Irving Wallace - The Man

T. C.’s First Lady arranged her mourning ensemble. Her wide-set eyes betrayed nothing except recognition. Her high-cheeked, wellbred, fiftyish face did not change its expression, but retained its cool, phlegmatic sadness.

Dilman felt his Adam’s apple drop and rise. He was too tongue-tied to know how to address her. He had met her fleetingly at T. C.’s annual dinners for the members of the Senate. He had seen her three times during the week of grief and burial. He had never exchanged more than an incoherent phrase with her. He could hardly recall her maiden name, only that her given name was Hesper, the renowned and admired Hesper who had been one of the few First Ladies to bring style and grace to the White House. He could not force himself to address her so quickly by mere proper name, like any ordinary citizen, although he knew that she was no longer First Lady, her title and eminence stolen from her by Fate. Yet, she was what she was, T. C.’s widow.

He turned for the valet, as if for help, but realized that Beecher was retreating, readying to withdraw from the room.

Dilman faced her. “Good morning. I’m sorry to walk in on you this way. I’d been told that you had left-”

“The apology should be mine, not yours, Senator Dilman. I did, indeed, move out yesterday. It was kind of you to be so patient, to give me the entire week. But last night I remembered some of my husband’s personal correspondence I had overlooked.” She touched the table desk behind her. “It was in this desk, the one he always used late at night.”

“I hope you found what you wanted,” said Dilman lamely. “Perhaps you wish to look around some more? I-I have other things I have to-”

She lifted a gloved hand. “No, please, Senator.” She took up the packet of letters, bound by a rubber band. “I have everything now. I know this is your moving day, and I must not be underfoot. But, in a way, I’m pleased this happened, our meeting like this, away from the crowds, the misery.”

“I don’t know if I’ve adequately extended my deep feeling of grief,” said Dilman, “or my condolences. I welcome the chance to repeat both. All of us are less, without T. C.”

She was quietly observing him. “Thank you. You are very generous, Senator Dilman.”

Dilman’s sensitivity had come closer to his skin, and now he was acutely conscious of her manner of addressing him. Despite her good breeding, her infallible manners, she was not addressing him as Mr. President. To her he had been a senator, and he was a senator still, and she would not recognize his accession. Or worse, she regarded him as an inferior, a Negro inferior, unworthy of replacing her husband as Chief Executive.

But then Dilman rejected the motive of intended, or unconscious, insult. She was not demeaning him in any way. He was being ungenerous, overly susceptible to his own conviction of his inferiority, and he was better able to understand this suffering woman. She had come through the long, ambitious political years, with their gains and setbacks, clutching the hand of one mate. She had encouraged him, yearned and aspired with him, shared the ultimate victory with him. Overnight, at the height of reign and glory, his crown had been torn from him, his page in history ripped in half. She could not let herself lose both for him yet. For her, beneath her controlled sorrow, there was a refusal to accept unfair reality. For her, still, there could be only one President, one Mr. President, and that one her dearest, her own one. She would not let him be dethroned, not so soon, perhaps not ever. She would not be unfaithful to his love and their dreams. She would acknowledge no usurper.

Dilman knew what was required of him. He must reassure her. “I do want to add this-this one thing,” he said. “I consider myself a temporary tenant of this house. If it belongs to anyone, it still belongs to your husband and yourself. You earned your residence here. I have not. I am keenly aware of the fact. I want you to continue to feel it is your house. The doors will forever be open to you and your son.”

“Yes,” she said absently. “Thank you again.”

She paced a few steps, nervously, then moved to the yellow sofa nearest the fireplace and sat down, head bowed.

Dilman’s uneasiness increased. He wanted to escape. “I-I think you deserve some privacy. I’ll go.”

Her head came up, and she spoke as if she had not heard him. “You have a son, too, have you not, Senator? I can’t remember.”

“Yes. A twenty-year-old boy at Trafford University. In fact, he’s coming down to see me today.”

“It is wonderful, having a son. My own is at Andover.” Her eyes took in the room. “He so enjoyed coming here. He was so proud and thrilled. Like his father, he has a sense of history.”

Dilman did not know how he could reply or comment. He wanted to move the conversation away from the White House. Because it was difficult speaking to her across the table desk, he walked around it and sat on the corner of the other sofa. “Have you made any plans yet? Will you stay on in Washington?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Of course, Freddie will return to school. I believe I’ll settle in our Phoenix house. There’s so much, so very much, to be done. I want to go through T. C.’s papers. Princeton is preparing a special Presidential Wing to receive them. Then many fine scholars, historians, want to write biographies about my husband. I think they should. I think it’s my duty, difficult as it will be, to cooperate.” She paused. “By the way, Miss Laurel-she’s been our social secretary-Miss Laurel has consented to come along with me, to help handle the thousands of letters that have poured in, to help with the rest. I believe that you’ll have her resignation today. I hope you won’t mind?”

“Not at all,” said Dilman hastily. “She belongs with you.”

She was inspecting him once more. “You’re alone, I’m told. Who will run this place for you?”

“I’m sure it will run itself.”

“No. It needs someone. There is so much that goes on. It needs a woman. Find one-an experienced social secretary, at least.”

“I-I’ll try to find someone,” he said. “I’m fortunate to have Miss Foster.”

“She’ll be helpful, but she is limited. I might add, I’ve requested her to empty my husband’s files, and put them in some kind of order, and send them to me-you know, for the biographers. I promise, she won’t take too much time away from you.”

“Miss Foster and I will do anything to cooperate. I want to do whatever is possible to commemorate T. C.’s achievements and his leadership. No matter what, do not hesitate to call upon me.”

She was staring at him. “There is one thing,” she said slowly, but said no more.

“Please, anything-”

She pulled herself erect. Her manner was more candid now, more firm and forthright. “Perhaps what I am about to say I should not say. Perhaps it is out of line. Do not misunderstand. I am not being presumptuous. I may be moved by private emotion, but I choose to think that what is giving me strength to speak out is my concern for the millions of Americans who voted for my husband, backed him, depended upon him.” She caught her breath, and then rushed on. “Nothing I can do from this day forward, no gathering of his letters and documents, no publication of his speeches and life, can be one-tenth as useful as what you can do, Senator Dilman. You alone can truly perpetuate T. C.’s memory and the ideals for which he gave his life. You, and no other, can serve his voters and the future generations who will be grateful for what he accomplished. You yourself can be his best memorial.”

Her urgency troubled and bewildered Dilman, and the burden she was settling upon him made him wince inwardly. He did not speak, but waited, hoping that he was masking his dismay.