Everybody shook hands.
Then, smiling shyly, the President moved down the line toward his car, surrounded by an increasing number of worried White House staffers who had come looking for him. He reached Eddie, and the political hand shot out for the automatic, quick pump. Eddie started to speak. Nixon passed on. Eddie felt deflated. He thought Nixon a terrible President, but something childlike inside wanted to be singled out for special recognition. At his car, Nixon waved awkwardly to the protesters, then turned to whisper to an aide.
“Did you see him?” said a student standing near Eddie, chest full of medal ribbons bought at a flea market. “Was that really the baby killer?”
Eddie, about to say something, felt a touch on his elbow. A Secret Service man asked if he would please come this way. Eddie was led down the hill, past the crowd, then back to the street. An instant later, he was in the limousine, across from Nixon.
“Didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the kids,” the President explained calmly, as if the two of them saw each other every day. “Can’t have them thinking you’re part of the power structure.” He pointed. “We’re going up to the Capitol.”
“We are?”
“Never thanked you for those kind words.” Nixon’s gravelly voice was always awkward at expressing emotion. Actually, he had thanked Eddie, seven years ago. “Good man. Glad you’re back safely from your travels. I know you’re speaking tomorrow. Have to say nasty things about me. I understand that. It’s politics. Do what you have to. That’s what we do up here, Eddie. What we have to.” Gazing out the window as they streaked along Constitution Avenue. Only one other aide was in the back, a buttoned-down young man who looked uneasy about the President’s rambling. “These kids—they’re great. I love the kids. All right, some of them are bums. Burning up the campuses. But most of them, they just want peace. Who doesn’t? You know I’m a Quaker. When I was younger, I thought Neville Chamberlain was a hero. I thought Winston Churchill was a monster. Shows you how much I knew. But it’s natural to want peace. Natural.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eddie, bewildered, sitting there with the President, wearing jeans and a sweater. He had left his backpack in the tent. He was glad he had remembered his wallet and his notebook. He wondered if anybody had yet liberated his sleeping bag.
“Did you see we promoted Oliver Garland to the court of appeals? Good man. Good heart. Good friend. Knows how to keep secrets. He was a friend of yours, too, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
A brief silence, although he could tell at once that Nixon disliked silences.
“A good man,” the President resumed, drumming his fingers on the sill. Even that simple activity seemed somehow clumsy, a little off, like an instrument out of tune. “Kevin was a good man. Matty. All those Garlands. We need more men whose hearts are in the right place, Eddie. Especially these days. Might need your help. Man like you, a good heart, good head on your shoulders. The world is changing, and some of what we hope to do—”
He stopped. They had reached the Capitol. Nixon hopped out, dragging his small entourage past suddenly wakeful security guards. They found somebody to open the House chamber, and Nixon showed Eddie his first congressional desk. He sat down—to Eddie’s eyes, happily—then sent one of his aides to sit in the Speaker’s chair. The early morning grew surreal as the President told stories of the old days. Eddie felt half asleep, but Nixon’s energy crackled. At the Lincoln Memorial, the man had seemed exhausted and a little befuddled. Now he was rejuvenating before Eddie’s tired eyes. On the way out, he chatted with the cleaning staff. A black woman asked the President to sign her Bible. This was too much for Eddie’s crowded sensibilities, and he was ready to find a taxi back to his tent, but Nixon took him by the elbow and led him to the car. The chief of staff materialized from somewhere, urging a return to the White House, but Nixon said no, he and his old friend Eddie were going out to breakfast.
“Really, no, I should—”
“You can’t refuse your President,” said Nixon, smiling gaily.
Minutes later, they marched past an astonished maître d’ into the restaurant of the Mayflower Hotel. The waitresses stared at the President, but also at the funny little Negro in dirty jeans. Later, the newspapers would speculate unconfidently that Nixon had decided to buy a meal for some poor soul who lived on the street, a publicity stunt, maybe, to deflect attention from the demonstrations. The President and Eddie sat alone at a table. Nixon ate hash and eggs. Eddie, whose interest in food had grown no greater over the years, had cornflakes and half a grapefruit.
