"It's all over, Mike," Cromwell said. "Even if it wasn't, I wouldn't attack the Communist Party. I believe in all parties having a right to put their program before the people."
"You're not going to attack the Communist Party," Mike said. "You're going to attack a Communist."
"I don't know any Communists."
"I'll tell you about one. You're going to attack him in your speech after you've been nominated."
"I thought you said it wasn't smart to alienate the Communist Party," Hank said. "You said you wanted to keep them neutral."
"It's all in how you do it," Mike said. "Pick the right Communist and even the Communist Party won't care if you attack him. I'll pick the right one." He turned and looked at Cromwell. When he spoke his voice was hard. "O.K., John, snap out of it. You haven't got all day. Right after lunch you'll be nominated and you'll win the nomination. I'm going to give you one more shot of whisky to steady you down. Then you're going to drink some black coffee. Then I'll brief you for the floor. You have to play it just the way I say, understand?"
Cromwell took the bottle and splashed an inch of whisky in his glass. Over the rim of the glass he stared at Mike, his face gray, his nicotine-stained lips biting the edge of the glass. Hope washed across his face. He barely tasted the whisky and put the glass down. He stood up and faced Mike.
"Is there still a chance on the nomination, Mike?" he asked.
Mike nodded.
"What if I don't mention the Communist?"
"You don't have a chance," Mike said.
Cromwell looked at Clara and then at Mike. He stood very still, as if he were listening for a signal. His mouth opened slightly and his eyes watered.
They knew what he was thinking. He was thinking of the years that led to this day. The meetings he had addressed, the countless petty letters, the phone calls, the anonymous hands he had shaken, the innumerable commitments he had made, the thousands of faces that had looked up at him as he spoke. All of this was telescoped into a small, heavy recollection. And he thought of the bottles of grappa he had drunk, the empty bourbon bottles he had dumped into hotel wastebaskets, the fashionable martinis he had drunk on the Peninsula and in Beverly Hills and La Jolla, the endless meals of pizza and fried chicken and potato salad he had eaten before he could speak. Aspirin, dirty sheets, midnight caucuses, newspaper stories, telephones, political throw-aways, radio microphones, stacks of precinct lists, ditto machines, billboards . . . he thought of the debris of politics and how much of that debris he had created. He thought of the hangovers, county fairs, trotting races, finance committee meetings, county central committees, endorsements, meeting in hot hotel rooms.
And today was the result. Like a tiny clear drop pressed out of a vast, dirty, heaped-up, chaotic harvest this was the result: this day. The drop trembled before him. He had to move it or it would fall, be gone forever.
He licked his lips.
"What is the Communist's name, Mike?" Cromwell said.
"I'll write it down for you on a piece of paper," Mike said. His voice was empty of exultation or relief, as if he had known what the decision would be. "Now all of you clear out. I have to talk to John about his speech. He has to take a shower, brush his hair, put on a clean shirt. They'll start the afternoon session in a few minutes.".
As they went out the waiter arrived with a pitcher of coffee.
CHAPTER 24
"As Men Grow More Alike . . ."
The chairwoman called the meeting to order. Her orchid was wired and only the throat of the flower was still purple. Her suit was stained with sweat. The delegates fell silent.
Mike was sitting with Hank and Georgia in the rear row. Behind Mike two men were leaning against the wall. Cutler was sitting near the front of the hall. Cromwell sat in the middle of the auditorium, in a little island of empty seats. He bent forward with his chin on his hands and looked somberly out over the crowd.
"You will recall that the name of Richard Cutler was put in nomination this morning," the chairwoman said.
A wave of applause started. Cutler's head came up out of the crowd and he half stood. He grinned and then, at a loss, made a V-sign with his fingers. The applause deepened.
Cromwell rubbed his eyes and then buried his face in his hands.
The chairwoman raised her hand. The applause died. "The chair now declares the floor open to receive any further nominations for endorsement by the Democratic Party for governor," she said.
There was a sudden silence in the hall. Then a man raised his hand and stood up. He was a short man with a round mouth.
"Madam Chairman, I am Jim Bellows from San Bernardino County," the man said. "The purpose of a political meeting is to ascertain the will and desire of the delegates. It is my feeling that this meeting has reached unanimity. I saw that we are agreed that Dick Cutler is the man we want for governor. I move that the nominations be closed and Dick Cutler be made the unanimous choice of this convention."
The hall was very quiet. The delegates looked up at the chairwoman. The chairwoman stared at Bellows for a moment. Then a look of relief crossed her face. At once the uncertainty vanished from the faces of the delegates.
A roar went up from the delegates. A few of them stood up in their seats. The Cutler posters began to wave above the crowd. The delegates along the aisles spilled out of their seats. The round prosperous faces opened and shouted. A serpentine formed and began to circle the hall. It grew thicker as people spilled out of their seats. Noisemakers appeared and long bright streams of confetti floated loosely above the crowd. At once the temperature in the hall rose and the faces of the delegates began to sweat. The serpentine grew and thickened and the noise rose to a bellowing din. Someone began to sing "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here" and the identical mouths opened and roared out the song. Hands reached out from the serpentine and pulled people into the stamping, shuffling crowd.
