Otis had gone through the door, but the older one, Ogden, hung behind. “Pop, last night Junior Austin said there’s a holiday off when a President dies. I hope so.”
“When I get to the White House, I’ll arrange it,” Beggs said expansively.
“Ha,” Ogden chortled, “that’ll be the day.”
Flushed, Beggs shouted, “If I can get you those damn stamps from the President’s secretary, I can—” It was too late. His older son had gone.
Put down, he waited, as Gertrude came back into the dining room. She tried to push her hair out of her face, and buttoned her housecoat, and then she lifted her head and stared at her husband. The tight, unyielding lines of attack had left her forehead and mouth. When she spoke, her tone was more imploring than accusing.
“Otto, I know what that promotion means to you, and I—I hope you get it, for your sake,” she said. “I know what the Service means to you, and all that business, and the excitements, and the scrapbooks. But there’s more to life, Otto. Even if you got the promotion—”
“I’ll get it,” he said fiercely.
“So you get it. But even then, we’d have to borrow and scrape to make a down payment on a better house in a—a decent, proper neighborhood for the boys.”
“We’ll manage, that’s all that counts.”
She came forward a few steps. “Why do you make it so hard for yourself and for us, Otto? It’s been—I guess it’s over a year since Austin agreed he’d like to have you in Chevy Chase as a partner. It was no favor to a brother-in-law. He’s making money hand over fist. He wants to expand. He respects you, no matter how—how carried away he gets sometimes with his success. He’s always saying a person of your background would be a definite asset to his business.”
“I don’t need his charity—him, of all people.”
She was pleading. “Otto, there’s no charity. You’d have to work for it. Six months ago you seemed to be more agreeable. That’s why I got him to loan you those textbooks, so you could study up for the realty board examinations. I think maybe you opened them once. They’ve been rotting inside the desk ever since. But you’re smart enough to do it. Look how fast you got in the Secret Service, passing those tests when you wanted to. You could become a licensed realtor in no time. You’d triple Austin’s business.”
“Doing what? Standing in drafty houses and showing couples still wet behind the ears the view, the goddam new plumbing, the bedrooms? That’s a life, after what I lived? Listen, Gertie, you stick with me, let me do it my way, and I promise you—”
The telephone in the living room rang out, and he stopped, wondering.
“I’ll get it,” Gertrude was saying. “Probably Mae Schearer to gloat about—”
She was gone. He started to eat his bowl of yogurt, when he saw her return.
“Otto, it’s Chief Gaynor calling from the White House.”
He jumped to his feet, suddenly beaming, his temples throbbing. “I knew it, I knew it. Tell him I’ll be right on. I’ll take it upstairs.”
He wanted this triumph alone. He rushed out of the dining room and bounded up the creaking stairs two at a time. Breathless, he snatched up the telephone on the desk.
“Hello . . . I’ve got it, Gertrude . . . hello.”
He heard her click off, and heard a remote secretary tell him to hold on, and then he heard Gaynor’s gruff voice, so welcome this morning.
“Beggs? Chief Gaynor here.”
“Good morning, Chief. I was just leaving for duty. Glad you caught me. I’m sure sorry about Sonenberg and McCune.”
“It happens, it happens,” said Gaynor impatiently. “We just wish they could have done something to save the President. Well, that’s behind us. We’ve got a job to do, and today it’s harder than ever. Beggs, I’m calling to tell you we’re forced into some changes around here—”
His heart swelled. “Yes, sure.”
“—and we’ve upped the guard detail, and have to do some switching around on the three shifts. I know you’re on the morning-to-afternoon shift. But for the time being we’re putting you on from afternoon to evening. You don’t have to come in now. Rest up. You check in at four o’clock and stay until one in the morning.”
His heart thumped faster. “You—you mentioned changes, Chief. Is that all? I mean, just the time?”
“Matter of fact, no, glad you mentioned it. One second, I think there’s another call—no, it’s okay. Yes, you’ll be undertaking a new job. Lou Agajanian tells me you get along well with Negroes.”
