“Why don’t you go down into the bedroom and grab forty winks? Let me catch some fish for you.”
He wanted to buss the doctor for the face-saving order. “That’s a good idea. Maybe I will try to nap.”
He had started for the companionway when Oates caught his hand. He felt the physician press something hard and square into his palm. He looked at Oates questioningly.
“You wear this with your lifebelt,” said Admiral Oates, and he left.
Not until Dilman had reached the bottom of the stairs did he open his palm to see what Oates had given him. It was a tiny pillbox. He turned it over. On the label was printed “For motion sickness, 1 every 4 hours.” Ill as he was, he felt comforted, not only for the physician’s understanding but for his discretion.
Entering the bedroom cabin, Dilman yanked a silver pitcher out of its holder beside the lower bunk, filled a thick-rimmed glass with water, then swallowed a Dramamine pill and water. Squeamishly, he held on to the upper bunk and waited for the result of the silent civil war inside his throat. Either the pill would make it through the enemy line and save him, or the enemy would throw up the pill and overwhelm him. It took twenty minutes to a half hour for a pill to dissolve and work, he had read in some digest magazine, and he waited, hot with anguish, moist with perspiration. He wanted to lie down on the bunk and die. The defeat would be too enormous, and he resisted bowing to it.
After fifteen minutes, hearing a roar outside, he staggered to the porthole to see what was happening. What he saw was the PT boat Guardian, filled with Beggs and several other armed Secret Service men, slicing through the water thirty yards away. Far off there was the speck of what appeared to be a cabin cruiser, growing gradually larger. He left the porthole, once more tempted by the bunk, and then, blindly determined to survive, he walked out of the bedroom.
Within a minute, he was inside the yacht’s Presidential lounge, where the pitch and roll of the vessel were less apparent. He surveyed the off-white walls of the lounge, the green-and-white curtains with their nautical pattern, the soft aquamarine-colored chairs, the painting of the Independence hung over the television set. The lounge was as gracious as any room in the White House, and he knew that he was best off here, because he would not dare to be ill in a room like this.
Observing his locked briefcase propped against a deep chair, he made his way to it, sat down heavily, and devoted himself to the combination that sprung open his lock. There was only one thick sheaf of printed sheets, fastened into a manila binder, inside the briefcase. This was the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill that the Senate and House had passed, and that was now in his hands awaiting his signature. He had read it thoroughly last night, made some notes and put question marks in the margins about certain provisions, and now he must reread the seven-billion-dollar bill once more and do what needed to be done, what the majority of his staff, of Congress, of white America and black America were apparently waiting for him to do.
He opened the manila binder to examine the bill a final time, but his vision was double, and his stomach heaved higher and higher toward his throat. He dropped the folder on the end table and gagged, clutching the arms of his chair, willing for himself the sea legs and stomach and mind and inner ears of F. D. R. or Kennedy or T. C. And then his convulsions stopped, and he lay back limp, arms flopped on his thighs, legs outstretched, a minor skirmish won, praying for the Dramamine to put down the enemy and save the beleaguered battlements of well-being and dignity.
