by Allen Drury
“I met with Roger Croy a couple of hours ago,” he said. “I told him we must be very careful about certain people. I don’t think he was impressed. But I meant it.”
She sighed.
“I’m sure you did. But I can see his point. Why should he believe you? The concern comes a little late. And are you really sure you mean it? And how can anyone be sure you’re sure?”
“Am I that empty?” he asked in a curious, musing tone. “Am I really that shallow, that lacking in principle?”
She hesitated before she spoke. When she did it was in a voice that did not hold out much comfort.
“I don’t know, Ted,” she said quietly. “I think you’re the only one who can answer that.”
And because there was no real answer he could make, and because there was nothing further she felt she could say, a silence fell and they did not return to the subject, or indeed to any subject, as the car moved swiftly down into Georgetown, along the freeway past Kennedy Center to the Lincoln Memorial, and so across the gentle river to their objective.
It was not an unamiable silence or a hostile silence, for indeed there was every consideration of shared tragedy and mutual sympathy to draw them together. Though each was lost in thoughts increasingly agonized and increasingly inward as they approached Arlington, each was profoundly glad of the other’s company on this visit, which would be the first for both of them, to the two new graves on the haunted hill.
“I think,” he said in a voice that trembled yet tried desperately to be humorous as the car drew slowly to a stop at the foot of the little incline, “that we have managed to avoid the press, in spite of Hal’s assumption that I wanted this to be a—a Roman holiday, as he put it.”
“He didn’t mean it,” she said. “Don’t think about it. There are other things to think about.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his voice suddenly choked, almost inaudible. “Yes.”
Side by side, Beth leaning on his arm, they walked slowly up the gentle rise, stood for several moments, bowed and silent, before the simple tablet that said CEIL HALL JASON; walked presently along the little pathway that led to a neighboring knoll; stood silent again before the tablet that said ORRIN KNOX; turned at last and walked slowly back down to the waiting limousine and its silent escort.
Only once did either of them speak.
“Did I do this?” Ted asked in an agonized whisper as they turned from Orrin’s grave. “Did I do this?”
But Beth, lost in tears and sorrow, was unable to give him answer, except to shake her head in a sad and hopeless gesture that was no answer.
Later neither of them could remember any details of the ride back to Spring Valley. But their final words as he said good night and left for the airport neither of them would forget.
“I will try,” he said with a desperate, naked earnestness, as though throwing himself completely on her mercy, not knowing exactly what he meant but making some sort of desperate promise of something—to her, to Ceil, to Orrin, to himself.
“I hope so,” she said, compassionate yet with a distant judgment in her tone that placed the responsibility squarely where he knew it lay. “You are the one who must.”
He nodded, unable to speak further. For a long moment they stared at one another across great chasms of politics and belief, great bonds of sympathy and pain. Then he turned away and was taken swiftly to the airport where he boarded his plane with an almost hunted haste. It swung out over the beautiful city, gave him a last glimpse of glowing Capitol, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Kennedy Center, Arlington and all, and then turned toward the continent and “Vistazo” lying on its western edge.
He did not read, or talk, or sleep, or even think very much, during the long journey across the night reaches of America. “Vistazo” was home. He was going there like an animal, wounded, and hoping to recover.
3
Fortunately in his own view, not so fortunately in that of some others, the campaign rushed him forward, bringing its own hectic therapy even as it forced him into choices and decisions he perhaps was not quite repaired enough to make. He did not have time to worry about this, though some did. He had three days to himself at “Vistazo,” haunted by Ceil’s presence everywhere as he rode faithful Trumpet over the softly crumpled hills and down to the rocky shore where the cold Pacific hammered in. Then he had to fly east again to make his wildly successful kickoff speech in Philadelphia. Its theme was his preconvention slogan: Conscience must decide the issue.
Two months remained until election. For him and for many others in his own country and around the world, they were busy times.
