Advise and Consent

by Allen Drury

  “I will,” Brig said, and added contemptuously, ‘If I thought you had the guts to match your mouth, I’d be worried.”

  “Just watch,” Fred said. “Little Brigham may be surprised.”

  “Listen, Fred,” Senator Anderson said. “I’m not scared, and I’m not quitting. Have you got that straight?”

  “I’ve got it,” Senator Van Ackerman said.

  “Tell the man who took you off the leash,” Brigham Anderson said. “He may want to know.”

  “God damn it,” Fred said with furious anger, “if you think you can talk to me—”

  But the senior Senator from Utah had hung up on his raving rejoinder, and that was that. Unwise again, in all probability; but a more placating tone would have made no difference, and a man, however driven, had to stand up to such as Fred Van Ackerman for the sake of his own self-respect, if he was a man.

  Which left the President and a conversation he could well foresee. In the interval before it came he received two telegrams from home, one signed by his parents and his brother and sisters which said, WE ARE ALL WITH YOU AS ALWAYS, ALL LOVE, and one from his high-school chum in Ogden which said, WE’VE LICKED THEM BEFORE AND WE CAN DO IT AGAIN, LET ME KNOW WHAT I CAN DO FROM HERE. These made him feel better for a little while, and it occurred to him that it would also be nice to hear from Spring Valley as well. There was no answer at the house, however, and he decided that Mabel and Pidge were probably over at the Knoxes. He expected he could talk to them a little later if they were, for he had just about decided now that it was time to call Harley, and to try to reach Orrin, through Beth, wherever he was out in Illinois. Before he could proceed with this the buzzer sounded and when he lifted the phone the girl said, “Senator, it’s the President!” in an excited voice.

  “Yes, sir,” he said crisply, and the response came back as he knew it would, light and airy and full of good will, for why should he be brutal when others were so skillfully being brutal for him?

  “Brigham!” the President said. “How are you today, you earnest young man?”

  An expression of distaste crossed the Senator’s face, but he tried to make his reply as impassive as possible.

  “I hope I am always that when serious matters are involved, Mr. President,” he said, knowing he sounded stuffy but too tired and angry to care very much. The President chuckled as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Oh, you are, you son of a gun,” he said jovially, “indeed you are. I’m sorry I didn’t return your call yesterday, but I got tied up in the afternoon with some Boy Scouts and a cancer group and the Sudanese Ambassador and a delegation from the Portland Rose Festival with a couple of plants for the Rose Garden—” He paused with a comic laugh. “More damned chicken feed attached to this job,” he said candidly. “Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t manage to talk to you, and I hope you forgive me.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Brig said calmly. “I thought maybe you were having a farewell talk with James Morton before sending him on his way.”

  “I want to explain to you about that, Brigham,” the President began confidentially, and with a sudden impatience Senator Anderson interrupted.

  “Look, Mr. President,” he said. “Let’s skip the explanations, shall we? We’re all grown up, so let’s just skip it. I’ve had all I need in the way of explanations since yesterday afternoon.”

  There was a pause, and when the President resumed it was in a rather puzzled tone.

  “I’m sorry it has upset you, Brigham,” he said, “but I do feel in fairness to myself I should just say that it seemed to me best under the circumstances that he be sent away in order to clear the way for whatever might be necessary. I wanted to explain it to you yesterday, except, as I say, I got tied up.”

  “‘Whatever may be necessary’ is a delicate way to put it,” Brig said. “Such as destroying me, for instance.”

  “Now, Brigham,” the President said comfortably, “that’s putting it much too dramatically, you know. I don’t know exactly what you have in mind, but I’m sure it isn’t as fierce as all that. I’ll admit I did hope that a chance to think it over for a day or two might persuade you to change your mind, but as for destroying you, as you put it—how have I been doing that?”

  “By turning Fred Van Ackerman loose on me,” Brig said. The consummate actor, politician, student of human nature, leader of men, and global statesman to whom he was talking said, “No!” in a shocked voice.

