Irving Wallace - The Man

There were other names Dilman knew, and they were often in other sections of the morning newspaper. On the society page it had been announced that Miss Sally Watson was off to Switzerland for a vacation. But Dilman had heard more, that it would be an extended stay in a renowned mental clinic in Zurich. On the book page it had been announced that Leroy Poole’s authoritative biography of the President was completed and would be published in the spring. But Dilman had heard more, that Poole had quickly brought the book to an end (making no secret of the fact that he was still Dilman’s foe) in order to obtain the necessary funds to work with Mrs. Gladys Hurley on an angry protest biography of the late Jefferson Hurley. On the feature page it had been announced in several columns-as rumor, not fact-that General Pitt Fortney, since his resignation as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, would become a member of the board of directors of an Oregon aircraft company, a newly acquired subsidiary of Eagles Industries Corporation. And occasionally, in the back sections of Miller’s newspaper, there was a minor story bearing the dateline “New Orleans” and the by-line “George Murdock.”

Suddenly Dilman, whose eyes had strayed to the clock on the fireplace mantel, realized how late it was in the morning. Holiday or no, half of his staff were at their desks in the West Wing offices downstairs, Edna Foster among them, and Dilman knew that there were at least four or five hours of paper work for him to do, too.

He walked over to the sofa where Nat Abrahams sat, and touched his shoulder. Immediately Abrahams, still flushed with the delight he took in his family, jumped to his feet and came around to join Dilman.

“Well, Nat,” Dilman said, “I’ve got to get down to the galleys and start rowing. I’m afraid this is good-bye until sometime next year-”

“Mind if I walk you to the office, Doug?”

They found their overcoats, pulled them on, then went together into the West Hall and started for the elevator.

“Nat,” Dilman said, “we’re old friends, and you know how inarticulate I am about my deeper feelings. I’ve tried to tell you, in my way, how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me, how grateful I am to you. I don’t know what would have happened without you.”

“Nothing different would have happened.”

“I choose to believe it would not have been the same. No other attorney on earth would have understood me well enough to perceive the real indictment, and been able to invent and throw that Article V at them. Anyway, Nat, what you must know, before taking off, is how conscious I am of the sacrifice you made-”

“Enough of that, Doug. I don’t wear a halo well. I’m the bare-headed type. What sacrifice? Three unhappy years, filled with self-reproach, with that inhuman corporation? Thank God, you brought me to my senses. You saved me those wasted years, Doug. You handed them back to me. I’m the one who should be grateful to you for what you gave me.”

They reached the elevator and waited. “You know what I mean, Nat,” Dilman said. “Maybe you kept the three years, but you lost the farm, additional security, a financial cushion, because of me.”

Entering the elevator, they started down to the ground floor. “Listen to me,” Abrahams said. “I lost nothing, nothing at all. Farms? There are a hundred more, always will be, and maybe better ones. Instead of having mine in three years, I’ll have it, and all the rest, in five or six years. Doug, you have no idea how many calls I’ve had, fat offers I’ve received, since that trial. Not only corporations, but labor unions, Manhattan law firms. Some of them sound even better and more corrupting than Eagles ever was. Eventually I may accept one, if I can find one that is clean behind the ears as well as solvent. No hurry this time. I’ll sit back and let them woo me. So, you see, Doug, what you think I did for you has done as much for me. And it did something else, besides.” He grinned shyly before leaving the elevator. “It put me right smack in the history books, a footnote to you. My children’s children, they’ll read about me. Now, tell me, what other neighborhood Jewish lawyer ever had a break like that? Don’t thank me, Doug. Let me thank you.”

Once they were in the ground-floor corridor, with the two Secret Service agents falling in a discreet distance behind them, Nat Abrahams spoke again.

“What about your future, Doug?”

“I don’t permit myself to think about it,” Dilman said. “I wake up, I work, I go to sleep. I’m trying to handle life a day at a time. That’s a big job, a big, strange, new job for a person who only recently found out he has the right to perform as a man and not just a colored man. It’s like starting afresh, second chance, with a new mind, new limbs, new nerve apparatus, new outlook. You have to get used to it before you can use all that health and strength.”

“Yes. I know,” said Abrahams. At the ground exit Abrahams stopped. “Whatever happens, Doug, I think it’s going to be better for you from now on.” He dug into his pocket and came out with a clipping. “Did you see this in the morning paper?”

“What is it?”

“The latest nationwide Public Opinion Poll taken on you. Listen.” He consulted the clipping. “When you came into office, 24 per cent of the people favored you, 61 per cent were against you, 15 per cent were undecided about you. Today, four months later-well, here it is-33 per cent of the people are in favor of you, 28 per cent against you, 39 per cent undecided.” He returned the clipping to his pocket. “The significant thing, Doug, is that right now, instead of the great percentage of people being against you, they’ve moved into the undecided column; they’ve left behind attitudes of strong resentment to move closer to you and say, in effect, ‘Okay-maybe-let’s wait and see-show us.’ Can you realize what that means, Doug?”

Dilman did not reply. The garden door had been opened for them, and Dilman went outside, with Abrahams following him, then going alongside him. The air was crisp, wholesome, bracing, and as they proceeded up the colonnaded walk, there was no sound other than the crackle of their footsteps on the snow-crusted cement.

Briefly, Dilman strode in silence, lost in thought, and at last he looked at his friend. “Strange, Nat, how whenever you’re not sure of the future, you go scampering back into the past. My mind just went back to when I was a kid, maybe seven or eight years old. There was a ditty all of us used to chant. Want to hear it?”

Abrahams nodded.

Dilman hesitated, then he recited:

Ef I wuz de President

Of dese United States,

I’d live on ’lasses candy

An’ swing on all de gates!

He shook his head. “Our most fanciful dream of heaven. Little did we realize there was no ’lasses candy, no swinging gates.’ ”

“Or realize that it was not a fanciful dream at all.”

Dilman glanced up sharply at his friend. “Not a dream?… Yes, I see. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“ ‘Ef I wuz de President.’ You became the President, Doug. You still are the President. That’s something, I think.”

“I suppose-yes, I suppose it is, ’lasses candy or not.”

“Because you’ve grown, Doug, and so has everyone around you-the entire country, it’s come of age, too,” said Abrahams. “The American people have finally learned what a great Kansas editor tried to teach them years ago, that-that liberty is the only thing you cannot have-unless you are willing to give it to others.”

Rounding the corner, Dilman stared out at the lustrous snow-covered garden and the glittering expanse of the White House south lawn. “You think it has been learned, Nat?”