“Out here,” Lafe Smith wrote hurriedly to Mabel Anderson one mid-September night in Des Moines, “it looks as though everybody is right: Ted’s in by a landslide. If so, I wonder why he is still talking—and acting—as though he were afraid to offend the violent. He’s too gentle with them still, in my estimation. He’s got it in his hands, he doesn’t have to appease them. I’m not making that error, as you may have noticed. I think I’m in by a landslide too, but I’m not playing with that crowd. Every time they try to kick up a fuss I pick up another fifty thousand votes. Let ’em go right ahead raising hell with me because it’s all to my advantage to raise hell with them.
“That’s why I can’t understand Ted—or, really, understand the voters, many of whom deplore some of his people but still are all-out for him. It’s that ‘my-hero-isn’t-to-blame-it’s-the-guys-around-him’ syndrome that every skillful President in our history has managed to use to his advantage. And I don’t say Ted isn’t using it, and very deftly. But the fact remains that the odd-ball crowd is sticking very close. In my mind it’s also a somewhat sinister crowd. I was very dubious when he picked Roger Croy for V.P., but I managed to swallow that. Then came George Wattersill as campaign manager, along with ’Gage Shelby as head of the minorities division and assistant to Frightful Freddie Van Ackerman, who emerges as head of ‘campaign security,’ whatever that means. As near as I can gather, it seems to mean turning out the gangs of NAWAC whenever you need a big demonstration; and while they’re a lot better behaved—at the moment—than they were at the convention and after, it still makes me very uneasy. And it makes a lot of other people uneasy, because they tell me so when I go around the state. But they always wind up smiling rather uncertainly and saying, ‘But I imagine the Governor knows what he’s doing.’ That blind faith people have in public figures! It will be the death of us yet.
“Myself, I’m still not sure he does know what he’s doing.
“Anyway, one thing is certain: that crowd isn’t mixing into my campaign, even if they have been around already trying to butt in. Fred called me the other day offering help ‘if you have any trouble with anti-Jason demonstrators.’ I’ve barely spoken to that bastard, if you’ll pardon my French, since Brig’s death. I cut him off in a hurry, said I didn’t want any help of any kind from him or any of his gangs. He snarled something about, ‘Don’t sound so high and mighty, smart boy, you may need us yet.’ Well: I won’t. I’d rather go down to defeat than accept anything from that crowd.
“But it’s typical of the way the campaign seems to be going. There are elements that shouldn’t be in there. They can’t push me around. But can they push Ted? One likes to think they can’t, that it’s all campaign expediency, that once a guy is President he can control anybody or anything. That’s the way we used to hope it was. Maybe we’re into an era now when it isn’t so certain. I worry about it. So do lots of people. But Ted welcomes them into his campaign organization and seems unaware of the danger. What does that portend?
“Which is a gloomy way to sound to my two sweet gals in Utah. I hear you’re going great guns on the campaign trail yourself—I know they appreciate having Brig’s widow speak to them, and it’s good to have you active again. I know all the candidates are very grateful for your support. And as for Pidge—she’s really an electoral threat. That little monkey is probably the most powerful six-year-old campaigner
in the country. Tell her Uncle Lafe said, Give ’em hell! All I can say is, I’m glad she’s not working for my opponent here in Iowa. I’d be trailing instead of him, if she were.
“I’ll try to call you Saturday night from Marshalltown. Once the election is over—assuming I win, which, perhaps arrogantly, I am assuming—I have plans. I intend to bring Jimmy Fry down from that sanitarium on the Hudson. And then I intend to marry Mrs. Brigham Anderson and install her and her charming daughter in a nice house, maybe on Foxhall Road, if you’d like that. And then I intend to live happily ever after. So how about that?
“Take care of yourself and your young lady. You’re both very important to Old Lafe.”
JASON MAKES TRIUMPHANT TOUR OF WYOMING, GIVES FULL SUPPORT TO SENATOR VAN ACKERMAN FOR RE-ELECTION. NEAR RIOT AS ARMED CAMPAIGN GUARDS ROUGH UP DISSENTERS. TWO INJURED, ONE SERIOUSLY.
