Palace Council

by Stephen L Carter

  “Burton was a figurehead,” said Aurelia.

  “I don’t think he ever knew,” said the Congressman. “Elliott Van Epp was a strange man. He’d been putting together his coterie of conspirators for a long time. He didn’t really trust democracy. He thought it had to be guided. That was his big word. Guided. And a man like Burton, well, he was easily seduced. You see the point. Burton Mount thought he and his people were seducing the white folks in the room, and all the time it was the other way around. Go ahead, Van Epp and his friends were saying. Play your games. We’re on your side—but only as long as you’re useful to us.”

  “And they’re not useful any more?”

  “I don’t really know what the fuck is going on. That’s the truth. Perry, well, for a while, I thought he was one of the dissenters. But not any more. He seems to have signed on for the big prize.”

  “Why don’t you stop him?” asked Aurelia.

  Dennison smiled. “If I had the testament I could. Or if I had Junie.”

  “Why is Junie so important?” said Aurie, her hand covering Eddie’s mouth.

  “I’ll be honest. I don’t know why. But Perry’s fixated on her. I think she has something or knows something that would throw his, ah, interpretation of the Project off the tracks again. You saw my notes, Aurie. I realized that after you left. You saw my notes, and you figured I must be one of the bad guys. Well, I’m not. Eddie, the reason I wanted Aurie to direct you away from Perry was to protect you. I want you to find Junie to put an end to the whole thing.”

  “Meaning, the election of Lanning Frost,” said Aurelia. “Lanning in the Oval Office, and Perry right down the hall, pulling the strings.”

  The Congressman nodded heavily. “The Palace Council running the country.”

  “You could go public,” Eddie began, and stopped. He remembered Benjamin Mellor in Saigon, describing how Hoover hoarded the information about the Council to himself. And his debates with Aurelia about the consequences for the darker nation if America came to believe that a part of its destiny was being secretly directed by a cabal of black men.

  “I have to get back to my party,” said Dennison. “And the two of you have to get to work.” He had a hand on the swinging door. “And if you do find her—”

  “I won’t tell you,” said Eddie. “I’m sorry, Bay. I appreciate what you’ve said tonight, but, to be frank, I still don’t trust you.”

  “There isn’t any reason that you should. I wasn’t going to ask you to tell me, Eddie. I just meant—if you find her, make sure to use whatever she knows. You have to stop this travesty.”

  He went out, just as the cheers erupted. The band broke into “Auld Lang Syne.” The year 1972 had begun.

  CHAPTER 62

  Beeswax

  (I)

  “A THIRD-RATE BURGLARY,” said Aurelia, sliding the Ithaca Journal across the table. “Dick’s people say it was nothing. I talked to John Ehrlichman this morning. He says not to worry. He laughed. They’re not involved, Eddie. They’re going to win by a landslide. Why would they break into the offices of the Democratic National Committee?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past Nixon.”

  “You don’t know him as well as I do.” She lifted a forkful of eggs. Having nobody left to tell—nobody who would believe their tale—they were trying, at least for now, to enjoy their lives. “I’m not saying he’s the most honest person I’ve ever met. But he’s a smart politician. Very smart. He wouldn’t do anything this stupid. He’d be run out of town.”

  Eddie chewed for a moment. He turned the pages of the newspaper. It was a lovely June morning in 1972. They were sitting in the kitchen of the house on Fall Creek Drive. The school year was over, and Aurelia’s teenagers were sleeping in. Eddie had arrived early. Whenever he visited Ithaca, he spent his nights at the Statler, operated by Cornell University’s hotel school. The children had grown accustomed to having the great Edward Trotter Wesley Junior hang around their mother. They called him Uncle Eddie, because there existed, as yet, no polite word for unmarried adult monogamy. No doubt Locke and Zora assumed that their mother sometimes slept with her beau. But Aurie, her Catholic upbringing never far away, preferred to maintain the fiction.

  “I agree that Nixon is too smart,” Eddie said, “unless he was really worried about something.”

  “Something like what?”

  He looked at the newspaper again. The break-in was at a place called the Watergate, a large hotel, apartment, and office complex.

