by Ward Just
Charles listened to John F. Kennedy :... I think Mr. Nixon an effective leader of his party. I hope he would grant me the same, The question before us is: Which point of view and which party do we want to lead the United States ... Charles shook his head. In a subtle way, Kennedy had managed to gain the upper hand. He, the opposition, had contrived to endorse Nixon. Kennedy had flattered his opponent, thereby putting him on the defensive. He had established himself as the heavier man. Get him now, Charles Rising said aloud. He wanted Nixon to move in close, Nixon was damned good at the counter-thrust. He’d proved that many times. Nixon said, I have no comment.
Charles moved back in disbelief. Oh for Christ’s sake, he said aloud. Oh Jesus Christ. No comment, good God. He looked more closely at the screen. The vice-president was sweating. But he couldn’t let Kennedy get away with that. What was he trying to say? Thanks for the plug? Oh goddam, Charles thought, this is a disaster. Only a fool would permit himself to be placed in that position. When you had air opponent who would be tough you never mentioned that opponent’s name. Never. That was the policy great editors followed and it had never failed, hardly ever. Now here was Nixon agreeing to debate—whatever the hell that was, this television theatrical was certainly not a debate as he understood the word—his challenger. Now another reporter was putting a question to the vice-president: ... would you tell us please, specifically what major proposals you have made in the last tight years that have been adopted by the administration? And the vice-president replied, It would be rather difficult to cover them in eight and—two and a half minutes ... He had been about to say eight years, Charles listened to the rest of the answer, It was lame. Something about his trips abroad. Part of the problem was the goddamned reporters. All of them were in Kennedy’s camp, that much was obvious. They thought that if they kissed Kennedy’s ass that would make them big in Washington. There was a new word, all of them were using it. “Access.” This was a new theory of journalism: that to report Washington scandals you had to have access to the White House. Jesus Christ. The White House was the problem, or would be if Kennedy won the election. He listened to Nixon and shook his head. The Republican was spooked, that was clear enough. He looked at Nixon and sympathized with him, wishing he’d draw back, recede a little, remember what he was now. Whatever his life had been, however many wounds he had, now he was vice-president of the United States. Charles reached into the ice bucket and placed two cubes in his highball glass and refilled it with Scotch. He looked away, staring for a moment at the photograph of his father. He stared at it, lost in thought. When he turned back to the television set, the senator was speaking.
... I think freedom will conquer. If we fail—if we fail to move ahead, if we fail to develop sufficient military and economic and social strength here in this country, then I think that the tide could begin to run against us, and I don’t want historians ten years from now to say, these were the years when the tide ran out for the United States. I want them to say, these were the years when the tide came in, these were the years when the United States started to move again. That’s the question before the American people and only you can decide what you want, what you want the country to be, what you want to do with the future. I think we’re ready to move and it is to that great task, if we are succesful, that we will address ourselves.
Charles found himself listening closely. It was true that Kennedy had a theme and Nixon did not. Nixon didn’t understand that the issue was Kennedy Or perhaps he did understand it and didn’t have the courage to press an attack. But he was on the defensive now. At that moment Charles understood that Kennedy would be successful. He would be successful because the nation was restless and (thanks to him) unsure of itself, and therefore prepared to believe the worst. Except in the Midwest. The Midwest had a memory, its line of sight as clear and far as the land itself.
He was no longer listening to the voices. A depression had settled over him like fog, he could feel fog in every recess of his mind. Poor benighted Nixon; he’d never match Kennedy’s promise. He was dark and Kennedy was light and the voters for certain would choose light. The truth was, both of them were trying to mobilize the population. But Kennedy was worse than Nixon; he was a Socialist no less than Roosevelt. Neither of them knew what could happen when populartions were mobilized. At least Nixon was not part of the East Coast apparatus, the Ivy League and the social workers and government bureaucrats, all of them arrayed against the people. One way or another all of them fed off the government, resentful of those who didn’t; who only paid the taxes. Damned Kennedy had never done a day’s work in his life, had never held a job. It had all come so easy to him, he assumed it came as easy to everyone else. Ahhh Christ, he thought; there’d be a war for sure. The Democrats always managed a war. If there wasn’t a real war they’d invent one. There’d be a war just as soon as people understood that Kennedy could not deliver what he’d promised to deliver. He didn’t understand human nature. Lincoln did. Lincoln was a man of the interior; he’d understood the heart of the country. There were no photographs of Lincoln grinning. How could there be? Life was nothing to smile about, if you knew human nature as Lincoln knew it. Life was not kind.