“That’s right, Chief,” he said hastily. “Been living right here off Connecticut among them for years. Some of my finest friends—”
“Excellent,” Gaynor interrupted. “We’re assigning you to being one of the twelve special agents who will personally be guarding President Dilman. How’s that?”
Confused, he waited for Chief Gaynor to tell him the rest, but realized there was no more. “I—I don’t understand, Chief. You want me to guard the President? Is that my new job?”
“I knew you’d be pleased. Agajanian told me it was a duty you’d always wanted.”
Beggs felt sinking and frantic. “Chief, it’s what I wanted four or five years ago. But there’s a lot of water under the bridge now. I—I’ve got seniority, now that McCune is gone. I know that Sonenberg left a supervisory vacancy. I figured it was regular procedure—I mean, I thought that the Assistant to Lou, that opening, would—”
“It’s already filled, Beggs.” Chief Gaynor was brisk and businesslike. “An hour ago I submitted Special Agent Roscoe Prentiss’ name to the Secretary of the Treasury and he okayed it.”
“Prentiss?” Beggs could barely restrain himself from shouting at his Chief. “He came into the Service four years after I did. He’s way down the list. I’m supposed to get—”
“Wait a minute, Beggs, easy there. You’re creating a seniority system that doesn’t exist. Going by length of time in the Service is not in the regulations. It’s a factor, of course—always has been when we consider promotions. But just as often we try to angle the right man for the right job at the right time.”
Beggs felt himself shaking with righteous indignation. “Who’s Prentiss? What has he got that I haven’t got?” Then it came to him, and he knew. “Don’t tell me. I get it. He’s colored. He’s being upped to supervisor because he’s a Negro.”
There were empty silent seconds on the telephone, and then Chief Gaynor came on less gruffly. “I’m not in a position to say that was the decisive factor, Beggs. I—” His tone of voice lowered, offering confidence, man-to-man equality. “I just want to put it to you as one reasonable human being to another—what would you do in my boots? Overnight we’ve got an unusual situation, we’ve got a Negro President. Don’t you think it’s only fair that one of the six Secret Service executives should be of his people? If I didn’t do this, he might feel we were being discriminatory, and feel unkindly toward the Service.”
“Did President Dilman ask for this?”
“No-no, he doesn’t even know about it yet. It’s just something we felt would be fair at this time.”
“Dammit, Chief, it’s not fair, say whatever you want. It’s discrimination against me because I’m white. It’s not giving me what I deserve. I don’t like it.”
“Beggs, this is a time to be reasonable. I appreciate your disappointment. The fact is, we’re giving you something better, something you always wanted, an assignment right next to the President of the United States. In fact, and Lou’ll go into this with you, there’ll be a—a token raise. As for the future, we’ll keep you in mind. We take care of our own, Beggs. Now, you take it easy, and check in with Lou at four. Be seeing you.”
Listlessly, Otto Beggs returned the telephone to the desk. Life had spat in his eye again. He knew when he was licked. His glance went to the door, but he had no stomach for facing Gertrude.
He lumbered to the bedroom window and glared down into the busy street. There were people down there, and most of t
hem were black. Until now his attitude toward them had been boxed between resentment and toleration. Now he was bitter toward all of them. Because his Chief wanted to apple-polish a new President, who was Negro, who did not deserve to be President, Otto Beggs had been elbowed aside to make room for a callow colleague whose only qualification was his black skin. And the worst of it, they were throwing him a few pennies more and telling him to risk his life to protect the life of a colored politician.
The injustice of it gagged him. He, a war hero, who almost gave up his life for his country, almost got killed trying to protect those watermelon eaters in the safe rear lines doing soft KP and shooting craps and knocking up Korean girls. He, who had received the Medal of Honor from Eisenhower, having to be at the beck and call of a black President, whose war record consisted of keeping records in the Pentagon. Chrissakes, what in the hell was the world coming to?
He was ready for Gertrude at last.