  “Brigham,” he said solemnly, “believe me, I don’t have any idea what Fred Van Ackerman has been doing. I haven’t seen Fred Van Ackerman, I haven’t called Fred Van Ackerman—”

  “No, indeed,” Senator Anderson said bluntly, “but he has called you, and not half an hour ago. Isn’t that true?”

  “He did call me, yes,” the President admitted after a little silence. “But he didn’t tell me what he had been doing to you, if anything. And I didn’t ask him.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Brig said bitterly. “You don’t want to burden your conscience with knowing. But he told you he had me all softened up, didn’t he? And your lying nominee for Secretary of State joined in and confirmed it, didn’t he?”

  “You seem determined to turn this into something hostile between us, Brigham,” the President said sorrowfully. “I really don’t see what it gains you, honestly I don’t. Fred suggested I might want to talk to you and see how you were feeling about it by now, and Bob said he thought it might be a good idea, too. I swear that’s all.”

  “You’ve cleaned up their language a good bit,” Brig said grimly, and the President responded more lightly.

  “Well,” he said, “they both did seem a little hot under the collar, but I suppose there’s two sides to it. I gather they got you a little annoyed, too.”

  “Not annoyed, exactly,” Senator Anderson said. “Just weary of lying, two-faced, deceitful people, that’s all.”

  “Oh, well,” the President said quickly, “lying and deceit can apply to many things and many people, you know, Brigham.”

  This time it was the Senator who paused, and when he spoke it was in a tired but still stubborn tone.

  “That is very true,” he said quietly. “Shall we compare notes?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” the President said comfortably. “I think we understand each other, thoroughly. You really don’t think you can see your way clear to changing your mind, then? It would make life so much simpler for us both.”

  “I really don’t think I can, Mr. President,” Brig said.

  “And that is your final word?” the President inquired.

  “Until it reaches the floor of the Senate,” Brig said.

  “Well,” the President said regretfully, “I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t like to see a young fellow with all your promise getting into a fight with a fellow like Fred Van Ackerman. You know,” he remarked thoughtfully, “he seems to be completely unscrupulous.”

  “I assumed that was why you selected him to do your dirty work for you,” Senator Anderson said evenly. The President sighed.

  “I had hoped we could avoid this type of argument,” he said. “I thought we could reach an understanding like reasonable men. Apparently we can’t.

  “We could have,” Senator Anderson said, “if you had kept your word.”

  “I gave no word,” the President said, “except to the country, to protect her interests.”

  “The country!” Brig said bitterly. “The country. You’re always prating about the country and you want to give her a liar like that for Secretary of State.”

  “As well a liar like that for Secretary of State,” the President said smoothly, “as for United States Senator.”

  “It isn’t comparable,” Brig said desperately. “How could people possibly be hurt, how could foreign policy possibly be affected, by what I—what I—It isn’t comparable at all.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” the President said, “but try to tell Main Street.”

 
; “If society were honest—” Senator Anderson began bitterly, and stopped.

  “It isn’t,” the President said practically. “It can’t afford to be. Well, I’m sorry, as I say. Fred sounded quite determined, and I expect he has a very mean streak in him. If you won’t change, that is.”

  “No, Mr. President,” Brig said, “I won’t change.”

  “He said something about shooting the works at this COMFORT rally of his tonight,” the President said thoughtfully. “Of course I don’t know what that means. He might do anything, I suppose, the type he is.”

  “No, Mr. President,” Brig said again. “I won’t change.”

  “Good-by, Brigham,” the President said. “I’m sorry it’s turned out this way. It’s tough for a young fellow in your position. I hope it doesn’t hurt too badly.”

  “I appreciate the thought,” Senator Anderson said bitterly. “It’s nice to have you thinking of me.”

  “Come and see me sometime after it’s over,” the President offered, “and we’ll have a drink and bury the hatchet.”

  “Oh, sure,” Brig said with a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, sure.”

  “Sometime...” the President said vaguely, let his voice trail away, and hung up.

