Authors: Irving Wallace
“Oh, Hesper, you mean,” said Eaton. “I thought she’d moved out yesterday.”
“Well, there were a few bits of unfinished business, I guess,” said Dilman. “Anyway, we got to talking—a lovely lady—and that’s why I’m late. Do we still have a little time before the Cabinet meeting?”
“Only fifteen minutes now,” said Talley. “We can cover the ground, if we go right at it.”
“I’m ready,” said Dilman. He started for the desk, and with obvious reluctance sat down behind it in the straight-backed, light green leather swivel chair that had been substituted for T. C.’s widely photographed ebony chair with the electrically controlled lifting and reclining device built into its massive frame.
Eaton settled back into the seat he had been using beside the President’s desk, and Talley pulled up a cane-bottomed chair.
As Talley took the memorandum from the Secretary of State, Dilman held up one hand. “Before you start,” he said, “I—I’ve got to remind you I’ve never attended a real Cabinet meeting, let alone chaired one. I assume our gathering last week was merely a brief prayer get-together. As to a full-dress meeting—” He shrugged helplessly.
Talley glanced at Eaton, and then addressed Dilman. “While there are no set rules as to procedure, Mr. President, there are a few certain practices that are traditional. As you know, you are the presiding officer, and, as you know, the ten Cabinet members are seated in their order of succession. Generally, you meet with the Cabinet twice a week, usually Tuesday and Friday, but that is highly flexible. Truman and Eisenhower believed in these regular Cabinet meetings. Lincoln, Wilson, Kennedy did not, preferring to work out problems in individual conferences with Cabinet members or advisers. Other members of the government that you feel can be helpful can also be invited to attend. F. D. R. usually had Harry Hopkins in the room—”
“I’d expect you to be present, too, Governor Talley,” Dilman said.
“Thank you, Mr. President. Now, the meeting is nothing more than a sort of clearing house—you know, clearing house for ideas, opinions, exchanges of specialized information, and so on. It gives you a chance to get a diversity of advice, reactions to your own notions, and to pick up some expert knowledge. The whole thing is informal, and because no official records of the conversation are kept, it can be pretty freewheeling. Truman had a private secretary take rough notes. Eisenhower appointed a special Secretary of the Cabinet to prepare the agenda and keep minutes of what went on, but that hasn’t been done much since. You are expected to open the meeting by presenting any problems you have on your mind. Or you can simply ask the members, from Secretary Eaton here down to the Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, what they have to report or discuss.”
Listening, Eaton pushed forward. “Excuse me, Governor. . . . Mr. President, I want to interject one observation I have made while attending so many of T. C.’s Cabinet meetings. Don’t be disappointed if not too much is accomplished. Your Cabinet members are specialists in different fields. T. C. found that the Secretary of the Interior had neither interest in nor knowledge of our problems in—well, say my Department of State. And the Postmaster General is apt to be more concerned about the design of a new stamp issue or political patronage in the Post Office Department than the Attorney General, who is full of facts and figures and concern about Negro voting. I think it was to avoid this bureaucratic self-interest, as much as for any other reason, that President Kennedy chose to depend on small task forces to dig up facts for him, so that he could thrash them out beforehand with a handful of intelligent advisers. Certainly he had no fixed schedule of Cabinet or National Security Council meetings. Neither did T. C. He liked to get his facts from any one of the ten government Departments, from experts among the more than two million civil servants in the executive branch, and then sit down with Governor Talley and myself, maybe one or two others, and debate the specific problem and arrive at a conclusion.” Eaton paused. “I think, Mr. President, you will be able to determine, shortly, if you prefer to lean on the Cabinet as a whole or on advisers you find intelligent and sympathetic.”
Dilman’s fingers twisted the cigar visible in his upper suit-coat pocket. “I don’t imagine I’ll go wrong following T. C.’s procedure. Only—”
Eaton waited, curious to see if Dilman had any unexpected qualification.
“—I keep wondering if the country might not feel easier about me if they knew I was meeting regularly, formally, with T. C.’s Cabinet. They can then see plainly what I am doing. Whereas, well, they might be worried about what I’m up to behind closed doors, you know, with a kitchen Cabinet.”
It was sensible, a fine point, Eaton told himself, yet he could not be sure that Dilman was not offering resistance to their guidance or attempting to assert his individuality.