Half reclining in this state of stupor, Dilman tried to remove his mind from water to land. His memory sought out Wanda, Julian, Mindy, Aldora… piteous Aldora of their long ago… it had gone wrong the second-to-last day of the last week of their honeymoon, driving home through Joplin, Missouri… going into that nice-looking bar for a late afternoon drink, because Aldora from the start had always liked a late afternoon drink, and when inside having their cocktail, those two drunken young business fellows had come up, hey-buddying him, hey-buddy-what-you-doin-with-one-of-our-white-girls, hey-buddy?… and knowing they were loaded to the gills, trying to explain, not fight, explain that Aldora was colored like himself and his bride… and trying to leave until they grabbed him and held him, saying hey-buddy, you-not-leavin, no, not leavin with any white girl… and him trying to pull free, until they wrestled him down and pummeled him bloody and Aldora began screaming… and the men going at last, hooting and whooping… and he and Aldora… the real beginning of the trouble had been then, but not the real beginning, for it had begun when she was born more white than black, fair skin, unfair heart… displacing her bitterness at fate, life, for making her almost white but not enough, displacing it by resenting her lot with him, his dark skin… and his striving to show her he was no poor black trash, but more a man, worthy of her, big lawyer, big politician… but no good, because there was Mindy, almost white like herself, so white she also had the prospects Aldora had abandoned too early, and Aldora’s growing contempt for him and her hoarding and segregating of Mindy, as if he would contaminate his daughter… and then Aldora wanting another Mindy, to prove something, maybe flee from him, but again no good… worse… getting Julian, black as coal, reminder that her husband was black and she was black and Mindy was black too… and his own trying to lift them up in politics, lift them high as white men, to make up for being Aldora’s black albatross, and Mindy’s, too… but too late to lift them up with him, because they had escaped, both escaped… Mindy, with Aldora’s conspiratorial help, into a white private school in Colorado, the name of which he’d never known, and then into the East, the white white East… and Aldora escaping too, into a bottle, a bottle a day, as insulated by glass as a model ship in a great big bottle… and his trying everything to reach her and help her escape, even trying to crawl into the bottle with her, no good… even taking a room in the sanitarium with her, no good… until she’d escaped at last, in a coffin, in the ground, where no one is almost white, where all are equal, still and equal, possessed of one mind, dead, one flesh, dead, one face, dead, white-wanting, free-wanting Aldora, in the subterranean planet of nothingness where there were no demons of almost.
He envied her, too, and wanted to escape the drowsy too-oft-relived nightmare, and now he had the Dramamine, and he escaped.
He dozed.
An eternity? An hour? How long had it been? He did not know, after the rattle of the door and then the persistent knocking upon it and then the calling out of his name had aroused him.
Blinking, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He swallowed. The Adam’s apple had running room. There was still a clogging thickness in his throat, but the nausea and dizziness were gone, and so were Aldora and those dreadful years.
“Who is it?” he called out. He shook himself fully awake. “Who’s there?”
“Mr. President-”
He recognized Miss Foster’s muffled voice, and he said, “Come in, come in.”
She poked her head into the lounge. “Mr. President, Mr. Abrahams is aboard. Would you-?”
“Of course, send him in. I’ve been waiting for him.”
She left the door open, and the squishing of her sensible rubber soled shoes receded up the corridor, to be replaced in seconds by the solid smack of Abrahams’ leather heels.
Like himself, Dilman was pleased to be reminded, Nat Abrahams was not to the sea or manor born. Abrahams’ husk of brown hair had been tangled by his boat ride, and the bulky tweed coat he carried slung over one white shirt sleeve, and his tie pinned down by a gold-plated tie clasp, and his uncreased heavyweight wool trousers, and his scuffed brogues gave him the appearance of a landlubber adrift on a raft.
It occurred to Dilman, as it had occurred to him once before, years ago, how much resemblance his friend bore to Frederic Dorr Steele’s profile drawings of Sherlock Holmes, especially this moment when Abrahams, having greeted Dilman, stood in profile, too, his bony, falcon countenance adorned with pipe and jutting jaw, and all the admirable cold wisdom of the great detective. Could one imagine a
hearty and windblown nautical Sherlock Holmes? Inconceivable. As impossible, Dilman decided, as Nat Abrahams and himself on this luxury yacht. With an ally of the anchored earth present, Dilman felt well for the first time. He felt as restored as if he had disembarked on terra firma.
Abrahams strode across the lounge, billowing a trail of smoke, clutched Dilman’s hand heartily, and pulled up a side chair.
“Quite a layout,” he said, his hand taking in the yacht’s lounge. “Been enjoying it?”
“It’s a hell ship, Nat,” he said. “This is what must have inspired Edward Everett Hale to write The Man Without a Country. I know how Philip Nolan felt. Any day, give me my own, my native land.”
Abrahams studied him. “Mal de mer, Doug?”
