“Now our ambitious senator is spotless and pure,” she said.
At the door, she took his hands in hers, lightly.
“Jims, I know the little bug is biting you, and that you’re telling yourself that it has to be all over now. But if Mark passes you by, the number is Briarwood 9-8877. You just start at the top and slide downhill. Remember?”
He looked into her eyes, darkly wet, and he felt a surge of compassion for this undissembling woman who gave without demanding a down payment on the future.
“I’m not sure anything is over, baby.”
“You know it is.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “But without regrets. No regrets, Jims?”
“No, Rita. No regrets.”
He stepped through the doorway onto the side stoop which served her first-floor apartment. By habit, he looked both ways on O Street. Seeing no one nearby, he trotted down the four brick steps and walked rapidly toward the Wisconsin Avenue garage where his car was parked.
The overcast was a brooding gray, slush covered the sidewalk like old sponges, and drippings from the ginkgo trees spattered his white raincoat. The air was soggily chill on his hatless head, but he felt unfettered, almost buoyant, as though he had ridden through a long tunnel and burst into open countryside again. His mind saw Rita standing by the door, her broad shoulders sheathed in the coral shirt, her olive face lax with memories. She was right, of course, more honest than he, as always. It had to be over. With even a glimmer of a chance for vice-president, he couldn’t afford to take the risk. Another president might wink at extramarital affairs, but not President Hollenbach. No, sir, not Mark Hollenbach.
MacVeagh drove to McLean just inside the speed limit, the tires squishing through the slush and spraying muddy water from little pools at the edge of the pavement. He thought of President Hollenbach and his outburst against O’Malley, and of Rita’s story of a similar explosion over Davidge, hardly a man to arouse anyone’s ire. Neither one made much sense. And that incredible wiretap idea. Was something eating Mark? He’d never heard of Hollenbach’s letting his temper get away from him like that. And the scene at Camp David had been eerie. Apparently, at least according to Rita, this wasn’t the first time the President had sat around in the dark on his lonely mountain. Who really knew the tensions the man must be under? Jim found himself thinking again of a medic’s shack in Viet Nam and a corporal leaping from his bunk and shouting. Pressure had a way of squirting free of a man somehow. Oh, well, as Rita said, we’re all a little strange…except, of course, Jim MacVeagh, the glass bowl man.
Maybe he was transparent but, damn it, he wasn’t as shallow as Rita tried to make out. To hear her tell it, he was all play and games, and no thinker. His resentment rose as he drove. Just name over the men in the Senate, he found himself retorting to her, and how many savants do you find? Or look at the Cabinet. How many Walter Lippmanns there? Or Winston Churchills? Men of stature? Sidney Karper maybe, but after him, period. He simmered as he drove across Chain Bridge. Then he remembered her remark about his lack of understanding of women, and he smiled. Of course, that was it. Rita downgraded him because she feared she had lost him…to the tiniest hint of an offer of the vice-presidency. Well, she was right. As long as there was a chance, he would keep to the straight and narrow. And, by God, if it came his way, old Jamie MacVeagh’s boy could do as well at the job as the next man. But face it, he told himself, the chances are almost nil. Still, maybe he ought to apply himself more than he had, broaden out, give the brain some fodder now and then. He thought of the handsomely bound edition of the Federalist Papers which Martha had given him for his thirty-fifth birthday. The books rested on the corner of his desk in the den, unopened for almost three years. Oh, the devil with Rita and her psychoanalyzing. He was a tradesman—not a statesman—and a darn good tradesman too. How many could say as much?
At home, the chairs, carpet and draperies—the new turquoise draperies over which Martha had pondered and pouted for days—looked snugly in place. The scattered Sunday papers awaited him like old comrades and the faded rose sofa appeared inviting.
He knew he should telephone Martha. The thought occurred that only two hours before he had been in Rita’s bed, an interlude of indecently short duration. But, he rationalized, he hadn’t called Rita. She’d called him. The fact consoled him, and he placed a call to the Swensson home in Des Moines through the operator. No, he didn’t care to dial direct, thank you.
