At twelve noon there was a five-minute silence, and traffic stopped all over America. The cameras showed crowds standing silent on city streets. It was strange to be in Washington and hear no cars outside. Maria and George stood in front of the TV set in her little apartment. They bowed their heads. George took her hand and held it. She felt a wave of affection for him.
When the five-minute silence ended, Maria made coffee. Her appetite returned, and they ate the pastries. No cameras were allowed in the church, so for a while there was nothing to watch. George talked to distract her, and she appreciated it. He said: ‘Will you stay in the press office?’
She had hardly thought about it, but she knew the answer. ‘No. I’m going to leave the White House.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Apart from everything else, I don’t see a future for myself in the press office. They never promote women, and I’m not going to spend my life as a researcher. I’m in government because I want to get things done.’
‘There’s an opening in the Justice Department that might suit you.’ George spoke as if the thought had just occurred to him, but Maria suspected he had planned to say this. ‘Dealing with corporations that disobey government regulations. They called it compliance. Could be interesting.’
‘Do you think I’d have a chance?’
‘With a degree from Chicago Law and two years’ experience in the White House? Absolutely.’
‘They don’t hire many Negroes, though.’
‘You know something? I think Lyndon may change that.’
‘Really? He’s a Southerner!’
‘Don’t prejudge him. To be honest, our people have treated him badly. Bobby hates him, don’t ask me why. Maybe because he calls his dick Jumbo.’
Maria giggled for the first time in three days. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Apparently it’s large. If he wants to intimidate someone, he pulls it out and says: “Meet Jumbo.” That’s what people say.’
Men told such stories, Maria knew. It might be true and it might not. She grew serious again. ‘Everyone in the White House thinks Johnson’s behaviour has been callous, especially toward the Kennedys.’
‘I don’t buy that. Look, when the President had just died and no one knew what to do next, America was terribly vulnerable. What if the Soviets had chosen that moment to take over West Berlin? We are the government of the most powerful country in the world, and we have to do our job, without a second’s pause, no matter how deep our sadness. Lyndon picked up the reins immediately, and a darn good thing he did, because no one else was thinking about it.’
‘Not even Bobby?’
‘Least of all Bobby. I love the man, you know that, but he surrendered to his grief. He’s comforting Jackie and he’s organizing his brother’s funeral, and he’s not governing America. Frankly, most of our people are just as bad. They may think Lyndon is being callous. I think he’s being presidential.’
At the end of the Mass, the coffin was brought out of the church and again placed on the caisson for the journey to Arlington National Cemetery. This time the mourners travelled in a long line of black limousines. The procession passed the Lincoln Memorial and crossed the Potomac river.
Maria said: ‘What will Johnson do about the civil rights bill?’
‘That’s the big question. Right now the bill is doomed. It’s with the Rules Committee, whose chairman, Howard Smith, won’t even say when they will begin discussing it.’
Maria thought of the Sunday School bombing. How could anyone side with those Southern racists? ‘Can’t his committee overrule him?’
‘Theoretically yes, but when the Republicans ally with the Southern Democrats, they have a majority, and they always defeat civil rights, no matter what the public think. I don’t know how these people can pretend they believe in democracy.’
On television, Jackie Kennedy lit an eternal flame to burn perpetually over the grave. George took Maria’s hand again, and she saw tears in his eyes. They watched in silence as the casket was slowly lowered into the ground.
Jack Kennedy was gone.
Maria said: ‘Oh, God, what will happen to us all now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said George.
* * *
George left Maria reluctantly. She was sexier than she knew in her cotton nightdress and her old velvet bathrobe, with her hair naturally curly and untidy instead of laboriously straightened. But she no longer needed him: she was planning to meet Nelly Fordham and some other girls from the White House at a Chinese restaurant that evening for a private wake, so she would not be alone.
George had dinner with Greg. They ate at the dark-panelled Occidental Grill, a stone’s throw from the White House. George smiled at his father’s appearance: as always, he wore expensive clothes as if they were rags. His slim black satin tie was awry, his shirt cuffs were unbuttoned, and there was a whitish mark on the lapel of his black suit. Fortunately, George had not inherited his slovenliness.
