Irving Wallace - The Man

Pained, he dropped his voice low. “Look, honey, you promised to help me hold my old job or get a new one by tipping me off in advance to any news-and I thought, maybe I was mistaken, but I thought what you told me that night was meant to be in the nature of offering me something I could use-to help both of us. Well, I was just going to use a little, and that’s all I did use, but Reb and the Miller staff, they added two and two and came up with more. My own part in it was next to nothing.”

She would give no ground. “If your part was next to nothing, how come Zeke Miller paid you off so handsomely? For next to nothing?”

“Honey,” he whispered, “the ammunition that maybe they got from me, that I hinted at, was practically a dud compared to what they had found out and stored up already. Miller, he was just being grateful that I-I was on the side of people who want to see this country run right, that’s all. You don’t know him, Edna. Miller is actually a generous man beneath that political bombast. Anyway, I really believe it, that stuff about the President, and I really believe I’ve done something good for my country. Is that wrong? It’s all out now. And you know it as well as I do. Dilman isn’t fit to be our head of state. So be sensible-”

“Be sensible? For what? So we can be married, and you can have a cheap source of hot news for-”

“Stop it, Edna. Dilman’ll be out on his butt in two weeks, and you’ll be out of a job, so what kind of news source will you be? I want to marry you because I want to, that’s all. I can afford it now, and I want to be a family man-”

“Well, I can’t afford it now, because you’ve cost me too much.”

She saw him glancing off nervously, and then she became aware that Reb Blaser was hovering nearby, pretending disinterest. She was perversely pleased with George’s discomfort. She placed the soggy umbrella under her arm and started to go around him.

“Wait a minute,” he said, attempting to block her, “we’re not through.”

“Oh yes, we are.”

“You mean you’re choosing Black Sambo over me?” he said tightly.

“I’m choosing to go back to work for a man who’s trying his best, if he’ll have me, rather than live with a-a-with whatever low, slimy thing you’ve become. Good-bye, George. You and Blaser go on writing good lynch stories. I’ll be watching for them in print. Only don’t bother to call me ever again, especially not when you can’t sleep nights.”

“Edna, for God’s sake-”

She heard no more. She rushed out of the lobby. In the corridor, she was pleased with only one thing: that she was tearless.

Entering her office, she could see that nothing had changed except that her swivel chair was now occupied by the scrawny colored girl, Diane Fuller, who was busy on the telephone. As Edna put down her purse, propped her umbrella in a corner, and took off her raincoat, she realized that Diane was regarding her with popeyed disbelief, as if she were an apparition from another world.

Diane Fuller said, “Yes, Mr. President,” into the telephone. Then hanging up, rising, fumbling for her shorthand pad and pencils, she nervously said, “Hello, Miss Foster. I somehow didn’t expect you.”

Edna reached the desk. “Where are you going?”

“Inside. There’s a meeting about to start. The President wants me to take it down.”

“Well, you never mind.” She held out her hands for the pad and pencils. “I’m ready to go back to work.”

Diane Fuller clutched the pad and pencils. “I-I don’t know if-”

“I don’t know either, Diane,” she agreed, “but I intend to find out.” Firmly, she removed pad and pencils from the colored girl’s fingers. “You stand by for a while, take the phone messages. If I remain inside over five minutes you can go back to your office in the East Wing. If I come flying right out, you’ve got yourself a permanent position right here.”

Without bothering to check her appearance in the mirror, Edna Foster opened the heavy door to the Oval Office and walked into the room. At first, as she advanced toward the Buchanan desk, she saw him in profile, and she realized that President Dilman was unaware of her entrance. He stood behind the desk, his attention entirely fixed on the television screen. The volume was turned low, and not until Edna reached the desk could she make out the words spoken by the voice coming from the television set, that of Nat Abrahams, as it gently chided the House for having included Article II as one of the impeachment charges.

Reaching the desk, Edna Foster coughed discreetly. At the sound, President Dilman’s head jerked toward her. His brow contracted slightly, but there was no astonishment in his reaction. He turned off the television set.

“Good afternoon, Miss Foster,” he said. “Are you fully recovered?”

“I’ve been ill, Mr. President. But now, yes, I am fully recovered. Whether or not I am well enough to work, that’s entirely up to you. I do feel-I feel I owe you an honest explanation-”

Dilman fussed with the papers on his desk. “No further explanation needed. I heard the whole thing from Tim Flannery at lunch today. He finally confessed to seeing you, and took it upon himself to repeat what you had told him.”

She was thankful that Tim had made at least a part of her task easier. Still, she felt that she must speak for herself. “Then all I can add-whether it means anything to you or not-but I must say it for my own sake-it’s this-I’ve had to make an important personal decision, and I’ve made it. Sooner or later, I guess, everyone is called on to choose sides. There’s no avoiding it. Well-not that it matters to you any more-but I am on your side, whatever happens, and I won’t tolerate or have anything to do with anyone who is not on your side. I’d like to work for you, not because it’s the most rewarding secretarial job in the world, but because, like Mr. Abrahams, I want to do my part. I know I’m not being fair to you. You have every reason to tell me to leave. If you do, I won’t blame you a bit. I know in your shoes I’d-”

“Miss Foster,” the President said, with a trace of impatience, “this is a busy day. Please sit down and let’s go to work.”

Her heart, its beat momentarily suspended, or so it seemed to her, suddenly resumed its thumping. She wanted to embrace him. She murmured, “Thank you, Mr. President,” and quickly occupied her accustomed place. The President pushed a button on the intercom, and spoke something to his engagements secretary.

Almost immediately, Shelby Lucas’ door opened, and the Director of the CIA, Montgomery Scott, entered, unzipping his portfolio. He was followed by General Jaskawich. Both men greeted the President, and then Scott saluted Edna, and Jaskawich warmly introduced himself to her. Edna, whose years around the Senate and the White House under T. C. had made her incapable of hero worship, found herself awkward and thrilled in the presence of Jaskawich. She had read that he had been sworn in as the President’s new military aide, and somehow, she had expected that he would be as aloof and remote as the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Instead, as if refusing to take his rank, uniform, and orbital flights seriously, he was as friendly and natural as, well, as Tim Flannery. To Edna, it was as if one of those stone statues in Lafayette Square had leaped down from the saddle to enlist itself on their side.

“Where shall we sit, Mr. President?” Scott asked.

“You sit here, right next to Miss Foster,” Dilman said. “General Jaskawich, you pull up a chair next to me, so we’ll be facing them.”

“I’ve been watching television,” Jaskawich said, lifting a chair and moving it to the indicated spot. “If ever I laid eyes on an animated cuspidor, I did today, watching that Zeke Miller. But you know, I think your Mr. Abrahams is spitting him right back in the eye.”