by Allen Drury
“I’m going to miss you,” she said.
“And I you,” he said quietly, and for the first time they both realized just how alone he was going to be from now on.
“No, you aren’t,” she said fiercely. “We’ll be here for a while, and while we are you’re going to be in and out all the time....As a matter of fact,” she added firmly, “what you ought to do is get married again.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked in some surprise, for this was a topic they had never discussed. She had been nine when her mother died, and that made the memory strong enough to inhibit other talk; even if the possibility had arisen, which it had not.
“Uncle Bob’s going to marry Dolly,” she said, “and you ought to make it a double ceremony.”
“Well,” he said reasonably, “I can’t just go out on Connecticut Avenue and say, ‘Hey, marry me,’ to the first woman I see.”
“You could,” she said with a smile. “You know perfectly well you could. But anyway, you ought to give it some thought.”
“You think I never have,” he remarked with a touch of irony, and she smiled again.
“I know,” she said. “But you just haven’t found anyone to match Mother.”
“That’s the exact truth,” he said quietly. She kissed him again.
“Okay,” she said, “forget I ever suggested Connecticut Avenue. Anyway, Illinois is only minutes away, and well expect you every weekend. I hope to provide you with several extra inducements before long, too, Gramps.”
“Oh, you do?” he said with a chuckle, and she blushed.
“I’m determined upon it,” she said.
“I’ll bet Hal is, too,” he observed, and she blushed again.
“I understand he has some interest,” she said.
“I expect he wants to go back to Illinois,” he said, “and follow his father into politics, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, “he does. And I guess I want him to, when all is said and done.”
“It’s a rough life.”
“But capable of honor,” she said.
“Yes,” he repeated softly, “capable of honor.” And seeing her there, so bright and young and sure, he was moved to ask what struck him later as probably the bravest question he had ever asked anybody.
“What do you think of me?” he said. “Really.”
“I think you’re a wonderful father and an excellent Senator,” she answered promptly. Then her eyes narrowed in the thoughtful manner of her mother.
“I think,” she said slowly—and he could see she really was thinking, because her face got the concentrated, dead-earnest look he could remember through all the years from long ago when she was a little girl, “I think you’re a good servant.”
“Then I’ve succeeded,” he said.
“Yes, you have. And now, Senator,” she said lightly, “before you get too misty-eyed to be able to see to do it, you can help me on with my veil and we’ll go. My groom awaits.”
“He’s a lucky man,” said Senator Danta.
“It’s mutual,” his daughter said.
An honest mind, a candid intelligence, a loyal spirit, and an understanding heart. Yes, he said, you would like our daughter.
And there the years went, Beth thought, hurry, hurry, hurry, and away with you. Where did they go, and what had you accomplished when they were over? Well for one thing, she brought herself up tartly, you had accomplished this good-looking young male up there at the altar, and that was quite enough to have accomplished. And more than that, you had also helped in a very major way to accomplish this vigorous public servant beside you, and that wasn’t such a small achievement either. And you had also, not to be too modest about it, accomplished your own place in the world as distinct and recognized, almost, as his, and that was a fair triumph, too. So why should you do something as stock and standard and unimaginative as cry at a wedding? It hardly made sense in the face of so many accomplishments, except that the sense of loss and the sense of gain got so muddled up and confused at a wedding that tears seemed to be the only possible comment to make upon them. Lose a son and gain a daughter, people always said; but they said “lose” first. Everybody lost somebody at a wedding, even up there at the altar where they were losing the boy and girl they were yesterday.
And the gain? Well, if you were lucky, enough to balance; and she honestly felt, even allowing for a mother’s prejudice, that the balance was sufficient here. She was well satisfied with her son, and she knew—she hoped—that Crystal would be, too. Marrying a Knox had its difficult moments, but it also had great triumphs, and she suspected that Stanley Danta’s daughter possessed the character to survive the difficulties and aid in the triumphs. The last thing Elizabeth Henry had thought to do on that long-ago day in college was assist in the establishment of a political dynasty, yet it appeared that might be what she had done. The pattern seemed to be repeating. Thinking of what it had meant for them, with all its excitements and satisfactions, its hits and near misses in a tale that was not yet done, she wished them well with all her heart. To seek, to strive, to serve—above all, to serve; tend to the serving, and the seeking and the striving took care of themselves. Whether their son knew this or would have to learn it like his father, she did not know; whether his father had learned it entirely even now, she was not sure. Anyway, Hal was no longer her problem; Crystal, daughter of a Senator, daughter-in-law of another, wife someday, no doubt, of still another, would have to worry about that from now on. Her own problem was the same as always: here it sat beside her, blowing its nose, sentimental as ever underneath the prickly exterior the world knew. She began to chuckle, a muted sound that no one heard but transmitted by contact through her arm to his. He turned toward her with a startled expression and then winked gravely before beginning to smile. Something suddenly seemed awfully funny to her, but it was unlikely that she would have been able to say exactly what if anyone had asked. It was something, she thought, that her daughter-in-law would understand someday; not yet, probably, but someday.
“I think,” he said in the motel, “that was the nicest wedding I ever expect to be in.”
