The Man

by Irving Wallace

  There was the change in the kaleidoscope of his memory from yellow to muted and mixed colors. There was the impression of himself, with Eaton and Talley on either side of him, in the Cabinet Room-he had been unable to bring himself to return to T. C.’s Oval Office-greeting and reassuring the countless heads of nations who had participated in the cortege and attended the burial. He remembered meeting the Prime Minister of Great Britain, the President of France, the Deputy Premier of Russia, the Chancellor of Germany, the King of Belgium, the Premier of Japan, and half a hundred more coming, chatting, going, in those bewildering hours. There was the impression, even less bright, more settling, of himself in the Fish Room the day before yesterday, engaged in the lively but brief discussion with The Judge, so forthright, so encouraging, then the more formal discussions with the other ex-Presidents, the short exchanges with senators and representatives whom he had known, with the Party heads, with the members of T. C.’s advisory team. There was the impression of himself, in Tim Flannery’s press office yesterday behind closed doors, being informed of the ugly riots that had broken out like bursting boils, riots between whites and blacks, unorganized but savage, in Tennessee, in Louisiana, in Texas, in California, in Missouri, in Michigan. And the impression of Tim’s reading aloud the first public opinion poll on President Douglass Dilman-in favor of him: 24%; against him: 61%; undecided: 15%-and the remembrance of his secret dismay at this harsh factual appraisal of him, so at variance with the optimistic guess and hopes of the moderate New York newspaper editorial that had heartened him the week before. And then the impression of Tim, and others, afterward, helping him hastily draft the statement requesting national unity and support, promising adherence to the principles T. C. advocated, reminding Americans that the eyes of the world and of history were upon them.

  “Mr. President-”

  It was Beggs addressing him, and quickly he collapsed the kaleidoscope of memory and hid it in his mind, and he looked up.

  “-here we are at the White House.”

  The limousine had, indeed, drawn to a halt before the South Portico. A group of men, three of their number brandishing large cameras, were gathered between the curved driveway and the canopy. Beggs leaned forward to open the rear door, but a uniformed White House policeman had already opened it. Before stepping out, Dilman looked off to his left. The view, that would now belong to him for a year and five months, as it had belonged to Jefferson and Jackson and Lincoln and F. D. R., momentarily lulled his apprehension. There was a sylvan, pastoral quality about the sloping expanse of green lawn, flecked here and there with autumn’s rust, and between President Cleveland’s Japanese maples a circular fountain threw off its steady clean spray. Behind the birch and elm trees in the distance he could make out the high iron fence that enclosed the President’s private park and protected it from the traffic on South Executive Avenue. Beyond the fence he could see the majestic white marble obelisk of the Washington Monument pointed to the cloudy sky. The greatness demanded of the Mansion’s occupant pierced his peaceful mood, and apprehension suffused him again.

  Beggs and the policeman were outside the car in attendance. Dilman pushed himself from the deep upholstered seat, ignoring their offered assistance, and stepped out onto the driveway. Only one of the clustered dozen waiting, Tim Flannery, was familiar to him.

  Flannery darted forward to grasp his hand. “Welcome home, Mr. President,” he said.

  “This isn’t much pleasure to me, Tim,” Dilman said, “considering the circumstances.”

  “No,” Flannery agreed. Then he was all business. “Mr. President, I’ve allowed three from the press pool to grab a few pictures of you.” He turned, waving. “Go ahead, boys.”

  As the limousine rolled away, leaving Dilman stiffly posed against the backdrop of the south lawn and the Washington Monument, the photographers hustled toward him, crouching, clicking. Dilman nodded, unable to smile, and then he moved toward the canopy. The photographers went crabwise alongside him, shooting more pictures, as the onlookers, White House police, Secret Service agents, gardeners and yardmen parted to give him passage.

  He was halfway under the canopy when a medium-sized Negro with tight curly white-cotton hair that matched his white bow tie, with jet-black solemn face that matched his immaculate dark suit, stepped forward.

