Authors: Irving Wallace
“I don’t know who she is or where she is,” said Julian. “One day, a year and a half ago, I had a brief note from her at school, right out of the sky. She needed money desperately, for some emergency. She figured I was on an allowance from you. She asked for a loan to be mailed in cash. She told me to mail it under a different name to General Delivery at the main post office in New York City. I did. After that, I tried to find that name she gave me in the New York directories. There was none like that. Maybe she uses many names. Anyway, I wrote her, using that name, and a couple of months ago she paid me back in cash. There was another note from her. She’s got a better position, whatever it is. She’s going with a great crowd, and she made it clear they were white. Oh, she’s doing fine, she’s doing just great. She’s got equal rights, because she was born color-lucky like the white folks. And all I’m asking is that you let me work harder on the outside for the same acceptance and decency.”
“Mindy’s wrong,” said Dilman. “Deceit is wrong. Julian, you’ll have your acceptance and decency in the open, on your own terms. T. C. was fighting for it, and you tell your friends I will, too.” He suddenly felt tired. “I moved today, I moved into that”—he pointed through the French doors—“plantation house.” He smiled weakly. “That’s our home for the next year or so, Julian. There’ll be a room for you, for weekends and holidays. When are you going back to Trafford?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“Very well. Why don’t you go up there—someone will show you the elevator to the second floor—and have a look around? It’s something to see. Crystal’s there right now. She’ll whip you up some lunch, and after that you get the valet to show you a room for yourself. I’ll catch up with you before you leave.”
Julian rose, softened, chastened by the realization of the White House. “I’m sorry to—to disagree with you, Dad, with all you’ve got on your mind. I’m staying on with my work in the Crispus Society, but I’ll try to do better in school, too. You can write the Chancellor that.”
Relieved, Dilman smiled fully. “Thanks, son. Just open that door, and go around the ell and through the ground-floor door. You won’t get lost.”
The moment that Julian had gone, Dilman consulted the typed card slipped into the silver holder on the desk. The card read:
The President’s Engagements
. Beneath his son’s name was the name of Leroy Poole.
Dilman picked up the console telephone receiver and pressed the buzzer. Instantly he heard Shelby Lucas, the agreeable, somewhat courtly, prematurely gray engagements secretary, inherited from T. C., reply on the other end. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“How am I running, Mr. Lucas?”
“About—about ten minutes ahead, Mr. President.”
“Is Mr. Poole here?”
“In the Fish Room, sir.”
“Please send him in.”
Putting down the console telephone, Dilman attempted to disengage his thoughts from his son, from the accusations of his son and Mindy, and concentrate on what he must say to Poole. He remembered how impressed Julian had been that an author of Poole’s stature had undertaken to write his father’s biography. From the first, Dilman had been less impressed. He had found Poole repulsive in appearance, deficient in objectivity, and more unreasonable than Julian about equal rights for Negroes. He was a race chauvinist, the Negro counterpart of the Zeke Millers. His perspiring journalistic professionalism seemed barely to perform on a jellied foundation of emotionalism. There was something oily and insincere about him. His questions, well researched, well prepared, often seemed to have no relationship to his own curiosity or interest.
Behind Poole’s deference to his subject, Dilman suspected, lay mockery and contempt. Dilman could not be sure, but his sensitivity always entertained these suspicions when his biographer left the Senate office or the brownstone living room. Time and again Dilman had been tempted to call the project off. He had not wanted a researcher rummaging through the storeroom of his past life. He had not wanted this book written about himself, even though it was to be published by a Negro press, presumably for Negro readers. Dilman had feared that it would be read by white constituents, too, who might decide that he was not representative of them, and next time vote against him. Yet because the Reverend Spinger and other Negro leaders wanted the book as an inspiration for the Negro young, to turn them away from violence, to show them what one of their own had accomplished in a democracy, Dilman had continued cooperating.