His wife answered and he could hear her little gasp of delight when the operator said, “Washington calling.” Martha treasured the telephone as a debutante loves dances. A.T. & T. stockholders had no better friend.
She would be standing by her mother’s teakwood table, with the frieze carvings of fat squatting Buddhas, and she would be looking across the parlor at the weathered grandfather clock to mark the time of the call in case it brought news of the Senate wives, the P.T.A., the foreign students exchange, a reception at the Italian embassy, the United Fund drive, her Wednesday afternoon bowling league, the Committee for More Effective Urban Renewal, the Congressional women’s fashion show, or any of the medley of good works and social routs which spangled her life like an overtrimmed Christmas tree. She would be patting at her precisely waved hair, waiting tensely. Jim felt vaguely annoyed.
“Relax, Marty. It’s only me—with a little gossip.”
“Oh, Jim.” Martha was the only woman he knew who could verbally heave a sigh of relief. “What kind of gossip?”
“Can I swear you to secrecy? Nothing to Chinky? Not a word to your mother? This has to be kept deep in the well, maybe for a long time.”
“Of course.” Her tone was eager now, and Jim could imagine her pale eyebrows arching in anticipation. Curiosity livened her face like a child’s. He could see her little Swede’s nose and the soft wisps of hair that trailed behind her ears from the closely set coiffure.
“Cross your heart…” It was their old game since courtship days.
“And hope to die…yes, yes….Please, Jim!”
“Hold on to the phone,” he ordered jovially. “Last night Mark Hollenbach summoned me up to Camp David after the Gridiron dinner—and said he was considering me for vice-president.”
“For what?” It was almost a shriek.
“Vice-president,” he said proudly. “Or, I should say the Democratic nomination for the job. Of course, he’s considering umpteen others too.”
“But you’re honestly one of them?” Every landmark in life, Jim thought, excites Martha as though it were Fort Knox on a platter. But this time he thought her bubbly response justified. “But what about O’—” She caught herself. “What about Mr. You-know-who?”
“O’Malley? He’s out. It had to come. Mark is demanding a statement in writing, saying he’s not a candidate for re-election.”
“Honey, how many others is he thinking about? Do you know?”
“Oh, a dozen maybe. Really, Marty, there isn’t much chance, but I wanted you to know.”
“Jim, I’m so proud of you. I know you’re at the top of the list.”
He compared her quick assessment of his chances with Rita’s cynical rating—the opinion of a professional—and he felt the least bit depressed. Martha spoke from the ignorance of wifely loyalty.
He sighed. “Not much chance of that. Nice thought, though, Marty.”
“I’ve got a feeling about it, Jim. Intuition. Honey, you’d make a grand vice-president. You’ve got the heart for it.”
MacVeagh chuckled. Martha says he has the heart for it. Rita says he doesn’t have the brain for it. Maybe they’re both right.
“And young and handsome too,” said Martha.
He laughed. The two women agreed on that. The thought cheered him.
“But, Jim.” Her voice fell. “If you’re picked, think of the work. All that traveling, and speeches, those horrible jet planes, and those awful veal cutlets they
always serve at the banquets.”
He understood. Did any politician’s wife ever really enjoy campaigning? Election night maybe, but the crowds, the interminable rallies, the late hours, the clutter of pols and stale whisky glasses in the hotel suites, the corsages from the Girl Scouts and the Eastern Star chapters, the eternal smiles that made a woman’s cheeks, they said, feel like cracked leather. No, he guessed none of them did. And for Martha it would mean severing a frenetic chain of civic, social and personal uplift meetings, the sparkling links in the life of a lady doer.
“Don’t worry, Marty,” he soothed. “There’s not much chance Mark will pick me. He was probably just flattering me, a little sweetening to keep me in line on administration programs.”
