Advise and Consent

by Allen Drury

  She had known at breakfast that he had been awake most of the night, for she had been too, although Mabel mercifully slept a druglike sleep in the other bed and did not disturb her. She had also known, without his telling her, what he planned to do. They had talked very little at breakfast, but she had seen him go out the door with the same air of implacable determination she had seen many times before. “Good luck,” she had said as she kissed him good-by, and he had nodded rather absently. “I’ve got a lot to do,” he said, “but if you need me here for anything, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll come home if necessary.” “I’ll manage,” she said, and suddenly he had smiled and come back from the whirling storm of his own thoughts. “You always do, Hank,” he said, rubbing his fist against her chin; “that’s one of the reasons I like you.” “It’s mutual,” she said lightly, and he had kissed her with a sudden warmth that showed he was paying attention to it. “Orrin and Beth,” he said with a chuckle. “What makes anybody think he can lick us?” And he had driven off to the Hill comforted and fortified as always.

  This had disposed of the first challenge of the day, and a few minutes later when Hal came down she had disposed of the second by giving him a quick breakfast and telling him firmly to go and get Crystal and get away somewhere and try to enjoy the beautiful weather and forget unpleasant things as much as possible. Her son’s eyes still looked dark with pain and lack of sleep, and she could tell it was not going to be easy for him and his fiancée to escape the shadow hanging over them all; but she also knew that he grasped the wisdom of the advice, for he nodded quickly, gave her a quick kiss and hug and then hopped in his car and drove off. She said a little prayer as he left that the two of them would realize that the fact that life on occasion could be utterly tragic did not mean that it could not also on occasion be utterly happy. She would have to rely on youth and common sense to reassure them on that, and she guessed they would.

  That left only Mabel and Pidge to be looked after and as she stepped out for a moment onto the porch to snap off some tulips and bring them in for the dining-room table she heard sounds of stirring upstairs. She knew this would not be an easy day for any of the Knoxes, but, she thought wryly, that was probably one reason the Lord had made them so tough, so that they could stand things. She stood quietly at the foot of the stairs for a moment, composing her thoughts and her person to their customary serenity, and then went up to say good morning to Brigham Anderson’s widow and child.

  “How are you, Mr. President? I thought I might come down sometime this morning and we could have a talk.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Fred, I do appreciate your call and I would love

  to see you, but you know how it is. I’m just loaded down with work

  this morning and I don’t quite see how—”

  “Perhaps this afternoon, then?”

  “This afternoon, too, I’m afraid. Why don’t I try to square things away later in the week sometime and give you a call?”

  “Well—”

  “You needn’t bother to call me, I’ll call you.”

  “But it may be important for the nomination that I—”

  “I’m sorry, Fred. We’ll just have to wait and see how the week develops. Is that all right with you?”

  “But—”

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Fred. We’ll have that talk sometime, never you fear.”

  “But, God damn it—”

  “Sorry I have to run, Fred, but I do. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I think you’d better see me, Mr. President. After all, I know certain things—”

  “What do you know, Fred? How to murder a man?”

  “....I only did what you wanted me to.”

  “Oh? Who told you that? I don’t remember that I did.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t do anything hasty you might regret, Fred. Now I really must say good-by. It’s been grand talking to you.”

  “But, God damn it—”

  “Good-by, Senator. Keep in touch.”

  Behind the locked doors of the Embassy on Sixteenth Street, Vasily Tashikov sat at his desk staring thoughtfully at the morning papers with their banner headlines and their skillful speculations. So far none of them had related the death of the Senator from Utah directly to the Administration’s drive to confirm Robert A. Leffingwell, but reading between the lines the Soviet Ambassador, who was an astute if humorless man, could perceive that many of them felt there was some connection. This, from what he had observed of all the personalities involved, led him to believe that there might be something damaging to the nominee which had been known to the chairman of the subcommittee, which in turn had brought upon him such pressure that he had gone under. It was the sort of equation a representative of Communism could understand, for in one form or another it happened in his country all the time. He decided he would advise Moscow that the nominee might fail of confirmation, necessitating some revision of plans that were already being formulated on the basis that his reasonable approach to the ambitions of the unfree world might soon be a dominant factor in American foreign policy.

  Not that it would matter in another day or two anyway, the Ambassador thought with a vengeful satisfaction, for very shortly now his government hoped to have an announcement that would put the arrogant capitalist imperialists in their place once and for all. It wasn’t quite certain yet, but the cable the decoders had just given him indicated that only a matter of hours, required by the necessity for complete scientific confirmation, separated his way of life from a new and quite possibly crushing triumph over the other.

  If the President only knew, Harley Hudson thought, how far ahead of him some people were, he might give up trying these indirect approaches to things. The Vice President didn’t suppose he ever would, for that was his nature, but he for one wasn’t fooled by the technique he had just been subjected to.

