by Allen Drury
“I still think, though, that it is going to go well when the Committee meets. I wish you could be here, Mabel, as it’s really going to be a (an?) historic show. Isn’t there a chance you could get away? We could arrange a nice apartment for you somewhere nearby for a couple of weeks, and there are plenty of baby sitters who could look after Pidge. Say you will. It would be a lot of fun to have you here. And another thing (always have to be the politician and think of all the angles, don’t I?) it would be a real help to Orrin, too. Your name and Brig’s carry a lot of weight in the West, and Orrin needs all the help he can get. It looks good for him, I think, but we can’t afford to relax for a moment. So: he needs you—I need you. How can you resist? Write and say you’ll come. “Love to my two girls in Utah”
from
Lafe”
At “Salubria” in Leesburg another typewriter was busy, its version of events somewhat different from that of the junior Senator from Iowa. The time had come, on this eve of the National Committee’s fateful meeting, for someone to put events in perspective as they really were. For such a task there was no one, he knew, better equipped than America’s leading statesman-philosopher of the press. Walter Dobius frequently felt the heavy responsibility of guiding the nation as it should go, and never had he felt it more than he did tonight, in the long hot twilight of this long hot day.
Perhaps he felt it so deeply now because in some strange, unexpected way he was feeling the death of his ex-wife so deeply. Like most of the official Washington through which she had pushed, shoved and cussed her quirky way for so many years, he still could not really believe that Helen-Anne was gone, or gone in such a horrible, mysterious and ominous fashion.
It was not that he still loved her, for all that, if it ever really existed, had been destroyed by her obvious hostility and her raucous sarcasm about his own position in the world. He could see now that she had been always a competitor, never really a wife: she had always intended to have her own column, she had never been able to understand that one famous member was all a Washington marriage could stand. She had never realized that Walter Dobius’ wife must love, serve and respect Walter Dobius.
Particularly respect. That was what had finally driven Walter up the wall. She just had never realized how important he was to the country, how good he was in his own right, how necessary it was that Walter Dobius, of all people, not pick up the Star and see his wife’s picture grinning back at him over columns that quite frequently were as sharp, as astute and as well-informed as his own. Helen-Anne had always thought she had a perfect right to be as capable and as famous as he was.
How could you possibly have a loving and lasting partnership on that basis?
Furthermore, it would be a long time, perhaps never, before he could forget their dreadful last argument in the press room at the San Francisco Hilton after the attack on Crystal Knox. She had bitterly assailed every assumption on which his entire life had been built, and she had done it with such hysterical savagery and sarcasm that he knew some of her phrases would ring in his mind until the day he died. And yet the Star’s lawyer had called a little while ago and told him with a dryly disapproving economy that she had left him everything except her diary and private papers, which were to go to the Library of Congress. The estate was not very much, and he could not escape the quick, ironic little thought that of course she wasn’t going to take any chances that he might destroy her diary and papers, but nonetheless it did indicate something. It indicated that if she had only been a different and more understanding person—if only she had been less egotistical and less competitive, that was the main thing—their marriage might have held up very well.
Why weren’t you like that? he thought with a sudden, agonized, bereft feeling that startled and amazed him with its intensity. Why couldn’t you have been my nice wife instead of my competitor? Why did you have to be so unfair to me?
And why, more practically, did she have to go meddling into matters that had produced such a disastrous conclusion? He reflected now, his mind welcoming the diversion from a momentary sentimental weakness, that he himself had received from Ted Jason, prior to Patsy’s reception, some hint of a meeting to be held later. In fact, he had transmitted the knowledge to Tommy Davis, because even at that stage Ted was beginning to formulate some idea of using the little Justice in his plans. Walter had told him it was a beautifully shrewd strategy and had encouraged him to do it. But Helen-Anne had not been content to find out about the meeting and let it go at that. She had apparently kept digging and probing and worrying at it, in her haphazard but tenacious way, until she had stumbled onto something that had brought swift and terrible retribution.
What was it? He had already considered and rejected a number of possibilities. His own reportorial instinct, which was among the three or four best in the capital, had not told him yet that he had found the right one. He knew already that if it did—when it did—he would not pursue it further. For he knew that it must be something very dangerous, and he suspected it might lead into areas of the Jason campaign where he did not wish to go. To do so might be to throw into question his entire support for that campaign, and this would not be right. He considered Ted’s success absolutely imperative for the country. If there was some reason why the Governor should be defeated that even he could accept as valid, he did not want to know. It could mean political disaster for Ted; and the knowledge of it could even mean for Walter what it had meant for Helen-Anne.