She didn’t believe him, obviously, for she said: “I’m so proud of you I could cry. In fact, I think I am. Oh, dear.” He laughed again. Her sniffles were real, and he was grateful she felt strongly about him.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said after a moment. “Do me a favor, will you Jim?”
“Sure.”
“Call Bertha Hempstead,” she ordered, briskly, “and tell her she’ll have to get the speaker for next Thursday. And, honey, one other thing. In my dresser drawer you’ll find a program for the Smith alumnae dinner….”
“Now just a minute.” He bridled. Martha was in her madam chairman’s role which swept all other concerns aside like an imperious broom. “I said a favor. Now you want two.”
“Don’t be grouchy,” she said. “The Smith program just has to get to the printer’s by tomorrow night.”
“Anything else?” His voice was spiked with irritation, and he didn’t mind.
“No, Mr. Vice-President.” She said it fondly, ignoring his tone.
“Get Chinky to the phone, will you? But no telling her, now.”
“Ja-ane!” She called it in two syllables. “Your dad’s on the phone.”
There was the clap of oversize loafers on the floor and then his daughter answered, more breathless than her mother. “Hi, Number One! You two-timing me while I’m away?”
He could see her brown eyes and the flush of exuberance in her cheeks. He remembered how he’d nicknamed her Chinky when she was a fat little lump, with wide, pleading eyes and a chin that trembled. For some reason, she pronounced “dr” as a hard “ch,” and when she wanted a drink of water, she’d hold out a tiny fist and say, “Chink, daddy. Chink.” Now he knew her feet were planted wide apart, like those of the models in Vogue, and that her pony tail reached to the small of her back. The hair was tied with rubber bands. This year, her thirteenth, rubber bands were in.
“I’m true-blue for you, Chinky,” he said. “If only I had an orchid, I’d place it in front of your picture tonight.”
“Always the cornball, Pops.” She snorted. “Ugh. Why do I go for you? I must be weak-minded.”
“You still coming home Wednesday?” he asked. “One week is long enough to be out of school, even for an IQ of one-twenty.”
“One-twenty-four, you dragger-downer,” she yelped. “Oh, Pops, have you heard Porky Jones yet…on 1-p?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure—or punishment. Who’s he?”
“Who’s Porky Jones? Say, man, what outpost of civilization have you been hiding out in? Like off with some Indian squaw, huh?” Jim cringed, as though he’d been slapped. “Porky’s on the drums, stupid. He’s divine. Mom let me buy the album. I mean neat. Wait’ll you hear.”
“Okay, Chinky. Wednesday night. Okay?”
“Right, pops. We’ll have a blast. ’Bye, now.”
Jim felt good, and he replaced the receiver slowly, as though to prolong Chinky’s image. He thought of the one subcommittee draft report in the den upstairs, then shrugged. Tomorrow would be time enough. He had fibbed to Rita about a “batch of reports” to be read. He saw Rita briefly, fuzzily, then put her from his mind. It was not hard, for the Georgetown apartment and its languid aroma of perfume seemed a thousand miles away.
The pleasant mood lasted while he undressed and got into his pajamas. He opened the window and found that a new snow, light and fluffy, was falling lazily. The scattered flakes shone for a moment as they passed the window’s beam of light, then vanished below him.
Senator Jim MacVeagh fell asleep almost as soon as he crawled into the unmade bed, and his last conscious thought that Sunday night was that President Hollenbach had a list—and his name was on it.
3.
The List
A half hour before President Hollenbach’s Wednesday press conference, newspapermen began arriving at the sloping State Department auditorium. They chatted in little knots in the glass-fronted lobby, flipped open wallets to show their color photographs on White House press cards to entrance guards, and sauntered down the aisles to their seats.