“Times ten,” said Dilman. “I became seasick going up the gangplank. You have no idea what it’s been like, Nat. All my advisers and officers and aides up there, inhaling, exhaling, full of salt air and the bounding main. Everyone telling me what a perfect day it is, great riding vessel, ocean like a carpet, and me alone, the only one, staggering around, trying to hide from them, not to let them see that all I want is to upchuck. I couldn’t fish, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even make sense talking to Eaton. I’ve devoted every minute to concentrating on not throwing up. I guess I wanted to uphold my position of authority. Tell me, how can you be Commander in Chief of the Navy and have your head in the toilet bowl the whole lousy voyage? They’re born to it, up there, their stomachs trained for it. How can I let them know their Commander thinks a knot is something you tie-and that the closest he ever came to a yacht was when he turned the pages of Holiday-and that all the President accomplished today was that he didn’t vomit? But I haven’t fooled them one bit, Nat, not Eaton or any one of them. They know I’m as out of place here as in the White House… What’s the idea winding me up like this, Nat? But anyway-you brought it up. How do I feel? Sick and demeaned, and thanks for coming to hear me complain.”
Nat Abrahams, pipe between his teeth, was shaking his head, so that some burning flakes drifted to the floor. He stamped them out, and then he said, “Doug, what are you trying to prove? You feel sick and demeaned? Demeaned about not being an old yachtsman with social background? Holy Daniel, look over your shoulder-what did Andrew Jackson and Zach Taylor and Abe Lincoln and Harry Truman know about yachting and Exeter or Yale? And they did right well, you bet they did. And sick, you feel sick? Well, you’re the boss, and if bouncing around on this roller coaster makes you queasy, get off, just get off. Tell them you don’t like it and want to go home. I’ve said this before, so forgive me, but why try to wear T. C.’s shoes, or even Arthur Eaton’s, if they pinch? You can afford your own.”
At last Dilman was able to smile. “Thanks, Dad. I feel better already. In fact, I could stand a tall cool drink. What about you?”
“Nothing would please me more… Sit still, I’ll make them.”
Abrahams went to the bar and made a bourbon-and-soda for Dilman, and sloshed some Scotch over ice for himself. After he returned to his chair, and they drank awhile in silence, Dilman said, “Better, much better.” He set his half-finished bourbon down beside the MRP Bill, and loosened his tie. “I know I’m cheating you, Nat. I invite you to fish-”
“Nonsense.”
“-but I guess I really wanted a chance to talk to you. There hasn’t been much time lately. I haven’t seen you since those Trafford boys used me for target practice, have I?”
“No. I was tied up, too. I got Sue off to Chicago, to pack. And while waiting for that final contract, I’ve been meeting your legislators. Oliver has practically made me an honorary congressman.” He hesitated. “Trafford? I gather it was rough on you and Julian.”
“It was. But I had no choice. From the demonstrations going on, I guess I’ve alienated what Negro sympathy I had. I think that’s what surprised me most.”
“You’ll win it back, and fast,” said Abrahams. “Once you sign the minorities bill, you’ll have 70 or 80 per cent of the Negro population on your side. Nothing you do will satisfy the rest, the extremists.” Abrahams’ glance went to the end table and back to Dilman, who sat bemused. “Have you signed the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill yet, Doug?”
“Not yet. I don’t know. I suppose that’s why I wanted to see you today. Fishing, yes, I guess I wanted to throw out a line and fish for your opinion.” Dilman thought that his friend had fidgeted uneasily, and he was puzzled. “Unless, of course, you haven’t kept up on the bill and don’t particularly care to talk about it. If-”
“Oh, I’ve read it, Doug. Don’t forget, I’m the new Nat Abrahams, and I’m supposed to be conversant with all pending and active legislation. And the minorities bill-let’s face it, it is the biggest domestic spending program to go through Congress in years.”
Dilman watched Abrahams tap the ashes out of his pipe and then refill it and light it. Dilman said, “The cost doesn’t bother me, if I could be as positive as T. C.’s crowd and Congress that it would do some good. I keep having the sneaking feeling that-that it’s a sort of-oh, give-them-bread-and-circuses sort of thing.”
“It’s more than that,” Abrahams said, too hastily. Drawing on his pipe harder, he dug for something in his hip pocket. “As a matter of fact, I happen to have a little item here-” He pulled out several sheets of paper that had been folded and stapled. He unfolded them. “I-I have here the-the salient points of the bill-facts and figures, and some authoritative notes, projecting its effect on the country as a whole. I even penciled in several of its questionable aspects. But overall, there’s no doubt, it can give our economy a big boost, a big one-” His voice had trailed off. He held the papers forth tentatively. “Maybe you’d like to see this.”
