“You wait, you just wait and see,” Miller shot back. “Before you can turn around, you’ll find yourself staring down at a nigger Cabinet, with every administrative aide and every ambassador a black jigaboo, and you can be sure he’ll be hiring white men for his servants and white girls for his secretaries. That’s what all of them have been waiting for.”
Miller belched, strutted in a tight circle, and came to roost before Eaton and Talley once more. “For a minute, forget about the side issues. I’m worried sick about the big issues. See here in my hand, tallies of the telegrams that have come flooding in to Hankins and myself and the rest of us, and not all from the South, either. I’ll leave them for you to read. Over two thousand telegrams since last night, demanding we keep that Dilman out of office and protect our country. Now, don’t give me any cool racist and segregationist back talk, because this is bigger than that. Almost three years ago the people of this glorious country heard the issues and elected the man they wanted to represent them, and suddenly they find themselves saddled with someone they never wanted who plumb hates their guts. I call that legal crime. I tell you here and now, and I’m willing to shout it from the rooftops, if that Nigra Dilman is allowed to sit in T. C.’s chair, we’re in for rebellion. Inside a month we’ll be wading through blood from white and nigger bodies. Letting this stranger be foisted upon us disrupts our unity and progress, degrades us in the eyes of the world, and promises corruption and ruin.”
He paused, his pinpoint eyes darting from Eaton to Talley, and then he hiccuped and went on. “I know what you’re both thinking, or maybe I don’t, but I’m no red-neck, I tell you. I’m an educated, progressive legislator who wants what is right. Sure I was raised to believe that we have our place, and the niggers have their place, and that’s the way Jehovah arranged it. But I’m a Party man, and always will be, so help me. When the Party had to bow to the Supreme Court and force us to give in to niggers, I went along. And that’s what I’ll still do. I eat with niggers, and ride with them, and let my youngsters enter the same school with them, because that’s the law. Good enough. I’ve done everything with niggers, like it or not, but goldarn it, there’s sure one thing I won’t do—I won’t let an African black man sit in the chair where General Washington sat, and try to rule me. Maybe if one day it was the wish of the electorate out there, black and white, I’d go along. If he was voted in by popular vote, I’d live with it. But the way it is now—no, never!”
Miller had the blue handkerchief out again, and angrily mopped his wet face.
Talley wrung his hands nervously. “Zeke, he was voted into the Senate—”
“By damn Northern Communists,” interrupted Miller.
“Nevertheless, he was voted into the Senate, and the Senate voted him President pro tempore, and legally he was in the line of succession. I don’t see what you can do about it.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Miller. “That’s why I brought Casper Wine over here. He knows the Constitution so thoroughly, he could’ve signed it with Hancock. A group of us who are concerned about what’s happening to our country, who believe in justice, we met most of the night and this morning, and we brought Casper in with us, to find out what could be done before Dilman becomes President.”
“He is already President,” said Eaton calmly. “I saw him sworn in last night.”
“Illegal procedure’s what you saw,” said Miller. “Casper and the rest of us have covered that point. There are plenty of loopholes in the Succession Act. We’re fixing to have the whole thing nullified. We’re getting up this preliminary challenge for the House Judiciary Committee. I’m here because I’m of the mind that you should be the first to know what we’re doing, Mr. Secretary. After all, if we win, you’re the one person directly affected. If we can disqualify Dilman, then you’re the one to replace him, by special election, if necessary. We’re only trying to make you President, Mr. Secretary.”
“I should be grateful,” said Eaton coldly, “but I am only interested in upholding the law.”
Miller had spun away. “Casper, read them our findings.”
Casper Wine was already tugging a massive legal brief out of his brown case.
Eaton shook his head. “We don’t have time to hear a reading of any brief. President Dilman is on his way here, and there is a good deal of business to transact. . . . Mr. Wine, forget any reading. Tell us in your own words what you have in that appeal.”
Casper Wine squinted despairingly through his convex spectacle lenses at Miller.
Miller shrugged, then said, “Okay, give it to them in a capsule, Casper.”
