Irving Wallace - The Man

Dilman had deplored Hurley’s injudicious statement. Such pledges of lawlessness gave further ammunition to the enemies of the Negro race, and made Dilman’s own situation that much more difficult. No, he would not discuss the Turnerite activity with young Poole again. There were other ways to proceed, better means, within the law, and he would hasten them when he felt that it was possible.

“Miss Foster, you call Poole and tell him I’m too busy right now,” he said. “I’ll discuss the book with him-well-tell him next week.”

“I think he wanted to see you this morning.”

“Impossible.”

“Very well, Mr. President. Then there is Chancellor McKaye’s letter, the invitation to Trafford. I have a notation on my calendar that it must be answered by today.”

Dilman had forgotten. Chancellor McKaye and the Regents of Trafford University had written to him, inviting him to appear on Founders’ Day to accept an honorary Doctor of Philosophy degree and to be the principal speaker at the gathering of the student body, alumni, and faculty.

Even his son had put aside his pique to congratulate him and to beg him to make the appearance. Dilman had avoided any decision, but now he knew that he must reach one. His instinct, he admitted, was against the appearance. If he could not turn down the honorary degree, he must turn down the invitation to speak. Julian would be disappointed, perhaps upset, but there were more important considerations. To date, he had avoided public speeches, accepting the advice of T. C.’s advisers that they might be inflammatory no matter what he said. While he must give his first television press conference this afternoon, and hold others later, this contact with the public would be buffered by reporters. When the time came to speak in public, he would have to do so, but certainly it would be unwise to make his first such appearance at a Negro school.

“Miss Foster,” Dilman said, “you write Chancellor McKaye to this effect-that I’m moved and pleased to be offered the honorary degree and that I will accept it later if I may, but that I regret I cannot accept the Founders’ Day speaking engagement. Tell him my overloaded schedule will not allow my leaving Washington. Make it-make it as tactful as possible. Leave the door open for the future. Say maybe on another occasion, when things ease up, I can pay Trafford a more informal visit. Tell him I’m not unmindful of the good job they are doing there, and I speak not only as Chief Executive but as the father of one of their undergraduates. You know how to write it. I’ll read and sign it later in the day. Anything else?”

“Mr. Flannery and Governor Talley have just walked in. They’re ready to brief you on the press conference.”

“Tell them to wait in my office. I’ll be right there.”

After hanging up, Dilman considered a second cup of coffee, rejected it for lack of time, rose, tugged his jacket straight, and found his briefcase. He left the Yellow Oval Room and went into the West Hall.

As he started for the elevator, he heard his name. He spun around, to observe Sally Watson, waving a sheaf of papers, hurrying toward him. Once again he was aware of her dress. The variety of her attire-he could not recall seeing the same garment on her twice in three weeks-fascinated him, as usual. She was wearing a claret-colored sheer blouse and magenta skirt, costly, unornamented, the subtle colors contrasting pleasantly with her sleek blond hair. She had more the appearance of a hostess than that of a secretary, Dilman decided, and he did not mind. At first he had worried about her conspicuous beauty, but by now it blended into the stately beauty of the White House itself. Besides, to his relief, with one exception, the press had played down and been uncritical of her being chosen to fill the position of social secretary. The expected exception had been Reb Blaser, acidly writing that the wily new President was trying to disarm the Southern bloc in Congress by embarrassing bribes, beginning with the hiring of the daughter of Senator Hoyt Watson. Dilman’s annoyance at this gratuitous observation had been teased away by Sally herself. “Now really, do I look like a Southern Trojan horse, Mr. President?” she had joked.

However, whimsicality from Sally Watson was rare. For another surprise about her had been her seriousness. Somehow Dilman had expected a certain degree of frivolity in a wealthy, spoiled child. Instead, he had a social assistant who had proved punctual, earnest, dedicated, agreeable to working all hours, and who had the initiative to go beyond the scope of her East Wing office, to take over the handling of his engagements outside the White House. Once or twice he had almost forgotten to be cautious with her about his private affairs.

As she approached, smooth brow furrowed, it was difficult for him to reconcile with the young lady’s angelic face one bit of gossip that he had heard. A few evenings ago Sue Abrahams had repeated a tidbit that Mrs. Gorden Oliver had passed on to her: that Kay Varney Eaton had been out of the city an uncommonly long period of time, and that the Secretary of State had been seeking solace in the company of Miss Sally Watson. Sue Abrahams had not repeated the gossip to titillate, but to keep Dilman informed of all that she heard behind his back. She doubted if the Arthur Eaton-Sally Watson thing was true, and had been pleased when Dilman discounted it entirely. Dilman had said that he could not conceive of an amorous relationship between a dignified, circumspect, older career diplomat like Arthur Eaton and a relatively superficial, inexperienced, too-well-known young single girl like Senator Watson’s daughter. What had Nat thought? Nat had shrugged, hummed a few bars of “September Song,” and they had laughed and dismissed it.

Now, waiting for her, Dilman superimposed Nat’s shrug on Sally’s gilt-headed Aphrodite loveliness. Anything was possible, of course, but in this central city of professionally prying eyes it was unlikely that a sophisticated statesman of international renown would dare risk his reputation over any bachelor girl. Improbable, he told himself again, and accepted Sally Watson in her previous virginal and unsullied state.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I need you for a few minutes-tonight’s dinner-”

“I’m sorry, Miss Watson, but can’t it wait? I’m running behind-”

“Just one minute, then. I suppose it’s not all that important, but-”

“All right, Miss Watson. Do you mind telling me on the way to the office?”

They walked to the elevator as Sally checked the markings on different sheets of her papers.

“The platform is up in the East Room, and it’s completely decorated,” she said. “Very pretty. I just called the Hay-Adams and the Statler Hilton, and the whole Hollywood contingent is in, safe and sound. I can’t wait to hear Herbie Teele, and I adore Libby Owens, don’t you?”

Entering the elevator, Dilman was less enthusiastic than his social secretary about the entertainment that was to follow the State Dinner. Allan Noyes, the Party chairman, had been the first to suggest it. The six famous Hollywood and New York performers had been staunch and vocal supporters of T. C. and the Party, and had raised a small fortune to help finance his election campaign. Now they had been the first to volunteer their support of the new President. Their quotations in the syndicated movie columns had been embarrassingly extravagant in praise of Dilman, whom none had ever met.

This type of show-business liberal, no matter how sincere and well intentioned, had always made Dilman uneasy. They made too much of a point of loving anyone black or yellow or brown, no matter what the character and worth of the object of their extrovert affection. When the entertainment group had heard of Dilman’s first State Dinner, they had offered their services through Noyes. Dilman had been indecisive about them, preferring no entertainment at all, or, at least, something more conservative. And then Illingsworth had learned that President Amboko was an inveterate moviegoer, and that he would be delighted to enjoy some of his American cinema idols in the flesh, and that had pushed Dilman into agreement.