Authors: Irving Wallace
“My God, no,” said Poole. “I’m dragging along with the Crispus Society. I’m too sedentary and timid for anything as vigorous as the new Turnerite Group. It is just that I admire them, as every thinking minority should. This is, after so many words, their first public move, and they’re being legally lynched. That’s all there is to my interest, Mr. President. I have deep sympathy for them.”
Although he was inexplicably troubled, Dilman tried to hold a stern expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Leroy, but I have less sympathy for those Turnerites than you have. I don’t like most of that irresponsible and inflammatory talk their leader has been giving out.”
“Jeff Hurley? Why, Senator Dilman—Mr. President—he’s a great man. I—I had occasion to meet him several times, hear him speak. He’s no rabble-rouser or savage red-neck like those white segregationists. He’s intelligent, kindhearted, and he’s only reflecting the mood of—of the Negro population.”
Dilman felt weak, but would not weaken. “Leroy, we’ve gone over this ground indirectly in our interviews for the book. You know my stand. I’m a Negro, I’m conscious of it, I’m proud of it. I’m more aware of my birthright today than ever before. I want justice done for us, as Negroes, the way I want it for every Mexican and Puerto Rican and Jew and Catholic. But, Leroy, this is still a civilized country we have, educated to abide by the laws enacted by the majority. You don’t get what you want by breaking other people’s heads.”
“In war you do. There is war in this country.”
“No, Leroy, as Americans we gave up that kind of solution at Appomattox. We’ve come a long way by using better means. We’ll go farther the same way.”
“But, right now, you can do so much more for us, for justice, now that you are President,” Poole pleaded.
“Leroy, no matter what I feel inside as a Negro man, I can do no more as an American President than T. C. or The Judge or Johnson or Kennedy did before me.”
Poole came forward, his moonface crunched with anguish. “Then I appeal to you not as a President but as a Negro man. There is one personal act you can perform that would help those Turnerite martyrs and bring the issue more strongly before the whole country. I heard there’s a great attorney come here from Chicago, Nathan Abrahams, the kind of man who is conscious of these injustices. He could save the Turnerites, even with the trial over, then by appealing the verdict and sentence. I know you once mentioned him as an old friend of yours. His prestige would—”
Dilman shook his head vigorously. “No, Leroy. I can’t go to Nat Abrahams. He is an old friend, true. He is in the city. We spoke on the phone only two days ago. In fact, he’s coming to dine with me tonight. But I would not dream of influencing his activity. If you want him so badly, why don’t you call him? Or have that man Hurley do so?”
“Hurley tried. I heard that. He was told Abrahams is tied up on other business right now. But if you, as his friend, with your position—”
“Absolutely no,” said Dilman. “If he can’t do it for Hurley, I don’t feel I should put him in the position of having to do it for me.” Then he added, “Especially since, in spite of what the details of that trial in Mississippi may be, I still don’t like how Hurley is going about things. Sorry, Leroy.”
“Well, I’m sorry, too,” said Poole softly. “Forgive me. I think you are making a mistake.”
“I’ve made many mistakes as an individual,” said Dilman. “I hope to make fewer as this country’s Chief Executive. I’m as conscious as you of my color and of injustices to men of my color. Perhaps what’s happened—my being put in this seat, this office—and acting with dignity and responsibility toward all races in the full view of the whole nation and the world—will, could, do more to break down barriers of prejudice than anything else. It is a dream I hold. I don’t want to destroy it by diverting myself to lesser skirmishes or using my influence on friends. Be patient, Leroy. Much will be done.” He paused. “Our conversation, of course, is privileged. I don’t want to see any of it in your book.”
Leroy Poole rose. “Of course not, Mr. President. One thing has nothing to do with the other. . . . Thank you for your time. I’ll write up some questions for you to answer. I hope to see you again soon.”
He had turned to leave, when he seemed to remember something and hurriedly came back to the desk.
“Mr. President, I almost forgot, but I promised someone to mention this to you. There’s a young lady I met, very well known in Washington—very capable, I’m told—who wants to apply for the position of your social secretary. She’s—”
“I was thinking of promoting one of the girls already on the White House staff. I don’t think anyone from outside—”
“She’s Senator Watson’s daughter.”
