by Allen Drury
For several moments after he concluded, his expression somber and moody, his eyes far away down the lush byways of the formal garden beyond the windows, Governor Croy said nothing, simply staring at him with an open disbelief and dismay, as though he could not possibly have heard what he had just heard. When he responded it was with a very careful slowness and a very careful choice of words.
“Is this Ted Jason whom I hear?” he inquired softly. “I cannot believe it. It seems such a complete and abrupt reversal of everything you have been saying in all these recent months. It just doesn’t make sense. Suddenly you sound as militaristic, as dependent upon armed force, as wedded to outmoded concepts of ‘national power’ and ‘national prestige’ as—as Orrin himself. It astounds me, Governor. I can’t believe it. Surely I must be mistaken in what I hear? Surely this does not represent your final and considered judgment on these things?”
Ted sighed and shook his head.
“Maybe I’m beginning to believe my own publicity,” he said with a wry little smile. “Maybe I’m beginning to think like a President already. But they are things we must think of, you and I.… No,” he said, more positively, with an abrupt shake of the head. “I don’t agree with all of that, of course. I’m not turning my back on everything I’ve advocated and spoken for in these recent months. I’m not betraying my true believers, Governor. But I am saying that these are things to consider, and that they make it even more imperative that we be very careful about certain people and certain forces and how intimately we let them participate in what we do.”
“But even that is quite a change,” Roger P. Croy said with some dismay. “Does it mean you are not going to redress the dreadful wrong done in Gorotoland—you are not going to restore Prince Obi and a truly democratic government? Does it mean you are not going to end the conflict in Panama and recognize the government of Felix Labaiya? How can you turn your back so completely on the people who believe in you, Governor! I am shocked and dismayed, I will tell you frankly. Shocked and dismayed.”
“You can always resign,” Ted remarked with a sudden tartness that momentarily halted Roger P. Croy in his oratorical tracks. But as usual it took him only a moment to recover.
“And abandon the man I believe in, the only one in America who can lead us back to a position of dignity and justice and peace in this world?” he inquired blandly. “It is hardly likely. Having accepted the high honor of being at your side, Governor, I could not so rudely abandon it now. But I can, I trust, express from time to time my thoughts—and my misgivings, if it should come to that. I trust I am not to be foreclosed from candid and helpful comment. It seems to me that would be a betrayal of one of your truest ‘true believers,’ indeed!”
“Governor,” Ted said with a smile, “I can see I have met my match.”
“Oh, I hope not!” said Roger P. Croy with an amiable good will. “I hope not!”
“I’m not so sure,” Ted said with a quizzical look. “I’m not so sure.… Governor,” he said, suddenly serious again, “of course I mean to do what I can to correct what seems to me an unfortunate outcome of the conflict in Gorotoland—”
“Which will mean withdrawing American forces from support of Prince Terry’s government?” Governor Croy suggested.
“Which will, in the long run, have to mean that,” Governor Jason said, “providing it can be done without turning over the government to a successor who would invite the Soviets into that most strategically located African state. We can’t just cut and run, I’m afraid. It will have to be done gradually.”
“Again, the militaristic concept,” Governor Croy said sadly. “Why is Gorotoland ‘strategically located,’ Governor? Why must we bother ourselves with a local quarrel in a little country in the bush, far away? Why can’t we simply let democratic elements prevail, and take our chances?… But—no argument now. No doubt the policy will have to develop as we go along.… And Panama?”
“Panama,” Ted said thoughtfully, “is a different matter.”
“And why is it different?” Roger Croy demanded. “Is it not the same militaristic concept of imposing American wishes by force? Are we not confronted with the same phony, hysterical arguments of ‘military necessity,’ ‘national defense needs,’ ‘strategic requirements’? When what we are really confronted with, as we are in Gorotoland and indeed wherever else we have unfortunately seen fit to blunder in, in recent years, is simply the sincere desire of smaller nations and peoples to be free and independent and work out their own destinies.… Governor,” he said, suddenly deeply earnest and intent, “I beg of you—do not, now that you have finally achieved the power to lead the world, abandon the millions of Americans and the millions everywhere in the world who desperately want peace. Do not go back to the old, outmoded, bloody way of doing things. There must be a better way, Governor! There must be. A troubled humanity looks to you to find it. Do not weaken, do not yield, do not turn back. To do so would be a dreadful betrayal of us all. Simply—unbelievably—dreadful.… That is why,” he went on presently, in a less fervent tone but grave and earnest still as Ted watched him attentively but without expression, “I do hope you will be able to consider, even if you are unwilling to consider them now—for reasons which I grant you,” he acknowledged smoothly, “are valid—the views of the gentlemen who were to have accompanied me today. The views and, I might add, the assistance of these gentlemen in the difficult times ahead.”
Ted frowned.
“‘Assistance?’ How so?”
“I would expect,” Governor Croy said somberly, “that we may be in for serious troubles when it becomes clear that you really are going to reverse past mistakes and restore American policy to a basis of sanity in the world. Those who favor the harsh approach—the radicals of the right—may not take it lying down. There may be genuine trouble.”