“You and Aurelia,” said the President, digging in. “What happened there? Thought you would be one of the great couples.”
Again Eddie was astonished: first, that Nixon knew there had ever been anything between them, and, second, that he cared. But of course he was an old friend of the family. Even since entering the White House, the Nixons had twice visited Wanda Garland, Kevin’s mother, as all the darker nation knew.
“It wasn’t going to work,” said Eddie, picking his words with care.
“On your end or hers? Give her another chance. Tell you something. Knew I was going to marry Pat the night I met her. If you feel that way—” He stopped talking, started chewing.
“Yes, sir,” said Eddie, bewildered.
“I know what you have to do tomorrow,” said Nixon, returning to his theme. “So you just go out and do it. Flay me alive. Not a wimp. Matter of fact, I have a fairly thick skin. And I know Frost wants you to talk to his people. Do what you have to do, Eddie. Tell Frost whatever he wants to know. Doesn’t matter. He can’t win. Believe me. Poor guy doesn’t have a chance. So go ahead and do what you have to do, but when you’re done, come see me. There’s great work to be done in this country, and maybe we can do it together.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Eddie, startled by Nixon’s knowledge, and not at all sure what the man wanted of him. It occurred to him that Nixon did not know, either.
“I hear you had a rough time in Vietnam.”
“Ah, no harder than anybody else.” His stock answer. “Sir—”
“Johnson’s war, not mine. Kennedy started it. Doesn’t matter. If it happens on your watch—and we can’t abandon them. Cut and run. America doesn’t do that.”
“Even when America’s wrong?”
“Not a matter of right or wrong. Matter of reputation. They have to believe you’ll do what you—” He scooped his thick head for a bite. The shy smile was almost apologetic. “Can’t do it. Can’t cut and run.”
“It’s like playing poker, Mr. President,” said Eddie, hitting upon an analogy he hoped Nixon would find persuasive. “You know what they say. If you throw good money after bad, you wind up out of the game before you—”
“America doesn’t cut and run.”
The President’s eyes shifted one way, the other way, back again. He seemed restless and uneasy. He was said to be a brooder, a breed Eddie knew at first hand. Eddie looked around the restaurant. Aides stared back, and, beyond them, a few gawking early risers. All these smart people at his beck and call, but Nixon had pulled Eddie out of the crowd to eat breakfast. And then Eddie got it. The President of the United States had nobody else to eat with. He wanted company, and, on this particular morning, a left-leaning novelist who hated the war but had written a vaguely complimentary essay about him eight years ago was the best he could do. Nixon wanted to be Eddie’s friend. Yet he had no small talk, which meant that it was up to his guest to keep the ball rolling. And Eddie knew just what ball he wanted to roll. So he took another bite and said, “Mr. President, if I may, there’s a question I’d like to ask.”
“Ask.”
“It’s about my sister.”
The President shoveled another clumsy bite into his mouth. “Nobody’s above the law,” he said after a moment.
“I know this is going to sound very strange, sir. Please don’t think me impertinent. I was wondering if you ever met her. My sister.”
/> “You know, I understand them. The radicals.” He put his fork down hard, nearly knocking his water glass to the floor. “People in a hurry. Kids today, they’ve had everything. My generation, we had to fight for—” He took a sip. “Grab a gun. It’s natural. We fought. Now it’s their turn.” The glass clattered. “Not that we can let them burn everything down. The President’s first responsibility is the security of the nation. Took an oath, Eddie. Against all enemies foreign and domestic.”
“Yes, sir. Now, about my sister—”
“The thing is, Eddie, sometimes the methods you use to defend—well, you can’t use them in the sunshine.” He brightened. “They tell me she’s smart, your sister. Ivy League. Must be a pretty bright gal.”
“Yes, sir. She is.”