He strode out of the room and down the stairs. She was waiting below, unblinking, as her fingers picked at the fringe of her housecoat, watching his descent. He felt that his cheeks were livid, and knew that she knew, and did not give a damn.
He looked fixedly at her. She did not utter a word.
He said, “My shift’s been changed. I’m not going to work until four. I’ve got time on my hands. I want to use it. Where in the hell are those real estate textbooks?”
She swallowed, quickly nodding her head. “I—I’ll find them for you, Otto. I’ll get them right away.”
She raised the long skirt of her housecoat, to make movement and speed easier, and hastily she climbed the stairs. For once, he was satisfied with her. For once, she’d had sufficient respect for him to say nothing more.
Late in the afternoon, still behind her desk in her office next to the President’s Oval Office, Edna Foster sat with hands clasped tightly, observing George Murdock as he read the short letter she had moments before pulled out of her gray electric typewriter.
Her gaze did not leave her fiancé. He was running his fingers through his sparse blond hair, and then scratching at his acne-pocked pale cheeks, and then scratching at his beaky nose and receding chin, about which she felt so possessive.
His small, translucent eyes were smaller as they came up from the page to meet her own. “No, Edna, don’t show it to him, not yet.”
She took her neat, two-paragraph letter of resignation to President Dilman back from George, coughed wretchedly, since her cold had settled in her chest, and said, “It’s expected of the whole staff.”
“Flannery told us President Dilman was keeping on T. C.’s entire staff. And there’ll be an announcement he’s keeping on the Cabinet, too. Just like Harry Truman and Lyndon Johnson did, at first.”
“George, it’s impossible. How can I work for him after working for T. C.?”
Murdock’s eyes became even smaller. “Is that the reason, Edna?”
“I don’t know,” she said quickly. “He has his own secretary over in the Senate Office Building. She’s colored. She’d understand him. It—it would be so difficult for me.”
George Murdock shook his head. “No, it would be wrong, Edna. You know this job. The other girl doesn’t. Give him a break. You admitted you didn’t even know him. You haven’t even talked to him today.”
“He’s been locked up in the Cabinet Room for hours, with Eaton and Talley and everyone. Even if I did know him, it would be—”
She halted, and listened. She could hear the tread of many feet leaving the Cabinet Room for the tiled corridor outside.
She said, “They’re breaking up now, George. You’d better leave me. He might come in, and it wouldn’t look right.”
George Murdock came to his feet and so did she, and she was pleased that she was no taller than he, even if it was, as she suspected, because he wore lifts in his heels. He started for the corridor door. “Think twice, Edna, before you quit. You can help him. It might be better for both of us, you being busy right now. See you tonight.”
Alone with her letter of resignation, she reread it, then, with a pen, supplied a missing comma. George, she knew, was wiser than she, and she was attentive always to his counsel. But this time he was wrong because he could not see the turmoil inside her, and there had been no time to talk it out. Yet George had perceived what was at the bottom of her discomfort. He had doubted that she wanted to resign because of her loss of T. C. He had forced her to confess that she thought a colored secretary could serve a Negro President better.
She wondered now what her admission had meant. Why did she think Dilman should have a colored secretary? She had never possessed strong feelings for or against Negroes. In fact, throughout her career she had had no close contact with them. To her they were not people, but a controversial issue that had swirled about T. C.’s Oval Office these last two years and that had gone in and out of her typewriter as a civil rights problem. Like T. C., she had been for them. Like Lincoln, she did not believe in slavery or discrimination or prejudice. She had always considered herself open-minded and progressive, and wanting the right thing.
She had never been faced with the problem of knowing a Negro really well, or working for one really closely. Last night the problem had come to her, and all through the hectic and emotional day she had tried to evaluate it. Without precisely defining why, she had come to the conclusion that she must resign. She had drafted several versions of her letter, when she could find the time, and at last it was typed. She had called George in from the West Wing lobby, where the members of the press were crowded about for every news flash, but the two of them had had only five minutes together.
