“Tonight I am vetoing this bill, and returning it to the House where it originated, with the prayer that never again will I or any President be forced to consider an example of legislation so cynical as to pretend that freedom has a price tag.
“Yet we do need powerful legislation to replace this bill. We need legislation concerned with equality, not tranquility, and in due time I intend—”
Before the gasps, groans, and angry exclamations from those in the Madison Dining Room could drown out the remainder of the President’s speech, Arthur Eaton leaped forward, cursing under his breath, and savagely turned off the television set.
White-faced, trembling, he stood with his back to the others, unable to face them until he had regained his composure.
He heard Talley say, “I’ll be goddamned, that sonofabitch torpedoed us!”
He heard Oliver demand, “That bastard, who does he think he is?”
He heard Noyes explode, “The Party can’t let him get away with it!”
He heard Senator Selander predict, “He’s split the country, even if we can override his veto.”
As the voices became increasingly furious and uncontrolled behind him, Eaton tried to block out the din, to assemble his thoughts. His first thoughts were of T. C. The minorities bill was to have been T. C.’s enduring monument. Tonight, no matter what followed, it was a monument no more. Until tonight T. C. had been alive, his government kept alive, through the works he had instigated and the men he had left behind to see them through. Yet tonight a semiliterate black man, defying the wishes of his superiors and the majority of the nation, had trampled on moderation to cater to extremists of his color. Tonight a black interloper, employing the rankest demagoguery in a crude and inciting play for power, had sold out national unity to dress his personal pride.
Then, filtering through Arthur Eaton’s initial shock and disgust, the real implication of Dilman’s rebellion could be seen: It was not T. C. who had been ousted from the White House Oval Office, for T. C. was a ghost, but it was himself, Arthur Eaton himself, T. C.’s heir, who had been banished from decision making and rule.
“What’s left without Party rule?” he could hear Congressman Wickland cry out behind him. “Anarchy, that’s what is left!”
Eaton heard the telephone across the room. Glad of an excuse to escape from the others, he hastily went to answer it.
Immediately he recognized the excitable voice, with its mean Southern slur, on the other end.
“Oh, hello, Zeke.”
“Arthur?” shouted Congressman Zeke Miller. “What do you think, Arthur? Don’t answer. You’re too goldarn gentlemanly for your own good. Let me tell you what I think, Arthur. I’m not afraid of speaking out the truth. You know what I think, Arthur? I think that there black Nigra just did us and the country the greatest goldarn service in history. He showed us he’s ready to dump all branches of government, executive, legislative, judicial, all, to make himself the Nigra dictator like they once had down in Haiti. He stripped and showed his true colors—ha, you betcha—showed us he’s making a black republic exclusive for his brother Nigras—banning the Turnerites, then showing himself to be worse than—”
Eaton had little patience for this line. “Zeke, he’s already alienated the Negro extremists. This won’t win them back. What he’s done, for whatever reason, is simply to alienate most everyone else. I think he’s left himself high and dry—”
“All the better!” Zeke Miller shouted. “Now we can bring him down. Now he’s in the open for what he is, and no more bleeding hearts to guard him, no more poor oppressed black Tom mask to gain sympathy, but just a big black bull Nigra as mean as Mr. Hyde himself. He downright showed his hand, his malignant hand, with that veto, Arthur, and made a mess for us on the Hill and all over the country. Now he’s in the open, and we’re coming out in the open, too. You’ve got to get off the dime now, Arthur. You’re not going to let some all-fired ignoramus lout of a nigger do that to T. C.’s memory, besmirch our great friend, and drag the country to hell and deeper because he’s fixing to make us into another Africa. Arthur, you’re not letting him get away with that, are you? For the sake of the country and our prestige, you got to play ball with us. We’re suffering this together. We’re going to put old Sambo on the hot seat good, and we’re going to roast his ass plenty, until he yells enough, and begs us to get him off it. I’m going to force him to resign, to resign because of disability or whatever, but to resign, and if he refuses, I’m going to resign him by force.”
