Every instinct of decency impelled Nat Abrahams to rise swiftly, putting himself between Wanda and Miller. He reached to the set, found the right knob, and turned it off. Miller’s harangue was interrupted in mid-sentence, his image blotted from view.
Wanda closed her eyes briefly, then said, “Thank you, Nat.” As he pulled his chair to the coffee table, she inquired, “Cream and sugar?”
“Sugar. I need it.”
He laid his pipe in the ashtray and began to drink the coffee.
Wanda Gibson circled the coffee table. “Doug telephoned me from Cleveland last night, after the speech,” she said. “He didn’t want to talk about that though, only to find out if I’d read Reb Blaser’s column in the Miller paper. He’d read it. Apparently it appears in Cleveland too. Have you seen it?”
“I don’t read Blaser’s column,” Abrahams said.
“You should, because lots of others do, and they’re people too, and they have as much to say as we do.” She plucked the folded newspaper off an end table. “You want to hear the column? Well, the first paragraph, anyway. The heading says, ‘The Red and The Black.’ Then it goes on, ‘Now then, good citizens, if our illustrious President has done nothing else during his short term in office, he has revived an interest in the classics, especially in Stendhal’s The Red and the Black. The difference is that Douglass Dilman has rewritten the sordid and immoral French yarn, and given it a peculiarly modern twist. The Red, in the new version, is the infamous Soviet undercover agent, Franz Gar, and the Black is his executive office assistant, Wanda Gibson, the comely Negro paramour of the President of the United States.’ ” She lifted her eyes. “Enough?”
“Too much, considering the source,” said Abrahams. He hesitated, frowning, and then he said, because he felt she was one that he could tell the truth to, “Wanda, you’ve got to steel yourself for more of the same. This could be only the beginning.”
“Oh, I know.” She sat down, one hand massaging the other. “I’ve turned away two dozen photographers and reporters today.”
Abrahams put down his coffee cup, and took up his pipe. “Mind?”
“Please—”
He passed a lighted match over the tobacco. “I’m here to help you, if you require help, not only because Doug wants it, but because I want it.”
“That’s kind of you, but—”
“Wanda,” he went on, “I’m not interested in newspaper dirt, any more than you or Doug should be. I’m interested in seeing that you are treated fairly under the law. I’ve already been to the Department of Justice. I’ve been assured that there is absolutely no evidence in their files that would enable them to charge you with being a Communist. As of today, Justice has no plan to prosecute you in any way. Yet, inevitably, you will be questioned, and I wanted to see you before that begins.”
“Too late,” she said calmly. “It’s already begun.”
“Who?”
“The legal counsel for the House Judiciary Committee, a Mr. Wine. He was here at the crack of dawn today, with aides, to hand me a subpoena. Either I had to appear before the subcommittee, or testify before him and sign my statement. That’s what I did, the last.”
“What did he want to know?” Abrahams demanded hastily.
“Everything. Where I was born, educated, how I lived, jobs, family, everything. Most of it was about Doug and myself, when and where we met, how often we saw one another when he was a senator, after he became President, how frequently we talked on the telephone, how—”
“How many times did you see Doug after he became President?”
“Only once, I’m sorry to say, once and no more. He came here to offer me a job in the White House. I turned it down. Of course, we had a number of telephone conversations.”
“What else were you asked?”
“Exactly what our conversations were about. That Mr. Wine was so obvious and embarrassing, all those suggestive questions. Did Doug tell me about what went on in the Oval Office, at Cabinet meetings, the National Security Council meetings, and so forth? Did I discuss Doug with my employer?”
“What did you tell him, Wanda?”
“The truth. What else was there to tell? I have heard no secrets, so I had none to pass on. I doubt if Franz Gar even knew Doug was a friend of mine. Then—then all kinds of nasty stuff about my having lived here when Doug did—both of us under the same roof—the illicit love routine.”
