Synopsis
Book by Gerhart Ann
Extrait
Chapter One: Midland
We feel really fortunate to have grown up in West Texas where I think values are really rock solid. It's not very easy to be pretentious....West Texans will call you down immediately. I think that gave us a really solid base.
-- Laura Bush, in the Midland Star-Telegram, September 5, 2002
She was seventeen, a few days past her birthday in her senior year, a girl with her daddy's car keys. There was a party, on a weeknight. That wasn't much the sort of thing Jenna and Harold Welch let their girl do, go to a party in the middle of the week. But really, Laura was such a good girl, this only child of theirs, an angel, a love. She had never given them a moment's trouble. She was steady and smart and quiet, and her friends were the Brownies she knew from grade school. She always laughed at her father's jokes; he was a cutup, easy and friendly and open. She always sat by her mother, though. On visits to her grandmother some hours away, Laura and her mother would take turns reading in the car out loud to each other, the huge sky of West Texas arching out before them, vast and familiar, Manifest Destiny beckoning in the shimmering of the nighttime stars.
That sky, it let you see forever. Between Midland and Lubbock, some 150 miles apart, nothing stood but a few villages and scrub and electric poles and those lonely oil pumps, dipping up, swinging down, up and down, up and down, a rhythm that gave pace and purpose to an entire region. Midland proper was so orderly, a firm societal stand against the whims and sins of the prairie. There were no bars, and dozens of churches, and the streets were testament to the disciples of commerce who had delivered the good people from a lifetime of grit and toil. Laura lived on Humble Avenue, named, transparently enough, for one of the petroleum conglomerates; the next streets over were Shell and Sinclair. That was Midland in the 1960s, the Midland that Laura's father, Harold Welch, helped to build: Your aspirations could be realized in your address -- Lockheed or Cessna or Boeing avenues for the white-collar engineers, or Yale, Harvard, and Princeton avenues for the East Coast elites like George Herbert Walker Bush who came west to seek their fortunes in the fossils.
Those streets were laid out on a tidy grid, with millions of gallons of water sent to sustain lush lawns hardly native to West Texas, lawns that decades later Laura would decide were environmentally incorrect. The people in the houses liked to think they lived tidy lives -- two parents, a carport, drinks at the country club, touch football after church. Beyond the town limits was untameable terrain, a flat expanse of ranchland, parched brown and ocher, unbroken by trees. You could see for miles. And it was dry, and it was clear, and it was so bright at night under the star canopy, and there wasn't traffic back in those days, not like there is today, everybody hurrying over to the Target or the Sam's Club or the Jumburrito. So there would have been no reasonable excuse for even protective parents to say no to a daughter who wanted to go to a party, especially when she was such a good and responsible girl.
And so they said yes.
And Jenna would have had her book, and Harold would have had his television, and after a spell, the phone would have rung with the news, preceded with an, "Ah'm so sorry to have to tell you..." My word, she hadn't been gone but a little while, and now Laura's parents were being summoned to Midland Memorial Hospital.
Laura, they learned, had been speeding blithely out of town about 8 P.M., east on Farm Road 868, her high school friend Judy Dykes in the passenger seat. She never saw the stop sign. She never saw the other car. She plowed right through that stop sign and slammed hard into the 1962 Corvair coming south and with the right-of-way, on State Road 349, the La Mesa Highway. She was fine, really, the officer assured her parents, but bruised and banged up, and awfully upset. Judy was shaking but unharmed as well. But the boy in the other car, well, the force of the broadside impact was so severe that, well...He never had a chance. Michael Douglas, golden boy of Midland, high school track star, was dead on arrival at Midland Memorial Hospital. The two girls were taken there, too, in another ambulance. Mike Douglas's father had been driving another car behind his son. He saw the entire horrific scene, the explosive beginning of a nightmare that haunted him his whole life.
The front-page story in the Midland Reporter-Telegram was blunt and nonaccusatory. "Police said death was attributed to a broken neck," the paper reported, using that passive voice peculiar to newspaper writing. But the news flew through Midland about whose actions had caused that death.
Killing another person was a tragic, shattering error for a girl to make at seventeen. It was one of those hinges in a life, a moment when destiny shuddered, then lurched in a new direction. In its aftermath, Laura became more cautious and less spontaneous, more inclined to be compassionate, less inclined to judge another person.