The myopic constitutional attorney brought the legal brief up high, close to his eyes, until it all but obscured his face. Slowly he peeled the pages, reading to himself, and at last he lowered the brief to his lap. He began to speak in a hesitant falsetto, his magnified eyes not on Eaton or Talley but roaming his brief, the carpet, the shoes of his sponsor.
“It is difficult—uh—difficult to reduce our appeal to a few generalities without—uh—without reciting our researches into precedent, previous Acts—uh—Acts of Succession and constitutional history,” he said. “I shall attempt to condense our case.” His eyes closed behind his fat lenses, and then his eyes and his mouth opened. “If you will read the Constitution, you will see under Article II, Section 1, Paragraph 6, that should both the President—uh—President and Vice-President die, then Congress shall have the right to declare—I quote—‘what Officer shall then act as President’ until ‘a President shall be elected.’ Now then, Congress three times passed bills clarifying—uh—clarifying the succession, and the last bill in 1947 provided that the Speaker should be next in line, the President pro tempore of the—uh—the Senate after him, and the Secretary of State after him. Under this bill of 1947, within the framework of the Constitution, it is highly questionable if—uh—Dilman, this Douglass Dilman, can be sworn in, that is, can become in actuality President of the United States. First, the wording of the Constitution makes it clear—uh—clear that the successor must be an ‘Officer,’ and the weight of legal opinion is that Dilman as a Senator, and the Speaker before him, and the—uh—the Secretary of State after him are not technically officers at all. If Dilman is not an ‘Officer,’ how can he be eligible to become President?”
Talley turned to Eaton. “That’s a point, Arthur.”
Eaton wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Too weak. I think it is doubtful if you can overturn an Act of Succession on a minor semantic issue.”
“We shall see,” said Casper Wine. “But let us suppose—uh—suppose you are found to be right, Mr. Secretary. Next, we come to a stronger challenge. The Constitution states plainly that the successor shall—uh—shall—and I emphasize this—shall ‘act as President’ until ‘a President shall be elected.’ In short, Senator Dilman may act as President, in an honorary custodial sense as he acted as chairman in the Senate, until a special election is held across the country to give us a new and legal President for four more years.”
Once more, Eaton was shaking his head. “I don’t see that. In the recent past, eight Vice-Presidents succeeded eight dead Presidents, and they did not act as Presidents, they performed as Presidents.”
“True, but they performed unconstitutionally,” persisted Wine. “The first mistake was made when William Harrison passed away in 1841. The Cabinet informed and addressed his successor, John Tyler, as Vice-President of the United States, Acting President, which was correct. Tyler, wishing the power, honors, and title of full President, ignored—uh—ignored the Cabinet, and made himself full President and spoke—uh—spoke of his ‘accession to the Presidency,’ despite protests of many senators. Other successors merely followed his high-handed illegal custom. Almost all—uh—all of these successors have been challenged in the press. Harry Truman and Lyndon Johnson were so challenged. But nothing more happened.”
Zeke Miller jumped into view, and stood over Eaton. “This time, Mr. Secretary, we’re seeing to it something happ
ens. We’re abiding by our beloved Constitution. If Dilman is not an officer, he is not eligible for the Presidency. If he is an officer, then he is eligible to act as President only until we can have a special election in this country to vote for a legal President—hopefully, Mr. Secretary, yourself.”
Eaton stood up. “Forget about me. I am not the issue.”
“You are the issue,” said Miller excitedly. “Six former Secretaries of State have become Presidents, but no President pro tempore of the Senate ever did. You are our best candidate.”
“Congressman Miller,” said Eaton wearily, “you can have no candidate for another year and five months, because you have a President. . . . Mr. Wine, I appreciate your legal briefing. I can have no part of it. I will not deter you or the Congressman from presenting your findings before the House Judiciary. I can only remark that I must serve President Dilman until I am told not to do so.”