Several times since he had been sworn into the Presidency, Dilman had thought fleetingly about the book, wondering if he should permit its publication now that his role had changed. Of course, previous Presidents had made themselves available to biographers during their terms of office. But his own problems were ones that they had not possessed. He had been unable to come to a decision. There had been so many calls from Poole during the week, which he had avoided, that at last he had been embarrassed into taking one. On the telephone, he had been aware at once that Poole’s approach had become even more self-effacing and deferential. Dilman had accepted his biographer’s congratulations and good wishes, and heard out his set speech about the increased importance of the book now that its subject had graduated from senator to President. Without committing himself to the book’s continuance, Dilman had agreed to see Poole as soon as possible, and requested him to work out a date with the engagements secretary. Since then Dilman had been too busy to give Poole or the book another thought, but now this was one more minor matter that he must settle.
The corridor door had swung open, and engagements secretary Lucas was saying to someone not yet visible, “Right in here, Mr. Poole.”
Leroy Poole came through the door like a beach ball. The door closed behind him, and he stopped, dipped his obese face, murmuring, “Mr. President of the United States,” and then he advanced toward the desk, pudgy hand outstretched. “Once more, my sincere best wishes, Mr. President. I think all of us are very lucky we have someone with your experience to carry on.”
Dilman half lifted himself from the swivel chair, and lost his hand inside Poole’s chubby clasp, thinking how much it was like shaking hands with a boxing glove. Dilman waved toward the chair. “Sit down, Leroy.”
Poole eased into the seat, his arms aloft, as if to bring all of the office down into their laps. “The office looks so different from any of the photographs I’ve seen. Somehow you come to expect a throne room, considering that this is the most important office in the world.”
“One of the most important,” Dilman corrected him.
“Yes, I guess the others consider theirs just as important,” said Poole.
“They do, and they’re demanding equal time. I don’t want to be abrupt, Leroy, but I’m afraid they won’t let me be as casual about appointments here as I was in the Senate Office Building. So let’s get right on—”
Dilman paused. The French door behind Poole had opened, and Julian was standing there, worried and harassed, and at his elbow was the Secret Service agent called Sperry.
“I—I’m sorry to break in like this,” Julian was saying, “but I went into the ground floor like you said, and this gentleman grabbed me and asked for my pass, and I had none. I told him who I was, but he frisked me, and then said I couldn’t get upstairs until I was cleared.”
Dilman calmed his son with a gesture. “All right, Julian. . . . Mr. Sperry—”
The Secret Service agent came alongside Julian. “Sorry, Mr. President, I was sure he was your son, but I couldn’t take any chances unless he was identified or I was instructed.”
Dilman nodded. “You were correct. Consider him identified as my son, and ask Chief Gaynor to make out a permanent White House pass.” Dilman realized that Poole was on his feet, studying Julian. Hastily, Dilman performed the introduction. “Julian, meet Leroy Poole, the writer you so much admire.”
Julian’s eyes protruded more noticeably as he eagerly stepped forward to shake Poole’s hand. “Gosh, Mr. Poole, this is an honor—”
“A pleasure for me, too, Mr. Dilman. I’d been looking forward to meeting you at least once before completing your father’s biography.”
“I’ve read every one of your articles,” Julian said. “I even heard you lecture once at our school.”
“Your school? I remember your father telling me. You’re at Trafford. I don’t recall—”
“It was the students’ branch of the Crispus Society.”
“I remember,” said Leroy Poole.
Dilman’s cough interrupted the exchange. “Sorry, Leroy, but I am crowded for time. . . . Mr. Sperry, will you take my son up to the second floor?”
“Thanks, Dad,” said Julian. His eyes lingered admiringly on Poole. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Poole.”
When the French door closed, Poole resumed his seat. “That’s a mighty fine boy you have, Mr. President. I don’t remember your telling me that he was a member of the Crispus Society.”
“It’s in your notes, I’m sure,” said Dilman. “In fact, he’s now on one of the national committees at their headquarters. Shall we get on with our business?”
“I’m ready, Mr. President. I’ve been giving some thought to the book—”
“So have I, Leroy. I’ve come to a decision. I don’t like the idea of its publication right now, but I want to be fair. You’ve worked hard and long on it. You’re expecting certain income from it. I have no right to deprive you. So—”
“You have no right to deprive the country,” said Poole, fingers wiping his brow. “The book was conceived as an inspirational story for our people. Due to circumstances, to your elevation, Mr. President, I now feel positive it will be inspirational for all people of this country, no matter what their color. It will lead to an understanding of you, better feeling between the races, and it will present the best image of you, the most accurate one, the only firsthand one extant.”