What made the crash even more devastating was that the boy Laura killed was no stranger but a good friend of hers, a boy from her crowd. Some said Mike Douglas was her boyfriend. Or had been, or maybe she wanted him to be. Douglas was also a senior at Midland's Robert E. Lee High School, also seventeen. A star athlete, the kind of boy other boys wanted to be around, the kind of boy the girls sidled up to. That face and that grin stared out from the paper's front page the next day, under the headline "Lee High School Senior Dies in Traffic Mishap."
"I can see his face today," said Robert McCleskey, a contemporary of Laura's and the Bushes' personal accountant, when I interviewed him forty years later. "Always smiling. Just like his dad."
In Midland, Texas, in 1963, there were no grief counselors. No one had yet conceived of the need for such a job. And so the teenagers of Midland were at sea when it came to explaining and contemplating and coping with the shock and guilt and grief and existential angst that the young Laura Welch experienced. There were pastors who might comfort with a piece of Scripture, murmur, "Let us bow our heads in prayer," and ask for the Lord's healing power. There were parents, who might sit at the edge of their child's bed and pat a shoulder heaving with sobs. Mostly, Mike's death left his classmates stunned into silence. For most of them, and certainly for Laura, it was their first experience with someone dying young, behind the wheel. Another classmate had died a year before. Hit in the head during football practice, he was discharged from the hospital after a cursory examination, then went home and died. But with the gregarious, energetic Mike suddenly gone, the kids didn't know what to say. They didn't know what to do. They wept together at his funeral a few days later, groping toward comprehension, the girls falling apart in each other's arms, the boys stoically trudging into the Douglas home to visit the bereaved parents. "It was the first time you find you're not bulletproof and invincible," McCleskey recalled. "You don't have to deal with death. It was the first time we had to deal with all that."
Laura suffered alone. The pain was "crushing," she said years later. When all her friends went to Mike's funeral, she stayed home. Even her best friend then, who has grown to be her closest confidante, did not reach out to her. When I asked Regan Gammon, now a community activist in Austin, to recall how Laura coped with the accident, she said, "That was a very hard time. He was wonderful. It changed everyone in some way. I know I was so sad I might not have been able to see how sad Laura was. He was a very close friend of Laura's."
"Have you ever been around a high school where that sort of thing happened?" asked Tobia Hochman Gunesch, who had lived two doors down the street from Laura for much of her life and went on to become the salutatorian of Laura's graduating class. "There was a lot of high school girls' sobbing. I'm sure I never said anything directly to her, and I bet most people didn't."
High school life went on, and later that month the horror and shame that afflicted Texans from the front page of the Midland Star-Telegram came from the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, who had been gunned down in Dallas as he drove through town in an open Lincoln Continental. After Mike Douglas's death, Laura stayed home from school for a few weeks, and when she returned, nobody said a word about the car crash to her. The police accident report notes that the pavement was dry and the visibility excellent on the night Laura flew through the stop sign at 50 miles per hour. The photos in the police file show an intersection bisecting the flat Texas landscape, a stop sign unobscured by buildings or shrubs, nothing but utility poles marching toward the horizon. They show the violence of the impact: Mike Douglas's '62 Corvair looks like one of those carcasses police departments put by the side of the road to scare people off drinking and driving. Its metal hood and right front side panel are crumpled like a ball of paper, its entire chassis wrenched out of shape. The report by the officer on the scene notes that the investigation was not complete, but if there was any follow-up investigation, those results have long since disappeared from the files at the Midland County Attorney's Office. An air of mystery still surrounds the crash. Folks in Midland were eager to ask questions: What was Laura doing way out of town that night? Where was she going? Who was she going to meet? But in any event, she was not charged, not even ticketed for running through the stop sign, although Douglas's death was the second fatality at that same intersection that year. The police reportedly found no evidence of drinking or excessive speed, although the report is inconclusive as to whether she was tested for alcohol. Perhaps the local authorities regarded the whole episode the same way that Laura herself described it to me, as "a tragic accident." Certainly, many of her fellow Lee students saw it that way. Perhaps, like many white teenagers of comfortable means, then and now, Laura Welch was granted that chance to make a terrible mistake without it ruining her life. Perhaps Mike Douglas's parents, who lived out in the country and weren't part of the more affluent set in town, didn't have the right connections to press for a more vigorous investigation. Perhaps they didn't have the inclination. Perhaps the powers-that-be in Midland decreed that Laura had suffered enough. Certainly when she came back to school, she was more subdued than ever. No one would have needed to ask her why.