Charles rose and began to pace his office, moving deliberately to the door and back again. He looked at his watch. Dana was due soon. She’d insisted on hiring a car and driving the distance from the airport. He did not like to think of her driving at night but she’d insisted. He had not seen her for six months and did not understand her life in New York any better than he understood the damned election. Maybe she could explain Kennedy’s attraction; she lived in his country.
SHE CAME over the rise of a hill and could see Dement’s glow on the horizon. There was little traffic and she was driving swiftly passing when she could. Her headlights bore a tunnel into the darkness; she was only vaguely conscious of woods, secondary roads, billboards and farmhouses slipping by She was thinking of her father and his insistence that she come for the weekend, and then she was thinking about McGee and her job. She was in a wonderful mood, loving the details of publishing, from typescript to fair copy to galleys and page proofs and finally the book itself. She knew McGee’s book was better for her editing; he tended to write institutional prose, thick with Latinisms. However, she had lost more points than she had won on substance; he refused to tell the full story. He would not even tell it privately, to her. From the beginning she had seen the book whole in a way that he had not. She saw it as a narrative, his story and not a diplomatic history. During the furious editing sessions at the beach house and her apartment he yielded bits and pieces of his life abroad, amused (he alleged) that she thought anyone would care; but he was careful to disclose nothing more of importance. She’d selected the title, Attibassador’s Journal, and the subtitle, The Cold War in Eastern Europe, 1955-1959. He regarded the title almost with indifference, concerning himself with the content only. She loved all of it, the editing and the publishing, because at the end of it there was a book, a book people would buy and read and that if it were good enough would remain in great libraries forever. Of course this particular book: she had managed to fall in love with its author. Editors did not as a rule fall in love with authors; mostly they fought and ended up enemies. But there had been no pride-of-authorship problems with McGee, probably because he did not see himself as an author; he saw himself as a diplomat and lawyer, though he was hard as iron when he made his mind up. This far and no farther. “That’s the end of it, Dana.” he’d said. “That’s all I’m going to say about it so let’s end it. Now,” She’d begun to protest again, then saw the look in his eye and understood he was serious; he would go no farther. She’d said, “Okay you win. Allen Dulles can tell the rest in his memoirs.” McGee had nodded and grunted sarcastically, “Huh-uh.” Then he handed her a sheet of paper, one line of type. For my associates, for my children, and for D. The dedication. She’d cried at that; nothing that had happened to her in her life had touched her more; it was completely unexpected.
It was raining softly now. At a definite moment she knew she’d crossed the county line. The darkness softened and the land became familiar and she knew she was home or close to home, in any case occupying her own territory. Now, ten minutes from the city, she recognized the landmarks. A stoplight, a billboard, a crossroads, a madhouse—she saw these at the edges of her vision. There were no lights at all now and she shot into the shallow miles-wide depression leading to Dement. The narrow highway cut through the prairie and an occasional wood, fallen leaves clinging damply to the highway; the liquid woods hung on the edges of her headlights, thick and obscure, trees’ branches like veins of the body. She imagined birds and animals moving in the darkness, a swarm of life hidden in the woods, invisible in the ground fog that clung to the cold earth like a blanket. At this time of year there would be a variety of life moving at night, owls, deer, groundhogs, blackstiakes. She knew the region but it frightened her at night in this rented car, the sky black and leaking rain. She turned the radio on and as quickly turned it off, swerving to avoid a branch in the middle of the road. The trees formed a canopy over her now; it was as if she were driving through a tunnel, the walls of the tunnel under pressure from the rain and blackness. Then she was in open country again, and heedless of the wet pavement she put the accelerator to the floor, and the car leaped ahead.
