Palace Council

by Stephen L Carter

  THREE EVENINGS AFTER his Dartmouth talk, Eddie was due in New York, to speak at the opening of an exhibition of banned books. In between, he stopped in Boston to visit his mother. Over dinner they talked about the old days, mostly repeating the same old stories. Marie Wesley seemed to be fading. She told her son that the house was getting to be too much for her. She was thinking she might give it back to Wesley Senior’s church and move into an apartment. Eddie did the dishes. His mother turned in early. She seemed nervous again. Perhaps Marcella had confessed that Eddie now knew that Junie had been in touch. No matter. Eddie had no intention of pressing his mother on the question. He had no intention of pressing his mother on anything. He just wanted to make sure that if and when she gave up the house, she would have the best apartment in the city.

  In New York two days later, Eddie lunched with Charlie Bing, pressing his old Harlem pal on what Chamonix might have let slip about her impending marriage to Perry Mount. But Charlie was not the kind of man who paid much attention to ex-wives, of which by now he had collected a pair.

  “She does seem to be in a big hurry,” said Charlie. “You’d have thought Perry would’ve come to me first. You know. To ask permission.” He brightened. “Tell you what she did say, though. Perry’s angry all the time. You remember Chammie used to do a little acting, back in the day? Well, she says Perry’s like an actor who has to take a minor part and watch a lesser man take the starring role. That kind of anger.”

  “Did she hint at who the lesser man was?”

  “Maybe she still loves me,” said Charlie, who had that kind of mind.

  The exhibition of banned books opened that evening at the public library at Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. Eddie offered the expected paean to freedom of thought, and received the expected polite applause. Afterward, marveling, he perused the glass cases displaying first editions of Whitman and Pascal, Voltaire and Cleland, Joyce and Lawrence—

  Wait.

  D. H. Lawrence. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Of course. He could have kicked himself. One of the librarians, a big fan of Report to Military Headquarters, unlocked the stacks and brought down another copy. Eddie leafed through it. How could he have missed the clue? It was right there in the opening chapter.

  “Not as in a tragic age”: those were the words on one of the note cards from Philmont Castle’s envelope.

  Thanks to D. H. Lawrence, Eddie now knew what they meant.

  CHAPTER 55

  Conversation in a Garden

  (I)

  “HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW NIXON?” said Senator Lanning Frost.

  “I’ve met him a couple of times,” said Eddie, very nervous, because he hated when this subject arose. Still, he knew what was coming next, because it always did.

  “You wrote that essay about him in the National Review when he lost the governor’s race in ’64, though, didn’t you? About how he was a true American, a patriot, all of that?”

  Actually, the essay had been in The Nation, and the election in 1962. “I was trying to be ironic,” said Eddie.

  The Senator nodded. Eddie had a hunch that the man could not have defined the word “ironic” to save his life. They faced each other, breath curling whitely in the chilly air. It was January of 1970, three weeks after Eddie’s brief meeting with Aurelia at Bay Dennison’s New Year’s party. There was snow on the ground, but Lanning Frost, a Midwesterner, professed to find the temperature bracing. So they stood in the walled backyard of the Senator’s luxurious house in Georgetown, where he and Margot entertained on a grand scale, befitting a President-in-waiting. Lanning was smooth, and funny, and a stander of no nonsense, having endeared himself to the left by grilling a recalcitrant assistant secretary of Defense on Pentagon cost overruns in a televised congressional hearing, and having endeared himself to the right with a stirring speech on the Senate floor calling for prosecution of protesters who burned the flag of freedom, a flag for which he had proudly fought. Usually the yard would be filled with patrons and supplicants, the champagne flowing alongside the twin fountains while the Senator’s paired collies, Darrin and Samantha, nosed their way beneath the elegant tablecloths in search of scraps. The newspapers called Senator Frost the front-runner for 1972. Behind his back, the reporters who knew him best called him a dope.