  “Mr. President,” he said, “I am Beecher, the late President’s valet.”

  Dilman stopped and extended his hand. Hesitantly the valet shook it.

  “I’m glad to see you again, Beecher. I remember you from the Congressional receptions I attended here.” He paused, and then added, “I don’t know what your plans are, but I’d be pleased if you stayed on, that is, if you’d like to work for me.”

  For the first time a smile wrinkled the valet’s bland face. “Thank you, Mr. President. I would like nothing better.” He indicated the south entrance. “Many of the White House staff are in the Diplomatic Reception Room, waiting to welcome you. After you’ve met them, I’ll escort you to your apartment on the second floor.”

  “Very well,” said Dilman.

  The valet leaped ahead to open the door, and Dilman went through it into the Diplomatic Reception Room. Inside the door, he hesitated. At least one hundred persons lined the vast and stately circular room with its eighteenth-century furnishings. There were women in domestic white or blue uniforms, many wearing aprons, and several dressed in crisp daytime secretarial suits or blouses and skirts. There were men in overalls, in fatigues, in dark suits with black ties. They were everywhere, aligned against the ornately framed oils of many First Ladies-he recognized the likenesses of Dolley Madison and Jacqueline Kennedy-and they waited along the cupboards of gold-edged plates, amid the scattering of yellow-upholstered furniture, against the scenic wallpaper depicting Niagara Falls and New York Bay.

  “This is part of the White House day staff,” the valet whispered to Dilman.

  All eyes were upon Dilman, curious eyes, speculating eyes. Slowly Dilman crossed the oval carpet, until he had progressed to the middle of the Reception Room.

  He cleared his throat. “I do not have time to meet you individually right now and shake your hands, but I am touched by this turnout. I would like you to do this for me-I don’t think it will take very long-but I’d like each of you, starting from the door, to raise your hand and give me your name and job title. I would appreciate that.”

  He turned to his left, toward those nearest the entrance and before the glassed cupboard, and as each one lifted a hand, some tentatively, some high and assured, each announced his name and position in the White House. While the roll call went around the room, Dilman murmured an acknowledgment of each one’s identity. He was astonished by the diversity of personnel. He had read or heard that there were 132 rooms in this house to be looked after, and that thirty-eight policemen guarded its many passageways, entrances, exits, and that four thousand persons possessed full-time or semipermanent security passes to service the Executive Mansion from within or without.

  Yet Dilman had never expected anything as overwhelming as this. The men and women identifying themselves included police, chefs, kitchen help, chambermaids, butlers, carpenters, air-conditioning specialists, launderers, electricians, maintenance engineers, house painters, floor boys, telegraphers. Some were more important than others, Dilman knew, but he gave them no warmer recognition. Among the important ones were the housekeeper, Mrs. Crail, and the members of the Social Bureau from the East Wing, T. C. and Hesper’s social secretary, Miss Laurel, with her twelve assistants that included two secretaries.

  It had taken longer than Dilman had anticipated, a full fifteen minutes, and when the last to introduce himself, the wispy chief calligrapher-who wrote all White House invitations, place cards, seating charts by hand-had finished, Dilman cleared his throat a second time.

  “Thank you, each of you. It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Some of you, I know, have become indispensable to the operation of this nation’s first house. Some of you ha
ve served Presidents as far back as Herbert Hoover and Franklin Roosevelt, and others of you have been here under Mr. Truman, General Eisenhower, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Lyndon Johnson, and The Judge. But all of you, I know, old and new, have served T. C. and the First Lady efficiently and loyally. Some of you, missing them, having other plans, may wish to leave for different employment. You may do so, of course, and I will understand your motives. Most of you, I hope, I trust, will stay on, knowing your-your loyalty is to a high office and not to any individual. If you will stay on, this is simply to tell you that I want you and depend upon you. I can’t promise life in this house will be as it has been. No one can replace T. C. But the life of the house itself, the routine, the service to those who come here, must remain unchanged.”