“I hope you told him to—”
“To drop dead? No. I’m a straightforward person, a defect of mine, but it makes sleep easier. I said the President and I never had an affair. We have known each other nearly five years, and he has never done anything more aggressive than kiss me, embrace me, hold me, hold my hand, and that yes, we have always been fully clothed in one another’s company. Good Lord, you know Doug as well as I do. To him, all women are Vestal Virgins, unless sanctioned by the church and state to procreate. That’s why I almost laughed at their other charge of immorality—Doug, the libertine, trying to rape that daughter of Senator Watson. Can you imagine them swallowing that?” She halted and looked hard at Abrahams. “No one will believe that, or the things about me, will they?”
Abrahams shifted uneasily. He could never lie to this woman. “People believe what they want to believe, Wanda.”
She was immediately disturbed. “Then you think he might be impeached? He doesn’t think it is possible.”
“Anything is possible, but he is most likely correct in his estimate of it. This may amount to no more than a means of public censure. I did some superficial browsing on the subject this morning. Impeachments by the House of Representatives are few and far between, Since 1797, the House of Representatives has considered innumerable impeachment charges, yet voted to send Articles of Impeachment to the Senate only twelve times in history.”
“Only twelve times,” repeated Wanda, aghast. “I thought only once—Andrew Johnson.”
“No. He was the one President ever impeached. But the House has the right to consider impeachment of other civil officers, too. Besides President Johnson, impeachments were voted against an associate justice of the Supreme Court, a secretary of war, a senator, and eight Federal judges.”
“What happened to the twelve who were impeached? Was that the end of them?”
“God, no, Wanda. Impeachment by the House is not a trial but a hearing. If the majority of the House votes against the evidence, the whole matter is dropped for the time, although the House brought impeachment proceedings against Andrew Johnson three times before it got a favorable vote. If the majority votes in favor of impeachment, that is but the first step. It means the person facing impeachment has been indicted for high crimes, and then, and only then, does his case go before the whole Senate, which is converted into a High Court, with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court presiding if the President is being tried. Then the person being impeached can have a defense, can retain a staff of attorneys—managers, they are called—to combat the charges of the House managers. Of the twelve men who have gone on trial before the Senate since 1797, eight were acquitted, and four were found guilty, all the guilty were judges, and none was punished beyond removal from office.”
“And eternal disgrace.”
“Yes, I suppose you might say that. The legislator who was impeached, Senator Blount, was not actually tried but was expelled from the Senate, because it was determined that a congressman was not strictly a civil officer.”
“To go back to one point you made, Nat. You said that many impeachment cases have been put before the House, like Doug’s today. Only twelve were sent to the Senate, you said. What happened to the rest?”
“The indictments did not gain a majority vote. They were not passed. Most of the time, however, civil officers whose names are introduced by the House for impeachment don’t let it come to a vote. For example, fifty-five Federal judges have been investigated for impeachment. Eight were impeached, eight were merely censured, twenty-two were acquitted, and seventeen simply resigned th
eir offices and put an end to the proceedings.”
“Nat,” Wanda said quietly, “Doug told me that he was given a chance to resign yesterday—yesterday morning.”
Abrahams felt his hand tighten on the warm bowl of his pipe. “He was? I didn’t know that.”
“Arthur Eaton came to him on behalf of the others. Eaton told him to step aside or quit, on some health pretext, or—or be prepared for what’s going on today.” Wanda fiddled with the buttons of her blouse, eyes downcast. “Nat, you can do something for me, and for Doug. Make him resign. Please do it for both of us.”
Abrahams studied her unhappy profile. “Why, Wanda?” he asked.
She lifted her head, and her eyes had filled. “Because I—I love him—love him too much to see him stripped and tarred and feathered and lynched in front of the whole world. It’ll destroy him, and any happiness he—both of us—might have had. Please make him quit.”
Abrahams felt helpless. “If Eaton couldn’t make him resign, what makes you think I can, even if I believed it was for the best?”