A woman darted from the crowd and leaned over Mike. Her face was perspiring and excited. She shouted something and he shook his head. At once her face went flat with suspicion and anger. She turned and threw herself into the crowd; was swallowed up, disappeared.
Mr. Appleton and his group of old people sat in their seats, staring stonily at the stage. Notestein was slumped down in a seat, studying the tip of his cigar. Cromwell had his head on his arms. The rest of the delegates were in the serpentine or milling around Cutler.
The chairwoman smiled down damply on the crowd.
"Mike, they can't do that," Georgia said: "They haven't even heard Cromwell speak yet. It's not fair."
Mike was slumped down in his seat. He shrugged.
"They can do whatever they want," he said. "That's democracy. Whatever the majority wants they can have."
"For Christ's sake, Mike, stop them," Hank said. "These people are on a jag. They don't know what they're doing. Go up and tell the chairwoman. that they have to listen to Cromwell."
"I'm not a delegate," Mike said. "I can't."
"I'm going up and tell her to stop it," Hank said. "This is rotten."
Georgia looked up at him. His thin face was pale. "Do something, Mike," she said. "If you don't do something, Cutler's won. And they haven't even heard Cromwell yet. They won't even listen to him."
Mike looked at her. There was a pitiless, angry tear in each of her eyes. Her jaw was hard. Mike reached up and pulled Hank down by the coat tails.
"Sit down," he said. "Don't do anything rash. The chairwoman wgn't listen to you anyway. She's one of Cutler's people. She didn't expect the motion for unanimous nomination, but she was glad to hear it. She won't listen to you. Why should she? This is pure democracy, Hankus. The will of the people is being expressed."
"Knock that crap off, Mike," Hank said. "This makes me sick. I hope they clobber Cromwell, but they ought to listen to him first. God damn it, Mike, you can make her stop it. Talk to her."
"Not me. Not when the will of the people is being expressed."
"Mike, look at Cromwell," Georgia said. "Thi
s is killing him. You've got to do something."
The empty seats around Cromwell had grown. Somehow he looked smaller; crouched antlike in his seat, remote and protective, trying to shut out the sound of the crowd.
The chairwoman spoke into the microphone. Her words boomed out over the hall, shattered against the crowd and were unheard. Her voice became more shrill. The screaming voice pleaded in enormous sharp sounds and, finally, pried a few groups loose from the serpentine. They stood, their faces flushed, staring up at her. Gradually the serpentine broke up; like a segmented collective animal it broke down. The shouting began to die away. There was a moment when the serpentine trembled and then, in an instant, the noise was gone and the people were all individuals again; separate and personal. Reluctantly they began to walk back toward their seats, their faces still tense with excitement.
"It has been moved that the nomination be closed and this convention unanimously endorse Richard Cutler as Democratic candidate for governor," the chairwoman said. "Is there a second to that motion?"
Several voices shouted "Second" from the floor.
"The motion is now open to discussion," the chairwoman said.
On the far right a tall thin man stood up. He wore a dark suit and a white clerical collar. He had a sharp face and the wide cruel eyes of a child.
"The chair recognizes the Reverend John Seaton from Altadena," the chairwoman said.
Mike turned and signaled to one of the two men standing against the wall. The man bent forward and Mike whispered something to him. The man started down the left aisle.
Seaton stood for a long moment without speaking. His eyes ran over the crowd, stopped briefly on groups that were talking and waited them into silence. When the entire hall was quiet he spoke. The words fell from his lips without changing the severe expression on his face.
"I am-curious to see how immoral a political assemblage can become without being aware of the fact," he said bitterly. "We have gathered to hear the various people who wish to represent the Democratic Party at the polls. As I understand it, it is our task to hear all of the candidates and then to select the one we feel best qualified."
He paused briefly and looked at the chairwoman. The delegates stirred in their seats and a murmur of voices protested. There was a brittle hostility in the air.
"We have been given a task to do by a large number of party members," he went on. "That they selected us as delegates indicated their faith in our judgment." He paused and went on in a voice that was suddenly thundering. "And we have betrayed their trust. We have not listened to all of the candidates. We have no way of knowing whether we might not make a better selection. We have acted like excitable children; wild with emotion, swept off our feet. Is this what we were selected to do?"
The delegates were silent. They stared at the Reverend Seaton with an odd intensity. It was the women who reacted first. Female hands flicked at clothes that had become disarranged in the demonstration; elbows were neatly tucked back against bodies; the women sat up straighter. Pieces of Kleenex were passed over moist faces; handkerchiefs were pressed against foreheads. The men watched Reverend Seaton stubbornly, bull-like, impatiently.