  He paused, blinking at the cream-colored carpet, and then he said with the faintest smile, “Perhaps, even, your work will be easier now. You see, except for my son, who is away at college, I am alone, quite alone, a widower, and I have few friends and little interest in social affairs except those which are expected of me. Yes, my personal demands may make it easier, but remember that this White House is not only my house but your house, too, and I want you to continue to take pride in it and in your jobs. I hope you will stay. I hope to know each of you better in a short time. Thank you-thank you very much.”

  The valet, Beecher, was at Dilman’s side, and from the crowd of personnel, the Chief of the Secret Service, Hugo Gaynor, and T. C.’s military attaché, Brigadier General Robert Faber, swiftly emerged to join him. There was a light spatter of applause as General Faber, Chief Gaynor, and Beecher led him straight ahead, out of the Reception Room, into the wide ground-floor corridor with its seemingly endless ribbon of red carpet.

  “Excellent, Mr. President,” the buoyant military attaché was saying. “I’m certain they will be eager to serve you.” He guided Dilman to the left. As they started up the corridor, Chief Gaynor said, “Over there is where you will come in from your office every day. Next to it is the service entrance for employees and tradespeople.” He pointed ahead. “Miss Crail’s office, she’s the housekeeper, a demon, and next to her, Admiral Oates’s office, he’s the White House physician, and across the way the flower shop-they keep the old house decorated-and those doors open to the main kitchen, all electric and stainless steel. It has a dumbwaiter that runs up to a pantry on the first floor, and to your private pantry or kitchenette on the second floor. Ike put the second-floor pantry in-liked late snacks and raiding the refrigerator.” General Faber and Chief Gaynor threw half salutes at a plainclothes agent and a police guard seated at a table in the corridor, as both leaped to their feet and returned the greeting.

  “Here we are,” said Chief Gaynor. He swung off the red carpet, passed under an arch into a small vestibule. “Here is your private elevator, Mr. President. Takes you straight up to your second-floor apartment every day.” He pushed the button, and Dilman watched the floor lights on the wall indicator drop from 3 to 2M to 2 to 1M to 1 to G. The valet opened the elevator door and held it.

  “Gaynor and I will leave you here,” said General Faber. “I’m sure you’ll want to oversee what’s going on in privacy. If you need anything up there, Beecher and Miss Crail will be at your beck and call.”

  “I appreciate your help,” said Dilman.

  He ducked into the miniature elevator, as Beecher closed the double doors and pressed the button for the second floor. While the mobile closet climbed upward, Dilman inspected it. The elevator was carpeted in green. There were three mirrors on its three walls, and two mirrors on the double door before him. For the first time since shaving, hours ago, he could see himself. His kinky hair, despite the tonic, was as stiff as ever. His wide dark face was as Negroid as ever. The improbability of it all hit him with fresh impact. He was black and he was here.

  He emerged into another small vestibule, almost bumping into an umbrella holder. The valet had gone to the left, and Dilman followed him.

  “This is the second-floor West Hall,” said Beecher.

  The hall, too long and too wide to be called a corridor-to Dilman it resembled a gallery-appeared to run almost the width of the White House.

  “It goes from east to west,” said the valet, “and divides the second-floor apartments. Every important room opens into this hall. Down that way”-he pointed to the east section-“on the other side, the south side that looks down on the back lawn and Washington Monument, are the main rooms-the Executive study, although the Kennedys, Johnsons, and the late President used it for a living room, also. That is where the Truman Balcony is, sir. Next is the Treaty Room, and then the famous Lincoln Bedroom.”

  “What’s down at the end there?” Dilman asked.

  “The state bedrooms, Mr. President. The Rose Guest Room, the Lincoln Sitting Room, where there’s a fine television set, the Empire Guest Room, that’s the most of it, sir.”

  Dilman stood studying the enormous hall. There were bookcases against one wall, and along the opposite wall were grouped a settee and chairs, beneath early American prints of Indians. At the farthest part of the hall stood a desk, and then a Baldwin piano.