“I know Doug, his sensitivity. Coming from Eaton, it was an insult, got his hackles up. Coming from you, his closest friend, he would listen, knowing you want the best for him.”
Abrahams sucked at his empty pipe, and thought about it. Finally he met her anguished gaze. He shook his head slowly. “Wanda, I truthfully don’t know what is best for him. If he sees this through, he has two chances to survive, to win, to prove he deserves to be President. If he quits now, he loses, he has no more career in public service, he admits incompetence and worse.”
“He’ll be alive!” she exclaimed fiercely. “Everyone on earth will know the professional haters forced him out because he is colored; everyone will know. He might conceivably be popular again, have supporters, come back. And if he didn’t, he could go into private law practice, and we could make a life for—”
“Wanda, you can’t decide this for Doug, and neither can I. Please believe me. Even if he has been goaded beyond common sense, no one can make such a pivotal decision for him. He must make it for himself. That’s all I can say to you.”
“Yes,” she said wearily.
Nat Abrahams wanted to comfort her, but further words would be useless. He rose, and went to the coat tree. As he pulled on his overcoat, he said, “I’ll be on my way. I’m at the Mayflower. I want you to promise me, if any more of the House investigators come snooping, you’ll pick up that telephone and summon me. No more answers to questions without legal counsel at your side. Will you promise?”
She said nothing.
“Wanda, it’s for Doug’s sake as well as your own,” he said sternly.
“I promise,” she said.
“Fine. Now, no more television, either. Keep yourself occupied. Not all of our congressmen are witch hunters. Let’s trust there is a majority who still cling to sensibility and decency. If there is, this will be as forgotten as a bad dream. I’ll see you soon, Wanda.”
“Thanks for everything.”
Not until he had fully emerged into the cold afternoon, and gone down the walk to his car, did he realize how relieved he was to escape Wanda’s problems and Doug Dilman’s problems and the whole impossible situation. Closing himself into his sedan, he felt momentarily insulated from all constricting, suffocating evil, and grateful that he was the lucky person he was, free of torture and punishment, free to return to his untroubled and loving mate, to a new career that promised him wealth and security, to a life unfettered by savage scandal and constant cruelty. Never had he been more grateful than now for being who he was, with so snug and tidy a niche in so seething and blazing a world.
Then, as he turned the ignition key and heard the engine whine and catch, heard its power idling, his conscience was awakened by the smooth mechanical purr.
Before the bar of his conscience, the blood went to his cheeks, and he felt the heat of shame. For he knew that he had allowed himself the vain corruptions of superiority and safety, and in his heart he knew that he possessed neither. He and Douglass Dilman were both men on this earth, with minds and hearts and limbs like one another and every man. His own position in life was high, but no higher than Doug’s position, and he was no more secure on high than his friend. If Doug was vulnerable today, and could be brought down, then so could he. He possessed nothing that Douglass Dilman did not possess. And his shame now came from the vanity of his one safe possession that Douglass Dilman did not have and could never own—the thin sheath of his conforming white epidermis.
Nat Abrahams shifted gears, and the car leaped forward. He was satisfied to know, at last, what he fervently prayed that the honorable members of the House of Representatives would know in due time—that any impeachment of Douglass Dilman, because of his difference, would also become an indictment of themselves, and of half-civilized men everywhere, for all of history.
On the fourth day after his departure from Washington, President Douglass Dilman stood hatless and coatless in the wind and the sun of Cape Kennedy, near Cocoa Beach on the east coast of Florida. He stood flanked by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, by the nation’s most famous astronaut, by several members of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, posing for pictures being taken by the dense swarm of press photographers around him.
Following the wintry weather (and receptions) endured elsewhere on the trip, the Florida sun now baking down on his bare head and the Atlantic breeze now gently nipping at his brown suit represented an agreeable change. Yet Douglass Dilman was uncomfortable.
