Irving Wallace - The Man

“Do you want to say anything like that to the press?” Flannery asked. “They’re clamoring for a statement.”

“Now? Lord, no. Now’s no time for reason and psychological explanations. Let this break up, and die down. Maybe we can issue something later.”

“Well, I’ll keep the correspondents away from you,” Flannery said. “I’ll tell them you’re safe and sound, and will have some statement to make tomorrow or the day after. They’ll be busy enough trying to interview some of the student demonstrators, find out what drove them to this.”

“Good luck to Reb Blaser,” Dilman said with a grimace.

Flannery stood up. “Mr. President, I’m still not so sure that demonstration was representative of all Negro feeling. I think you’ll see most of them are behind you when the minorities bill becomes operative.”

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong,” said Dilman. “They’ll look on the minorities bill as a white man’s bill. They’ll look on that as a forgiveness bribe, after today’s announcement, curtailing their right to direct action.”

“Maybe,” said Flannery.

“I hope maybe, Tim,” said Dilman. “When are we supposed to leave here?”

“After the Chancellor’s luncheon and-”

“Cancel it,” said Dilman. “McKaye’ll understand.”

“Done,” said Flannery. “Then you wanted a brief meeting with your son.”

“Yes. Is he safe? Will you find out about him? Give me a little while alone here to get my bearings, and then send him along.”

“Okay.”

“Tim, I could stand a drink, nothing too potent. Maybe a small brandy or some wine-”

Dilman had been alone ten minutes when Beggs opened the door to admit his press secretary once more. Flannery came in with a well-filled crystal decanter and a wine glass. He set both on the coffee table.

“The Dean of the Law School provided this,” he said. “Sherry. Will that do?”

“It’ll do fine.”

“The mob is gradually dispersing,” Flannery said.

“Any serious injuries?”

“A few bloody noses, one fractured wrist, that’s all. By the way, someone located Julian. He’s in his dorm room with his friends. He’s shaken up a bit, naturally, but he’s okay.”

“I’ll be ready for him in-in fifteen minutes.”

Alone once more, Dilman unwrapped a cigar, readied it, but was too distracted to light it. He put it down in the tray, reached for the decanter with his trembling hand, then realized that Flannery had already poured his drink. He took up the sherry in his right hand, steadying it with his left, and sipped it.

He reconsidered what he had done today. He had urged his people, already so grievously hurt, to uphold white men’s laws. He had alienated his Negro support. But conversely, had he gained white support, restored the majority of the people’s confidence in him? He was doubtful of this. The white electorate probably felt that he was carrying out, with reluctance, what T. C.’s advisers insisted he carry out. He had lost much, won little.

Yet these mathematics were not what concerned and bothered him. If he had felt positively in the right, nothing on earth would have disturbed him. What bothered him, as it had from the beginning, was that the Turnerites had qualified for condemnation only if they were Communist-financed. Yet he was still uncertain of the truth of this accusation. He had bought Attorney General Kemmler’s flimsy case after that bad telephone exchange with that damn Leroy Poole, after learning from Poole that the Mississippi abduction had been inspired by Turnerite policy, which frightened him, and after hearing the lie that his own son was a part of this terror, which had emphasized for him how far the members of that gang would go in maligning the innocent to gain their ends. But the reasonable part of his brain doubted that the Turnerites were literally subversive, dedicated to overthrowing the government. His black skin knew what all of Kemmler’s Justice Department attorneys would never understand, and what that rioting throng that had stopped his speech did understand, that the Turnerites were out to overthrow inequality, not government but inequality. Now it was too late for these second thoughts. If injustice this was, he must find other means to correct it.

He had finished his sherry, and then realized with a start that not fifteen minutes but twice that time had gone by. He jumped up, went to the door, and opened it. Beggs, who was planted outside, quickly turned.

“Has my son-?” Then he saw Julian, miserably huddled in a chair of the reception room. “Oh, hello, Julian. Come on in.” As Julian brushed past him with only a muttered greeting, Dilman asked Beggs, “How is it going?”

“We got it under control. Only a few handfuls of them hanging around.”

“Good. Tell Tim Flannery to have the car here in fifteen minutes. He can notify the helicopter crew.”

He closed the door carefully, to make certain it was fastened securely, and then he turned to his son. Julian was standing beside the coffee table, patting his checkered sport coat against his dark-gray slacks. His short hair was plastered down and glossy as ever, and his thyroid eyes were fixed on the sherry decanter.

Dilman indicated the decanter. “Want some?”

“No.”

“All right, sit down. We don’t have much time. Let’s talk.”

Defiantly, Julian remained on his feet, but once Dilman had settled on the couch, the boy yanked a chair nearer the coffee table and lowered himself into it.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to talk about,” Julian said sullenly.

“We’ll see… Were you out there in that mob?”

“For a while. When the guys with the signs started infiltrating in, I decided to get out. I went with two of my friends back to my room.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

“If you did what they hoped you wouldn’t, yes, I knew it would happen. Everyone’s been steamed up since Hurley was arrested.”

“Have the other students been giving you a rough time?”

Julian examined his polished nails. “Not especially. I told them I didn’t know what you’d do. I told them if you did the banning, I was against it, and on their side.”

“I see.”

“I don’t have to listen to white men,” Julian said angrily. “I make my own decisions.”

Dilman picked up his unsmoked cigar. “Maybe I’m not listening to white men or colored men either. Maybe, in my position, I have a higher responsibility. Maybe I’m listening to the Constitution.”

“Oh, sure.”

Dilman knew that he could not continue to be high-minded and pretentious. He was dealing with his son, who was once more disillusioned with him and, in effect, disowning their relationship. “You know my feelings about the law, Julian. Possibly it would help if you’d transmit them to your friends.”

“Help who?” said Julian. “I’ll be lucky if I can find anybody to speak to me.”

Dilman’s heart ached. He put the cigar down again. “Do you want to transfer out of here, Julian?”

“A month ago, yes. Now, no. Not now. I’ll show them I belong to me.”

Dilman sighed audibly. The time had come. It was the wrong time, but then, perhaps, there would never be a right time to speak what was foremost in his mind. “Are you sure you belong only to yourself, Julian? Are you sure of that?”

Julian’s bulging eyes left the examination of his fingernails. He glanced suspiciously at his father. “What does that mean?”

“Do you have any allegiance elsewhere? I know you’re an officer in the student end of the Crispus Society-”

“That crud. Are you serious? I joined them before I grew up.”

“And after you grew up, Julian, what else did you join?”