  The Senator ran a strong hand through his crewcut. He was a head taller than Eddie, and broader in the shoulders. He ran five miles a day, and made sure the press knew it. “It’s early days yet, Eddie, but we expect Nixon to be vulnerable next time around. Very vulnerable.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  The levity seemed to annoy him. “We’re going to beat him, Eddie. We’ll be organized and well funded and everything. We’ll have to hold off the McGovern wing of the party, and make a deal with Muskie. But we can do it. The war is part of it. Half a million American troops are over there—more than half a million, close to two percent of the male population”—a calculation not only erroneous but patently ridiculous, a correction Eddie chose not to make—“and maybe the President really wants to bring them home, like he said. The trouble is, he has no idea how to do it. The intelligence people say there are enemy supply lines running through Laos or Cambodia or—well, one of them. And, well, either one, it’s a whole separate country, Eddie. What’s Nixon going to do? Invade? So, no, Eddie”—as if his guest had contradicted him—“the war will tilt against him. Plus the economy. Layoffs are getting pretty severe in my part of the country. Layoffs from jobs.”

  “Nixon’s been in office just a year,” Eddie pointed out, probably to be bothersome. “Not everything can be his fault.”

  “That’s the point,” said the Senator, confusing Eddie even further. One of the dogs nosed past his legs. Frost leaned and stroked the shaggy ears with a quick, practiced gesture. In a lighted upstairs window, Margot was laughing on the telephone. Eddie remembered her weeping in the flat in Hong Kong, asking what they had done to him.

  “My people have put together a couple of interesting mock-ups,” the Senator went on. From his pocket he drew a folded sheet. A design for a bumper sticker. Red, white, and blue lettering: GET FROSTY IN 72. “Pretty catchy, huh?”

  Eddie thought the slogan ludicrous. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. You hate politics. You don’t think it matters who wins.”

  Eddie answered the mockery with steel. “I did politics already. Everybody I supported, they killed.”

  The cornflower-blue eyes studied him. “The other thing about Nixon is, he’s just not the kind of man people take to. Sure, they voted for him last time, forty percent of them, anyway”—the actual figure was forty-three—“because our party went to pieces at the convention. But, deep down, people don’t trust him. That’ll work our way, too.” A pause. “That’s where you come in, Eddie.”

  “Me?”

  “I assume you’re a Democrat. You worked for JFK.”

  Eddie waved this away. “I was younger, Senator.”

  “We were all younger than we used to be,” said his host. He took Eddie’s snifter. “Let me freshen that for you.” They moved together to the bar set out near the French doors. The collie followed hopefully, like an orphan. Lanning poured another finger or two of ginger ale, swirled it like brandy, handed it over. “I don’t want to argue with you, Eddie. Look. I’m not as bright as you are. I know that. But I try to surround myself with people who are smarter than I am—”

  He looked up. “Darling,” he said, in evident relief.

  Margot had joined them in the garden. “Dear, dear Eddie,” she cooed, presenting a rosy cheek. She wasted no time on chitchat. “What my husband is saying, Eddie, is that Nixon’s people play dirty. They always have. This last election was relatively clean, most likely because Nixon didn’t sense any threat, but by next time he’ll have reverted to form. I guarantee it. Already he’s surrounded himself with some fairly unsavory characters.”

  But Eddie was remembering the concluding words of his own long-ago essay:
If Dick Nixon strikes some as too prone to attack, ask yourself whether the nation that has by turns loved him and loathed him is so different. Nixon is not our national aberration. He is our national fulfillment.

  “If you say so,” Eddie said quietly as the dog nosed his ankle.

  “I do say so. And if the President is going to lash out, we’re going to have to be ready to strike back.” A grim smile. “Do you know Nixon’s secret? Why he almost always wins? Because nobody ever thinks he can. We’re not going to make that mistake, Eddie. He’s going to attack us every way he can. We have to stand ready to do the same.”

  “Exactly,” said Lanning, adoring eyes on his wife.

  Eddie thought about Perry Mount, and wondered how much Lanning knew of what his wife was mixed up in.

  “I see,” he said.