‘I thought we might need cheering up,’ said Greg. He loved high-class restaurants and refined cuisine, and this was a trait George
had
inherited. They ordered lobster and Chablis.
George had felt closer to his father since the Cuban missile crisis, when the threat of imminent annihilation had caused Greg to open his heart. George had always felt, as an illegitimate child, that he was an embarrassment, and that when Greg played the role of father, he did so dutifully but without enthusiasm. However, since that surprising conversation he had understood that Greg really loved him. Their relationship continued to be unusual and rather distant, but George now believed it was founded on something genuine and lasting.
While they were waiting for their food, George’s friend Skip Dickerson approached their table. He was dressed for the funeral in a dark suit and a black tie, which looked dramatic against his white-blond hair and pale skin. In his Southern accent, he drawled: ‘Hi, George. Good evening, Senator. May I join you for just a minute?’
George said: ‘This is Skip Dickerson, who works for Lyndon. For the President, I should say.’
‘Pull up a chair,’ said Greg.
Skip drew up a red leather chair, leaned forward, and spoke intensely to Greg. ‘The President knows you’re a scientist.’
Now, thought George, what the heck is this about? Skip never wasted time in small talk.
Greg smiled. ‘My major in college was physics, yes.’
‘You graduated summa cum laude from Harvard.’
‘Lyndon is more impressed by that sort of thing than he should be.’
‘But you were one of the scientists who developed the atom bomb.’
‘I worked on the Manhattan Project, that’s true.’
‘President Johnson wants to make sure you approve of the plans for the Lake Erie study.’
George knew what Skip was talking about. The federal government was financing a waterfront study for the city of Buffalo that would probably lead to a major harbour-construction project. It was worth millions of dollars to several companies in upstate New York.
Greg said: ‘Well, Skip, we’d like to be sure the study isn’t going to be pruned in the budget.’
‘You can count on that, sir. The President feels this project is top priority.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, thank you.’
The conversation had nothing to do with science, George felt sure. It was about what congressmen called ‘pork’ – the allocation of federal spending projects to favoured states.
Skip said: ‘You’re welcome, and enjoy your dinner. Oh, before I go – can we count on you to support the President on this darn Wheat Bill?’
The Soviets had had a bad harvest, and they were desperate for grain. As part of the process of trying to get along a little better with the Soviet Union, President Kennedy had sold them surplus American wheat on credit.
Greg sat back and spoke thoughtfully. ‘Members of Congress feel that if the Communists can’t feed their people, it’s not up to us to help them out. Senator Mundt’s Wheat Bill would cancel Kennedy’s deal, and I kind of think Mundt is right.’
‘And President Johnson agrees with you!’ said Skip. ‘He sure doesn’t want to help Communists. But this will be the first vote after the funeral. Do we really want it to be a slap in the face for the dead President?’
George put in: ‘Is that really President Johnson’s concern? Or does he want to send a message saying that he’s in charge of foreign policy now, and he’s not going to have Congress second-guess every nickel-and-dime decision he makes?’
Greg chuckled. ‘Sometimes I forget how smart you are, George. That’s exactly what Lyndon wants.’
Skip said: ‘The President wants to work hand in glove with Congress on foreign policy. But he would really appreciate being able to count on your support tomorrow. He feels it would be a terrible dishonour to the memory of President Kennedy if the Wheat Bill passes.’
Neither man was willing to say what was really going on here, George noted. The simple truth was that Johnson was threatening to cancel the Buffalo dock project if Greg voted for the Wheat Bill.
And Greg caved. ‘Please tell the President that I understand his concern and he can count on my vote,’ he said.
Skip stood up. ‘Thank you, Senator,’ he said. ‘He’ll be very pleased.’
George said: ‘Before you go, Skip . . . I know the new President has a lot on his mind, but sometime in the next few days he’s going to turn his thoughts to the civil rights bill. Please call me if you think I can help in any way at all.’
‘Thanks, George. I appreciate that.’ Skip left.
Greg said: ‘Nicely done.’
