“Over my dead body,” Edwards growled. “We’re not catering to the whims of some fruitcake.”
Norman Greenbaum turned to Edwards, said soft and strong, “Nobody said anything about making this reality, Phil. Just calm down and think a minute. Do you really think I’d let somebody like this dictate national policy?”
Secretary Edwards grinned. “I get it. Yeah, it’s great. Go ahead, Norm, promise this goof the moon. You got my full approval.”
“I want more than your approval,” Greenbaum told him. “I want a counterproposal we can present to the President, and the President can take to the people. Something to placate this outcry from the religious segment.”
“No problem,” Edwards said. “When do you need it?”
“Yesterday,” Greenbaum replied. “Immediately.”
“Give me two days,” Edwards said. “This’ll take some work.”
“Forty-eight hours, not a second more,” Greenbaum said, and turned to Silverwood. “Who do you think should pitch this thing to Case, me or you?”
“Neither,” Silverwood replied. “If you want it to work, get him in with the President.”
Chapter Eighteen
John Nakamishi walked with him as far as the main doors leading from the OEOB to the West Wing. TJ stopped there, feeling very old and very afraid.
“Whatever happens,” Nak said quietly, “I just want you to know that I am absolutely certain you’ve done the right thing.”
TJ looked back at him, thankful yet again that the Lord had brought them together. “If I’m … if I leave, do you think it will affect your career?”
“Probably,” he said in his quiet bland voice. “I chose to join you, so I’ll be suspect in their eyes. It doesn’t matter, though. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“Nor I,” TJ agreed, and stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Nak.”
John Nakamishi shook his hand, smiled briefly, said, “I know what Mr. Hughes would tell you right now.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t be too hard on the boys. They’re lost in the darkness and can’t help themselves.”
TJ smiled back, wondered what on earth he would have done without these friends, patted Nak on the shoulder, turned, and hurried through the cold misty morning toward the White House.
The message from Norman Greenbaum had been waiting on TJ’s desk when he arrived in his office on Thursday, still high from the morning’s prayer session. The President’s wife had been there again, along with no less than three Cabinet members, seven congressmen, and four senators. Senator Atterly was among them; the senator had not missed a session since coming upon TJ and Silverwood at lunch, and often as not arrived with several high-ranking friends in tow.
TJ had entered his office, read the slip, and felt the jubilation from the prayer session drain away. The President’s Chief of Staff wanted to see him the instant he arrived. So little had been completed, and so much was left to do. It seemed as if he hadn’t even had time to really get started.
TJ left, passed under the canopy and the silver Presidential seal and entered the West Wing. He stopped in front of the guard’s desk, gave his name, showed his temporary pass—the FBI clearance was still not complete, so he did not have his permanent one and could not enter the West Wing unattended. The guard ticked his name off the day sheet, asked him to pass through the metal detector, and had him sit in an uncomfortable chair stationed farther down the narrow hall.
To his surprise it was not the man’s secretary but Norman Greenbaum himself who came down to greet him. “Mr. Case?”
TJ rose quickly to his feet. “Yes, sir.”
“Norman Greenbaum,” he said, all smiles and outstretched hand. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s very kind of you to come down for me,” TJ said, not wanting it to go unnoticed.
“No problem. Wanted to show you something before we got started. C’mon.” He turned and led him down the hall a few paces, paused, pointed out a set of stairs leading off and down to the right. “Ever had the chance to dine in the President’s Mess?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“We’ll have to do something about that,” he said airily. “Real nice experience. Navy runs it, all the personnel are in uniform, very cozy atmosphere. They serve something called a John Marshall pie for dessert. Whipped cream, meringue, and chocolate.” Greenbaum patted his prominent bulge, said, “Eat too many of ’em myself.”
He led TJ past rows of pictures representing the President in various military settings—on the deck of an aircraft carrier, silhouetted at sunset with a row of fighter jets behind him, inspecting troops, a close-up of him in military jacket and visored cap with the Presidential seal. They walked up the stairs, down a short hallway, and entered a very elegant little sitting room.
“This used to be where people’d sit and wait to see the President. Press used it for a while too, oh, back fifty years or so ago. Couldn’t fit them all in now even if we stuffed them in sideways. The President’ll have photo sessions with visiting dignitaries here, or his senior staff can hold meetings here if they’re looking for a more intimate atmosphere.”
Greenbaum made a sweeping gesture that took in several oil paintings and a couple of glass-fronted cabinets holding ceramic figures and historical artifacts. “If you’re interested you ought to come through here on a tour one evening when the President’s not in. All kinds of interesting stuff.”
They passed through another door, down another short hallway, then Greenbaum pushed open a soundproofed panel and ushered TJ in ahead of him.
“This is the press pool,” Norman Greenbaum said, no longer smiling. “They called it that because the floor’s laid over Franklin Roosevelt’s old swimming pool. He had it built because the doctors told him a swim every day would help keep his body from deteriorating. You know, he was confined to a wheelchair by polio.”