“I certainly would.” Dilman took it, and since it was concise, he read every word of it, acutely aware that Nat Abrahams was watching him nervously, exactly the way Leroy Poole used to watch him nervously when he read the author’s manuscript pages.
Reading on, flipping the pages, Dilman felt a growing sense of bewilderment. The logic was there, the statistics and authorities were there, but there was something real and important missing. What was missing was the Nat Abrahams that he knew, or, my God, thought he knew. There was none of Nat’s keen intellect, his humanity, his understanding, his language. There was a complete omission of the central issue, the kind Nat liked to tackle head on. Dilman hoped to find it toward the end. When he reached the end, it was not there. He felt cheated and deeply confused.
He looked up, unable to disguise his disappointment. “Interesting. It does make a solid case for priming the economy. I just sort of-missed-any case for how it’ll close the racial gap between the have-nots and the haves.”
To Dilman, there was no question about it this time: his friend was squirming. Abrahams set down his drink. “Well, we take that for granted.”
“Take what for granted, Nat?” Dilman sat up. “We’re friends-don’t take this in the wrong spirit-I’m not being critical of you-but this is a minorities bill. That, to me, is the primary point. What will the seven billion dollars of taxpayers’ money do for minorities, not for the economy? Will the spending buy equality for all, or merely greater prosperity for industry and labor? Dammit, Nat, as a matter of self-interest, there’s every reason why I should sign the bill. Everyone wants me to, and God knows I need every possible bit of support now, and I probably will sign it. Only, foggy as I am, indecisive as I’ve been, one factor seems to be wanting in the entire bill, as it appears to be missing in your précis. I miss the sum allocated to give the Negroes, Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Indians, Japanese-lets stick to the Negroes-I miss the sum that will guarantee them all they really want, first-class citizenship.”
Abrahams had reddened. “Doug-” he began.
“No, let me finish. Here we have it, seven billion dollars for public highway construction, desegregated but quota-limited schools, dams, factories, forest conservation, and sure, preferential treatment so Negroes do the work involved and recei
ve the benefits. But, Nat, despite all those watered-down civil rights bills passed in recent years, when we talk about the American Negro today, we still talk about five rights being kept away from him-five, not one. The right to work, and not be the first to be fired, the last to be hired, and not be exiled to menial jobs. All right, this bill takes care of that. What about his other four rights? Will this bill really give the Negro the right to use public facilities? To have first-rate education? To occupy integrated housing? To enjoy freedom to vote like any other American? No. There are a few crumbs, sure. Sweep them together and what do they represent? No segregation in buildings constructed under this MRP Bill. Higher salaries for teachers who go into slum areas or work in desegregated schools, and some free tutoring programs and scholarships. Better and cheaper housing in the tracts the bill subsidizes for those who will move into these mixed neighborhoods. And on voting, nothing specific, the usual patriotic promises and hopes. So there it is, and our Negro leaders are ready to accept the crumbs because they’re tired of fighting for the loaf, when they’ve been hungry more than a century. I can understand that. But I’m troubled. This bill may rehabilitate the minorities financially, but it won’t raise them up to full equality. And in the end, it may be only a delaying action, and solve nothing for the white population either. Yet I could be wrong, dead wrong. Maybe fights are won one skirmish at a time, and this would gain my people one right they desperately want. And who am I to worry it so, be indecisive again, when smarter minds support this bill? Still-” He stared directly at Abrahams and then held up the stapled sheets of paper. “I guess it was unfair of me to expect you to include all that other in your summary, because I felt lame and sort of wanted a crutch. It’s just that this didn’t sound like you’d written it.”
Dilman sat back, and fumbled for his drink.
Quickly Nat Abrahams leaned forward and took the papers from Dilman’s lap. “I didn’t write it, Doug. Eagles Industries wrote it. Avery Emmich wrote it. Gordon Oliver wrote it. They wanted me to transmit it to you-first assignment-and I did. I’m ashamed of myself now. I knew, the second I handed it to you, I could never go through with it, pretending it was mine.”
The Man Page 48