After furious arguments in the privacy of their editorial offices between those who were openly worried and those who were afraid to admit, just yet, that they were, The Greatest Publication, the Times, the Post and several other major newspapers across the country expressed the first glimmerings of a mild concern about this. But all refrained from condemning it outright. It was, in the words of the Times, “perhaps one of those unfortunate little episodes that occur occasionally in the heat of a campaign—nothing more. We are sure it has no relation to the true intentions of the Jason campaign or the great hopes of the country which that campaign embodies.”
“Warren,” the President said cordially from the Oval Office a week later, “how are you getting along? Making a lot of headway out there?”
From the Picturephone the shrewd and kindly face of the Senate Minority Leader, Warren Strickland of Idaho, gave him a candid look and a sudden wink.
“You know perfectly well how I’m doing, Bill. I’m conducting a holding action. That’s why I accepted my party’s nomination for President. We had to lose with dignity and I thought I knew how.”
“And so far,” the President agreed with an amiable grin, “you’re managing it beautifully.… Tell me,” he said, suddenly serious, “are the bullyboys bothering you?”
Warren Strickland frowned.
“They’re beginning to show up. Not very many, and not in too many places, and not, so far, with any open activity. But they’re increasing.”
“How about Bert?” the President inquired, and at the thought of the earnest, good-hearted, rather bumbling Governor of New Jersey who was going through the motions of running as Warren’s Vice President, they both smiled.
“He’s getting the same.”
“Odd,” said the President dryly. “The fact doesn’t seem to be turning up on the television screens or in the news stories. How does that happen, I wonder?”
“It happens,” Warren Strickland said crisply, “because a), the media don’t want to admit that this sort of thing is appearing again in the Jason campaign, and b), the more intelligent and sensible of them are beginning to get scared about it. They’re hoping it will go away before they have to mention it.”
“Do you think it will?”
“It had better,” Senator Strickland said, “because if it doesn’t, sooner or later it will get to them. And the more farsighted can see that. Actually, no, I don’t think it will go away unless or until Ted drives it out and really means it.”
“Time’s running out on his option,” the President observed. Warren Strickland nodded.
“It is indeed.”
“Well, watch yourself. Do you need more Secret Service protection?”
“No, I don’t think so. I feel it’s adequate. How is your campaign getting along in Colorado?”
The President smiled.
“No opposition. I’m making one visit to Leadville, and that’s it. Since you folks were afraid to run anybody against me—”
“I want you back on the Hill,” Warren Strickland said with a chuckle. “When you return to the House, maybe we can get some sense into Ted’s head and help him get the country back on the right track.”
“Maybe,” the President said with a sudden gloom. “But it won’t be easy.”
“No,” Senator Strickland agreed gravely. “But it must be done.”
The President nodded.
“It must be done.”
“Meanwhile, back at the ranch,” Senator Strickland said, “how are things really going in Panama and Gorotoland?”
“Not too well,” the President admitted. “About what the papers say. Terry’s still very shaky in Gorotoland and Felix Labaiya is still riding high in Panama.”
“And our dear friends and kindly enemies are still threatening to run the blockade.”
“May try it, too. Which will pose some sticky problems.”
“You know we’ve got to get out of that, Bill,” Senator Strickland said gravely.
“Got to get out of them both,” the President said grimly, “but not at the toe end of somebody’s boot, and not until we’re sure the situation’s stabilized in both places. Particularly Panama. Gorotoland sits at the crossroads of Africa and that’s a long-range worry. The Canal is right here and that’s a now worry. I’m not abandoning it and neither would you. Ted may, and if so, more fool Ted and God help the United States. That’s what we’ve got to stop, when and if the matter comes to Congress.”
“Maybe we can’t,” Senator Strickland said thoughtfully. “Ever think of that? We may not be miracle workers any longer, once the new dispensation takes over.”
“That’s what Bob Munson tells me,” the President acknowledged. “I hate to admit you both may be right, because I think it would be literally deadly to the future of this country, in the long run.”
“So do I,” Warren Strickland said. “I’ll be in there fighting. But we have to face the possibility we may lose.”
“I have four months left in this White House,” the President said, “and I’m going to do what I can to fix it so the question’s academic by the time it comes to him. Congress is dispersed, and until January I’m the guy in charge. And I have a few ideas.”