Congressman Zeke Miller began to grin. “Fair enough, fair enough. You let us carry the ball, and you stand by. Believe me, Mr. Secretary, you won’t regret it.” He sought his briefcase, and signaled Casper Wine to his feet. He paused before Talley. “I’m looking out for all of us, Governor. I am all-fired determined, by legal means which exist, to prevent that there Dilman from selling out our heritage to that parcel of black terrorists in the Turnerite gang and to those whining hymn singers in the Crispus Society and NAACP. You can tell Dilman he can play President for a couple days, but you better also tell him not to go to the expense of moving into the White House.” He winked. “I like that old House, I like the color it is right now.”
After Miller and Wine had gone, the clatter of their footsteps on the tile corridor quickly receding, the Fish Room was silent. Eaton and Talley did not look at one another. Eaton occupied himself inserting a cigarette into his silver holder and lighting it. When he had taken several puffs, he met Talley’s gaze.
“I do not like that man, I do not like him at all,” Eaton said.
“He’s a nasty customer, no question. You’d think he’d know better. But I understand his kind. I’ve been through his state with T. C., and there are loads of Millers down there. When you’ve seen that, you can know how he feels about having Dilman in here.”
“Wayne, you must believe me, I have nothing against Dilman because he is black. I simply have no prejudices about color.”
“Neither have I,” said Talley hastily.
Speaking more to himself than to Talley, Eaton went on. “I could never be on Miller’s side or Hankins’ side or anyone’s for such a reason. In fact, I would feel an obligation to defend President Dilman against such attacks.” He considered what he would say next. “I could find myself resisting Dilman, and being unwillingly thrown in with the Miller crowd, for only two reasons. If Dilman were, indeed, to perform as a Negro President instead of the President of the entire nation, if he were to show favoritism to men of his race to the detriment of the country as a whole, I would have to oppose him. And if he were to fall under the wrong influence, jettison T. C.’s program and T. C.’s team, I would have to fight him.” Then he added, “I do not anticipate either of these problems arising.”
“Well, up on the senior side of the Hill there’s a little more concern, Arthur,” said Talley. “Senator Hankins feels that the only way to preserve T. C.’s program is to preserve his Cabinet. They’ve been trying to figure out a way of curbing Dilman’s power of removal.”
“Yes, I guess I heard something of that last night.”
“They’re worried about Dilman moving in, feeling his oats after a bit, and then firing you and replacing you with a Negro friend or some white liberal who will toady to him. They’re worried this would not only end T. C.’s program but weaken the rightful line of succession.”
Eaton pursed his lips. “I believe that they are building straw men to knock down.”
“They want to play it safe, Arthur. As long as you’re around, they feel there is someone to oversee Dilman, make sure he speaks T. C.’s language and signs bills with T. C.’s pen. Then, too, they’re all feeling a little fatalistic—with good reason—and they want to make sure that if anything happens to Dilman, you’ll be around to succeed him, you and not someone, Negro or white, who does not represent the Party’s platform.”
“Yes, I see,” said Eaton thoughtfully. “Whatever they do, they had better make sure it is within the limitations imposed by the Constitution.”
“I’m curious to know exactly what they’re up to,” Talley said. “We know what Miller and his House boys are doing, but I keep wondering about Senator Hankins. I think I’ll give him a ring.” He started for the telephone, but hesitated when he reached it. “No, I don’t think I want to talk to Hankins. That’ll be Miller all over again.” He snapped his fingers. “I know—” He lifted the receiver and dialed one digit. “Edna? This is Governor Talley. Be a good girl and hook me up with Senator Hoyt Watson. He’s probably still at home. . . . Yes, I’ll wait.”
Across the room Arthur Eaton waited, too. When he heard Talley get his connection and begin to question Senator Watson, he ejected his cigarette butt from the holder and replaced it with a fresh cigarette. It was the first time in a decade, to his surprise, that he had found it necessary to chain-smoke.
CONCENTRATING on the postcard-sized screen of the miniature Swiss television set, which stood on the white Formica breakfast table between them, Sally Watson heard her father say, “One second, Governor Talley, hold it a second.”
She glanced up from her coffee to find her father jabbing a finger at the television set. “Sally,” he called to her over the din, “would you mind lowering it a trifle?”