“I liked it,” she said, unpacking busily and bustling about.
“Why is it,” he asked suddenly, “that a bedside radio always sounds so furtive and sexy?”
She laughed.
“Because that’s often just what it is, I suppose,” she said, hanging up dresses, smoothing out blouses, whisking shoes swiftly out of sight.
“Speaking of sexy,” he said, and she laughed again, inspecting drawers, checking linen, looking for dust.
“Were we?” she said.
“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes,” he said. “Why don’t you stop being so industrious and come over here?”
“Do you think I should?” she asked.
“You’ve no idea how I’m counting on it,” he said.
“Well,” she said, pausing abruptly. “Well—okay.”
“I should hope, well, okay,” he said a few minutes later. “How are you, Mrs. Knox?”
“I’m very fine, thank you, Mr. Knox,” she said. “You know,” she added a moment later against his ear, “I’m glad we were old-fashioned and waited.”
But on that Mr. Knox had no comment, because by then Mr. Knox was beyond conversation.
***
Chapter 6
“Orrin,” the senior Senator from Michigan said next morning, “this is Bob. I just got a phone call I thought you might be interested in.”
The senior Senator from Illinois laughed shortly.
“I don’t think I could ever guess who it was from,” he said. “Anyway, I didn’t know you two were going steady again already. You haven’t even been re-elected.”
“He seems to assume I will be,” Bob Munson said. “And—he asked me to talk to you. And—old loyalties are hard to shake, in spite of everything. And—and. So I’m passing it along. He wants you to come down and see him.”
“One more traveler into that di
stant bourne from which some travelers do not return,” Senator Knox said.
“Oh, don’t be too bitter,” Bob said. “He’s really very upset too, I think.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Orrin said. “I just don’t know. I can’t see what earthly good it would do, in the first place, and it would only be unpleasant for both of us, in the second. We haven’t had a real talk for five or six years.”
“Maybe that’s been the trouble,” Senator Munson said. “You’ve held each other at arm’s length too long.”
“I doubt if it would have made any difference,” Orrin said. “Did you get your complimentary copy of Leffingwell’s book this morning?”
“Personally autographed,” Bob Munson said.
“Mine, too,” Senator Knox said. “Do We Really Want Peace? A Program for America, by Robert A. Leffingwell. To my friend and fellow patriot, Senator Knox, in admiration and respect. Rather modest, I thought.”
“I notice the papers treated it as a news story rather than a book,” Senator Munson said.
“That was the only way to get it out front,” Senator Knox said. “I see in the Post he’s going to be down at Brentano’s this noon for an autographing party. Well,” he said grimly, “let him have his little hour. It’ll be something to remember during those long winter nights at the ODM.”
“About the White House,” Bob said. “What shall I tell him?”
“You let me think about it a little bit,” Orrin said. “The first item of business this morning is to get you re-elected.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” he said immodestly,” Senator Munson observed.
“Well,” Senator Knox said, “I just hope it isn’t going to mean that everything will be just as it was. I’ve seen one Majority Leader throw away his advantage by crawling back to be patted on the head and called nice puppy, and I hope you learned something from that.”
“I did,” Bob Munson said. “I made one promise I can’t abandon, but aside from that I don’t think you’ll be too disappointed by what I have to say.”
“Good,” Orrin said. “If I were you, I think I’d—”
“Just relax,” Senator Munson said. “I said you wouldn’t be disappointed.”
And when the members of the Majority met an hour later after running the usual gauntlet of reporters and cameramen, the Senator from Illinois had to admit that he wasn’t disappointed. By prearrangement with Stanley, he was recognized to make the motion that the Majority Leader be re-elected unanimously, it was seconded by Arly and Powell Hanson, and there was a burst of applause and cheering, duly noted by the news men hovering outside the closed door. The wire services promptly filed a new lead: “Senator Robert D. Munson of Michigan was re-elected Majority Leader of the Senate by acclamation today. The decision climaxed a dramatic battle with the White House which—”
Inside the room, however, once the enthusiasm had died away, it was not as a battler that the Majority Leader resumed his duties. Instead he spoke gravely and without animus as they listened intently.
“I want you to know,” he said, “that it is with a profound humility and gratitude that I accept your decision that I again be Majority Leader. There is no need to go again into the considerations which prompted me to resign. Suffice it to say that your reaffirmation of loyalty and support heartens me more than I can say, and it will be a constant source of strength to me as we go forward together in these difficult times which confront our beloved country.
“We will begin final debate today, in about half an hour’s time, on one of the most controversial and disruptive matters to come before the Senate in many years. It has been for all of us a matter of soul-searching and, I am quite sure, prayer. It is not an easy thing to vote against a Cabinet appointment; it is no easier to support it when it involves a man whose ability to arouse impassioned loyalties is as great as his ability to encourage implacable enmities.
“You will want to know,” he said, and they became if possible more attentive, for this was exactly what they did want to know, “where I stand.” He paused reflectively and there was absolute silence in the room. “Let me state it for you very simply.
“I have given my word to the President of the United States that I will vote for his nominee for Secretary of State.