In the unwritten but slavishly honored protocol of the correspondent corps, those who covered the White House as a regular beat had reserved seat status. Metal nameplates on the first rows spelled prestige—AP, UPI, CBS, NBC, ABC, New York Times, Washington Post, Washington Star, Baltimore Sun, Chicago and Los Angeles papers, and a score of others, including the big multiple-ownership names of American journalism, Scripps-Howard, Newhouse, Cowles, Hearst, Knight, Gannett, Copley. The foreign correspondents collected in self-segregated pockets, pierced only occasionally by an American reporter who covered the diplomatic run and wished to polish his French or Italian. A dozen Japanese businessmen, bespectacled and blandly courteous, filed into a rear row to watch the show as trade mission guests of President Hollenbach. In front of them five African newspapermen chortled over some private joke. They were one-year fellows of the State Department and they were twitting the mulatto foreign service officer serving as their escort.
Five minutes before the press conference, scheduled to be televised live beginning at 10:30 A.M., all correspondents and visitors were in their seats. A Congressional press gallery functionary walked up and down the aisle, holding aloft a white card with the numerals 412—the total attendance as the doors closed. It was an unusually large turnout. It had been three weeks since the President’s last conference. In the interval the case of Vice-President Patrick O’Malley and the Kennedy sports arena had boiled to a froth. An air of knowing anticipation tingled in the room. Next to a declaration of war, nothing titillated the nerve ends of Washington journalism like a full-bodied, old-fashioned scandal. The habitual rustle of newspapers was missing. Reporters talked behind cupped hands or wrote out questions in notebooks. In the front row Craig Spence, his fringe of red hair framing his shiny dome, chewed on a pencil and studied his own question: “Mr. President, did Vice-President O’Malley violate your administration’s code of ethics when he made three phone calls to the chairman of the Fine Arts Commission?”
A cameraman took a last-minute stance behind the podium, marked with the presidential seal, so his colleagues could focus lenses and adjust light meters. In the glassed television booths above the crowd, commentators talked into microphones and ad-libbed as they cast anxious glances at the second hands of clocks. Two Secret Service agents appeared at the corner of the auditorium’s stage. The crowd hushed.
Promptly on the stroke of 10:30 President Hollenbach entered from stage left and walked briskly to the centered podium. His steps were short, fast, forcing his two press aides, one white and one Negro, to hurry to stay in his wake. The President wore a two-button brown suit, immaculately creased, and a matching figured brown tie with a small knot at his button-down shirt collar. His crew cut, the color of gravel, was trimmed neatly and recently. The correspondents rose as one, with a creaking of seats and a bustle of bodies. Hollenbach’s long, thin face wrinkled in a smile of appreciation for this traditional salute to the office of President of the United States. He held a typed sheet and spoke into the cluster of microphones.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Please be seated. I have a statement to read. You won�
��t have to take notes, as copies will be available in the rear as you leave. While I do not wish to thwart your zealous pursuit of the news, I must tell you in advance that no questions will be entertained on the subject of the prepared statement after I have read it. The statement follows:
“Quote. Vice-President Patrick J. O’Malley hand-delivered to me last night a letter, stating that he could not, under any circumstances, allow his name to be presented to the Democratic national convention in Detroit as a candidate for renomination as vice-president. Since the letter is personal in nature, I am not at liberty to divulge its contents, except to say that Mr. O’Malley is fully cognizant of the fact that his actions with respect to the Kennedy memorial sports arena did not conform to the standard of ethical conduct as announced by this administration shortly after the inauguration. That ethical code was widely published and reprinted, and every American knows, in general, what it provides.
“Vice-President O’Malley amplified his position in a talk with me last night. While I regret the circumstances and the unavoidable embarrassment to the Vice-President, I agree that Mr. O’Malley took the only honorable course open to him. I applaud his decision to place country and party before his career. At the same time, needless to say, I most emphatically do not condone his conduct in the sports arena case.
“As President and as a candidate to succeed myself in this office, I accept the Vice-President’s decision in the spirit in which it was made. While a Democratic convention is the master of its own house, I shall, in due course, make my own recommendation to the delegates as to the man I think best fitted to occupy the office of vice-president. Unquote.”
Night of Camp David Page 6