  It was all very well for him to call up and exchange commiserations on the sad event that had befallen the Senate, but it had been all Harley could do to refrain from a tart rejoinder—in fact, more than tart, for he suspected the President knew considerably more about events leading to the tragedy than had yet been revealed, or might ever be revealed. Something about that White House conference hadn’t quite rung true to the Vice President. He had realized finally that it had been the President’s sudden capitulation, which in spite of Brig’s hopes, spurred by his great relief at having the situation apparently so easily solved, had been just a little too pat, seen in retrospect. It was this realization which had prompted his offer of a joint press conference, unhappily sought too late; and it was this which had turned to an iron indifference to the President’s wishes the sorrow and dismay he had felt when the news came last night.

  The President’s calm show of regret now, in fact, had come close to leaving the Vice President breathless; if what he suspected was true, there had been a monumental nerve and gall about it that had both repelled and fascinated him. This, he supposed, was greatness—this ineffable combination of sincerity, insincerity, straightforwardness, duplicity, determi-nation, adaptability, and sheer downright guts. Thank God he wasn’t great, he told himself with a surge of innocent relief. He would settle for being just what he was, which might not be so very brilliant but at least left him feeling comfortable with himself. He would settle for that, and so, he hoped and believed, would the country, if it should have to come to that.

  Not that he had not found the conversation interesting, of course, as he always did his talks with the President. He was acutely aware that this time the President had called him, not the other way around, and he knew that a number of things had gone into this decision. Most important, he realized, must be the fact that the President felt himself hard-pressed all around and was looking for allies wherever he could find them. This indicated a number of things, and it was with some satisfaction that the Vice President had been able to tell him, when they finally got to it, that there really wasn’t much he could do about the sit
uation in the Senate. He knew the President knew this, but he also knew the President was hoping that it might not be true. “You know my relation to them,” Harley had remarked with a rare touch of humor, “rather like the helpless headmaster of a large and very unruly boys’ school.” The President had laughed and told him that he underestimated his own standing. “Oh, I don’t think so,” the Vice President had replied candidly. “Particularly in my case. Nobody pays any attention to me.” “I’m paying attention to you, Harley,” the President had said, and the Vice President had given a short, sardonic laugh which had effectively stopped the conversation for several seconds until the President finally joined in it heartily. Then he said candidly that he needed Harley’s assistance on the nomination, and would he do everything he could during the day to line up votes? The Vice President had considered temporizing but decided there was no point to it any more, if there ever had been. “I can’t help you, Mr. President,” he had said quietly. “I’ve decided this isn’t a good thing to do. It’s already cost too much in terms of human pain and unhappiness. I’m not having any part of it anymore.” The President had accepted this instantly, thanked him for his courtesy in listening, and hung up. Possibly he hoped second thoughts and reflection would change the Vice President’s mind; if so, he was mistaken.

  It was while he was still feeling happy that he had done the right thing that the phone rang again and he found to his pleasure that perhaps he could be helpful to someone after all. “Harley,” Orrin Knox said bluntly, “how do you feel about Bob Leffingwell now?” “Just the way you do, I imagine,” Harley Hudson replied. “Good,” Senator Knox said. “Come down to my office if you can. We’re having a strategy meeting and I’d be very gratified if you’d join us.” “I will, Orrin,” the Vice President said. “I’ll be right down.”

  At the Office of Defense Mobilization the press was informed that the director would not be in today. There was no answer at his home.

  The line of cars moved slowly around the Tidal Basin in the sparkling sun, the cherry trees floated along the water in great pink clouds. It had been a silent ride from the Westchester, and when they parked by the Jefferson Memorial and got out it was Hal who spoke first.

  “It seems corny to come here,” he said, “but maybe it’s as relaxing as any place.”

  “I think so,” Crystal said, taking his arm. “You know,” she said, with the pleased air of rediscovery Washingtonians feel each spring, “these things really are lovely, aren’t they?”

  “Beautiful,” Hal said. “I suppose this isn’t the time to make the remark about ain’t nature grand and aren’t people awful.”

  “No,” Crystal said, quite severely. “It isn’t the time at all.”

  “All right,” he said meekly. “I won’t.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Walter!” a nearby tourist ordered loudly. “Walter, you and Mimi go stand on the steps. Go stand on the steps. I want to take your picture. GO STAND ON THE STEPS!”

  “By God, Walter,” Hal murmured, “you’d damned well better go and stand on the steps or you’re going to get your little tail tanned. Or maybe,” he added, “it should be the remark about tourists are fascinating, they’re so representative of America. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re making a valiant attempt,” Crystal told him with a rather wan smile, “but I’m not sure it’s good enough.”

  “Oh, now,” he said. “Don’t let it get you down.”

  “How can I help it?” Crystal asked. “Doesn’t it get you down?”

  “Well, sure,” he said, “but you’ve got to keep going.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “People always have to keep going. That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Well, I don’t think—I don’t think he’d want us to mope,” Hal said.

  “It makes me feel the way I felt once when I was ten and heard a man shouting at his wife at the beach,” she said. “Scared to death of the grown-up world.”