“I will keep my word.”
There was a little release of pent-up breath and for a brief second the senior Senator from Illinois felt the stirrings of an impatient dismay. But the Majority Leader sought his eye as he resumed, and he knew then that it would be all right.
“You will want to know,” he went on,” “where I think others should stand.
“In determining that, the fact of my resignation and subsequent re-election to the office of Majority Leader will have to be taken into account. I do not know how others regard it,” he said quietly, “but for me these two events are not a continuum. They bridge a definite break in my approach, both to my office and to the matter in hand.”
He paused and there was a murmur of approval.
“In the past, perhaps, as is often the case when the Congress and the Presidency are controlled by the same party, I have spoken too much for the White House—to you. From now on,” he said firmly, “I shall speak for you—to the White House.”
There was a hearty and renewed burst of applause that puzzled the reporters outside. “Must be a hell of a speech,” AP said. “Yes,” the Times agreed. “Do you suppose he’s scuttling Leffingwell?”
“On that principle,” said the Majority Leader, who was doing exactly that, “I do not consider that pledges and promises made to me prior to my resignation are valid or binding, except insofar as individual Senators may wish them to be, now that I have been re-elected.”
Again there was applause, led by Sam Eastwood and some others who had been wondering how they could vote as they now wanted to vote without antagonizing Bob too much.
“As of Monday morning,” Senator Munson went on, revealing a figure he had disclosed to no one heretofore, “I had received assurances, on this side of the aisle and on the other, of a total of sixty-eight votes to confirm the nominee. A number of these Senators in the past forty-eight hours have signified to me their desire that they be released from this obligation.
“I herewith release them all, and I shall so advise the Minority Leader with the suggestion that he transmit the information at once to the interested members of his party.”
More applause, led this time by Senator Knox and Senator Smith, both of whom looked triumphant. Senator Richardson looked disgruntled but finally shrugged and joined in, there being little else he could do under the circumstances.
“As far as I am concerned,” the Majority Leader concluded, “I am out of it. I shall vote for Bob Leffingwell, because I promised I would. I release from their promise all those who promised me the same. I shall neither assist, nor will I attempt to hinder, the efforts of those who favor, and those who oppose, the nominee. For once in my life in this old place,” he said with a chuckle, “I’m going to be a spectator and enjoy the show. Have fun!
“This conference is now concluded.”
It took approximately fifteen minutes for the inside story of the meeting to get out, and about fifteen minutes after that for it to get all over town. After that it took about five minutes for an urgent call to be placed to the senior Senator from Illinois. A familiar voice spoke without any pretext of small talk or any attempt to conceal its deep concern.
“Orrin,” it said, “I want you to come down and see me.”
“Why?” Senator Knox asked bluntly.
“I want to make clear the importance of this nomination,” the President said.
“It seems to me you have already made it amply clear,” the Senator said. “In a number of unfortunate ways,” he added coldly.
“It is imperative for the country that I see you,” the President said. There was a pause.
“All right,” Senator Knox said finally. “I don’t see what good it will do, b
ut all right.”
“We won’t set a definite time, because I know you’re busy,” the President said. “But come down as soon as convenient and I’ll drop everything else when you get here.”
“It will probably be early afternoon sometime,” Senator Knox said.
“That will be fine,” the President said. “Better come in the East Gate, so the press won’t see you.”
“Yes,” the Senator said.
“Thank you, Orrin,” the President said. “I appreciate it.”
“Do you?” Senator Knox asked dryly.
“Yes, I do,” the President said, ignoring his tone.
“All right. I’ll see you later.”
And thus the turning points of one’s life arrived, at least for him, as directly and simply as that, met head on and without equivocation. He supposed there would be some sort of bribe offered—what could there be, he wondered sardonically, Illinois had all the dams and military installations she could possibly use—and there would be tart words and he would turn it down and that would be that. Or would it? In spite of his initial impulse to be completely skeptical, he could not help but be intrigued by this direct appeal. Maybe his opponent had one more rabbit left in the hat; he had pulled out some surprising ones, over the years. Well, it would do him no good this time. They had passed the point of accommodation long ago, and it would do him no good.
There followed an intensive two hours of activity as he went to lunch, went to the floor and helped to launch the debate on Robert A. Leffingwell. No sooner had he put down the phone than it began ringing again; when an interval came a few minutes later he picked up his briefcase and fled; otherwise he would have been trapped at his desk for hours. In that time, however, he had picked up votes from seven of Bob’s defectors, including Lacey Pollard of Texas, who was no mean addition, and Lloyd B. Cavanaugh of Rhode Island, who with his air of dignified melancholy and rigid personal integrity was a good prestige factor to have on your side. In addition Carroll Allen of South Dakota; Powell Hanson’s blandly insipid colleague, Charley McKee of North Dakota; the two North Carolinians, Rhett Jackson, and Douglas Brady Bliss; and stodgy George Carroll Townsend of Maryland—“He may be stupid,” Blair Sykes of Texas put it succinctly once, “but at least he’s honest, and that’s saying something, in Maryland politics”—pledged their support.