(1989) The Guest of Honour

by Irving Wallace

  ‘Hy, I’ve seen your segment twice today. Earlier, I saw it live, and just now I saw it again on videotape. I wanted to speak to you about it. The question I have is - why?’

  ‘Why what?’ Hasken said, bewildered.

  ‘Why a whole segment on prime time about Lampang? Who gives a damn about Lampang?’

  ‘But you heard me,’ Hasken protested. ‘It’s strategically important. It fills a big hole in our defence perimeter. You consider the Philippines important, don’t you? Well, it’s on our side. Lampang is just as important. Only it’s not on our side.’

  Whitlaw shook his head. ‘I’ll bet you ten to one that half your viewers haven’t the faintest idea where it’s located.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Hasken conceded. ‘But it’s a story.’

  ‘A poor one. And President Noy Sang coming here to discuss it with Underwood. Among world leaders, Noy Sang must be one of the least known.’

  ‘She’s just been in office one year,’ Hasken said. ‘Give her a chance. She’ll be better known after tomorrow.’

  ‘I doubt it, Hy.’

  ‘Besides, in herself, she’s dramatic. I mean just a year ago her husband was assassinated. She was his vice-president - in

  itself unusual - and was sworn in immediately. Furthermore -‘ Hasken hesitated,’- she’s a looker. She could catch on.’

  ‘Maybe, but unlikely,’ Whitlaw said. ‘Another good-looking woman in the White House isn’t going to mean much when we have a first lady who was once Miss America.’ Whitlaw sighed. ‘Certainly you could have found a better lead piece for prime time.’

  Throwing up his hands, Hasken said, ‘There is no better lead piece, at least none that I was able to find. My problem was and is President Underwood. As I’ve said many times on the air, he’s a lazy president. He simply does not generate news.’

  Hasken thought about it. He had known Underwood from very early on, when Hasken himself was a beginner at TNTN and Underwood had reached his zenith on television as the most popular and beloved anchorman on the air. Underwood’s partially grey mop of hair, finely chiselled features, somewhat seamy, certainly kind, and his warm voice had made him a household name. What made him even more colourful was that he had actually married a former Miss America, Alice Reynolds, who did women’s features for the network. When Hasken had graduated from Columbia University in New York and obtained a lowly job at the network, Matt Underwood had reached his peak.

  Early on, Hasken had stood in awe of the renowned anchorman. Then, gradually, as he learned more about television, Hasken’s admiration for Underwood had diminished. Hasken had been a curious and aggressive reporter. His disrespect for Underwood had grown out of the fact that the anchorman was uncurious. Underwood was what Hasken secretly called a ‘reader’. Dig up the goods on any story, foreign and domestic, and Underwood read it to his audience as if he had invented it. His strength was not his originality but his absolute sincerity.

  Hasken thought his superior counterfeit. An actor. Not dumb at all. Quite smart, actually, and with a wide range of knowledge about many things. His real strength was in his

  ability to convince millions that what he spoke was his own and the truth. People believed in him as youngsters might believe in their fathers.

  Then, abruptly, Underwood had left TNTN for politics. When a senator from New York died in office, there was the remainder of his term to be filled. The governor, a fan of Underwood’s and aware of his incredible popularity, had made the daring choice of a television anchorman for senator to serve an unfulfilled term.

  From his experience as a reporter, Hasken knew that joining the pack in Congress often obliterated a man or woman. But Matt Underwood was different. Underwood simply transferred his popularity from television to the United States Senate. He continued to be more than ever the media darling. When the time came for seeking presidential nominees, Underwood was in effect drafted by his party. In the primaries he ran away with Iowa and New Hampshire, and in the election he swamped his opponent in a landslide.

  And so the White House was occupied by a former television anchorman and a one-time Miss America.

  Meanwhile, Hy Hasken, with all his initiative, had moved up swiftly in the network ranks, and two years ago he had become TNTN’s White House correspondent.