Staring back at the clicking shutters being manipulated by the crouching, kneeling, shouting photographers, Dilman experienced the sinking sensation of one who suddenly realizes that he is having his picture taken for some nefarious purpose. Under different circumstances, the excessive photography might have been innocent and natural: news shots heralding the Commander in Chief on his first inspection of his country’s foremost missile test center. Under today’s circumstances, the excessive photography was suspicious: news shots recording for posterity and editorial morgues the nation’s leader on his last outing as President of the United States.
The darker side of Dilman’s mind wondered what the caption would be on each still shot, as it was transmitted to New York and from there around the world. Then he knew that there would not be one caption to every photograph, but two, and with cynical amusement he wrote the alternate captions in his head: (A) “The grim and embittered President, shown minutes before learning he was impeached for high crimes and misdemeanors by a majority of the House”; (B) “The determined and courageous Chief Executive at Cape Kennedy minutes before hearing of his vindication by a majority of the House, who voted down the charges against him.”
In an effort to supply appropriate art for the happier caption, Dilman tried to reset his face, tried to look determined and courageous, but he knew that he was not succeeding. He still looked grim, because his innards were poisoned with disappointment and bitterness.
The swing around the country had been an unremitting disaster. Everywhere, he had been preceded by the one-sided, unrefuted charges introduced into the House of Representatives, the charges of his treasonable conduct, his immorality, his intemperance, his contempt of the people’s own elected Congress, all trumpeted into every municipality and hamlet, into every ear, via newspapers, radio, and television. Everywhere, the seeds of hatred had been sown, and everywhere, he had reaped the harvest of malice and malevolence.
There seemed no color line that divided the nation in its united aversion to his presence. The white folks screamed at him as if he were a dangerous orangutan on the loose. The colored folks condemned him as if he were a black Quisling who had sold his people back into slavery. If the demonstration against him in Cleveland had been a horror, his violent reception in the Shrine Auditorium of Los Angeles (where his life had been briefly imperiled by young hotheads who rushed the stage) had been worse, equaled only by his reception in Seattle, where not one word of his fifte
en-minute talk had been heard.
The hurried visits to widespread military installations, under the reluctant guidance of General Pitt Fortney, had been no less distressing. At Fort Bragg, North Carolina, at general headquarters of the Strategic Air Command outside Omaha, Nebraska, at the ICBM site near Cheyenne, Wyoming, at Fort Bliss, Texas, Dilman had been maddened by an entirely different kind of contempt.
At the military installations, the Commander in Chief could not be met by placards and fists and curses. Instead, disdain and low opinion were implied subtly, through mock formality, extravagant courtesy, lack of social warmth. On every inspection and tour, he had found his hosts, his guides, his companions, his servants, to be low-ranking Negro officers or Negro enlisted men. Wherever he had appeared, television sets and radios had been flicked off, newspapers had been hidden, and nowhere had mention been made, reasonably or unreasonably, encouragingly or discouragingly, of his impeachment being debated in the House of Representatives—and throughout the nation. From the seething rage and turmoil of the big cities, he had been dropped by jet airplane into the chilly, soundless atmosphere of ostracism by silence. He had been kept at arm’s length (and a salute), as if he were a leper forced in among them, a leper who would soon, by the vote of his betters, be removed to some political Molokai.
When his jet aircraft had put him down at Patrick Air Force Base, south of Cape Kennedy, this morning, he had known what to expect. With dread he had entered the motorcade, expecting vocal censure from the citizenry and silent rejection from the military once more, and in both instances he had been surprised. While there had often been a hundred thousand persons lining the route to cheer every successful astronaut from John H. Glenn to Leo Jaskawich, and, by Flannery’s estimate, there had been no more than ten thousand along the route to receive him, Dilman had been anything but dismayed. If there had been no cheers, there had also been, for the first time, no catcalls, no shouts of disapprobation, no visible hatred. The onlookers watching him ride past had proved orderly, and their sunburned faces had reflected only interest and curiosity.
(1964) The Man Page 67