  Dilman gestured to his right. “What’s over there?”

  “A private suite, Mr. President. You can see, it opens into T. C.’s sitting room, and on either side are the bedrooms that were used by the President, First Lady, and their son. Also, the pantry is there. It all looks down on the Rose Garden. I’d be glad to show you around-”

  “Not yet, thanks,” said Dilman. “First, I’d like you to show me where my own things are being unpacked.”

  “Oh, in the Queen’s Bedroom-the Rose Guest Room, really-way down at the end of the hall. We figured it wouldn’t be in use immediately, and it was the best place to uncrate everything until you ’could sort it out and become acquainted enough to know where you wished your effects to be placed. I’ll take you there, Mr. President.”

  They marched briskly to the end of the hall, then through an entry, past a carpeted bathroom, a sitting room where the sofa and chairs were done in blue slipcovers, and into the Rose Guest Room. Dilman stepped aside as two Army privates carried out the last of the empty crates.

  In the bedroom, he found Crystal on her knees upon the white tufted rug, stacking his embarrassingly limited collection of law books, history books, encyclopedias, synthetic leather-bound sets of Booker T. Washington’s writings and Dickens’ novels, and all the garishly jacketed mystery stories he enjoyed. Diane Fuller, her back also to him, was sorting out his papers on a table draped in red velvet.

  Without disturbing them, he glanced around the room. It probably had been breathtakingly beautiful yesterday, he guessed, but this morning it was a mess. Except for the Revels handmade Belter chair, his cheap pieces of furniture, drab and scuffed, were eye-sores that littered the magnificent room, so gaily decorated in red and white. Heaps of his belongings, from humidors to ashtrays, from photograph albums to laminated plaques, stood like dozens of unattractive molehills. Piled across the canopied bed, across the rose patterned quilting, was a rag mountain of his clothes, on hangers, encased in plastic garment bags.

  “It’s not fit for any royal Queen visiting us today,” he muttered.

  “We’ll have it orderly in no time,” Beecher said quickly. “You know, many Queens have stayed in this room, one of the last being Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain. She left behind, as a gift, that mirror over the fireplace. The bed was said to have belonged to Andrew Jackson. The shield-back chair-”

  But Dilman was no longer listening. Crystal and Diane Fuller had turned around at the sound of voices, and now, grunting and heaving, Crystal was lifting her rotund bulk upright. “Thanks, Beecher,” Dilman said. “I think I’ll pitch in and help them here. I won’t need you right now.”

  The moment that the valet was gone, Dilman went directly to Crystal, taking hold of her thick arm, smiling down into her shining face. “Well, Crystal, how are you managing? It’s a little different from my beat-up five rooms on Van
Buren, isn’t it?”

  “Mr. President, I’ll sure take them beat-up five rooms any day. This ain’t no livin’ home. This is a museum, sure is. Why, I’d be ’fraid to go to the bathroom here!”

  Dilman chuckled. “You’ll get used to it, soon enough.” He was suddenly serious. “That is, if you want to. Crystal, I haven’t had a real chance to speak to you, or I would have asked you before. Will you stay on and help me?”

  Her shoulders went up and down, and her fat arms shook. “Doin’ what, Mr. Dilman-Mr. President? I’m willin’, but doin’ what with all that fancy help around?”

  “Taking care of me, that’s what you can do, Crystal, as you always have done. Those servants you see are for other people-visitors, dignitaries, guests. I need someone who knows how to make my breakfast, and keep starch out of my collars, and where to put my bedroom slippers. Let’s make believe nothing has changed, Crystal, except our address. We’ll continue on the same basis, only I’ll try to arrange a raise. What do you say?”

  “I say yes, and how, bless the Lord!” Crystal exclaimed. “Maybe I’ll wind up writin’ a famous book about you, what the President is really like, and I’ll get rich and famous, too, and-”