  Hasken didn’t like President Underwood from the outset. He was a lazy president, as lazy as Calvin Coolidge had been, and presently Hasken began to say so on the air. This drew fire from the president and his chief of staff, Paul Blake, but Hasken persisted in his criticism of a president who held almost no press conferences and rarely received foreign leaders.

  How his staffers had got him to sit still for a lunch with the female president of Lampang was beyond Hasken. Nevertheless, Hasken thought it a story and had used it today.

  And his editor Sam Whitlaw had objected. The story was too dull.

  Hasken reached back for the thread of his conversation with Whitlaw, and after some difficulty found it.

  ‘Let me repeat,’ Hasken resumed, ‘this president simply does not generate news. I’ve got to go with something, so I went with what I had.’

  ‘There was not another news lead you could find?’ persisted Whitlaw.

  ‘Nothing, Sam, believe me. The only scrap of real news I can imagine would be word that Matt Underwood had decided to run for re-election and grab a second term. That would be news. I happen to know the first lady wants him to run again. So does Chief of Staff Blake. It would give them both continuing power. But I suspect Underwood doesn’t want to run again and doesn’t intend to. I say again, he’s too lazy for the job and bored by it.’

  ‘But Alice Underwood wants him to run?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she adores the limelight and all those photo opportunities.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you say that on the air?’

  Hasken looked helpless. ‘I’d like to, Sam. But I can’t prove it. I’m a good investigative reporter, maybe the best, but what I investigate has to be provable. I believe the first lady wants him to run again. Yet, I don’t have a shred of proof.’

  Whitlaw seemed enthusiastic at last. ‘Then go out there and beat the bushes, and get the proof. The first lady wants him to run. The president doesn’t want to. Conflict is the essence of any worthwhile story. I don’t care if Underwood runs again or doesn’t. The story is what will he do? Now that’s a good story, not some crap about Lampang.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to get it,’ said Hasken earnestly.

  ‘To be sure you get it,’ said Whitlaw, ‘I’m giving you a new job. No longer Hy Hasken, White House correspondent. From now on Hy Hasken, presidential correspondent. Think you can do it?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Starting tomorrow you are President Underwood’s shadow. Follow him like a guilty conscience.’

  They slept in separate bedrooms on the second floor of the

  White House, and they had been doing this for some time, at least a year.

  The reasons behind this separation were twofold. First, Alice Underwood was an insomniac and a poor sleeper. She took a low dosage pill twenty minutes before going to bed, and when Matt Underwood came to bed shortly after, he inevitably awakened her. This made her crankly and harsh. Second, Matt Underwood always took two or three - usually three — snifters of cognac before going to bed. When he awakened his wife, she could smell the cognac on his breath, and this made her more irritable and angry.

  ‘Godammit,’ she would say, ‘can’t you come to sleep once without brandy on your breath?’

  Pulling up the blanket, he would say, ‘No, those snifters are my light sleeping pill. I tolerate yours. You can tolerate mine.’

  This had set off a bitter exchange full of old recriminations, and after that both of them had trouble sleeping at all.

  Alice made the initial move. She backed herself out of the First Family Bedroom and staked out her own place in the canopied bed of the Queens’ Bedroom down the hall.

  This morning at seven-thir
ty the president’s cheerful black valet, Horace, knocked on the door several times and entered. He did not have to shake the president awake. Underwood lay there, still groggy, but gradually coming alert.

  ‘I’ll lay out your pin-striped light blue suit, Mr. President,’ Horace said, starting for the dressing room. ‘I believe you have a foreign visitor for lunch.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ groaned the president. ‘All right. Whatever.’

  The president crawled out of the spacious bed, and headed for the bathroom.

  There he showered, brushed his teeth, towel-dried his hair and brushed it back, and sprayed some cologne on his chest.

  When he returned to the bedroom in his bathrobe, his clothes were waiting, carefully arranged on the freshly made up bed.

