Stealing a reporter's heart, striking fear in handlers'

She would usually begin by saying she couldn't really talk. Then, overcome by impeccable manners and a native loquaciousness, she'd get going despite herself.

I started to notice that I made all the calls on Thursdays.

I came to look forward to Thursdays with Roberta. Once she picked up the phone "fixin' to get pretty" with a trip to the hairdresser. Still, she took a few minutes to chat.

Another time, when I asked about possible running mates, she seemed to be recalling a "be nice" lecture. "I think every one of these people, Democrat and Republican, are wonderful people," she said. "Don't you?"

Last month, I pushed a little too far when I asked about her son's reportedly explosive temper.

"They can say that, but it doesn't make it true. Absolutely not. Absolutely not," Mrs. McCain declared. "And even if I did know something derogatory about my son, I just wouldn't tell it. Would you say something like that about your son or brother?"

No, I conceded, I wouldn't. That made me feel pretty small -- the occasional curse of pushy reporters.

Last week, I told Mrs. McCain that I would leave her alone for a while -- but that I still hoped for that interview someday.

She told me she would prefer it if I didn't say a word about our little talks. But I told her I wanted to tell readers that they were missing out on some pretty fine stories.

"All right," she said. "I trust you."

Mrs. McCain told me she was sure we had a lot in common, both of us being so interested in politics. She said she loved getting up every morning and living in Washington, "such an interesting town."

"When this whole thing is over, I will tell you some of my views," Mrs. McCain offered. "We'll get together."

I told her I would like that.

"You could come over here and have some tea," she said. "Yes, come over and put that pencil away. Then we could really talk."

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james.rainey@latimes.com