No. Better to put Helen-Anne and her dark mystery with all its dark implications out of his mind now, because tomorrow’s newspapers were waiting and there was a column to write. Great events were marching, and all across the land many millions were waiting to know what Walter Dobius thought about them. His views, as always, might well have some direct effect. With an almost physical sensation, as though he had closed a door, or gone to a window to shut it against the cold winds of the world, he said goodbye to Helen-Anne and moved forward into that future for whose shape he bore such a responsibility:
“WASHINGTON—Today the nations stand hushed and expectant as the most powerful of all begins the dramatic and painful process of selecting the man who will guide its destinies for the next four years.
“To say that the American nation will select this man might seem to those beyond our borders an enormous oversimplification. Yet in some mysterious, ineffable way that defies analysis, it will be true that all the nation will participate in what will appear to be the deliberations of only fifty-three men and fifty-three women. For in the million subtle segments that go into the making-up of America’s mind, we will all be joining in the deliberations of the National Committee.
“Never, perhaps—even when the first small group met in Philadelphia more than two centuries ago to frame the Constitution—has such a handful of citizens of this Republic had such a heavy charge laid upon it. Never, perhaps, has a more awesome decision had to be made under such desperate conditions for us all.
“Here in this city, which has seen so many great crises and great men come and go, there is the hope—the hushed and fearful hope—that the Committee will select for us a candidate who will have the courage to break free of the futile policies and crippled thinking that have tied America down in these recent bloody years. Hushed and fearful hope, yet singing, too.
“Hidden beneath the sultry summer heat that has Washington under its iron fist, there is an almost springtime mood of freshness in the air.
“Great things are expected.
“Great things must be done.
“The choices which confront the Committee are simple: one who represents the new, one who represents the old. In Gorotoland and Panama, the United States is fighting two indefensible wars whose outcome can only be further failure and disgrace for outmoded, insupportable policies. How can these conflicts be ended? By more of the same? Or by a new approach that will find new solutions, new bases for negotiation, new humanities to replace the old inhumanities and the old futilities—the old gr
ay commitment to more war, more death, more waste of national substance?
“True it is that the Committee meets in an atmosphere that can perhaps only be described by the word ‘ominous.’ There are reports of sinister doings here in Washington, fleeting rumors of dangerous events that could surround the deliberations of this fateful handful of Americans like you and me. Tragedy has struck in the streets. One of Washington’s”—here Walter paused and stared at the blank wall above his desk. How should he describe her, what would be fair? Suddenly as on a television screen her face leaped out at him, some japing disrespectful mockery on her grinning lips. He typed hurriedly on—“better-known correspondents has been killed, along with others who may or may not have been involved in some violent plot. What the plot may be, or even if there is one, no one of any substance seems to know. Yet the event, together with other pressures brought to bear upon Committee members, has served to increase the tensions under which the great decision must be reached.
“It is one of the unhappy ironies of an unhappy era that while both candidates deny all knowledge of the origins of violence, the responsibility for it must inevitably come back to the doorstep of the one whose policies have inflamed the country to the point where violence is becoming almost a political fact of life.
“It is not the Governor of California, history will submit, who has eagerly assisted two Presidents on their war-bent way. It is not the Governor of California who has dismayed a great many of his countrymen to the point where they feel their only recourse is to take to the streets in riotous fear and frustration. It is not the Governor of California whose solution to the world’s ills is the old stale recipe of war and more war.
“No: upon the Secretary of State there rests a heavy burden, and the National Committee has no choice but to take account of this. It is late—too late—to rehearse the rights and wrongs of policy. But the rights and wrongs of violence are everywhere to see. The Committee must ask itself whose nomination would reduce violence and restore decency—and whose would increase violence and send America hurtling still further away from her traditional decencies. The answer would not seem difficult to perceive.
“America, the world and history await the outcome. To lead the nation back to sanity and peace—or to light the way still further down to dusty death. No men and women ever carried a heavier charge than the men and women of the National Committee do today.”
He struck the final words with a satisfied “thwack!” that sounded startlingly loud in the silent old house; ripped the paper out of the typewriter; picked up the telephone and prepared to dictate to the copy boy who always transcribed his column at the Post.
In Gorotoland and Panama as he did so, the belligerents were fighting on toward conclusions that events of the past few hours had made inevitable; in Moscow and Peking, Paris and London, everywhere around the globe, men in places of power and in the streets were discussing with curiosity, apprehension, wonderment or dread, what might be going to happen in the unpredictable republic beyond the seas; and at fifteen or twenty parties in Washington, in a last, almost hysterical, fling before their ordeal began, the members of the National Committee chattered and gossiped and tossed off tensely merry remarks in futile attempts to conceal their worry, their foreboding and their terrifying realization that they were about to stand exposed and vulnerable to the cold blast of history.
5
And now—finally, and yet with an astounding and awesomely sudden impact upon its members—the day of the National Committee has come.
That it is more likely to be “days” is of course apparent to them all, and it is with some sense of entering a state of siege that they are now proceeding, on the morning of this eleventh day since Air Force One precipitated them into history, toward the Studio Playhouse at the Kennedy Center. There on the banks of the Potomac they will make their decision; and as they come nearer to it from their various hotels and temporary domiciles, they begin to understand why it was chosen, and to realize that “state of siege” is perhaps not too dramatic a term to use.
