Pets by Mo Rocca Page A

beyond. But we seemed to be going lower than any imaginable bunker. Was this the secure location where Dick Cheney lived during orange alerts?
    Just as it turned pitch black, the stairs ended and we came up against a wall. Helen went rummaging through her big black purse, pulled out an ancient and oversize key, then unlocked a thick steel door. She pushed it forward and we stepped inside.
    Suddenly we were standing in a Victorian parlor, or secret annex. Gaslight fixtures illuminated tattered dark red silk damask wallpaper. The floors were covered with contrasting and overlapping oriental carpets, all of which clashed with the walls, as was the fashion in the mid-nineteenth century.
    In the middle of the room was a large round pedestal table onto which Helen tossed her purse. In the center of the table sat a majestic marble bust that looked eerily like Helen. It must have been a coincidence, though, since I recognized the initials at its base as those of late-eighteenth-century French sculptor Jean-Antoine Houdon. “You like the bust?” asked Helen. “Tony was the best.”
    A small rosewood piano—similar to one I’d seen at the Ulysses S. Grant home in Galena, Illinois—sat close by. “It’s actually a melodian,” Helen said. “And it’s a heck of a lot easier to play than the harpsichord.”
    On the far wall several ceiling-high shelves of books lined up perpendicularly to the rest of the room. It wasn’t clear how far back they went.
    Helen kicked off her shoes, plopped herself down on a Turkish daybed—not unlike one I’d seen at James Garfield’s house in Mentor, Ohio—and propped herself up against a red velvet pillow. “Take a load off,” she said.
    I was speechless. Rather than sit down on her horsehair ottoman—a dead ringer for the one at James Buchanan’s Wheatland estate in Lancaster, Pennsylvania—I wanted to explore every inch of Helen’s lair. No one would ever believe me when I’d tell them what I’d seen, but at least I could remember it for myself.
    The most intriguing piece was a massive mahogany cabinet against the wall opposite where Helen now reclined. On display on one shelf were mementos and curios from Helen’s career at the White House, chief among them autographed pictures of her with different Chief Executives dating back to Kennedy. But I was more interested in the shelf above, which was lined with pictures of all the different presidential pets. Digital, Polaroids, black-and-whites, daguerreotypes, even a miniature Gilbert Stuart portrait of what appeared to be Washington’s beloved steed Nelson.
    â€œWhat a lovely lithograph,” I said, pointing to another piece. “I’ve never seen a representation of John Quincy Adams’s silkworms.”
    â€œI like that, too. Getting Henry Adams to part with it was a bitch.” Peculiar. Henry Adams, grandson of John Quincy, died in 1918.
    â€œThere’s so much I want to ask right now, Helen. For starters, where am I?”
    â€œThis is my home. It’s been here for . . . a long time.” Helen paused, and she sat deep in thought for a moment. “I only want to tell you what I think you can handle, Mo. I’d rather we move slowly. It’s better for the both of us.”
    I was a bit indignant that I’d been dragged halfway to the center of the earth below the White House only to be told that I’d have to wait for the explanation. But I was also thrilled. Helen had literally opened a door to a place I didn’t know existed. For the first time in my career I could very well be on to something big.
    â€œOkay, I’ll take it slowly. These pictures of the pets, naturally I’m curious. Why the interest?”
    Helen came over to the cabinet and started looking them over. “Oh, let’s just say I’ve always felt my own connection to the presidential pets. If they could talk, they’d