“Of course not, Dad.” She put down her coffee, reached out and turned down the volume.
“That’s better, baby.” Senator Hoyt Watson’s long Percheron face had gone back to the mouthpiece from which he removed his hand. “Okay, Governor, would you repeat your question?”
As she picked up her coffee cup again, Sally Watson’s attention returned to the television screen. The horrible newsreel film of the Frankfurt catastrophe had ended, and now the network was beginning to project a hastily prepared documentary biography to acquaint its viewers with President Douglass Dilman.
Fascinated, she watched the unreal scene in the Cabinet Room of the White House the night before, as Senator Dilman took the Presidential oath. Although she had seen Dilman a number of times in the corridors of the Old Senate Office Building and at Washington social affairs, she had never really been aware of him as an individual, she realized. In close-up on the television screen, he became a person, a very dark person, to be sure, but a man with neat wavy hair, kind eyes, and a habit of rubbing his upper lip with his lower one. Now the film took viewers back to Dilman’s beginnings. There were scenes of a Mid-western city slum area, where Dilman had been born over fifty years ago, and still photographs of an unattractive infant in absurd lacy dresses, and then dull shots of school buildings, and Sally Watson’s interest began to wane and her head began to throb.
She poured herself a third cup of black coffee, hoping her father would not see this, and she wondered at what point during the gruesome party last night she had switched from vodka to Scotch. She could not remember, except that she had made the change because the vodka had done nothing for her and she had wanted something that would make the evening bearable, especially with all that incessant and tiresome Grim Reaper chatter provoked by T. C.’s death. More and more, she knew, she was mixing her drinks at parties, determined to attain euphoria swiftly, and more and more often the hangovers were persisting late into the next day, when she was forced to rid herself of them with fresh drinks and new pills.
Drinking the third cup of black coffee, she tried to devote herself to the television screen. But now her father was replying to Talley, and since the sound volume on the set was low, it was superseded by her father’s basso, so that his voice and the image on the screen blended and created utter confusion.
Because her fa
ther’s voice was more alive than the pictures on the screen, and dominated them, she surrendered viewing for listening. Her father, a large, impressive, authoritative figure, with his trademark shock of white hair and his trademark black string tie in evidence, was drawling into the telephone.
“Certainly I’m not happy about the turn of events, Governor,” he was saying, “and neither will my constituents be happy. I don’t like to have truck with Hankins and Miller and their Ku Klux Klan adherents, but at the same time I must agree with them that the country is today faced with a crisis. I don’t like having a Negro as Chief Executive any more than they do, but I don’t like it for different reasons. I don’t think the country is ready for a colored man as President, and I foresee endless strife. I don’t think Dilman, the little I know of him, is up to the rigors of the office. He is adequately educated, modest, a good Party man, but I don’t think he is cut out of Presidential cloth. He may blunder us into considerable grief, unless we hold a firm rein on him. However, this I can assure you, Governor, and you may repeat my words to the Secretary of State—I cannot in good conscience go along with Miller in attempting legal gymnastics to prevent him from holding an office allowed him by the Constitution. I will not subscribe to that. On the other hand, I believe that what Senator Hankins is proposing to do does make a certain amount of sense—”
He halted to listen to Talley, nodding his head slightly at whatever he was hearing.
Since her father was not speaking, and the audio part of the television set was merely an indistinct hum, Sally concentrated on her coffee, as if this concentration would help eliminate her hangover. If she had not drunk so much at the Leroy Poole affair last night, she might have been in better shape now and this might have been an absorbing morning. In twenty-six years she could not remember a morning that gave so much promise of excitement, of an exchange of tidings and rumor.
Sally Watson was a girl who thrived upon turmoil. It stimulated her and gave her empty days meaning. When there bloomed confusion, scandal, the possibility of adventure, she was enriched. She would not have known this about herself, except for three short and almost fruitless efforts at self-understanding and adjustment with three concerned psychoanalysts in the last eight years. She knew also that when life did not provide this stimulation, her days became devoid of meaning, and she sought to fill them with drugs and drink.
(1964) The Man Page 12