She wondered if she would see President Dilman at all today. He had arrived at the West Wing entrance late in the morning, had been hurried past the television and radio microphones outside, stopping just long enough to speak, brokenly, no more than thirty words of his grief over the nation’s loss, and to promise that the continuity of orderly government would not be impaired and that a formal statement would be forthcoming.
After that, he had spent the entire afternoon in the Cabinet Room, flanked by Secretary of State Eaton and Governor Talley, seeing Congressional leaders and several ambassadors, approving funeral arrangements, signing a more elaborate proclamation of a period of mourning, preparing a statement to the nation. There had been, as far as Edna had been able to make out, only one change in plans. She had scheduled the members of the Cabinet to see him, one after the other, separately. Apparently Dilman had insisted upon seeing them as a group for five minutes. Talley had emerged to tell her, and Edna had made the arrangements. The first Cabinet meeting had lasted seven minutes, and, according to Tim Flannery, President Dilman had requested one minute of silent prayer for T. C. and MacPherson, and then he had made a little impromptu speech promising that he would try to serve the country, try to carry out T. C.’s programs with their help, and he had concluded by pleading with all of them to stay on in their posts.
She heard muffled voices in the corridor, and then the tramp of footsteps toward the Oval Office, followed by lighter footsteps. Her intuition told her that President Dilman was on his way to his desk for the first time in his first day in office, followed, no doubt, by his Secret Service bodyguards.
She wanted to make certain.
She went quietly to the thick door that separated her room from the Oval Office. In the middle of the heavy door, at eye level, was a minute peephole with a magnifying glass inside it. Very few visitors, even members of the government, were aware that this peephole existed. Occasionally, with glee, T. C. had pointed it out to distinguished foreign guests. He had liked to say, to Edna’s embarrassment, “My wife Hesper had the hole drilled, so that Miss Foster can keep an eye on me. We have a lot of pretty secretaries here, you know.” Actually, as Edna knew from the first day, the peephole was there so that a President’s personal secretary could unobtrusively peer inside, to make sure that the Chief Executive was not occupied with visitors, before she entered or da
red to disturb him.
Edna Foster stood on tiptoe and placed her right eye to the peephole.
The magnifying glass enlarged T. C.’s elaborate desk, made up of the oak timbers of the H.M.S. Resolute, a ship turned over to Queen Victoria by American Minister to Great Britain James Buchanan in an effort to aid the British search for a lost Arctic expedition. Years later Queen Victoria had returned a portion of the rescue vessel to President Hayes in the shape of this White House desk. And forever after it had been known as the Buchanan desk.
Clearly visible to Edna’s eye now, as she studied the venerable desk, were the numerous knickknacks and gadgets surrounding the green blotter, all favors that emissaries from Japan and Ecuador, Italy and Baraza, had brought to the President. Almost visible, too, were the silver-framed portraits of T. C.’s wife and adolescent son.
Dropping her gaze, Edna could make out the center of the room, even to the Presidential seal woven into the green carpet. Shifting her eyes to the right, Edna could see T. C.’s cushioned antique captain’s chair, set between the two curved sofas.
Beyond the furnishings, the Oval Office was empty.
Suddenly the open doorway to the corridor was filled by a Secret Service agent, the one named Beggs, who was unfastening the chain. A moment later President Douglass Dilman came into the room. No one followed him.
Knowing that this was his first visit, as Chief Executive of the land, to what was now his office and had been the office of every President since 1909, Edna Foster watched with fascination.
Douglass Dilman had come to the middle of the room hesitantly. He simply stood there as if uncertain where to turn, what to do, like one who was not sure that he had found the right address. Edna examined him. Although the peephole brought him closer, made him larger, he appeared smaller than she remembered him to have been last night. His broad black face reflected confusion. He rubbed one side of his flaring nostrils and slowly pirouetted, staring at the three windows behind the desk, at the two standing flags, the American flag and the Presidential flag. Then he stared down at the desk itself.
(1964) The Man Page 20