“Too bad which side she ended up on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’ll spend years in prison when we catch her. Sorry, Eddie. Can’t avoid that. But it’s not so bad. Some of the best writing of the century was done in prison.”
Eddie looked around the restaurant. Other diners continued to stare.
“The reason I ask about my sister—”
“Did you ever find her? Everybody says you’re looking. Brotherly love. That’s the way.”
“No, sir. I haven’t found her. Not yet.”
“Any prospects?”
Eddie knew his hesitation was obvious. Was this really the object of the exercise? Had the President of the United States traveled to the Mall and plucked Eddie out of the crowd hoping to talk about Junie?
“No prospects,” said Eddie, watching him closely.
“But you’ll keep looking. Kind of thing a brother does. Good for you.” Was this permission? Eddie said nothing. “Never met her,” Nixon continued. “Never talked to her. All I know is what’s in the reports I get. They tell me she’s chasing her kids. Hope she finds them.”
“So do I, sir.”
“Come see me. After you make your speech. After things calm down. Come see me. There are things we can do together that would—”
He dropped his fork.
Two aides rushed to pick it up. A waiter brought a new one, but the White House staff was faster. They took advantage of the hiatus to get the President moving. Eddie stood up, not sure what was expected of him. There was no way he was getting back into that car. Fortunately, the staff had reached the same decision. A deathly-pale young man engaged him in conversation, thanking him for his time, swearing him to silence, filling the air with faux-friendly babble until the President was safely out the door. Only then did the pale young man ask if Eddie needed a ride.
Eddie said he would make his own way, thanks.
The young man paid the tab. Eddie watched the motorcade depart. He shoved his hands into his pockets and began the long walk through the hazy dawn back to the Lincoln Memorial. Clusters of troops stood here and there. Eddie could not bring himself to hate Nixon, and suspected that, had he never met the man, his feelings would not be much different. Eddie had trouble finding space in his heart for hatred, even toward his enemies. He believed in justice and historical forces. He was skeptical that any problem could be resolved by finding the nastiest name to call the people on the other side. Wesley Senior had preached countless sermons on love of neighbor, especially through times of trial, and a younger Eddie used to sit there rolling his eyes. Now he was horrified to realize how much of his father’s teaching had rubbed off on him.
He waved to the soldiers as he passed. One or two waved tentatively back.
A couple of students had taken over his tent. Eddie let them sleep. He retrieved his backpack and snuck off to the Marriott, where he had never quite canceled the reservation Gary Fatek had made. Eddie’s real luggage was in the room. He slept two hours, then showered and shaved and, dressing, watched the morning news.
And all the while, he reflected on his peculiar morning with Nixon. Eddie considered himself a shrewd judge of character. Nixon was harder to read than anyone he had ever met, but Eddie did not think the President had lied. Nixon had never met Junie, and knew nothing of her whereabouts.
The dirt he was afraid Eddie would dig up had to be something else.
CHAPTER 58
Reunion
(I)
EDDIE CLOTHED HIMSELF conservatively for his big speech. He had been a guest of sorts at many a demonstration, but never anything like this. He imagined his father preparing to address his congregation. Even though you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Wesley Senior used to say, everybody does. So Eddie wore a suit. He was in his forties, after all, to these kids already an old man. He had published six books, five of them fiction, and most of the kids had read one or two in high school or college, and even written essays on them: that made him older still. So he would dress the part. Let others wear shirts sewn from American flags or prance about in ragged jeans. Eddie would be an adult. The suit was summer-weight, powder blue, from a tailor in Hong Kong. His tie was red, white, and blue. He thought of a flag pin in his lapel, Nixon-style, but decided the students would miss the irony; besides, he didn’t have one.
He wondered if Junie would be watching.