Dilman could not conceal his surprise. “Senator Watson? Are you sure? He’s the Southern—”
“That’s right. But his daughter, Sally Watson, is different. I don’t know her well, but we’ve talked. She’s absolutely color-blind, progressive, liberal, and knows everyone in the city, naturally. She’s dying to apply for the job, if it’s open.”
“Oh, it’s open.” Dilman tried to think. At least three top secretaries on T. C.’s staff had resigned. Mary Lou Rand, the First Lady’s press secretary, had been one of them. Miss Laurel, the First Lady’s social secretary, had been another. He hated to examine their real motives in quitting. He remembered the advice given him by T. C.’s widow this morning. Hesper had said that he needed a woman in the White House to manage the many executive social functions. The right woman was imperative. Through the morning, Dilman had thought of hiring a clever and personable Negro girl. Then he had rejected the idea. There was no Negro girl among those he knew who had the social background to conduct formal dinners, play hostess to heads of state and Supreme Court justices and congressmen and ambassadors. There was not one he knew, even if he waived experience, who had the education and poise. Moreover, a Negro girl brought into the White House by him on this level would invite more angry speculation from the press that he was peopling the White House with those of his own race.
Yet, he had thought, a white social secretary invited as many difficulties, if different ones. While he expected that, by making inquiries, he could find the right young lady, one who had mingled in the government and Georgetown set, the idea of having a white girl so close to him in the White House was dangerous. That, too, might create suspicion and resentment. Nevertheless, it had to be
someone
, and if he was to do what Hesper advised, find an efficient person, it would have to be a white girl.
He considered the name of the one whom Poole had suggested. He had a vague recollection of reading about Sally Watson in the Washington Post, the Star, Zeke Miller’s
Citizen-American
. As a senator’s daughter, she would know everyone, know what was proper and correct. And Poole had said that she was liberal and open-minded, and “dying” for the position. Gradually Dilman warmed to the suggestion. The act of appointing a Southern senator’s socialite daughter to a social job in the White House might be more valuable than harmful, from a public-relations point of view.
Dilman found Leroy Poole still standing before him, Dilman nodded. “Yes, the position is open,” he repeated. “I was just thinking pro and con, but I suppose that is pointless without meeting the young lady and knowing more about her.”
“I think you should at least see her, Mr. President. I think you’ll be impressed.”
“All right, I’ll see her. Can you call her for me?”
“Immediately.”
Dilman’s eyes went to his engagement card and then to his wristwatch. He was still running ahead of schedule. There would be a free span of fifteen minutes or so between his last morning appointment and his luncheon with the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“All right, Leroy. Tell Miss Watson to be here at twelve-fifteen. Don’t give her any false hopes. Simply say I’ll see her briefly.”
“I’ll take care of it, gladly, Mr. President.” Poole began to turn away, when the view of the South Portico of the White House beyond the Rose Garden arrested him. “My, that’s a beautiful sight out there.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “One last thing, Mr. President. Since I’m ending your biography on your moving into the White House, I think it would be the smart thing to have a quick look at what’s going on up there.”
“It’s a mess today—”
“Exactly,” said Poole with heightening enthusiasm. “I want to see the moving in, the unpacking, the various rooms. I’ve never been up there before.”
“The press and public are not usually invited into the President’s private apartment.”
“I wouldn’t repeat the intimate details to a soul. I simply need a general visual picture for the book. That’ll be the tag of the book.”
Dilman shrugged, indifferent, his mind already going to the next names on his engagement card. “Go ahead, Leroy, if you require it. But don’t get in the way and don’t be long. I’ll inform the Secret Service where you’re going.”
He buzzed Edna Foster to alert Secret Service that Mr. Poole could be admitted to the second floor for a short visit. Then he buzzed Mr. Lucas to tell him to pencil in Miss Watson at twelve-fifteen, and to send in the next visitor.
He sat back in his green chair, exhausted by the hammerings of guilt from his son, by the special pleadings of his biographer, and resentful of this jabbing at his repressed consciousness of being a Negro, of being the first colored man in America who could (if he wanted to, they said) lead his people out of servitude to a Promised Land.