  The Frosts exchanged a look. Margot nodded slightly. The Senator’s turn. “The thing is, Eddie, if Nixon throws mud at me, I’m going to have to throw the same mud back. He’s a bad man. It’s going to be a rough campaign. So—what I’d like to do is put you with some of my people who will help you remember…well, whatever dirt you might have, ah, witnessed.”

  Help you remember. Eddie liked that one, too. He said, “The President and I met only once.” He shoved free of the dog again. Rebuffed, the collie crawled to the base of the wall and settled its long head onto its paws, sulking as it waited for some attention.

  Margot again: “That doesn’t matter. Just point out some general paths for investigation.” A pause. “You’re not the only one, Eddie. We’ll be talking to lots of the President’s old associates. But you’re special, Eddie. You’re different.”

  “Oh?”

  “We have sources—never mind where—but we have sources, Eddie, good sources, reliable sources, sources we trust absolutely. These sources tell us that the Nixon people are worried about you.”

  This brought him up short. Pretty much the same thing Gary Fatek had told him. “Worried about me how?”

  “The sources don’t know. Nixon’s people don’t know. But our sources tell us Nixon thinks you have dirt on him, and he’s terrified it might get out.”

  Eddie looked at the two political faces, the one clever, the other worried. “I don’t know what dirt Nixon thinks I have. I don’t know what dirt the two of you think I have. I do know there’s no reason for you to have brought me down here, taking the risk of being seen with a notorious character like me, unless you’re very frightened of whatever dirt Nixon might dig up on you.”

  Lanning stared. Nobody talked to United States Senators this way. Margot had the wit to smile. “You were always smart, Eddie. Yes. Of course there’s dirt on Lanning. There’s dirt on everybody. What’s that phrase of yours? The American Angle? Well, we would be a better nation if the American Angle didn’t include such an interest in people’s dirty underwear. Unfortunately, it does. We’re stuck with politics as it is, Eddie. We’re in this to win. The only question is whether you’re willing to help us get rid of this man in 1972, or if you want to sit on the sidelines.”

  Eddie’s mind swirled with possibility. What could Nixon be afraid of? First guess: Nixon, not Benjamin Mellor, was the secret father of Junie’s children. But no. Whatever people might think of the man, nobody had ever called him a philanderer; besides, it was difficult to imagine that even a young woman as clever as Junie could have snuck off privately to meet the man who was at the time Vice President of the United States.

  Second shot: Nixon was Junie’s secret protector, knew where she had gone to ground, and was terrified that Junie would get word to Eddie of his role. But aside from the even greater absurdity of imagining Junie in regular touch with the President, there was the simple point that the problem was easily dealt with: Junie need only vanish for good.

  Consequently, the dirt had to involve his sister indirectly, not directly. He looked at Lanning Frost, saw the shrewd calculation in the face. Eddie was no fool. Eddie could not assume a link between Nixon and Junie simply on this powerful couple’s say-so.

  “I’ll think about it,” Eddie said.

  Margot looked at her husband. “It’s almost six, dear. Aren’t you supposed to be calling Mike Mansfield?”

  (II)

  THEY WERE ALONE. The garden was chilly, so they walked into the house. The collie jumped to its feet to follow. They stood in the wide marble foyer, beneath the clerestory windows.

  “You look well,” Eddie said, formally, but it was true. Although Margot, never thin, had gained weight, she looked radiant, energetic, ready for White House duty. The faint crinkles around her eyes and the touch of early gray in her hair—she was in her late thirties—only confirmed the general image of maturity and confidence. You had the sense that Margot would be the sort of First Lady who had a lot of say in her husband’s decisions, and that the country would be better for it. It occurred to Eddie that in another age, with women playing a different role, Margot herself would be the one spoken of as presidential timber.

  “I do not.” She rapped her hips. “This is what four children will do to you.” Her smile broadened. “But you, Eddie—what do the Brits say? You just go from strength to strength. Every time I look up, you’re either writing a new book or campaigning to get some radical out of jail.”

  “I do what I can to keep life interesting.”

  “Like whatever got you into trouble in Hong Kong?”