For, as Senator Munson perceived immediately at Patsy’s reception when the President announced his choice of site, the Kennedy Center, and particularly its Playhouse, is defensible. Entered by three broad avenues that can be easily closed off, flanked on the land side by open park and on the other by Theodore Roosevelt Island and the sluggish moat of the lazy river as it bends along the city’s edge through Georgetown Channel, it is almost ideally suited for the purpose to which it is to be put, in an age in which that purpose could easily give rise to the most violent consequences.
Indeed it is precisely because of this that the President selected it; and now that NAWAC—the “National Antiwar Activities Congress”—has declared its intention to hold a mammoth around-the-clock rally for the duration of the Committee meeting, the choice appears even more astute. Already the Chief Executive has quietly arranged for 500 riot-trained soldiers to supplement the District of Columbia police in throwing a cordon around the entire land boundary of the Center. An inner ring of 500 riot-trained Marines has been assigned to guard the perimeter of the Playhouse. Theodore Roosevelt Island and Theodore Roosevelt Bridge have been closed. Across the river a strip a half mile long and three hundred yards deep has been sealed off to all traffic. In the channel two small armed Coast Guard cutters lie at anchor just off the esplanade. Overhead five helicopters are on regular patrol over the entire area, and at “Checkpoint Alpha,” sole entrance for Committee members, visiting dignitaries and the press, the most rigid security procedures have been established.
The Playhouse seats 500 people, and its selection has caused a world-wide outcry, fanned by press and television and joined by many who oppose Administration policies, on the ground that both coverage and attendance will be inadequate. “Where, in this miniscule meeting room,” the New York Times demanded only yesterday, “will there be accommodation, not only for sufficient press and television, but for those legitimate and reasonable petitioners who may be invited by the Committee to appear and tender their advice?”
It is exactly this that the President intends to avoid: a mammoth circus in which every agitator with the flimsiest of credentials can appear and broadcast his vitriol to the world. He is determined, if possible, that none shall be permitted to appear at all; though that is one of the points that may have to be conceded if a majority of the Committee decides to make it an issue. He has been arguing for a week with members that they should not do so, on the ground that the more people, the more confusion; but he is not confident what will happen should it be put to vote. At least he has made sure that it will be physically impossible to accommodate very many.
He has also made sure that the media will have to pool their coverage, which he also considers a gain. He has, in fact, reduced the seating capacity to about 400, for he has requested the Kennedy Center’s directors (who have complied with some grumbling) to remove several rows of seats so that each member of the Committee may have a desk. These have been placed in a half circle facing the stage. On the stage itself there is a lectern and desk for the chairman, a desk to the left for three official stenographers, a desk with microphones to the right in case the Committee decides to call witnesses.
Behind the Committee the remaining seats will accommodate 300 visitors. A day ago he called Ted and with an impersonal courtesy offered to let him name 150 of them, but the Governor declined as impersonally. “I wouldn’t want the responsibility if something went wrong. You have screening procedures I haven’t got. I’ll trust you not to stack the audience.” Then he had laughed, a humorless sound. “Wouldn’t do you any good, anyway.” “That’s right,” the President had agreed, sharp in spite of himself. “It isn’t going to be decided by applause meter.”
Partly his tight control over the size of the gathering is prompted by a desire for security, manageability and speed of decision, but partly also, as the media are well aware, it is a method of preventing Ted’s supporters from turning the Comm
ittee’s deliberations into a worldwide spectacle in which it would be quite impossible to arrive at a thoughtful and objective conclusion. Being the shrewd old veteran he is, he knows that such a circus would also, almost automatically, make it much more difficult for his candidate to win, but he doesn’t talk about that: any more than Ted’s supporters talk about the fact that such a circus would, almost automatically, make it much easier for Ted to win.
The President, in fact, doesn’t talk about the situation at all. All complaints to his press secretary, all global indignations, have been blandly turned aside with, “No comment.” He learned long ago in the House that nobody can make him open his mouth when he doesn’t want to. He is using silence now as effectively as he always has.
Not that this diminishes the clamor, of course. Preparations for the tight security around the Center have been conducted, on his strict orders, after midnight, yet it has of course been obvious to late-passing motorists that intensive preliminaries have been going on. The Post, the Star and the New York Times have all run pictures, taken from across the river, of the Center under floodlights, barricades being put in place. Editorial outrage has been increased by a White House announcement that Committee members, for the duration—“for their personal safety, and since they are, in effect, the jury of the nation at this moment”—will be housed in the visiting Officers’ Quarters at nearby Fort Myer, Virginia, and will be transported to and from their meetings in Army cars. And in Washington, which leaks like a sieve, the Post has just this morning published a copy of the Pentagon order posting the troops at the Center.