  Dressing slowly, the president’s mood improved. He liked

  the airiness of this bedroom next to his second-floor study. The handpainted Chinese wallpaper depicting birds in flight, gentle, placid, pleased him. Between the windows was the William Metcalf landscape that always soothed him. Even the 1818 marble mantel was comforting.

  After knotting his necktie, Underwood slipped into his suit jacket and felt ready for the day.

  Emerging into the hallway, Underwood determined to make another effort with this marriage. He had not breakfasted with Alice for several weeks. This morning he made up his mind to join her.

  Walking down the hallway to the Queens’ Bedroom, Underwood tried to recall - which he did often - how his estrangement from Alice had come about.

  He had first set eyes on her after she had won the Miss America contest. Actually, earlier, but not in person. He had seen her on television parading in the Miss America contest, watched as she became a finalist, and approved when she was crowned. He remembered her body in the tight white swimsuit. She had been flawless. A beautiful Grecian face, long neck, broad shoulders, magnificent protrusion of bosom, narrow waist, curved hips, and long, long shapely legs.

  When she arrived at work for TNTN, Underwood was introduced to her and saw her for the first time in person.

  In pink blouse and skirt, Alice was every bit as attractive as she had been in the Miss America contest. She was, at the time, a momentary celebrity. Underwood himself was a national star of the first magnitude. Naturally, she gave him time and attention. He was glued to her by her breathtaking beauty.

  Presently, they went to dinner and became better acquainted in a discreet corner of an Italian restaurant near 59th Street and the Avenue of the Americas. After dinner they went to his apartment and made love.

  Their lovemaking taught him more about her. She had not been warm and soft, but she had been experienced and aggressive. Above all, she was beautiful beyond belief.

  For Underwood, Alice Reynolds was irresistible.

  Realising he would never find a woman more perfect, he wanted her for his own.

  He was happy to marry her.

  They had their only child, a daughter, Dianne, in the second year of their marriage. In the years that followed, Underwood continued to be satisfied being rated the most popular anchorman in the United States. He could detect, however, that Alice had become restless playing mother and having her work cut down at TNTN.

  What gave her a lift, and briefly stabilised their marriage, was Underwood’s appointment to the unfulfilled term in the United States Senate. Underwood accepted it as something one doesn’t turn down, especially when he had a wife who wanted him to take the new job and desired a change.

  After that, it was politics and Washington, D.C. In his new role, Underwood was more popular than ever, and Alice received greater attention.

  Then the polls for the presidential nomination began to reveal a surprising thing.

  While other candidates for the nomination were tried and true politicians, each well-equipped to serve as president of the United States, it was Matt Underwood who was the best known and the most popular among them.

  He had gone into the primaries not seriously, not believing he had a ghost of a chance to be nominated. But his affable personality, his informal talks, his familiar face that seemed part of everyone’s family, turned the trick. After resounding victories in Iowa, New Hampshire, the South, Underwood became the party favourite for the nomination.

  Once he gained the nomination and began to campaign, he found the steady public appearances tiresome. Still, he was good at reading speeches, very effective, and the public took him to their hearts. And so did Alice. She had come alive again at the thought of being the first lady of the United States.

  The election came and went in less than a single day. The

  votes were not yet in from Illinois when Matt Underwood had become the next president of the United States. Alice Reynolds Underwood had become the first lady.

  They were the most glamorous couple in the White House since John F. Kennedy and Jacqueline Kennedy.

  Alice revelled in her position. She adored the chance to dress up, to meet diplomats, to be with her husband at the centre of media attention.

  The hangup had been Matt Underwood. He disliked the routine of seemingly endless hours, the details, the dull conferences with staffers. He disliked the socialising with people who did not interest him.

  More than anything, he disliked the disagreements with his wife. They were at odds constantly. What she enjoyed, he found boring. There were moments when he considered the presidency illuminating, with all the firsthand information that poured across his desk, with all the newly acquired knowledge and power that came to him. But what he missed most was privacy, and the chance to devote himself to an absorbing book.

  Their most severe difference came when he had made up his mind that four years was enough.

