Irving Wallace - The Man

“Forget it,” said Dilman.

Dilman looked around to say good-bye to Rose Spinger, when suddenly Wanda Gibson burst into the living room.

“Doug-!” Then she stopped, teetered in her tracks, and froze, horribly aware that they were not alone with the Spingers, that a stranger was also in the room.

Dilman’s Adam’s apple jumped. He could see Beggs staring at Wanda. Dilman felt an onrush of panic. He tried to keep his voice even. “Is there anything that wasn’t clear, Miss Gibson?”

“N-no, Mr. President,” said Wanda, her voice flat and emotionless.

“I’d like a copy of your shorthand notes,” said Dilman. He waved a good-bye, and then went across the landing and rapidly down the stairs, followed by Beggs.

As he emerged into the night, it was not the impact of the reporters’ shouts and bellows that momentarily unnerved him, but the battery of lights from the television kliegs and the explosion of flashbulbs. Beyond the rim of lights, and cordon of Secret Service agents, he could see hundreds of black neighborhood faces and fluttering hands, and could hear shouts of encouragement.

Fingers gripped his arm, and he was relieved to find that they belonged to Tim Flannery. The press secretary’s mouth was close to his ear. “Mr. President, don’t ever leave me flat-footed again. Somebody in Chief Gaynor’s office leaked it. Don’t let them interview you. Let me go to the microphones and tell them it’s too late tonight to answer questions, but that you’ll make a short statement.”

“Very short, Tim.”

He allowed Flannery to precede him down the stone steps to the three standing microphones. He could hear the shouted questions: “What were you doing here, Mr. President?… Did you see Spinger alone or with other Negro leaders?… What were you talking about?… Was it about the Turnerites, Mr. President?”

Flannery held up his hand, then bent over the microphones. “Gentlemen, no questions. Save them for the press conference. The President will make a brief statement, and that’s it for tonight.”

Flannery stepped aside, and Dilman made his way to the microphones. He felt wooden and insincere. He said, “Friends, because Reverend Spinger, head of the Crispus Society, was confined to his quarters with a cold, I decided to call upon him. Our meeting was partially social, partially devoted to discussion of immediate domestic problems in the civil rights area. We did not touch upon any specific Negro groups besides the Crispus Society and its role in working with the government in the civil rights legislative program.”

“Did you talk about the Minorities Rehabilitation Program?” a reporter yelled.

Dilman looked blankly at the semicircle of men and cameras in front of him. He said into the microphones, “We discussed the MRP Bill, among many other legislative acts. We are in accord in our belief that progress toward equality can be attained only by due process of the law, never through the actions of vigilante groups of any race who would take the law in their own hands.”

There was a spattering of applause, and, from afar, a shrill cat-call and a solitary boo of disapproval.

“Reverend Spinger and I spoke privately about these matters, and informally. In the near future I expect to hold more formal meetings with all national leaders, Negro and white, who are eager to cooperate with the government in maintaining peace, and finding an orderly solution to our mutual problems. That is it for tonight, my friends… No, no questions, or I’ll collapse of starvation.”

With Beggs and a wedge of other agents leading the way, Dilman hastened to the limousine and ducked inside. As he sank into the cushioned back seat, and Beggs squatted on the jump seat, the car began to pull away. Covertly, Dilman lowered his head but lifted his eyes to catch sight of the illuminated upstairs living room windows. He could make out both Spingers in one. The other window frame was empty. For the heartless monster public there was no Wanda Gibson.

Then, sitting back, Dilman caught Beggs looking at him oddly. And then, with a sinking sensation, he knew that you could guard and guard against the monster, and in the end there was no defense. Somehow, someway, there was always one, as Beggs might be one, to let the monster come through. He wondered what Beggs thought. He wondered if the monster would be loosed, and if it might strangle him.

He shut his hot eyes and behind them cursed his foolhardiness-and his cowardice.

At precisely nine o’clock, Nat Abrahams noted, they entered the Family Dining Room on the first floor of the White House.

As a liveried butler opened the door from the Main Corridor, and Dilman went inside, Abrahams thought again what a strange experience this was for both of them. They had eaten together in so many mean and contrasting places, in crowded cafeterias of the Pentagon and officers’ messes of Army bases during the Second World War, in cheap bistros of France and hostile Bierstuben in Germany, in self-service restaurants and automats of Chicago and Detroit. Often, during their reunions in the Midwest, when Abrahams had been the host, he had made numerous preliminary calls to find a decent eatery where his Negro friend would be accepted and in no way embarrassed. Incredibly, and in short years, here they were once more, together, dining in the White House, Dilman’s first dinner in the nation’s first house as President of the United States, and Nat Abrahams his first guest.

Following his host across the floral carpet, Abrahams had an opportunity to examine the Family Dining Room briefly. The walls were yellow, the ceiling white. To the right a gilt convex mirror, with a gold eagle perched upon it, hung over the marble fireplace. To the left stood a Philadelphia breakfront filled with blue-and-gold chinaware. Ahead were two windows looking out toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Abrahams was able to identify two oil paintings: one plainly President John Tyler, resembling somewhat Truman’s first Secretary of State James F. Byrnes; the other, reproduced in the guidebook that Sue had purchased, was of a brigadier general mounted on a black horse, John Hartwell Cocke of Virginia, he thought.

They had reached the mahogany pedestal table, and Abrahams counted eight chairs of richly grained wood set off by white upholstery surrounding the table. The White House maître d’hôtel, a smiling South American in cutaway coat and striped trousers, held the President’s chair for him at the head of the table, and a white-coated colored waiter attended Abrahams’ chair next to the President’s. Dilman sat first, and then Abrahams took his seat.

Abrahams could see that Dilman was ill at ease, brushing nervously at his rumpled business suit, blinking up at the chandelier, at the flower centerpiece, then at the ostentatious table setting, classic tulip-shaped glassware, elegant Limoges plates, sterling knives, forks, and spoons. While the tomato soup was ladled out from a silver-gilt tureen, Dilman glanced sheepishly at Abrahams in the manner of one who wonders which spoon to use first. Abrahams smiled, winked, unfolded his gold-crested napkin and dropped it over his lap. Dilman did the same.

When the soup had been served, and the maître d’hôtel and waiter had backed away, Dilman said, “You’d never guess I told Mrs. Crail-she’s the official housekeeper-I wanted an informal dinner, no fuss, absolutely no fuss. Look at this. Anyway, Nat, I won the battle of the menu. She had in mind-let me think-oh, yes-boiled rolled flounder, roast turkey with something called jelly celestial, scalloped sweet potatoes, and God knows what not. She kept saying that was the kind of small menu T. C. liked for informal dining. But I put my foot down, so I’d get off on the right one. I said, ‘Mr. Abrahams is my oldest friend, and we’re going to eat what we always enjoyed most, the kind of food you can talk over.’ I don’t know how it’ll come out, but I think it’ll be a reasonable facsimile of old times.”