“How do you intend to do all of that, Zeke?”
“You’ll see. Watch and see. Meanwhile, the boys want to know, I want to know, are you with us, Arthur?”
Eaton said, “Let’s not do anything rash, Zeke. Let Dilman dig his own grave for a while—”
“Takes too long!” snapped Miller. “I want to hustle him into it before we wind up in that hole, too.”
“Well, let me think awhile, let all of us think, and play it by ear until—”
“You play it by ear. You just remember what that ear heard from our Nigra President tonight. There’s only two sides left, Arthur, his and ours. You’ve got to be on ours. I’m counting you in. I’ll have more for you later, Arthur, a lot more.”
Although holding less distaste tonight than he usually did for the Southern Congressman, Arthur Eaton was relieved to hang up on him.
He turned to find Wayne Talley behind him. “That was Zeke Miller,” Eaton explained.
“I guessed it would be,” said Talley. “What’s he after? Throwing Dilman out?”
“Something like that. All kinds of wild, impractical talk. You don’t throw someone out because you disagree with him.”
“Sometimes you do,” said Talley. “But if you don’t or can’t, at least you try to control him.”
“How can we control him? Look what happened tonight.”
“Arthur, when someone’s dangerous, you isolate him from causing any more trouble.” Talley paused meaningfully. “Certainly, you don’t give him a gun. You know what I mean?”
“I think so—I think I do.”
Talley looked around, to make sure they were out of hearing of the others, and then he said, “Arthur, I wouldn’t send him that CIA report, not that one.”
“Aren’t you worrying too much? It may be inconsequential. It doesn’t have a very high reliability evaluation.”
“No matter,” Talley persisted. “Dilman’s irresponsible. He could make a mountain out of a molehill—before we get to the summit meeting in Chantilly. I think we’ve got to start right now, this instant, keeping the seat of government where it belongs.”
“You may be right.”
“If Zeke Miller’s too wild for you, then somebody else has got to do something. I think it’s up to us to save the country.”
“What there is left of it after tonight,” said Eaton bitterly. He considered this, then added, “You are right, Wayne. We have no choice. Dilman has just had his fair trial in public. He can be judged honestly. He is irresponsible, and therefore potentially dangerous. If we cannot punish him, we should seek means to contain him. That should be our private policy. As you so succinctly put it—no gun; we are not going to give him another opportunity to shoot this country down.”
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Office of the White House Press Secretary
* * *
THE WHITE HOUSE
* * *
THE PRESIDENT IS LUNCHING TODAY WITH MAJORITY LEADERS AND MINORITY LEADERS OF BOTH HOUSES OF CONGRESS TO DISCUSS HIS VETO OF THE MINORITIES REHABILITATION PROGRAM AND DISCUSS AN AMENDED BILL.
FOLLOWING IS THE FULL TEXT OF A CABLE FROM NIKOLAI KASATKIN, PREMIER OF THE U.S.S.R., STATING HIS OPTIMISM CONCERNING THE CHANTILLY CONFERENCE TO BEGIN IN FOUR DAYS. FOLLOWING ALSO IS THE TEXT OF PRESIDENT DILMAN’S REPLY.
AT 3 P.M., THE PRESIDENT WILL MEET WITH SECRET SERVICE CHIEF HUGO GAYNOR TO APPROVE SPECIAL SECURITY MEASURES BEING PREPARED FOR THE PRESIDENT’S TRIP ABROAD.
&nb
sp; * * *
AT four-fifteen of an overcast, chilly afternoon, a time when he was normally posted between the President’s Oval Office and the Rose Garden, Otto Beggs sat sprawled deeply and comfortably in the foam cushions of Ruby Thomas’ sofa and listened to the high-fidelity phonograph he had repaired an hour ago.
He was tieless and shoeless, and filled with a single-minded lust he had not felt in years, a passion gradually heightened by his second gin-and-tonic and the perfume and fleshy scent of Ruby’s dusky sensuous person so near to him. The insinuating rhythms were a part of it, too, he supposed, all that Bunk Johnson, Muggsy Spanier, King Oliver, Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton that he pretended to understand but only felt.