  That had been a year ago. He remembered the confrontation as if it had been yesterday.

  He had been absorbed in a news programme on television when Alice appeared and snapped the set off.

  ‘I want to have a serious talk with you,’ she had said.

  Annoyed, he had waited silently.

  ‘I’ve tried to bring it up several times, but each time you’ve been evasive. I want to have it out now, once and for all.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he had said, suspecting what lay ahead.

  ‘It’s about your plans, and my own,’ she had said. ‘I want to know if you are going to run for re-election. Tell me.’

  ‘Well, actually, I haven’t made up -‘

  ‘Of course you have,’ she had interrupted. ‘You know for certain. Now I deserve to know. Will you go for a second term?’

  ‘No,’ he had blurted out. He had been surprised how easily it had come. ‘No,’ he had repeated, ‘I’ve had enough.’

  Alice had stood stunned. ‘I can’t believe it. You really mean it? Matt, what are you going to do with yourself?’

  ‘I have a world of things to keep me busy. You know most of them. Above all, I want to devote myself to my People’s Non-Nuclear Peace Plan. You’ve heard me speak of it often enough.’

  ‘Trying to convince nine leaders of nations that have nuclear weapons - or the capability to make them - to give them up. Matt, you can do that more effectively as president.’

  ‘I can’t. Not as leader of the United States. My self-interests are suspect. But as an ex-president -‘

  Alice had not been mollified.

  Underwood had tried to understand his wife. For Alice, four years was not enough. She wanted eight years. It was like being Miss America again, only bigger. She welcomed the spotlight. She would have loved it forever.

  Also, Underwood knew, she was competitive toward the first ladies who had preceded her. Alice was aware that Jacqueline Kennedy and Lady Bird Johnson had each had forty persons on their secretariat staffs as press and social aides, and Alice hoped for more. During two terms, Pat Nixon had been hostess at sixty-four state dinners, and Alice wanted to equal that record or surpass it. She liked to have a major domo in charge of seventy-five servants for the 132 rooms of the White House, and she did not want to g
ive up any of it.

  So contention over a second term remained the strongest disagreement between them. He tried to retreat into himself, avoiding any further mention of the matter. Alice would not let go. She was as aggressive as ever, missing no opportunity to chastise him for his unwillingness to continue.

  Arriving at the Queens’ Bedroom, he was resolved to patch things up, get closer to Alice, heal their differences.

  He opened the door without knocking.

  Alice, in a flimsy white negligee, was comfortable in the American Sheraton canopied bed, a bed that had been used by

  five famous queens during their official visits to the White House.

  ‘Top of the morning,’ Underwood called out. ‘I thought you’d like me to join you for breakfast.’

  Only then did he notice that there was a breakfast tray across her lap from which she had been eating.

  ‘Too late,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Next time let me know in advance. I’ve been busy with Monica -‘

  Shifting his gaze, he realised that Alice’s social secretary, Monica Glass, was also in the bedroom, standing by the tall windows. Monica, who had been riffling through her briefcase, stared at him coldly.

  Underwood ignored the social secretary. For Underwood, Monica was too ugly to look at. She was bright and efficient, but her thick features were a put-off.

  ‘Too bad,’ Underwood grunted, annoyed.

  ‘You busy today?’ Alice asked, making a polite effort at public friendliness.

  ‘Fairly,’ he said. ‘See you around.’

  Underwood closed the door, not softly.

  Proceeding to the northwest corner of the hall, Underwood reached the President’s Dining Room, a small room furnished with Federal pieces from the White House collection. Underwood liked the historical feel of the room, especially one of the three sideboards that graced the west wall and still bore the initials D. W. for Daniel Webster.

  At the mahogany table in the centre of the room the president’s appointments secretary, a clean-cut young man named John Zadrick, was already seated with his papers, waiting as the dining room waiter, Babcock, poured his strong coffee, and then went to the serving cart to bring the president’s breakfast to the table. As usual, the president’s breakfast was austere - orange juice, a small bowl of cereal, and buttered toast.