Eaton decided to proceed cautiously. “You may have something there, Mr. President. I believe you will be able to decide which course to take in a few weeks. Certainly give the regular Cabinet meetings a tryout.”
“Yes,” said Dilman. He swiveled toward Talley. “What are we going to talk about in there today, Governor?”
Reminding the President that they had only seven or eight minutes before the meeting, Talley went rapidly through the problems on the agenda. There was the African Unity Pact. Renewal of the United States as a member nation, pledged to defend the independence of the new African democracies, was being scheduled for consideration in the Senate. T. C. had wanted ratification, had planned to speak out for it and then sign the Pact. This would satisfy Africa. At the same time, T. C. had intended to pressure President Amboko of Baraza into dropping anti-Communist legislation on a local level, and into resuming cultural exchanges with Moscow. This would satisfy Russia. Then, to conclude the peace parley left unfinished in Frankfurt, President Dilman and Premier Kasatkin would have to arrange another international conference. Talley thought it wrong to resume the talks in Frankfurt. The President of France had already offered the hospitality of his country. A site near Paris might be considered.
“As to domestic affairs,” said Talley, “the major effort, the one T. C. gave most of his energy to, is the Minorities Rehabilitation Program. I’m sure you are well acquainted with it, Mr. President.”
“Not as well as I should be at this point,” said Dilman. “Naturally, as a senator, I’ve followed its development. Lots of people have had lots to say to me about it, inside Congress, and on the outside, too. But it’s been in the Legislative Council so long that I’ve been waiting for the final form of the measure.”
“It’s in its final form right now,” said Talley. “It’s in the hopper. It’s being introduced. It’ll go to the Subcommittee of Employment and Manpower. Anyway, as you’ll soon hear, the majority of the Cabinet are involved in support of it. Attorney General Kemmler, Secretary of Interior Ruttenberg, Secretary of Labor Barnes are prepared to go to the Hill to fight for it. T. C. felt that not only would it give our economy a shot in the arm, but it was the only reasonable solution to the—the civil rights issue. We’ve found the majority of responsible white and colored leaders are behind it, Mr. President.”
“Yes, I know,” said Dilman. “I know the Crispus Society, the NAACP, and the Urban League have approved, with reservations.”
Eaton had been not only listening to Talley, but watching the President’s broad, black face. Except for an expression of unceasing anxiety, nothing else, either affirmative or negative, was betrayed. On familiar Caucasian faces, Eaton was always able to detect inner response, a closing, a widening, a dilation, an expansion, a wrinkling of some feature, that was often as eloquent and revealing as words. On this unfamiliar black face Eaton could read no subtle definition of reaction. The blackness hid Dilman’s thoughts as successfully as the darkest moonless night.
Eaton’s instinct, which he and T. C. had regarded as unerring, led him to a quick decision. To continue overwhelming Dilman with a landslide of information would be useless now. He had been made aware of the key issues, the immediate ones, and of how T. C. had felt about each. It was enough for the time. If more indoctrination were required, the Cabinet meeting might supply it.
Eaton straightened, and squinted down at his wristwatch. “I’m afraid we’re expected in the Cabinet Room.”
Talley protested. “There’s still some more to—”
“You’ve briefed the President on the main points, Wayne. That’s enough.” He rose, and smiled at Dilman. “I’m sure you’re ready to say uncle to this stuff, Mr. President. I know that I am.”
Dilman smiled back. “I appreciate your understanding, Mr. Secretary. I feel like a computer that’s been overloaded with data. I’m afraid something might clog or short-circuit.”
Eaton waited for the President to rise and precede him. Then, with Talley, he followed Dilman across the Oval Office, through Edna Foster’s cubicle, and into the cool chamber that was the Cabinet Room.
T. C.’s team was present and seated, and immediately upon Dilman’s entrance they rose to their feet. Dilman took his place in the handsome chair at the center of the twenty-foot mahogany table, the only spot on the table covered by a desk blotter, near which a telephone rested. About the table were ceramic ashtrays, some partially filled, silver carafes of water and trays of glasses, and sheaves of notes and documents belonging to individual members of the Cabinet.
Once the President was seated, and Eaton had taken his chair next to Dilman, the others in the room sat down. Talley found his place at the far end of the tapering table, near the fireplace and the portrait of George Washington above it. Across from Talley sat the only other non-Cabinet member in the room, Ambassador to the United Nations Slater.
