Irving Wallace - The Man

Abrahams had been spooning his soup. “Brisket of beef?” he asked.

Dilman grinned. “Exactly. The beef, and a green salad with oil and vinegar, a noodle-and-ham casserole, hot sliced carrots, and-hold your hat-potato pancakes with apple sauce.”

“Latkes,” said Abrahams, giving them their Jewish name.

“I don’t think they’ll come out quite the way Sue’s mother used to make them. Oh, yes, and I remembered red wine-they have the best years, Bordeaux, the kind that makes me sleepy. Just like those nights sitting in between the zinc bar and pinball machine in that joint off the Champs-Élysées.”

A waiter appeared and poured water, followed by the maître d’hôtel, who placed the wine bottle on a side table. Dilman lapsed into silence, and sipped the tomato soup.

Abrahams enjoyed the thick soup. Except for the constricting black bow tie that Sue had made him wear, as being appropriate for high places, he felt relaxed. When the Lincoln limousine had picked him up at the Mayflower Hotel, and was bringing him to the South Portico of the White House, he had suffered a mild attack of apprehension, wondering if some protocol would be imposed, worrying whether Dilman would be as he always had been. The apprehension had been dispelled at the moment of their impulsive bearish embrace of greeting.

The months that separated them from their last meeting had visibly changed Dilman. Although he appeared more friendly, less withdrawn, than he had as a senator, his eyes were red-flecked, tireder, Abrahams had seen, and there were rigid lines of tension around his mouth. Also, he walked more ploddingly, like an elderly person recovering from major surgery. Yet the week as President had not inwardly transfigured him, had not weighted him with any more reserve or aloofness than he had normally possessed. Abrahams guessed that his friend was too new to the post to comprehend it fully. If anything, he seemed uncertain about his role, as if misplaced in some Dantesque purgatory between the Senate and the White House.

After Abrahams’ congratulations and Dilman’s inquiries about Sue and the children, they had gone from the elevator into the Main Hall of the first floor. There had been an empty stretch of seconds when Dilman did not know where to take Abrahams, or what to do next, but this impasse had been resolved by the dignified Negro valet, Beecher, who had seemed to materialize from nowhere.

“I almost forgot, Nat, but I asked Beecher to take us on a quick tour of the first floor,” Dilman had said. “I could use a refresher myself. Besides, the walk will give us both appetites.”

They had been led to the vast East Room, with its gold drapes and gilt benches and Steinway piano (Beecher: “Each of the three chandeliers weighs 850 pounds and has 50,000 pieces of crystal, and each requires two houseboys a week to clean it”). They had been led to the Green Room, with its Daniel Webster sofa and Martha Washington armchair and James Monroe clock (Beecher: “Please take note of the portrait of President Eisenhower over that door and President Kennedy over this door, and, of course, the portrait of The Judge”). They had been led to the Blue Room, with its velvet upholstery and gold Minerva timepiece and white bust of George Washington (Beecher: “The three windows looking down on the south lawn may be converted into doors by sliding them upward and opening the wall panels beneath”). They had been led into the Red Room, with its cerise silk-covered walls and Jacqueline Kennedy breakfast table and crimson Empire sofa (Beecher: “This portrait of President Wilson was painted in Paris in 1919 by an English artist, but as you can observe, it was left unfinished”).

By the time they were in the immense and drafty State Dining Room, Nat Abrahams had become less attentive. Because Dilman appeared absorbed, as if soaking in and memorizing every fragment of data, Abrahams had not wished to spoil it by reminding his friend that he had been through these rooms not once but on two occasions before. The first time, Abrahams and a dozen other attorneys involved in civil rights causes had been brought to Washington by President Kennedy for a two-day conference, and they had toured the ground and first floors of this mansion. The second time, Abrahams and officers of the American Bar Association, then meeting in Washington, had attended a reception given by President Lyndon Johnson, and again Abrahams had been part of this tour.

During T. C.’s abbreviated term of office, Abrahams had not been invited to the White House. He had supported the minority opposing the Party’s nomination of T. C. and Porter, and even though, once T. C. had been nominated, Abrahams had backed him, he had not been forgiven. Abrahams suspected that it was T. C.’s aide, Governor Talley, notable for a mastodon memory (if little else), that separated the good ones from the bad ones, and who had listed Abrahams as lukewarm. Abrahams had, in fact, cast his ballot for T. C. only as the lesser of two evils, and because T. C. had been committed to the Party platform, which had extended lofty if generalized promises to the restless minorities.

Abruptly, his recollection of the last half hour’s tour was brought to an end by the waiters removing the empty soup bowls.

He looked at Dilman, and he said, “You know, Mr. President-”

Dilman’s scowl was immediate. “Cut it out, Nat. You want me to call you Barrister Abrahams?”

“I was merely testing you,” said Abrahams with a chuckle. “Okay, Doug, it’s an informal dinner.” He felt better, very good, indeed, about his friend, about tonight, and he scratched his hooked nose and jutting jaw, and said, “I was simply going to say how sorry I am that Sue is missing this, not only seeing you as President-she’s so thrilled about that-but being able to eat amid this splendor. She could keep her mother silenced and put the kids to bed with it for months.”

“Well, I want Sue here as soon as possible,” Dilman said. “You said it’s only a mild cold.”

“The hotel physician promises she’ll be up in a day or two.”

“Then I want you both over for a rerun of this meal in a few days.” He took up the glass of Bordeaux and held it toward Abrahams. “To you and your new future, Nat.”

Abrahams toasted him back. “Happy Presidency, Doug. You’ll make out.”

They sipped the wine, and then Dilman said, “I want to see as much of you and Sue as you can spare of yourselves. I’m busy as a beaver all day, and have plenty of homework at night, but I’ll be eating alone a good deal. With Julian up at school, and-well-I don’t have anyone around I can really kick off my shoes with. I need you both, Nat.”

He was about to say something more when the servants came in with heaping platters, and he fell into silence. Abrahams guessed that Dilman would not speak during the evening while any of the White House staff was within earshot. He is wary and defensive, Abrahams thought; he’s afraid of letting anything slip, anything that might be misconstrued, whispered behind the stairs, and create gossip and paragraphs for enemy columnists. Sensible enough, Abrahams thought, and decided to go along with his friend and hold his own tongue until they were alone.

While they were being served their slices of beef, potato pancakes, and more wine was being poured, Dilman spoke only once. He pointed to the vegetables. “Those peas, Nat, savor them, because you’ll be digesting history. Mrs. Crail says they were grown and picked from Teddy Roosevelt’s mint garden.”

After the waiters had retreated, the two of them ate quietly for a full minute. Abrahams, his mouth full, said, “Mmm, the pancakes aren’t bad, Doug. You’re running a fine kosher kitchen.”

“I’m sure that confuses them. That and the fact that I don’t like watermelon.” He spoke the last without bitterness, but with dry humor. He went on, “I meant what I was saying before, Nat. I want you and Sue here as often as you can come. This is the loneliest time I’ve ever faced. It’s bad enough being a widower President, in the White House by accident. But being a colored one, to boot, makes it-”