Approaching Dement’s outskirts she slowed. Ten years ago you entered the city in darkness; now it was bright as day with neon and flashing lights. There was a tangle of cars by the side of the road and rotating red lights; an accident. Traffic slowed to a crawl. There were two police cars and an ambulance in attendance. One sedan was skewed across the road, leaking water and gasoline, its hood yawning; the other car was on its side in the ditch. A woman was sitting on the pavement, her face in her hands; the police were shouting at each other and presently one of them walked slowly over to the woman and said something. Easing past the confusion at five miles an hour Dana saw that someone still sat in the front seat of the car on its side, a motionless person, head slumped on the dashboard. Traffic crept so people could see the accident. She averted her eyes and drove on, though through her rear-vision mirror she could see the head on the dashboard, watched by half a dozen curious passersby Now she came upon businesses, a discount house, a liquor store between a gas station and a steakhouse, a drive-in movie and a motel and another steakhouse. It reminded her of a stretch of Queens Boulevard and astonished her. She thought suddenly, It’s a different night. Night has been changed. Night now is exactly like day Ten years ago night was dark, stores were closed and locked and it would not occur to anyone to “cruise.” She supposed that before long stores would be open twenty-four hours, there would be no minute of the day when you could not spend money; if you had a mind to spend money She passed a billboard and laughed out loud.
The Dement Intelligencer
SERVING DEMENT COUNTY
This billboard was flaking at the edges and tucked between a hamburger stand and a tiny church, the church prettily whitewashes and demure in the glare.
She paused at a red light and beside her an engine roared. She looked across into the eyes of two grinning teenagers. She gunned her own engine and they smiled and the driver rolled down the window and shouted something. Without hearing what he said she smiled and shook her head. The boy smiled and the two cars raced off, bound now for the center of town. She slowed is she turned into Blaze Street, to night from day Here in the center it was dark except for the streetlights. The buildings, department scores and offices above the stores, were as she remembered them. It was silent in the center; there were few cars and no pedestrians. As she drove slowly down Blake Street she saw that there were a few vacant stores in each block. The courthouse and the monument were not lit. She thought it was like moving back ten years in time; things in the center were as they had been. She passed the bank and the largest department store and the lawyers’ building. On the second floor was Elliott Townsend’s office, announced in gold letters: TOWNSEND AND RISING
ATTORNEYS AT LAW
That was her cousin, Jake Rising, Elliott Townsend’s new law partner. A single light was burning in the office; doubtless Jake working late. She moved on. The glow from the streetlights cast queer shadows, the town seemed to her—empty, a ghost town. There was no activity, no automobiles or people or blinking lights or sound. No, she thought, it was by no means a handsome town; it was a nineteenth-century mill town, the buildings undistinguished, false fronts concealing nothing. The store windows were laden with goods but many of the windows were dirty and the goods seemed placed there almost as an afterthought. The silence was disconcerting to her, and suddenly, remembering the face slumped on the dashboard of the wrecked car, she shuddered. Dana pulled into a parking place across from the newspaper building and sat a moment, motionless, watching the deserted street. She shook her head and got out of the car and walked into the I. The street door was not locked and she went quickly to the third floor.
She saw her father before he saw her. He was bent over some papers on his desk.
“Stop the presses,” she said.
“Dana!” Charles smiled broadly and came around his desk and embraced her. “You got here all right.”
“I did,” she said. “lt’s not that long a drive, and the plane was a little early—”
“Gosh,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s nice to be home.” She noticed the television set in the corner and remembered the debate, cursing herself that she’d not listened to it. She’d forgotten completely about it. “How was it? The debate.”
“You didn’t hear it? Nixon blew it, I’m afraid. Blew it sky-high.”
“Kennedy was good?” She tried to keep the enthusiasm from her voice.
“Terrible,” her father said. “Just awful. But Nixon was worse. Nixon looked worse. It wasn’t what he said but how he said it and how he looked. Kennedy spooked him. But maybe he was sick.”
“That bad?” She took off her coat and hung it on the rack.
“Worse,” he said sourly. “Death warmed over. And as you know, I’m a Republican.”
“There have been rumors to that effect,” she said with a smile.
“Do you want a little drink?” Dana nodded and he went to the liquor cabinet. “Scotch?” She nodded again. The liquor cabinet was a new addition to his office. It was a well-stocked cabinet with bottles and glasses and an ice bucket. “You look wonderful. So grown up, I can hardly believe it.” He poured the drinks. “Well, what’s up?”