  After that there was just one thing he wanted, and that was to get home as fast as possible, to get away from the Capitol and out of the fetid air he suddenly felt surrounded by, to see his own yard and his own house and his own wife and daughter, and try to restore some semblance of rational sensibility to the world. But a couple of details remained. He picked up the phone and said, “The Vice President, please.” A voice promptly said, “Hello,” and because of the informality and the fact that it was Saturday afternoon he took it to be Harley’s and began without preliminaries.

  “Harley,” he said, “how do you feel about Saturday afternoon press conferences? I think I’m going to take you up on that offer right away, if you’re agreeable.”

  “Who is this?” the voice on the other end inquired.

  “Isn’t this the Vice President?” Brig said sharply.

  “This is his assistant,” the voice said. “Is this Senator Anderson?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said.

  “I’m sorry he isn’t here, sir,” the voice said. “He had to catch a plane to go to Kansas City to make a speech tonight and another tomorrow afternoon. He mentioned you and said he wanted to wait as late as possible before leaving because you might be calling, but when he hadn’t heard from you by three he felt he really must catch the plane. He said to tell you he will be back late tomorrow if you still care to call him.”

  “And you don’t know where to reach him in Kansas City?” Brig said.

  “At the Muehlbach tonight,” the voice said, “but he won’t be there until late. I’d suggest you wait and try him at home tomorrow night.”

  “I see,” Brig said.

  “He also said to tell you his promise still stands,” the voice said encouragingly.

  “Thanks,” Brig said automatically. “You tell him I am very grateful for that, even if I have missed him now.”

  “He waited as long as he could, sir,” the voice said, somewhat defensively.

  “Of course,” Brig said. “I understand that, and I appreciate it. Thank you very much.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” the voice said.

  And now it was with a rapidly rising worry that he might have waited until too late that he asked for outside and dialed the Knoxes’ number; but even with all the evidence before him he had not been able to actually believe in the fearful dangers of his own position until he had heard them confirmed by the President himself. Now he could only hope quick action would bring him the help he obviously needed. Beth Knox came on the wire and he made no attempt to conceal the urgency in his voice.

  “Bee,” he said quickly, “there’s something important I want to find out from you.”

  “Hi, Brig,” she said carefully, and even in his haste he could sense a caution that wasn’t like a member of the Knox family, “what’s that?”

  “I want to know where Orrin is,” he said.

  “Oh, that,” she said, and the caution, curiously, was relaxed a little.

  “Yes,” he said, “that. It really is important, Bee. How do I reach him?”

  “I don’t exactly know,” she said. “He sometimes gets rather mysterious about these things, presumably to keep me on my toes. Might be another woman, you know.” She laughed. “Can’t you see Orrin with a painted houri? I can. That’s why I never worry. Brig,” she said more seriously, “I really don’t know. You might try his brother in Cairo, but I think he’s only passing through there for an hour or two—it’s one of those hop, skip, and a jump affairs all over Little Egypt, eating chicken a la king and Getting In Touch With The People. So I honestly wouldn’t know. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Well,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice but not succeeding very well, “no, I guess not, except that if he calls you, you might have him call me. I’d really like him to.”

  “I expect he won’t,” Beth said, “but if he does, where?”

  “Why, home,” Brig said in some surprise. “We aren’t planning to go out tonight—unless you want to invite us over, that is.”

  “Love to,” Beth said, and he could sense that the caution had returned again, “but it may not work out.”

  “That’s an odd statement to make,” he said, and she only laughed in a noncommittal way. “I tell you what, Bee,” he said with a sudden inspiration, “you come over to see us. I’ll get some steaks and fixings,” he said, his voice quickening because for just a second he almost persuaded himself that this was just like any other happy night, that there wasn’t any cloud over his world and that if he pretended hard enough that everything was all right it would be, “and we’ll have the first cookout of the season. I’m sure the girls will be delighted. How about it, Bee?”

  “Brig,” Beth said, and she sounded tired and compassionate in a way that suddenly worried him very much, “you go home and see how things are and then if you want to call me again, you can.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked in genuine alarm. “Beth, what’s happened?” A wave of fear crossed his heart. “Has anything happened to Mabel and Pidge? Have they done anything to them?”