  Aurelia sipped her coffee. “I talked to Granny Vee about you the other night.”

  “Granny who?”

  “Granny Vee. That’s what Mona’s kids call Amaretta since she moved in with them.” A moment while Eddie imagined that proud woman, once the mightiest Czarina in Harlem, living out her dwindling days in the spare room of her daughter’s house in a lily-white New Hampshire college town. “Anyway, she calls me now and then. Offers me advice. I think it’s because Mona won’t listen to her.”

  “What advice did she give you this time?”

  “She wanted to know about—well, about us. You and me. She asked if I knew the difference between being hesitant and being patient.” Her eyes were thoughtful, and inward. “I told her I’d never given it much thought.”

  “What’s the difference? Did she tell you?”

  “She said patience is a virtue because your future lies ahead of you, but the person who’s hesitant has nothing to look forward to but the past.”

  “Do you know what she was talking about?”

  “Of course I do. Don’t patronize me.” Aurelia shoved her chair back, nearly striking the aging Crunch, who had shambled into the room. “Sorry, honey,” she said—whether to Eddie or to the dog was not clear. “I’m just tense. I’m going to check on the kids.”

  Eddie was not listening. He was staring at the newspaper.

  “Honey?”

  “I think I know what Nixon was worried about,” he said, not looking up. “Maybe he was at the meeting.”

  “Nixon? A member of the Palace Council? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why? Senator Van Epp was a law-and-order type. He was there.” Eddie’s finger stabbed the page. “It would be something to hide, wouldn’t it? To be present at a meeting where they set up a terrorist group?”

  She shook her head. “Come on, Eddie. Nixon wasn’t just some Senator. He was running for Vice President. He couldn’t just slip away for a secret meeting with a bunch of black businessmen.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Matty—” she began.

  “Was his friend and a big fund-raiser,” Eddie finished.

  “That could have been everybody’s cover story. It wasn’t just a friendly dinner, it was a fund-raiser for the Republican ticket.”

  “How can we find out?” Eddie wondered aloud. Then he answered his own question. “I’ll call the Georgetown University Library. There’s a woman there who can track down anything.”

  Aurelia smiled. “I can do it quicker.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll call Oliver Garland. He’ll tell me.”

  “Aurie—”

  “I know, I know. He’s Kevin’s cousin. You’re thinking he must be part of whatever’s going on. But I’m not so sure. He has too much integrity.” She waved away Eddie’s objection. “I know. I know. You don’t believe in integrity. You think everybody acts out of self-interest. But, Eddie, think about it. You act out of love for Junie, right? You’d sacrifice your own interests for hers.”

  “So?”

  “So, why is it so hard to believe that somebody could love his country or his honor enough to make sacrifices?”

  “What sacrifices did Oliver ever make? He was a Wall Street lawyer and now he’s a federal judge! You don’t think the Palace Council could have gotten him those jobs?”

  “I think some people actually earn what they get.”

  She went into her study to make the call. Eddie washed the dishes, dried them, put
them away. The children came downstairs, first Zora, sixteen years of age, spindly and brilliant and awkward, then, minutes later, the charismatic Locke, not nearly as smart but twice as fun, and, at fourteen, already recognizable as the kind of kid who would be elected class president five times before his sister had her first date. Eddie scrambled eggs for them. Zora watched him intently but said nothing beyond good morning and yes, thank you. Locke was reading Sports Illustrated. He kept up a running patter, told jokes, and worked hard to draw Eddie into a conversation about Reggie Jackson of the Oakland Athletics, who had shocked baseball by growing a mustache, the first on any major league player since before World War I. But Eddie, who had no interest in sports, barely heard. He was busy watching the archway, waiting for Aurie’s return. He was developing a new theory about what had happened to Junie. Much turned on the success of Aurelia’s call.

  (II)

  BY A HAPPY CHANCE, she reached Oliver at his house on Shepherd Street in Washington. His wife had broken her arm, and the man they called the Judge was home for a few days, helping out. Aurie was touched, but Claire, before she went to call her husband to the phone, whispered that he spent most of the time in his study, working.