In the 1964 Rebelee yearbook, the list of clubs and associations behind the name of Laura Welch is shorter than many, and longer than some. She was neither a loner nor a class leader. She was not one of those supernovas who blaze through high school. She is listed as a member of the Junior Council and a homecoming queen nominee, as well as a Student Council alternate. Some other girl became homecoming queen. The yearbook does not list her making National Honor Society for her academic achievements, or joining the Future Teachers of America, despite her current reputation as an intellectual and a girl who had devoted herself to teaching by the second grade.
Her dark hair is parted on the side, and Laura is wearing it in a bouffant flip. She is smiling in the yearbook picture; she is the prettiest girl on the page, one pleasant face in a stack of fifteen seniors, not a particularly remarkable girl. She is easy to overlook. But there is no overlooking Mike Douglas in that same yearbook. There is a two-page memoriam to him.
On the left is his senior photo, displaying his good facial bones and wide smile. On the right is a poem and two more photos, of him running in his track uniform and of him sitting in his open Jeep, the one he drove around at high school games, the one he adorned with a huge confederate flag on the frame to pay homage to the school's namesake, the Civil War's legendary Southern general Robert E. Lee.
The poem is aching and awkward, and I read it in the library of Lee High School. At the next tables lunky bored teenage boys either dozed or talked trash when the librarian was out of earshot. They wore their pants baggy, drooping below the elastic of their boxer shorts, and many had earrings. A fight broke out in the courtyard between a couple of black boys, and suddenly the library boys came to life, and ran outside to check out what was happening. They ran right past an old Civil War cannon that sat rusting in the school courtyard, the wood of its wheel spokes rotting. The bell rang just then, signaling a change of periods, and students burst into the courtyard. Fragments of noisy conversations -- some in English, some in Spanish -- floated on the air. "He an asshole!" a girl in a tight camisole and head wrap passionately declared to her friend. "When you gonna tell him he an asshole?" Her friend clutched her books and tossed her hair, and the pair stormed by the cannon, with its plaque saying it was dedicated by Mr. and Mrs. W. T. Douglas, in memory of their son Michael. Ancient history.
I went back inside the library. An entire glass display case had been given over to current history -- the accomplishments of that once unremarkable girl, now the first lady of the United States. Here was Laura Bush in a mint-green silk suit, on the cover of Parade magazine, being praised for her reassuring manner after the trauma of September 11, 2001. Here was the student directory for her graduating class. I looked through the yearbook again. On the page in front of me, the poem eulogizing Mike Douglas evoked a different era, before high school violence and racial crisis and careful data chronicling the achievement gaps between the poor and middle class, before girls cussed right out loud, in the hallways, as good as the boys. Reading the poem, I could envision the yearbook adviser as the grief counselor, leaning over her student editors, in their white blouses with the Peter Pan collars, as they chewed on their pencils and struggled to eulogize their friend.
Always I'll recall
That sense of fun,
The effervescent good will
The sportsmanship.
And -- the obedience to duty
That was Mike Douglas.
...So -- I'll close my eyes
And remember.
And I'll smile.
Anytime Laura Bush chooses to reminisce about her Midland roots by paging through her yearbook, Mike Douglas is forever seventeen, forever grinning, forever lithe in running shorts, forever casting a shadow over her. The serenity and strength that Americans have come to admire in their first lady are qualities hard-won. Causing Mike Douglas's death, Laura Bush told me, "made me have more of a perspective on life. And maybe I would already have had that perspective anyway. I just got it at seventeen. Certainly, as a parent, you have another perspective on a tragic accident like that. You are aware at the time, but you don't know the true implications until you have your own children.
"I grieved a lot. It was a horrible, horrible tragedy. It's a terrible feeling to be responsible for an accident. And it was horrible for all of us to lose him, especially since he was so young," she said in an interview with Oprah magazine. "But at some point I had to accept that death is a part of life, and as tragic as losing Mike was, there was nothing anyone could do to change that....It was a comeuppance. At that age, you think you're immortal, invincible. You never expect to lose anybody you love when...
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