  “Oh, my dear, no,” Beth said. “No. They’re quite all right.”

  “They’re with you, then,” he said. “They must be. Why?”

  “You go home,” Beth said again, “and I think Mabel will be along presently.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked despairingly. “Beth, what’s happened?”

  “She won’t tell me,” Beth said gently, “but I think perhaps she will want to tell you.”

  “All right,” he said dully like a little boy obeying teacher, for he knew that something terrible must have happened and he did not know now whether he could handle it or not, “all right. I’ll go home.”

  He did not know exactly how he managed to put his desk in order, dismiss the girls, go downstairs, get his car, safely negotiate Saturday afternoon traffic, and get home, for the well-trained mind has a way of functioning automatically in times of stress and he seemed to be out of touch with it just then: it had to get him home by itself. Presently he found himself in his own street approaching his own house, though he could not have told how he got there; the only thing that struck him at that moment was how peaceful and ordinary everything seemed, some kids playing down the block, guests gathering for a party across the street, a dog barking, the sound of birds, a warm wind stirring in the trees, a hazy golden peace on the world, a sense of happiness and well-being filling the neighborhood. Except for him, he thought dully; except for him.

  Nor did he know, when he had parked the car and gone in and automatically taken a shower, changed from business suit to sports shirt, shorts, and sandals and come back down again, exactly what was expected of him or what he was supposed to do in the situation in w
hich he found himself. His wife and daughter were gone, Mabel had packed a suitcase, Pooh and Piglet and Raggedy Anne had been included; and it was obvious that they intended to stay awhile, yet on the basis of what he could find upstairs he had no means of knowing why. Beth’s cryptic remarks hadn’t been much help, and though he had half expected a dramatic note in the bedroom—except that drama wasn’t Mabel’s forte—there had been none. It was not until he wandered, bewildered, into the kitchen in search of a glass of milk that he found what he was looking for, propped up against a box of soap on the drainboard. “Thought it best to take Pidge to Beth’s,” it said. “Will be back to fix your dinner and talk later.” Attached to it with a straight pin was an envelope with Mabel’s name typed on it, apparently delivered by Western Union messenger.

  He took it out on the sun porch, sat down in the glider, and removed the contents, which appeared at first blush to be the sort of ugly illiterate filth that comes to many an official desk, the snarl of the beast in the jungle that underlies the polite exchanges of society. Composed of pasted letters clipped from a newspaper, its message was quite explicit enough, even for Mabel, who was not very sophisticated about such matters, or indeed about much of anything.

  His first impulse, a standard one in the capital in times of crisis, was to mix himself a drink; but he made himself reject the idea of liquor, concentrate upon the problem at hand and face up, however painful it might be, to the communication he held in his hand and the implications of his wife’s abrupt departure upon receipt of it. He had never given her cause to believe it, yet in some way apparently almost instinctive she evidently did believe it, or at any rate she believed it enough to feel that it might be possible: and he realized now with a terrible clarity how badly he must have failed her down the years, not as a husband or a father or a provider, not sexually or socially or in any other of the ways that mattered together but did not matter so much one by one, but simply because in none of these relationships that went into the total structure of a good marriage had he given her enough of himself. Always, he could see now, there must have been some area where she felt herself barred and kept out, some inner kingdom of his being where she was forever alien. A heavy pity for them both touched his heart, for he had never meant it to be that way, he had done his best, he had always tried to be kind, and apparently it hadn’t been enough; and he knew now that it was inevitable, he couldn’t have helped it, it had to be so, for it was his nature to walk his way alone, and with the greatest and best and most sincere will in the world he could not have overcome it no matter how he tried. It went far beyond what a cleverer wife might have missed in the self-confusions brought on by more astute attempts to analyze it and reached into a region of instinctive understanding where someone like Mabel, not even knowing what she knew, would even so realize enough to suspect that her own exclusion might cover areas of his heart where others might conceivably be able to enter.