  When Oliver came on the line, Aurelia was too nervous to engage in many pleasantries. She explained what she wanted.

  “I wasn’t at the meeting,” he said. “The little I’ve heard about it all came to me secondhand. It’s nothing but hearsay.”

  “I understand that, Oliver. I’m not asking for any details. I just want to know if the meeting was a fund-raiser for Nixon.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” She hesitated. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

  The Judge thought this over. “I don’t think much of your friend Nixon, Aurie. I never have. He’s too goal-oriented for my taste. I’m old-fashioned. I believe that games have rules, and you don’t switch the rules around just because your side might lose if you play it straight. Nixon’s the other way. Well, a lot of people are these days.” A longish pause. “I don’t like what’s been happening in this town the past few years,” the Judge resumed. “In politics. In journalism. In anything. And I especially don’t like the way that people go around digging up dirt on their opponents. I used to think that politics was run by grown-ups. Now I’m not so sure. If you want dirt on Nixon, I’m not going to help.” Switching sides for a moment. But maybe integrity had a side of its own. “We’re turning the voters into cynics, Aurie. The constant mudslinging is going to be the death of democracy.”

  “I’m not trying to sling mud, Oliver. I just need to know this one fact. I can’t tell you why, but, believe me, right now, if you love your country, nothing is more important than the answer to that question.”

  Another long pause. For a moment she was sure she had lost him.

  “No,” said the Judge finally. “The meeting was not to raise money for Nixon, or for Eisenhower, or for the presidential ticket. There. Does that answer your question?”

  She returned to the kitchen in time to hear Locke asking Uncle Eddie when he was going to marry Mom.

  “None of your beeswax,” she said, and kissed her children on their heads.

  Later that morning, Eddie and Aurelia walked along Cayuga Lake.

  “If the meeting wasn’t a fund-raiser,” said Aurelia, “then it wouldn’t make sense for Nixon to be there. They couldn’t have kept his presence a secret.”

  “So it would appear,” said Eddie, lost in thought.

  (III)

  EDDIE LEFT ITHACA the following day. He made Aurelia promise to stay put. He could feel the battle lines forming. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. The Watergate break-in was part of it. Of this Eddie was sure. He knew things Aurie did not. Knew them, and planned to act on them.

  He had told Aurie that he was returning to Manhattan, but he needed an untapped telephone. He stopped overnight at a motel in New Rochelle. He called his former assistant Mindy, now happily married to Zach. An hour later, she got back to him with the arrangements.

  In the morning, Eddie drove on to Rhode Island. This time Gary took him sailing, as if he, too, now worried about being overheard.

  “It’s very simple,” said Eddie after the sloop had glided for a while in the splendid flat silence. “I need to know which side you’re on.”

  “Side?” said Gary.

  “Are you with Perry or with Bay?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “One of the Hillimans was at the meeting, wasn’t he? Look at me. In 1952, at Burton Mount’s house. There was a Hilliman there. Your grandfather, I’d bet. He chose Erebeth as his heir, didn’t he? The same way he chose her to handle the family fortune. He didn’t care about this male-female business. He cared about who would do the best job exercising power. All those lessons Erebeth taught you. You’re her chosen heir, Gary. We can’t mess around any more. I don’t know if you’ve been guarding my back or tracking my moves or both. I do know you’re a member of the Palace Council.”

  The bright-green eyes were steady. “No, Eddie. I’m not.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “And I don’t care if you believe me or not. There was no Hilliman at the meeting. Yes, I know about it. Erebeth told me the story before she died. Her father was approached, and he said no. He kept an eye on them after that, because anybody who tried to run the country was a threat to the family interests, and nothing was more important to Grandfather. I think the reason she wanted to meet you—the reason she dropped Milton’s name—was that our friendship worried her. Erebeth thought you were being groomed as a member of the Palace Council.”

  “Me!”