"Friends, I do not care who you select as our candidate today," Reverend Seaton said. "We have an abundance of excellent candidates. I have no objection to the name that has been put in nomination. I know it is the name of an honest and God-fearing man. But, friends, we have a duty. And we are not doing that duty. We are indulging in an emotional binge . . . " and he smiled wryly, tolerantly, " . . . and we shall have to suffer an emotional hangover."
There was a sigh of laughter.
The men looked aimlessly around the hall. They looked at the chairwoman, their eyes searched for Cutler, and finally came back to the tall figure of Reverend Seaton. Most of the men shifted in their seats, looked down at their hands, fingered the badges on their lapels. They were impatient to make the nomination; they were angry with the minister.
Reverend Seaton finished. He stood for a moment and looked at the crowd. His lips moved as if he were praying. Then he sat down. The hall was quiet. A hand went into the air.
"The chair recognizes Mr. Bellows from San Bernardino County," the chairwoman said.
Bellows' face was solemn. He turned and looked in the direction of Reverend Seaton.
"Madam Chairman, I have been deeply moved by what the Reverend Seaton has said," Bellows said. "I now believe that I was mistaken in my motion. We should instead hear everyone. That is our clear duty. I was swept off my feet, carried away. I apologize to this group. With the consent of the person who seconded my motion, I shall withdraw my motion."
The crowd stirred. Several people said they would withdraw their second, The chairwoman looked confused.
"That's it," Mike whispered. "Cutler's through. The thing a crowd like this hates worse than anything else is to be foolish. And they feel foolish now. And Cutler did it. All they needed was a preacher to tell them and they all start writhing."
Hank looked at Mike, startled. He glanced around at the crowd. Most of the women were staring at Cutler with hostility. The men looked dazed and resentful. Cutler started to stand, saw the faces of the delegates, and slowly sat down.
"The floor is open for further nominations," the chairwoman said.
Reverend Seaton's arm rose.
"I am going to put a name in nomination," he said. "I am going to put this person in nomination, not because I know him or because I am his special advocate. I am going to put him in nomination because he has been much discussed at this convention. There are many of us who would like to hear him. We must judge his qualifications as we must judge the qualifications of all who ask our endorsement. For that reason, and no other, I put in nomination the name of Mr. John Cromwell."
The hall was silent. The delegates carefully avoided looking at one another. The Reverend Seaton waited, but no one seconded the nomination. He looked over the hall and there was a fluttering of heads, a bobbing away, a refusal to meet his eye.
Bellows seconded the nomination.
The delegates turned toward the empty seats surrounding Cromwell. Cromwell's head was still in his hands.
"Mr. Cromwell?" the chairwoman said in a strained voice.
Cromwell lifted his head. He looked coldly at the delegates. His lip curled. He stared for a moment at the chairwoman and she flushed. Her fingers reached for the wilted orchid, slowly picked off small pieces of the flower and dropped them to the floor. Absently one of her feet scratched her leg. Cromwell's big, unruly head swung once more over the crowd. He stood up slowly.
Even in a fresh suit he looked disheveled. As he walked down the aisle, his Congress suspenders showed. The cuffs of his shirt stuck out from his suit. They were frayed. His vest pockets were crowded with pens, pencils, bits of paper, cigars. When he came to the stairs, he paused for a moment. He put his hands on his hips and then slowly climbed the stairs. He walked across the stage, turned and grasped the lectern with his big knobby hands.
He looked out over the crowd with contempt and disbelief. He rubbed his hand across his neck.
"There are some things more important than the Democratic Party," Cromwell said in a tired voice. "One thing that is more important than the Democratic Party is common honesty. Another thing is common sense. Common honesty would not let us come to this convention already committed to a candidate." He seemed bored, idly removed. "For the purpose of this convention is to select a candidate. Each of you represents a huge voiceless mass of voters. They have asked you to search out a candidate for them. They have given you a trust. In common honesty you must, I feel, listen to all candidates."
A reflex, a shiver of tension went across the crowd. Cromwell moved his big hands to the front of the lectern, pulled himself forward. He looked unkempt, old-fashioned, pedantic, scornful. They watched him with a queer resisting attention, as if they did not want to hear, but knew they must.
Hank watched the confusion vanish from the faces of the pro
sperous middie-aged men.
"Common sense would have told you that you had fallen victim to a clever campaign . . . so cleverly planned that you parade around with placards that were printed months ago, glut yourselves on free cocktails and canapés, and then persuade yourselves that your foolishness is spontaneity and enthusiasm," Cromwell said. "I do not care that you are manipulated by people who have laid a clever plot for you. But I am disappointed that your common sense was not outraged."
Heads turned toward Cutler, tense with antagonism. The men, finally, had found a common look and posture: they were angry. A voice cut harshly across the silence.
"Come on, Cromwell. Tell us your program. We don't want a sermon. We can go to church tomorrow," the voice said.
It was the second man who had stood behind Mike. He was now sitting in the middle aisle.
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