‘Just making sure he knows the door is open.’
‘That kind of thing is so important in politics.’
Their food came. When the waiters had retreated, George picked up his knife and fork. ‘I’m a Bobby Kennedy man, through and through,’ he said as he began to carve his lobster. ‘But Johnson shouldn’t be underestimated.’
‘You’re right, but don’t overestimate him either.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Lyndon has two failings. He’s intellectually weak. Oh, listen, he’s as cunning as a Texas polecat, but that’s not the same thing. He went to schoolteacher college, and never learned abstract thinking. He feels inferior to us Harvard-educated types, and he’s right. His grasp of international politics is feeble. The Chinese, the Buddhists, Cubans, Bolsheviks – such people have different ways of thinking that he will never understand.’
‘What’s his other failing?’
‘He’s morally weak, too. He has no principles. His support of civil rights is genuine, but it’s not ethical. He sympathizes with coloured people as underdogs, and he thinks he’s an underdog, too, because he comes from a poor Texas family. It’s a gut reaction.’
George smiled: ‘He just got you to do exactly what he wanted.’
‘Correct. Lyndon knows how to manipulate people one at a time. He’s the most skilful parliamentary politician I’ve ever met. But he’s not a statesman. Jack Kennedy was the opposite: hopelessly incompetent at managing Congress, superb on the international stage. Lyndon will deal with Congress masterfully, but as leader of the free world? I don’t know.’
‘Do you think he has any chance of getting the civil rights bill past Congressman Howard Smith’s committee?’
Greg grinned. ‘I can’t wait to see what Lyndon will do. Eat your lobster.’
Next day Senator Mundt’s wheat bill was defeated by 57 votes to 36.
The headline on the day after read: W
HEAT
B
ILL
– F
IRST
J
OHNSON
V
ICTORY
.
* * *
The funeral was over. Kennedy was gone, and Johnson was President. The world had changed, but George did not know what that meant, and nor did anyone else. What kind of President would Johnson be? How would he be different? A man most people did not know had suddenly become leader of the free world and ruler of its most powerful country. What was he going to do?
He was about to say.
The Chamber of the House of Representatives was packed full. Television lights glared on the assembled Congressmen and Senators. The Justices of the Supreme Court wore their black robes, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff glittered with medals.
George was seated next to Skip Dickerson in the gallery, which was equally full, with people sitting on the steps in the aisles. George studied Bobby Kennedy, down below at one end of the Cabinet row, head bent, staring at the floor. Bobby had got thinner in the five days since the assassination. Also, he had taken to wearing his dead brother’s clothes, which did not fit him, and added to the impression of a man who had shrunk.
In the presidential box sat Lady Bird Johnson with her two daughters, one plain, one pretty, all three women having old-fashioned hair styles. With them in the box were several Democratic party luminaries: Mayor Daley of Chicago, Governor Lawrence of Pennsylvania, and Arthur Schlesinger, the Kennedys’ in-house intellectual, who – George happened to know – was already conspiring to unseat Johnson in next year’s presidential race. Surprisingly, there were also two black faces in the box. George knew who they were: Zephyr and Sammy Wright, cook and chauffeur to the Johnson family. Was that a good sign?
The big double doors swung open. A doorkeeper with the comic name of Fishbait Miller shouted: ‘Mr Speaker! The President of the United States!’ Then Lyndon Johnson walked in, and everyone stood up and applauded.
George had two worrying questions about Lyndon Johnson, and both would be answered today. The first was: Would he abandon the troublesome civil rights bill? Pragmatists in the Democratic party were urging him to do just that. Johnson would have a good excuse, if he wanted one: President Kennedy had failed to get congressional support for the bill and it was doomed to failure. The new President was entitled to give it up as a bad job. Johnson could say that legislation on the cripplingly divisive issue of segregation must wait until after the election.
If he did say that, the civil rights movement would be set back years. The racists would celebrate victory, the Ku Klux Klan would feel that everything they had done was justified, and the corrupt white police, judges, church leaders and politicians of the South would know they could carry on persecuting and beating and torturing and murdering Negroes with no fear of justice.