  He nodded. “Erebeth thought so, and, frankly, Eddie, I think it’s possible.” He waved a hand. “Spare me your indignation. People are getting killed out there, but, somehow, you miraculously survive. Mr. Collier leaves you alive? With all of Southeast Asia to play around in? It beggars belief, Eddie.” He subsided. They were headed back toward shore. “I know why you came, Eddie. I keep tabs on you. You want me to send somebody to protect Aurelia, right? It’s already taken care of. She has a couple of shadows watching her every move.”

  “Streisand and Sharif.”

  Gary smiled. “Is that what she calls them? Well, they’re good. Not as good as Mr. Collier, but still very good.”

  “But they’re not just there to watch her, are they? You’re watching Aurelia because you’re afraid to watch me.” A moment as they pulled the boat out of the water. “You’re afraid I’m a member of the Palace Council, and I might have a couple of watchers of my own.”

  “Something like that.”

  Eddie declined Gary’s invitation to stay for lunch. In the driveway, they nevertheless shook hands.

  “Were we ever friends?” Eddie asked.

  “We’ll always be friends, Eddie.”

  “Even if we don’t trust each other?”

  “That’s not such a terrible thing in a friendship.”

  Eddie continued on to Washington, still searching, but searching alone.

  PART VI

  Washington/Ithaca/Hanover

  1973–1974

  CHAPTER 63

  A Poolside Chat

  (I)

  EDDIE WESLEY OPENED HIS EYES from a dream of peaceful eternal darkness to the reality of hard angry whiteness. Flashlights were shining through the windows of the sedan. Marine guards peered in. The sign on the gate read NAVAL SUPPORT FACILITY THURMONT. Eddie yawned and looked at his watch. Almost eleven at night. The gate shuddered aside. The car rolled past a watchtower and thick foliage and several low cottages, harshly illuminated for security’s sake. Hickory and oak trees danced in the night wind. At the reception building, the driver opened Eddie’s door. After the artificial warmth of the limousine, the chilly late-April air staggered him. At least now he was wide awake. A nervous flunky welcomed him to Camp David. The driver was nervous. The Secret Service people were nervous. Eddie began
to grow nervous, too, even though he was not sure why. The flunky let him freshen up, then led him along a path over a small hill. The guards near the porch of Aspen Lodge did not interfere. The door was opened from within. A desk stood empty. The flunky knocked and opened the inner door, not waiting for an answer. “Mr. Wesley,” he announced. Standing aside to let Eddie pass, he murmured, “It’s been a terrible night. Try to cheer him up.” But Eddie had already spotted the shaken, shrunken figure by the picture window, gazing out on the bucolic Maryland countryside as if for the last time. Eddie, unbidden, stood beside him, and looked, too. He had forgotten how mountainous Maryland was, once you escaped the swampy lowlands where, in its wisdom, the founding generation had decided to establish the capital of the new nation.

  “You sent for me, sir?”

  The President stood, still as a waxwork. And, indeed, his skin had taken on an oddly shiny pallor, like plastic. “They’re resigned,” Nixon finally blurted, not turning. “Haldeman and Ehrlichman.”

  And high time, thought Eddie. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “You heard? It leaked?”

  “Rumors on the news, sir.”

  “That’s all they do on the news. Rumors.”

  And a few facts you wish were rumors. But Eddie did not say this aloud. “Yes, sir.”

  “Dean’s gone, too.” His soft hands clenched and unclenched. “And good riddance.” But the flash of anger lasted only an instant. The President sagged. The room was large, and seemed, with the heavy drapes open to the night and the interior lights off, larger still. “It’s all over, Eddie.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “We had such hopes. Such dreams. We were going to change everything.”

  To Eddie’s horror, tears began rolling down the broken face. He tried to remember the ruthless Red-baiter of the forties and fifties, the architect of the “Southern strategy” that had so skillfully exploited white anger over school desegregation in putting together a Republican electoral coalition. He saw instead the shy, friendless man who had stood in the early-morning haze, trying to persuade astonished student protesters that he was, deep down, a good guy. But he was not. He had been right, Eddie realized, in that essay back in ’62. Nixon was the essential American. What he valued more than honor, integrity, all the virtues Wesley Senior used to preach about, was finishing first.