  “Maybe,” said Eddie, watching her eyes, except that Margot turned to glare at the hovering maid, who drifted reluctantly away.

  Facing him again, she took one of his hands in both of hers. “Lanning doesn’t know, Eddie. And I…I won’t have him knowing. We’re not one of those political couples. We have a real marriage. Oh, it was rocky at first, but now—well, now it’s real. I want to keep it that way.”

  “I understand.” But he was already wondering what the rocky parts were, and whether that might be what Lanning was afraid Nixon’s people would find out. “He won’t hear about it from me.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “My friend?”

  “The little guy who drove the car.”

  Eddie smiled, but sadly. “Ever see the photo of the moment after King was shot? All his aides pointing up toward where the shot came from?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the bald man standing next to Andy Young is Brother Leonard Peace. You’ve heard of him?”

  “We’ve had dinner with him several times to discuss civil rights. Lanning and I have developed—I mean, Lanning has developed—some innovative ideas that you should really—”

  He waved her silent. “Well, Brother Leonard is the little guy, as you put it, who drove the car. Only in those days he was a gangster. A small-time hood.”

  Margot looked shocked, then laughed. “Seriously?”

  “He said he had a call from the Lord, then changed his name when nobody would take him seriously. And, believe it or not, I think he’s sincere. At least, if he isn’t, there’s no reason for him to have stood all those beatings in Mississippi in the summer of ’65.”

  She continued to smile and, for an instant, was her old impish self. She put a hand on his cheek. “Eddie. It really worked out for you, didn’t it?”

  “And for you,” he agreed, covering her hand with his own but then, carefully, returning it to her side.

  Margot hesitated. “Eddie, about June. If there’s anything we can do—”

  “Your husband is running for President. What would you imagine him doing?”

  “The president of Yale gave that speech about how no Black Panther can get a fair trial—”

  “Junie isn’t a Panther. She isn’t a Black Muslim. She’s not the Yippies or the Chicago Seven. She’s the Agony. They’ve killed people, Margot. White people. They’ve blown things up. People are scared of them.” He forced himself to calm down. “Thank you, Margot, but you and I both know if she gets caught there’s nothing to be done.”

  “She has zero chance of a fair trial.”<
br />
  “And neither you nor Lanning can improve those odds.”

  “Eddie—”

  “It’s not your problem, Margot. I have my own ideas, but—well, never mind.” Out on the front step, the Senator’s driver was holding the car door. Eddie hesitated. “Margot, listen. I’ll help you if I can. Oh, I don’t think Nixon is the devil incarnate, but I also don’t think he’s the man we need in the White House. He’s small-minded and paranoid. So—yes. I’ll meet with Lanning’s people. I doubt that I can be much help, but I’ll give it a shot.” Again he took a moment, wanting to get the words just right. Snowflakes swirled gently past the streetlamps. “But I’m going to need something in return, Margot.” Eyes held eyes: steady brown on cautious green. “Something only you can give me.”

  The smile disappeared. If she could have contrived to do it quietly, Margot would have slapped his face. “No, Eddie. No. Absolutely not. I told you in Hong Kong, I’m not that kind of woman. So don’t even suggest—”

  “That isn’t what I’m proposing,” he interrupted, lifting innocent palms. “No. I just need you to answer a question for me.”

  “What question?”

  “Does Lanning know what the cross means?”

  A blank expression. “The cross? You mean Jesus? The Bible? All that?”

  Impatiently. “The crucifix. The one you used to wear around your neck. The one your mother gave you when you were a little girl.” The pale eyes never even flickered. “You know, the one she bought in Italy, with the words on it. The Cross of Saint Peter.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were wearing it the night we met.”

  She considered this, then, slowly, shook her head. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I don’t remember my mother ever giving me a cross, and I don’t think she ever got to Italy until my dad took her there a few years before she died.” Misting up a bit. “She’d always wanted to go.”

  “You told me she was half Italian!”

  “Mom? No. You must have heard wrong. Mom was from New Orleans.”

  She closed the door.