Through the French doors he could see the waddling, ridiculous figure of Leroy Poole making his way toward the ground-floor entrance. How could anyone as ineffectual and verbose and foolish-looking as that make him, a man in his position, feel so reproached and uneasy and afraid? Damn the Pooles and the Hurleys, he suddenly thought. They had no larger responsibility and so they could think, say, do anything. They had only a little ax to grind. But he, as President, had inherited a big stick. He must remember, he must never forget, to use it with wisdom, if at all. Unaccountably then, his mind revolved to Wanda Gibson, whom he could not see, and to the solution that had been taking form in his thoughts, and he began to feel more assured about what lay ahead. . . .
After Leroy Poole had embraced Crystal across the expanse created by their equal corpulence, after kidding her gently and dubbing her Mammy Dolley Madison (for he adored her because she exuded the warmth he had enjoyed from his Mom in childhood), he made a mock ferocious charge across the litter in the Rose Guest Room toward Diane Fuller. While the skinny secretary feigned resistance and squealed, Poole pecked at her hollow cheek and pinched her behind.
Then, elaborately, he again extracted his small spiral notebook, and began to scribble notes describing this historic room on Dilman’s unpacking day. Without meeting the eyes of the fink Uncle Tom of a valet, he was conscious of the haughty servant’s disapproval of his uncouth extroversion.
Writing, Leroy Poole thought how much the valet Beecher had in common with Douglass Dilman: Man, you are sure enough a counterfeit white, like Massah, and, man, maybe it gets you along fine today, but it won’t stand you no good on Judgment Day, because you ain’t white, no matter what, and you ain’t black, no matter what, and you won’t rise no higher than purgatory and limbo.
Before coming upon Crystal and Diane in the Rose Guest Room, Poole had been taken on a careful tour of the second floor of the White House by the valet. At another time in his young life, he imagined, the visit might have been memorable. To know that a poor shanty black boy like himself could be led down hallways and up elevators by the President’s bodyguards, could be shown the intimate splendors of the White House by the President’s valet, would have been a high spot of his life. This morning it was next to nothing, and he was as inattentive as if he were going through the modern office building on 44th Street in Manhattan to visit his publisher.
For ten minutes he had been guided in and out of the great hall, in and out of the Yellow Oval Room, the Treaty Room, the Lincoln Bedroom (here he had his only start, seeing that fink Dilman’s clothes piled on the long bed), all the while listening to that Uncle Tom valet’s supercilious history patter. While Poole had made a pretense of taking notes, had indeed taken several, knowing all the while that he could get what he needed from the excellent guidebook the White House Historical Association had published, his entire attention was focused on a confrontation with one person somewhere in one of these stodgy, phony rooms.
Christ, he had thought, what had this junk cost to keep one bum politician in luxury for four years while millions of his people couldn’t buy their way out of the countless filthy, overcrowded, rotting and stinking slums? The hell with all this, the crappy Victorian chairs in the Treaty Room, the crappy crystal chandeliers bought by that nitwit President Grant, the crappy Monroe vases in the Yellow Oval Room, the crappy Greuze painting of Ben Franklin, another white fink—all this cared for by more overpaid people than there were working in the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department or than were publicly able to work for the Turnerite Group.
His lousy meeting with that servile black Judas, Dilman, more yellow on his spine than black, had infuriated him, blinded him to everything but his failure. There were his gutty, beaten brothers handcuffed in that stinkpot town in that Devil’s Island of a state in the deep torture chamber of the South, suffering kangaroo trial before a foul vermin of a county judge. There was his friend Jeff Hurley, and that smart good Dago, Valetti, and the rest of his brother blacks risking their lives in Little Rock or Shreveport, where every segregated hotel was about as safe as the Alamo. And here was he, one of the secret unlisted members they counted upon most, commanded by their leader to convince a fink President to get a maybe fink Jew lawyer to lend a hand to justice. They were on the firing line, waiting on word from him, their hopes and last appeal for decency depending on him, and he had failed. Would Hurley understand how desperately he had tried? Would Hurley believe that he had been unable to turn a black man who was yellow into a black man who would be Negro? Yet three days ago the mails had brought him a hasty letter from Hurley and one last hope. If this hope was fulfilled, they could be optimistic again. If this, too, failed, then hell would break loose, and when Poole remembered the Turnerite plan of last resort, he had shuddered. And so he had tagged after the valet, looking not at the
objets d’art
which were America’s pride and heritage—not his, for America rejected him—looking not at this alien decadence but for the one animate object he must meet.