Eddie took a taxi to the Mall and had to walk the last four blocks, fighting his way through the crowd. At the assembly area, there was bother about checking his badge. The pigs, a helmeted woman told him, were sneaking in saboteurs. Past the barriers, the atmosphere was celebratory. Alleged music deafened him. Kids danced in the Reflecting Pool. Their joy surprised him. He tried to imagine Junie at his side, smiling encouragement, but he saw her instead hiding in some safe house, exhausted and wan. He noticed the Yippie flag, marijuana leaves and red star. He shook his head. The left of fifteen years ago had been ideologically serious, believing its task was to persuade, not to self-indulge. These kids seemed to miss the point. They had no interest in appealing to anyone who did not already agree. Yet he loved them for the purity of their intentions.
Eddie waited, listening to the superstars. Dr. Benjamin Spock spoke. Jane Fonda, newly recruited to the cause, electrified the crowd. At last Eddie ascended the platform. The writer had just returned, according to the student who introduced him, from a tour of centers of colonialist oppression all over the world. Even now, the young man continued, Edward T. Wesley’s sister is on the run from the pigs—
Eddie, trembling, tuned him out.
Thirty seconds later, the introduction was done. Eddie stood behind the microphone and gazed out across the largest crowd he had addressed in his life.
Later, he would not remember a word. The events of the next twenty-four hours would prove too tumultuous. There were cheers galore, but by that time the kids were cheering everything. Public speaking had never been Eddie’s best thing. He expressed himself best in writing. When he opened his mouth, especially to large groups, what emerged was often prolix to the point of inanity. He stumbled through the speech, hurried off the platform before the applause died, and practically ran the dozen blocks back to his hotel.
He decided not to stay the night after all. He would brave the traffic and the roadblocks and drive home to Albemarle Street. He had just finished checking out when an aging hippie in dark glasses, smeary hair past the shoulders of his military jacket, slouched across the lobby to congratulate him on his speech.
In a voice he knew well.
“Where can we talk?” whispered Professor Benjamin Mellor.
(II)
“HOW MANY TIMES are you going to pull this trick?” Eddie asked, steering his Cadillac up Sixteenth Street. He had no intention of taking Mellor anywhere near Albemarle Street. He was thinking of poor Teri, and Mellor’s wife, and, most of all, Junie. “What do you do, wait until some girl’s in trouble and then disappear?”
The professor had slipped off his glasses. Worry had etched fine lines into his face. “I couldn’t have done anything for her, Mr. Wesley. They came for me just before our meeting. I had a gun, I had some luck—I escaped. I was outside when you drove up. I was going t
o flag her down, but she was already down the block, and then—well, they were waiting. They had her, and I got away.”
“Leaving other people to be tortured,” Eddie muttered, fighting the image of filthy water rising.
“I’m not here to argue with you, Mr. Wesley. I’m going to disappear again, and this time I won’t be back.”
“That sounds like a very good idea.”
Mellor looked out the window. The farther north they went, the thinner the ranks of soldiers and police. “I’ve been living here and there, Mr. Wesley. A commune. A crash pad. Here and there. I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I want to do the right thing before I vanish for good. I want to finish our conversation from Saigon. You’ll remember, I was going to tell you—”
“Why your life was at risk. I remember, Professor.”
A hard look, as if suspecting an insult. “You think you’re alone. You’re not. The Council itself is divided. It has been ever since—well, ever since it began to change membership from the original twenty. There are members who oppose the Project, Mr. Wesley. Good people, no matter what you think. Decent people. You have to get in touch with them. The loyal opposition, you might say. They can help you. I believe they might have been helping you already.”
“Are you going to give me a name?”
“No, Mr. Wesley. That I can’t do.”
Eddie slammed on the brakes. They were on U Street, near Twelfth, one of the city’s roughest neighborhoods. He leaned toward his passenger. “If I were to knock you around up here, nobody would notice.”
Mellor visibly shrank against the door. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, Mr. Wesley. I don’t know. Genuinely. I don’t know who the dissenters are.”
“Then how do you know there are any?”
“Little things. Things Perry mentioned in Vietnam.”
“But that’s not who’s after you, is it? The dissenting members of the Council. You said in Saigon that there’s a third force. That’s who you were hiding from.”
Palace Council Page 45