“Good luck with them,” Senator Strickland said with a combination of irony and encouragement.
“I’ll need it. What I really called to tell you was that I’ve just received intelligence of a big shake-up in Moscow that will probably be announced tomorrow. Thought you might like to be forewarned because you’ll be expected to say something about it. Our old friend Tashikov has pulled some sort of coup and has taken over as Chairman of the Council of Ministers.”
“And what does that mean?” Warren Strickland asked, thinking of the shrewd, ferret-faced little fanatic who had been Ambassador to the United States and the United Nations these past several hectic years.
“Trouble,” the President said grimly. “Plain, ordinary, hell-fire trouble. He knows this country like a book and plays the media like an organ. There’ll be a merry tune in our ears and some tough gambling with the world along with it.… ”
“The news from Moscow concerning the selection of Ambassador Vasily Tashikov to head the government of the Soviet Union,” Warren Strickland said next day in a carefully worded statement, issued in Minneapolis, “must be greeted with a cautious and thoughtful reserve by the American people. Chairman Tashikov has known this country intimately and well as ambassador. We must hope his familiarity has given him an understanding and appreciation of America’s genuine desire to preserve and strengthen world peace. It would be tragic indeed if his memories of our weaknesses outweigh his memories of our strengths, for that could lead to errors dangerous for all of us.”
“All Americans genuinely anxious for peace,” Governor Jason said in a statement issued from the Jason estate “Harmony” in Charleston, South Carolina, “must welcome with a heartfelt enthusiasm and hope the selection of Vasily Tashikov to be head of the Soviet Government. He knows us, he understands us, he has given evidence during his years as ambassador here of an earnest desire to work out our mutual differences in peaceful and constr
uctive ways. Insofar as I may speak for those Americans who believe in peace, I welcome him to the supreme position in his government. If I am elected in November, I shall look forward with genuine enthusiasm and high hope to the challenge of working with him to achieve the friendly cooperation of our two great countries, and world peace.”
POLLS SHOW JASON AHEAD 27 PER CENT AS CAMPAIGN HITS HIGH GEAR. “LANDSLIDE OF ALL TIME” PREDICTED BY PARTY LEADERS … GOVERNOR REQUESTS WHITE HOUSE CONFERENCE AS PRESIDENT ORDERS BIG ECONOMIC AID TO CONSERVATIVE GOROTOLAND GOVERNMENT, SAYS TROOPS WILL REMAIN UNTIL COUNTRY FINALLY STABILIZED. PRESIDENT STANDS FIRM ON BLOCKADE OF PANAMA DESPITE UN PROTEST, THREAT BY ALLIES AND SOVIETS TO RUN IT. COAST GUARD IN NEW BRUSH WITH SOVIET FISHING FLEET OFF ALASKA. VIOLENCE MARS STRICKLAND RALLY IN L.A. AS NAWAC GUARDS SEEK TO BAR GATE TO SENATOR’S SUPPORTERS. SIX HURT IN BLOODY SKIRMISH.
“Whoever controls the forces of NAWAC,” the Post said cautiously next morning, “if there is such a thing as ‘control’ over that amorphous peace-seeking aggregation of interests, it does seem to us that he, she or it should clamp down a bit on the excessive zeal which seems to infuse the lower ranks. We cannot believe that any responsible authority condoned the shameful bullyboy tactics that erupted suddenly in Los Angeles last night at the Strickland rally, but we do believe that it should not be allowed to happen again. It does not help Governor Jason, if that is the purpose; and it does not hurt Senator Strickland.
“It hurts, if anything, the cause of peace for which NAWAC presumably labors, and for which Governor Jason in fact does labor. NAWAC’s somewhat sinister willingness to resort to force in the suppression of those with whom it disagrees should not be encouraged. It should be condemned, for by implication it carries in its train many things of serious import to the future of a free democracy.
“We hope those who value that democracy will utter such condemnation, and we hope those who guide the somewhat peculiar destinies of NAWAC will see to it that such things do not happen again.…