But mostly it was the drinks. Ordinarily Otto Beggs was a beer man, a Coca-Cola man, because sobriety was a cornerstone of his exacting job, and an integral part of his devotion to physical fitness. Only at rare times had he ever indulged himself in gin-and-tonic (on his vacation, and at Christmas, and on Big Occasions like his wedding anniversary or when he received a raise in salary or chose diversions after hours on assignments away from Washington, but never on an ordinary weekday—and during an afternoon yet!). But this afternoon, at first guiltily, then as the gin took its potent effect, its taste becoming less medicinal, more pleasurable, he drank, because this was, indeed, a Big Occasion.
“What you thinkin’, Otter?” Ruby Thomas asked.
He looked at her, feasting his gaze upon her tousled dark hair, almond eyes, perfect dark complexion, open-collar orange-yellow blouse, bare feet tucked under her skirt. He said, “I’m too relaxed to think much, Ruby. This is great.”
“Now you talkin’, ’cause I’m ’joyin’ this, too,” she said. She brought her second J and B on ice to her lips, and drained the glass. “Yum. Sure gits this pickaninny’s naycher up. Yum, good.” She studied him over the glass. “Hope you not gonna leave me too quick like, Otter, jes when I’m gittin’ to ’joy myself. Can you stay awhile?”
“Remember, I told you before, Ruby, I took the day off. I can stay all day and evening, if you’re up to it.”
“Up to it? Mothah! I never been happier, man, you bet.” She set the glass down. “How you manage it, Otter? I mean, takin’ all day from you p’ofessional duty? Ever done this before?”
“Never done it before, Ruby. There’s always a first time, though, if there’s good enough reason. I figured you’re a good enough reason. So I made up to go to work, then parked behind the Walk Inn, then phoned my boss and told him I had a bellyache and was going to the doctor. Nothing to it.”
He thought about that call to Lou Agajanian, which had been taken, ironically, by the Negro, Roscoe Prentiss, who had been promoted to the position that was rightfully Otto’s own. If he had been hesitant before making the call, the fact that Prentiss answered had hardened his resolve to have some things his own way. Beggs had said that he was unwell, and was on his way to his doctor, and would then take it easy, but he’d probably be okay tomorrow.
Prentiss had been definitely upset. Ten of the White House Detail had been dispatched to Paris to look things over at Chantilly and Versailles nearby. Two others were in bed with influenza. There would be no one to substitute for Beggs but that new kid, Ross, transferred to the Detail from Baltimore only a week ago and still unfamiliar with the White House routine and the President’s habits. Maybe the doctor would give Beggs a clean bill of health, and he could report for duty anyway, even if a little late. Momentarily, Beggs had wavered—duty—but then he had revived his resentment toward Prentiss and Dilman, Negroes who had put him down, were still trying to put him down, trying to keep him from one of their girls. It had been difficult for him, but he had insisted, in a pained voice, that he was just too sick, and he’d check back with Agajanian tonight.
Working his way through back streets toward Ruby’s apartment, to be sure that no neighbor would observe him, he had worried briefly that Agajanian might be concerned and call the house, and Gertrude would learn of his deception. But that was unlikely, he had decided, for he had told Prentiss he would be at the doctor’s long enough for a complete physical examination. Furthermore, Agajanian was too busy to give him a second thought at any time. The new kid, Ross, could do the job.
A half hour after his arrival in Ruby’s small walk-up apartment through the private entrance to which she had carefully directed him, his last lingering guilt about dereliction from duty had been washed away by the two generous servings of gin and Ruby’s provocative warmth.
She had asked how he had managed to arrange seeing her, and he had told her that there had been nothing to it. It had not been really easy, yet it had been easier than he had expected.
He saw her pleased face, and was in turn pleased himself by his aggressive independence. This was worth any risk. She was the most beautiful dark animal on earth, and he was alone with her.