“In which case,” Governor Jason said with a thoughtful slowness that told his running mate nothing, “your friends may be able to help in some way. What way?”
“Our friends, Governor,” Roger Croy corrected pleasantly. “And I don’t know what way, exactly. But I do know that I would rather have them on our side than against us. They do represent a very strong and very vocal element. And if there is trouble—”
“If there’s trouble, they know how to create it, right?” Ted inquired with a sudden dryness that momentarily shattered the earnest composure of the distinguished visage before him. “Governor,” he said firmly, “we must think about these people very seriously.”
“You were not so hesitant to accept their support when you were seeking power,” Governor Croy said quickly. Governor Jason nodded.
“And now I have it,” he said quietly, “or at least you all tell me I soon will. And that illumines many things.” Abruptly, startling his running mate, he stood up and held out his hand. “Well. Thank you for coming, Governor. We shall talk again. Many times.”
“But—” Governor Croy began, for once nonplussed. “But—”
“I believe Patsy is expecting us for dinner,” Governor Jason said. “And then I’m off to ‘Vistazo’—and a little rest—and a lot of thinking.”
And he did fly out later that night, in the larger of the family planes, to “Vistazo,” the great Jason ranch that sprawled along the soft brown coastal hills north of Santa Barbara, its comfortable old ranch house still controlling the remaining six thousand acres of the once enormous land grant held by his Montoya ancestors in the days of Spanish California. But before he left he had one thing to do; and after he had said goodbye to them all (refusing Patsy’s offer to keep him company, saying he wanted to be alone for a little while at the ranch), he made a telephone call from the car and then spoke to the chauffeur. Obediently the car turned and headed west across town.
“Why does he want to see you now, the tricky bastard?” Hal Knox inquired bitterly. “I wouldn’t let him in the front door, if I were you, after all he’s done to hurt this family.”
“Well, I don’t think—” Beth sa
id slowly “—I don’t think he has done it, so much as the people behind him. I think he’s very genuinely shattered by it.”
“By losing Ceil, maybe,” Hal said, unrelenting, “but not by losing Orrin Knox. It’s going to make him President. Why should he feel shattered about that?”
His mother shook her head.
“You’re too harsh. Too harsh. I can’t hold him personally responsible.”
“Not personally responsible?” Hal demanded with an angry disbelief. “My God, how charitable can you be? If he hadn’t encouraged the violence at the convention and kept it going during the National Committee meeting, Dad would—would—” his voice broke a little and then strengthened again with indignation. “And you don’t hold him ‘personally responsible!’ Well, I do, I can tell you that.”
Beth sighed.
“Yes, I know. Maybe you’d better take him away somewhere when Ted gets here, Crystal. We can’t trust him to behave, I guess.”
Crystal Danta Knox smiled a little at her husband, vigorous and indignant and so much like his father in that righteous moment that Orrin might almost have come back to them.
“He’ll behave. It’s just the Knox in him running rampant.”
“I will not behave,” Hal said firmly. “I think he is an evil man, and even more fundamental than that, I think he is a fool.”
“And of the two,” Crystal said gently, “Knoxes may abominate evil but they absolutely despise a fool. Right?”
“Well,” Hal said, smiling a little in spite of himself, “you can make fun of me, but by God, he is evil and he is a fool. And he’s going to run this country right into the hands of God knows what, now that he’s got the chance.”
“But not deliberately, I don’t think,” Beth suggested.
“I said he was a fool,” Hal reminded her tartly. “Of course it won’t be deliberate. He won’t know what he’s doing. They’ll take him and us to the cleaners before he even knows what’s hit him.”
“I think you underestimate him a little,” Crystal remarked. Beth nodded.
“So do I. Ted Jason isn’t a fool, he’s a very smart man and in some ways a very shrewd one. And I happen to believe that down underneath it all he is very deeply and genuinely concerned for this country and very determined to be a success as its President.”
“‘Underneath it all,’” Hal echoed scornfully. “Underneath what? Buddy-buddying up to all the NAWAC crew? Playing along with violence until it cost Crystal and me our baby and my father his life? If that’s an example of Jason judgment, I don’t want any more of it, thank you very much!”
“She didn’t say he had judgment,” Crystal pointed out quietly.
“No,” Beth said, “I didn’t. And that’s where the problem comes. And that’s where the Knoxes have to help, if they can. And they can’t help, my dear child, if you’re going to remain hostile and antagonize him the minute you set eyes on him. That isn’t going to help anybody accomplish anything. It’s going to ruin whatever chance we have to encourage him to be the President he’s going to have to be to save the country. And I mean ‘save’ quite literally. So calm down, Harold, and approach the strategic problem like a true Knox would, after all the puffing and blowing is over.”
