The first time I ever heard my mother sound nervous was last July, and by then she had been dead for two years. I was at the L.B.J. library in Austin, Texas, listening to a telephone call she had placed to President Lyndon Johnson more than four years before I was born. "Nancy Dickerson is on line two," begins the White House operator. Johnson picks up: "Yes, honey." She tries to start with a joke, but it warbles out: "The next time I need a new swimming suit I'm going to consult you." The President is silent, having forgotten a quip...
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