She was saying, “You mean, Otter, I’m more important for you to see than the Pres? You mean you don’t mind givin’ up p’ofessional work jes ’cause you wanna be with me?”
The gin, and the scent of her, now mixed together behind his temples and made him light-headed and reckless. “Honey, I’d rather be here than anywhere on earth. This is all I’ve been dreaming about, day and night, being with you like this.”
“Whee!” she exclaimed, and suddenly she was up on her knees, reaching out for him. “Man, I sure like you sweet-talkin’ me, makin’ me tingle all ovah—you is deservin’ a reward—”
She was over him, to his surprise, playfully mouthing little kisses upon his cheek. The fluttering opening and closing of her soft lips aroused him. Unable to control himself further, he threw his arms around her, and handling her as easily as a flexible plaything, pulled her down to his chest, pressed his lips hard against her half-open mouth. She responded with her lips, and wriggled her body in his grasp, until the sensuous movements of her back and the sides of her breasts against his palms almost suffocated him.
When she came away from him, eyes now open and staring up at him, gasping to breathe as he gasped too, she said, “Man, you sure is potent—you gittin’ poor Ruby’s naycher stirrin’ up a mile high an’ wantin’ to go—”
“Honey—”
She pushed herself off his lap and came around to stare at him solemnly. “Man, you know what you is doin’ to me?”
“Ruby—”
“You sure enuff full of powers, man, got me hot and full up with naycher—better lemme change—wanna let lil Ruby change?”
Bewildered, frightened, Beggs said, “Whatever you want, Ruby. Yes, you’d better.”
“Yum,” she said. She jumped off the sofa, and then abruptly sat on his lap again, her back to him, one finger pointing behind her. “Unbutton me, darlin’, so’s I can change.”
His thick fingers fumbled at the buttons, and he had difficulty opening them, but at last the back of her blouse fell apart revealing the smooth black shoulders and ridge of spine and the white band and clasp of her brassière. Her head came around, and her lower lip pouted. “Otter, you been ’round too much for this lil pickaninny. Ummm—” She kissed his nose and stood up, chastely holding up the front of her unfastened blouse with her palm. “Won’t be more than a minute changin’. Wanna freshen the drinks?”
“Sure thing.”
“You be waitin’ for lil Ruby—oh, mothah me! Dog my cats! I loves you, man—”
She went quickly, hips and skirt swinging, out of the small living room into the bedroom, half closing the door behind her.
Otto Beggs sat unmoving. She was gone, but the fragrance of her flesh still enveloped him, entered his pores, kindled his desire for her even more intensely. She had said that she wanted to “change.” What did that mean? Change to what? He had an idea to what. Still, would she? Was it possible? Of course, it was possible. She had said that she was hot and full up with “naycher”—meaning, he woozily deducted, that her natural instincts, her primitive instincts, had been aroused by him. Criminy, what did a colored
girl do, how did she behave, when she felt like that? It was a mystery to him, yet his wonder at the unknown was secondary to his great expectations. Shortly, if he had not misread her, he would be initiated into the club—the club of coarse jokes—to be one with all those who had changed their luck.
He left the sofa for the kitchenette, dropped ice into the glasses, poured a double amount of J and B over her ice, and a long shot of gin over his, and forgot about the tonic. He walked back into the living room, holding her drink, taking a swallow of his, and suddenly he stood still. There she was, and he had never seen anything like it except in the movies and men’s magazines.
She posed, one hand on a hip, standing between the mosaic coffee table and the sofa.
“How you like it, Otter?” she asked, and as she pirouetted gracefully, the dark definite lines of her body were clearly revealed from behind the flimsy, long lemon-colored negligee. “I had to git myself some expensive underwear, price of three LPs, jes for this occasion with my Otter.”
“It fits you great,” he said, embarrassed by the thick huskiness of his voice. “This is sure a treat.”
“Don’t sweet-talk cottonpickin’ me—you a big hero with all them fancy whitegirls fussin’ ’round you—”
(1964) The Man Page 51