Eaton’s gaze swept the table, taking in the attendance: Secretary of the Treasury Moody, Secretary of Defense Steinbrenner, Attorney General Kemmler, Postmaster General Guthrie, Secretary of Interior Ruttenberg, Secretary of Agriculture Allen, Secretary of Commerce Purcell, Secretary of Labor Barnes, Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare Mrs. Cummins. They were each well-known to Eaton. Despite their differences in years, their varied backgrounds—some had been university professors, some businessmen, some career politicians—they had always been a lively and unceremonious clan. But that had been at another time, under the informal leadership of the one who had appointed them, and knew and respected them.
This morning they were different, Eaton could see. They were quiet, almost hushed, inquisitive about their new Chief Executive. They were strangers to him, and he to them. In the afterwave of shock, Dilman had asked them to stay on, to assist him. They had agreed. Now they were confronted by one with whom they had had little previous contact, a man whose mind they did not know, whose desires were a mystery to them, a man separated by a color barrier that made understanding of him almost impossible. It was reflected in their cautious eyes, and probably loomed large in the brains behind those eyes, Eaton guessed. He could be wrong, he told himself. He doubted it.
He wondered why the meeting had not begun, and then he realized that Douglass Dilman had pulled an envelope out of his inner suit-coat pocket and was reviewing some notes penciled on the back of the envelope.
Dilman placed the envelope on the blotter, and scanned the Cabinet personnel surrounding him.
“I’ll call our first meeting to order,” Dilman said. “I know that we met once last week, but I cannot think of it as a conference on government business. Now we must not fall out of step with one another. We must go ahead together. I do not know you. I have inherited you. And you do not know me. You have inherited me. However, we do have one mighty factor in common, and that is our belief in the ideals T. C. represented.”
Dilman reached forward and picked up the envelope upon which he had scribbled.
“Leaving the second floor of the White House for this meeting, I had occasion to run into the late President’s widow. We talked, and coming down in the elevator I jotted a few reminders of our talk. I was moved that, in this period of her deep personal grief, her one concern was that I, as her husband’s successor, continue to uphold his program for the welfare of all the people of the nation. This good woman was thinking not of herself but of others. She hoped I would be the transmitting agency of a solution to her concern over the fate of her husband’s vast and dependent following.”
Dilman laid down the envelope and looked around the table.
“I am here to pledge to you that I shall, to the best of my ability, within my limitations, serve the United States in such a way as to relieve the First Lady’s concern about our program ahead, and in such a way as to assure the millions who voted for and backed T. C. that their support was not given in vain.”
The ringing out of applause was spontaneous, and it surprised Arthur Eaton. He could not remember ever having witnessed such a demonstration during T. C.’s tenure. He cast a glance at the black man to his left, sitting hunched forward, head lowered, one hand folded over the other on the blotter. The blackness still made Dilman impenetrable, but now, for the first time, Eaton wondered if behind the stolid, dull mask there lay astuteness and the intuition needed for winning favor. Now it occurred to Eaton that perhaps Dilman had not been elected to Congress by political accident and shenanigans, but that he had been elected because he was clever enough to judge people and use them. Yet this evaluation of Dilman was so drastically the opposite of Eaton’s judgment of the man the past week that he was not ready to accept it. More likely, Dilman had just scored because of the emotional climate created by T. C.’s death, which had affected not only his listeners but Dilman himself.
Eaton looked down the table at Talley, who winked. Then Eaton understood why Talley had winked, and what had just happened. Dilman had made his pledge. He would not walk outside of T. C.’s shadow.
Dilman was addressing them once more.
“At this first meeting, I have no specific problems or legislation about which to ask your advice. It is too soon. Except for my knowledge of what is going on as a senator, and from briefings by the former President’s advisers, I am not yet fully conversant with what T. C. had to face and what I must now face in his stead. I require all the information I can get, as fast as possible, and I need any suggestions you have to offer. So let me say, for this get-together at least, I would like each of you, specialists in your own fields, to speak of your problems, so I may understand my problems. You do the talking today. I’ll be only too ready to listen. At the next meeting, perhaps, I’ll be able to be more constructive. There are ten of you, and the Ambassador, eleven of you, and if you each take five minutes, I’ll be sufficiently befuddled and informed to feel we’ve got off to a good start, and I’ll still be out of here in time to keep a heavy day of other appointments. . . . Mr. Secretary Eaton, do you wish to start off my education?”