“You two,” Hal said, again smiling a little, “you’re a pair. You can soft-soap a man into anything … except Ted Jason,” he said, abruptly somber again. “You can’t soft-soap him, because he’s gone already—long gone. And he isn’t coming back, the road he’s gone down to get where he is. It’s too late to save the country, Mother. He’s given it away already, by accepting the support he has. Roger Croy, for God’s sake! And Fred Van Ackerman. And LeGage Shelby. And Rufus Kleinfert and George Wattersill and all the terrible elements they represent, of violence at home and weakness abroad.” His face contorted with a sudden pain. “It’s too late. When they killed Dad, they pulled the plug on everything that held us together. And,” he concluded simply, “I hate them for it. I hate them with all my heart and all my being. And if I have a chance to kill some of them before they kill us, I will.”
But at this his mother shook her head with an expression as close to real anger as Beth Knox ever allowed herself.
“Stop that. Stop that crazy talk. Nobody is going to kill anybody—”
“Oh, no?” Hal remarked bitterly. “Somebody did.”
“Well,” she said flatly, “nobody is any more, we hope. We hope that’s all over, in America.”
“You said yourself we have to save the country,” her son reminded her, his expression stubborn, unyielding, 100 per cent Knox. “What did you mean by that?”
“I meant we have to work together with Ted and anyone else we can find to restore sanity and calm and reasonable cooperation to the country. We have to work out a middle ground. That’s always been the salvation of America, it still is. We can’t do it by talking about killing more people, or their killing us, or any other crazy talk. We’ve got to bring the country together. We’ve got to help Ted, because he’s the man who’s going to be elected to do it. And we’ve got to start right now, by receiving him in this house as we would any other friend—because that’s how we’ve got to think of him from now on, as a friend. We can’t help him if we think of him as anything else.”
“He wants our help, doesn’t he?” Hal inquired dryly. “Roger P. Croy for Vice President, hey, hey. Why didn’t he take you, if he’s so dedicated to love and harmony? That would have helped some. A lot, in fact, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do think,” Beth said quietly. “But I also can see his point of view. Knoxes aren’t perfect, you know. Many millions of people take that mirror you’re using and turn it right around. To them, we seem to be the awful ones and the ones whose continuance in power would mean the destruction of the country. There are actually a good many, I suspect—” and for the first time her voice quivered a little—“who actually think it is a good thing that your father—that he isn’t with us anymore. So, don’t be too smart about it. From his point of view, Ted made the choice he felt he had to make in order to calm things down. I’m sure he considered our viewpoint very carefully, but he didn’t really have to take it into account. It was his choice.”
“But now we must help him,” Hal remarked softly and found himself outnumbered two to one.
“Yes,” said his wife and mother simultaneously.
He shrugged, somewhat helplessly, his expression still stubborn.
“I hear a car in the drive,” he said. “I think I’ll go upstairs for a while.”
“You will do no such thing,” Beth said, and again Crystal came to her aid.
“I think we’d all better meet him,” she said quietly, putting aside the half-knitted sweater she had been working on, standing up and sliding her arm firmly through her husband’s. “Come along, Mr. Knox. You’re going to be elected to the House in November and you might as well learn to work with your President, right now.”
“Honestly—” he said, shaking his head with an angry frustration. “You two—” But the doorbell rang and cut him off.
Instinctively they drew together in the center of the living room to form a small, almost defensive group, as they heard one of the Secret Servicemen still on duty in their house open the door and say calmly, “Why, good evening, Governor. Won’t you come in? The family is expecting you.”
“He is,” he said wryly as the car swung away from the house toward Canal Road, the lazy winding river, and Memorial Bridge, “a very positive young man.” Beside him the positive young man’s mother uttered an agreeing sound.
“He’s like his father,” she said quietly. “He reacts strongly to things … and to people.”
“I’m sorry they wouldn’t come with us,” he said gravely. “I’m sorry he holds me so responsible for—what happened.”
“I’m afraid he does,” she said, “but I expect in time he’ll get over it.”
“Will you?” he asked and for several moments there was silence as the big car and i
ts following car of Secret Servicemen rolled smoothly down the brightly lighted, near-deserted streets.
“Ted—” she began, and paused. Then she spoke more firmly. “I think so. Because I don’t hold you responsible in quite the personal way he does. And also,” she added softly, “I think you have paid amply for whatever your responsibility might be.”
It was his turn to remain silent for a time, because the emotions that suddenly seized his being were so confused, chaotic and intense that he probably could not have spoken coherently had he tried.
“Yes,” he said at last, very low. “I think I have.… Beth—do you really blame me for everything that happened at the convention, everything that happened during the Committee meetings, everything that—everything? I’ve—been trying to think it through. I’ve been trying to face up to that, and to—a lot of things. How much blame do you think I really ought to shoulder?” He turned to look at her, his sad face illumined for a moment as they passed beneath a street light. “God knows,” he said quietly, “nobody has a better right to tell me.”
She shook her head with a frustrated sadness equal to his and turned away to stare out the window as the car swung down into Canal Road and turned left on its way to the Potomac.
“How can I tell you?” she asked. “I could repeat all the things you’ve heard a hundred times about the risks implicit in certain people who support you—but you have heard all those things, Ted. You’ve heard them for months, from a lot of people, and it hasn’t changed you one bit. Why should you want to hear them again from me now? And what difference will it make to you if you do? So why should I bother?”