  “Well, we’re grown up,” he said. “We’re part of it.”

  “It makes me want to go back,” Crystal said, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

  “Now, stop it,” Hal said severely. “Just stop it. That isn’t going to get anybody anywhere. Let’s go see old Tom.”

  “Now who’s being corny?” Crystal asked with an attempt at a smile that almost succeeded and would in another moment or two. “Let’s go see old Tom and stand by his statue and think Big Thoughts, no doubt. Now who’s corny?”

  “We won’t be able to stand by his statue,” Hal said. “Walter and Mimi will be there having their picture taken. However, it doesn’t hurt to think Big Thoughts once in a while. That’s what places like this are for, I gather, so that we can occasionally.”

  Above them loomed the statue of the President who announced to the world that he had sworn eternal hostility to every form of tyranny over the mind of man, staring across the water at the city where quite a few people still tried quite conscientiously to remain true to his principles.

  “I wonder,” Crystal said, “what he would have thought of all this.”

  “I don’t think he would have approved,” Hal said, “but he probably would have understood. After all, he was a politician himself, you know.”

  “Why does politics have to be so dirty?” Crystal asked bitterly. “Why does it?”

  “I don’t know, is it?” Hal asked reasonably. “I don’t think Stanley Danta is a dirty politician. I don’t think Orrin Knox is. I know lots of people I don’t think are dirty politicians. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose so,” she said as they turned away and left the shrine to the tourists, “but they never seem to win out.”

  “They don’t seem to win out as often as you’d like, that’s what you mean,” Hal said. “They win a good deal of the time. It seems to balance out in the long run.”

  “Always reasonable,” she said. “That’s you men, always settling for half-best.”

  “Certainly not!” he declared with a sudden grin. “How can you depreciate your own value that way?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said with the first genuine smile of the morning, “you’re so cute. Anyway, I think you’re just building up a rationale to justify going into politics yourself.”

  “Would you mind?” he asked seriously.

  “Right now,” she said thoughtfully, “I would. After this is over, I’ll probably feel differently. After all, it’s been my life.”

  “Mine too, of course,” he said. “I can’t remember anything else, really.”

  “Nor can I,” she said. “‘Vote for Orrin and Beth’—‘Vote for Hal and Crystal.’ I suppose it’s a natural.”

  “Hal and Crys,’” he amended. “Sounds more folksy. Got to sound folksy, you know.”

  “We’ll folksy ’em,” Crystal said. “When do you plan to start this?”

  “Oh, a couple of years,” he said. “Go back to Springfield and settle down. Run for the legislature, and so on. After all, the pattern’s all there. Plus the name. Plus your name. How can we miss?”

  “All right,” she said. “Just be prepared for missing. Be prepared for awful things. They can happen.”

  “Now, don’t spoil it,” he said soberly. “Awful things aren’t going to happen to us.”

  “I hope not,” she said fiercely. “Oh, I hope not.”

  “Now you’re going to make me scared of the grown-up world,” he said ruefully, “and that’s no way to launch a political career.”

  She smiled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is your father going to run for President next year?”

  “He hasn’t said,” Hal said, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Is he going to make it?” she asked. He frowned thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m proud of him for trying, anyway. At least they know where he stands.”

  “That’s what I like about his son,” she said, squeezing his arm suddenly. “Want to drive out t
o the Blue Ridge? It must be beautiful out there today.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” Hal said. “We can eat at Waynesboro and then swing over to Charlottesville and on up, if you’d like.”

  “Anything to get away for a while,” she said as they reached the car.

  “All our troubles will be over tomorrow,” he said with a smile as they got in.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked quizzically. He smiled again.

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “But at least we’ll face them together, and that ought to help.”

  “Yes,” she said, and he was aware that she was studying him with an appraising look in which love and affection and worry and many other things including, he was perceptive enough to see, Brigham Anderson, were inextricably mixed. “That ought to.”

  “Somehow,” the Newark News remarked as they came away from the hastily-called press conference in which Powell Hanson had assured them stoutly that he was satisfied there would be sufficient votes in the Senate on Thursday to confirm Mr. Leffingwell, “I get the feeling his heart isn’t really in it.”

  “Whose is?” the Los Angeles Times inquired. “If there were an easy way to ditch this nomination right now, the Senate would do it.”

  “If the President would withdraw it, of course—” The Memphis Commercial-Appeal said mockingly.

  “He won’t,” the Chattanooga Times said. “That’s why Brig died, isn’t it?”

  “So I hear,” the Commercial-Appeal said shortly. “Well, I guess we’d better get back to Knox’s office. They ought to be ready to break pretty soon.”

  But at Orrin’s door they found the reporters they had left behind when they went to Senator Hanson’s office just coming away in considerable disappointment.

  “What did they say?” the L.A. Times wanted to know.

  “They wouldn’t say anything,” the New York Times said. “Except they all looked like grim death.”