Irving Wallace - The Man

Twice, approaching the large farm house, Dilman had opportunities to inspect carefully his famous, cantankerous host. The Judge was short, overweight, certainly eighty years old, but he was confident in his opinion, lean-minded, jaunty. His chapped globe-face with its pimple triangle of a nose resembled, except for the myopic eyes, nothing so much as a squashed pumpkin left outdoors long after Halloween. Above all, he was earthy, common, colorful, and knew it, and promoted the image. In their walk, he had characterized Representative Zeke Miller as “a kind of adolescent who likes to step on flowers,” and he had dusted off Senator Bruce Hankins as “ineffectual because rigor mortis set in on him two decades ago.” As to Arthur Eaton, he had hooted at the name, remarking that “he wants to be President more than any man in this country, yet he thinks it’s bad table manners to admit it, but take my word, you could fit all his supporters in a telephone booth.” Best of all, The Judge had said wryly, he preferred to discuss more dependable and trustworthy animals, such as the livestock on his farm.

When they entered the homey parlor, Dilman realized to what extent the hike and the fresh air had fatigued him. And for the first time there was the hollow need for food in his belly. He was about to flop into the widest armchair when the Missus came in, scolding her husband for his tardiness and warmly taking Dilman’s hand.

Seeing her this way, in her inexpensive cotton print house-dress and white apron, Dilman was reminded of how impossible it was to believe that she had once been the First Lady of the land and the hostess in the State Dining Room. Her thinning blue-gray hair was set neatly above a smooth, plump face, broken only by the bifocal spectacles perched low on the bridge of her potato nose. She was dumpy and grandmotherly, like senior models shown in advertisements for pancake mixes or hot cereals, and although she would brook no nonsense from The Judge, she was adoring of him, and sweet and concerned about everyone else in the world.

She had been, early in the century, a county librarian, Dilman remembered, and her choice of language was less erratic and more refined than that of her husband.

“Right now I want to apologize for The Judge’s behavior,” she said to Dilman, “treating you like some delegate from the 4-H clubs rather than President. He and his farm! And walking you nearly to death. Why did I have to marry the world’s number-one pedestrian? Now, you come right in and eat, Mr. President. You look famished. And as for you, Judge, take off that abominable scarf, and wash your hands, and don’t keep us waiting.”

After they had gone into the dining room and settled themselves around the circular colonial table, The Judge tucked the corner of his napkin into his shirt, bowed his head, muttered grace, then smacked his lips and poked his spoon into the steaming porridge. As Dilman finished his own porridge, and consumed the rest of the generous breakfast-the waffles, the browned ham and scrambled eggs, the oven-hot biscuits, the still-warm, creamy glass of milk-his mood perversely altered from mindless well-being to vague depression.

He had made this visit outside Sioux City to seek advice-or confirmation-of a political and personal decision that had possessed all his thoughts from the second that he had learned of his impeachment. For more than a half hour he had been diverted from unhappy reality by the outdoor interlude with the ex-President. Briefly his healthy exhaustion and hunger had distracted his mind. But now, with breakfast almost ended, with his stomach filled and his calves strong, he was no longer diverted. The truth of his painful situation permeated his thinking. No rural sight-seeing, no return to nature, no amount of fresh air or delicious food, could anesthetize him longer.

He was about to speak what was uppermost in his mind when the Missus rose from the table. “I’ll leave the dishes and let you gentlemen talk,” she said. “I can’t stand having those poor men and women out front starving, while we stuff ourselves in here. I’m going to see they at least get coffee and biscuits in the shed… As for you, Judge, don’t go smelling up this room and getting soot on my curtains with that foul corncob.”

The Judge, who was already lighting his brown-yellow corncob pipe, grunted, “You go attend your chickens, Missus.” As Dilman peeled the wrapper from his cigar, The Judge said, “Now we can talk peaceably.” He puffed with contentment. “I know you got lots on your mind, Douglass, or you wouldn’t be out in this godforsaken place. I wasn’t unconscious of your problems when I ran you ragged out there and peppered you with all my fool talk about harvesting and horses. I did it on purpose, to try to settle you down.”

“I appreciate that,” said Dilman. “Matter of fact, while we were walking, I kept envying you-not only you but a friend of mine, Nathan Abrahams, the lawyer-”

“The Chicago fellow? Good man, good man. Followed his handling of tough civil rights cases for years.”

“I envied you both because, when your work was done, you had someplace to go. You did your service, Judge, and then you came back to the farm. Nat Abrahams has served in his way, and when he’s earned a few more dollars, he, too, has a farm outside Wheaton waiting for him. It must be gratifying to know you’ve undertaken the tasks on this earth you were born for, have finished them as best you could, and now deserve and can enjoy a reward beyond that of a career alone.”

“No reason you can’t do the same one day.”

“Not a chance,” said Dilman, “not any more. I haven’t earned my peace. Not that it will be my fault, but that’s the way it is working out. I’ve been impeached-that’s an awful thing-the second President ever to be impeached for crimes, existent or nonexistent. Already I’m burdened by a half disgrace. Now I’ve got to go on trial, like the worst kind of felon, in the biggest, most public courtroom in the world, and hear lies told about my supposed immorality and incompetence and lawbreaking, see these lies become a permanent part of my record and biography, and of American history. They’ll convict me, Judge, no matter what their lack of evidence or my rebuttal, because they have one piece of criminal evidence against me I can’t refute-and that’s that I’m black. I’ll be thrown out, the first President in history, and my half disgrace will become full disgrace. My work will be undone. I’ll spend the rest of my life, I suppose, like some persecuted fanatic, buttonholing people to convince them I was innocent, to justify my few months in office. I can’t seek a farm, a reward, a pension, for a job well done, because I will have been fired. That is why I feel such despair, and why I so much envy you and my friend Nat.”

“Sounds to me, young man, like you’re beginning the self-pity and buttonholing a mite prematurely,” said The Judge owlishly. He sniffed at the bowl of his corncob. “You’re impeached. You’re not tried yet. You had your years as an attorney. Did you ever give up a client before he went into court?”

“Maybe I practically did, once or twice, when my client was black and his jury was white, and outside the courtroom the papers and the public clamored against him.”

The Judge sat straight. “Hell and tarnations, fellow, then you were dead wrong. This is still these United States of America, and not just white America, and you’re still innocent until proved guilty. Do you think you’re guilty of any one of those loaded Articles of Impeachment they’re sending over to the Senate?”

“I’m not guilty of a single one, not even the fourth one, because I contend I had the executive right to remove a Cabinet member, since there’s Presidential precedence, and the kangaroo law restraining me was vindictive, prejudicial, and unconstitutional.”