Listening to Poole’s salesmanship, Dilman remembered hearing from Edna Foster what she had heard a few nights ago from her fiancé, George Murdock, that many members of the press corps had been approached by New York publishers to write their reminiscences of T. C., and several had been asked to write hurried biographies of the new President. It occurred to Dilman that not one of the press corps, who might undertake a paste-up story of him, knew him as well as Poole or was in possession of so many actual facts. If biographies were inevitable, it behooved him to encourage one that might be a good one.
“All right, Leroy,” he found himself saying, “you don’t have to sell me on the biography. I agreed to this, and no matter what has happened, I’ll go through with it. I’ll make only one qualification. When I was a senator, it did not seem unreasonable to permit a Negro publisher to bring the book out. Now that I am, by fate, President of the country, I think that would look wrong. I think the book should be published simultaneously by the Negro press you’ve contracted with and by a reputable white publishing house in New York. I must insist upon that.”
“Suits me fine,” said Poole. “In fact, that’s a great idea. I’ll call my literary agent in New York today. Tell him it has to be two publishers or none. That’ll be no problem. The big thing is the ending of the book. I’ve got to change that. Now there’s a new climax and finish, and we’ll have to talk it over, and—”
“Leroy, I don’t have time any more. I wish I could, but—no more interviews.”
Poole looked stricken. “Senator—Mr. President—Good Lord, I can’t write about you and not tell of your becoming the first Negro President.”
“Don’t get upset,” said Dilman. “I’ll tell you what—you conclude the book on the note of my moving into the White House, which I did today. You end the book where I’ve been President for a week.”
“That’ll still require some interviews.”
Dilman hesitated. “I can’t promise you, Leroy. Here’s what I suggest. Draw up one last set of questions and send them to me through Miss Foster. I’ll dictate the answers some night soon when I have a spare hour. You have my word—I’ll do it soon. If there’s anything you’ve missed, you can poke your head in here once or twice in the coming month. That’s the best can promise, Leroy.”
“It’ll have to do,” said Poole unhappily. “Yes, I’ll manage somehow. It’ll be a good book, I guarantee you.”
“I’m sure it will.” Dilman pushed his swivel chair away from the desk. “That’s it, then. Everything’s settled.” He waited for Leroy Poole to rise and leave, but Poole had not moved. Puzzled, Dilman waited.
“Uh, Mr. President,” said Poole, “there is just one other thing, if you can give me another minute or two.”
“Well—” Dilman began doubtfully.
“Only a minute or two,” Poole implored.
As he watched the beads of perspiration on the writer’s brow increase, Dilman felt sorry for him. He relaxed slightly. “Very well, Leroy, what’s on your mind?”
“All the oppressions going on around the country against our people,” said Poole with urgency. “Especially one case I happen to be following. It seems to symbolize the worst of everything. Have you been reading about the trial down in Hattiesburg, Mississippi?”
“You mean those Turnerite boys?” said Dilman. “I’ve seen it in the morning papers this week. I haven’t followed it closely.”
“It’s a shocking matter,” said Poole with growing agitation. “The Turnerites were peacefully picketing a Klansman. They were violently attacked, one blinded, one crippled for life. They were jailed, instead of their white attackers. Now they’re waiting sentence by County Judge Everett Gage, one of the most flagrant segregationists and vicious warthogs in the white racist underground. The trial was a farce, and it seems to me it is the perfect battleground to stop discriminatory practices in those local Southern courtrooms and introduce some vestige of legal democracy. I keep telling myself the Attorney General should intervene—this is one place he should intervene. Has he sent you a full account?”
Dilman’s forehead had contracted, trying to read Poole’s anxiety and interest in one out of more than a hundred similar cases. “No,” said Dilman. “This is not a Federal matter. It is a state matter, a community matter.”
“But our whole judicial system is being made a clowning—”
“Leroy, I don’t understand you. Why this concern over one obscure and isolated trial?” He paused. “Is it because you’re a Turnerite? I never asked you before. Are you?”