TJ nodded that he knew, and looked around the cramped little room. From the way it looked on television, he would have thought it to be much bigger. There were perhaps twenty rows of folding seats, maybe a dozen seats per row and very little leg room between them. Lights suspended from the low ceiling all pointed toward the narrow stage with its blue-curtained backdrop. The podium was dressed with the Presidential seal. The back of the room was slightly elevated and contained a forest of tripods and lights and television cameras. Boom mikes were stacked like mechanical logs in one corner.
“This is where it all happens,” Norman Greenbaum said quietly. “Or at least, where it should happen.”
He turned to face TJ directly, went on, “Our primary responsibility as White House staff is to help the President. The first way we do that is by making the President look good, especially where the media is concerned. Rightly or wrongly, the people of this nation believe what the press tell them. We have to be extremely careful that the media receives only the information that we want them to receive, and only the information that has been carefully screened. We have to be absolutely certain that it will portray this administration in the best possible light.” He paused, his eyes boring holes in TJ. “Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear,” TJ replied quietly.
“The only way this is possible is by having one, and only one, conduit of information to the press. This is why leaks are absolutely not permitted by this administration. The President has a very strict policy with regard to leaks. Has anyone bothered to tell you what that is?”
TJ shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“No, that’s right. You haven’t been with us very long, have you? Let’s see, now, how long is it that you’ve been here in Washington?”
“Four weeks,” TJ said quietly, wishing the man would just get it over with and stop the patronizing lectures, stop shaming him like this.
“Yes, that’s right. Four weeks.” Norman Greenbaum shook his head. “Four weeks in Washington and you’re already expert enough to go in front of national television a
nd make a major policy statement.”
There was nothing TJ could say to make the man understand, so he clenched his jaw muscles tight and said nothing at all.
“Where were we? Oh yes, leaks. Well, the President gave us very strict orders regarding leaks on his first day in office. Anyone who spoke to the press without explicit authorization was to get the boot. No matter who it was, or how important the work they were doing. Out they go.”
What bothered TJ the most was that he felt totally alone. There was no answering comfort from the Spirit, no solace, no assuring Presence. Nothing. He felt empty, alone, threatened. He prayed for guidance, heard nothing in reply.
Changing gears again, Norman Greenbaum slapped a cheery hand on TJ’s shoulder, said, “C’m on, let’s go back up to my office and have a chat.”
They entered Greenbaum’s cramped quarters via the Cabinet Room. The office was shaped somewhat like a wedge of pie with the first bite taken out of the narrow end. Much of the space was taken up by a cluttered desk too large for the room. The walls were covered with framed prints of famous people and numerous diplomas bearing Greenbaum’s name. The outer wall had glass louvered doors opening out onto a small patio and neat lawn. Two seats sat facing the desk, one of them occupied by Congressman John Silverwood.
He looked up from the pad where he was making rapid notes as TJ and Greenbaum entered, did not rise, did not offer TJ a greeting. His handsome features remained set in very stern lines.
“You two know each other, I believe,” Greenbaum said, going over behind his desk and sitting down.
“I’ve been wondering about that a lot these past couple of days,” Silverwood said, his eyes still on TJ. “What did you think you were doing?”
“Let’s keep this friendly, shall we?” Greenbaum waved at the empty chair, said, “Have a seat, Mr. Case.”
But Silverwood was not finished. “If you want to commit political suicide, that’s your choice. But it’s a sad state when you repay friends by trying to take them down with you.”
“That’s enough, I said,” Greenbaum’s voice remained mild. He pointed to a narrow door set flush in the wall behind his desk, asked TJ, “Know where that leads?”
TJ shook his head, not wanting to speak.
“The Oval Office. The President sits right behind that door. Yes, sir, the most powerful individual in the world, bearing responsibility for the most powerful nation on earth. And I’m his man.
“I gave up an office ten times the size of this one, heck, my secretary’s office was bigger than this. As a matter of fact, this very office used to house the President’s personal secretary. I obtained permission to move in here, so I could be right at the President’s side just as soon as he needed me. I took an eighty percent cut in pay and came down to Washington just so I could sit here and answer to President Nichols. What that man says is solid gold in my book. And he has told me that we are to discuss making an arrangement with you. He did not ask my opinion, so I didn’t give it. If it were up to me, I’d have you out on the street so fast your trousers would still be searching for your legs. I personally have no time whatsoever for a man who doesn’t respond to his nation’s call of duty with one hundred percent loyalty to his President. But that’s not what my President has instructed me to do. And like I said, Mr. Case, what President Nichols says, goes.”
TJ could scarcely believe his ears. Were they going to keep him on? Was this why there had been no answering comfort to his desperate prayer, that it simply wasn’t needed? Then why did he still feel so empty?
“Too much dust has been raised over these wild statements of yours, Mr. Case. There are a lot of people out there who feel like you’ve touched a very deep nerve when you started talking about their children’s education. We need you to stand up for the President and his own agenda, and in return we’re going to invite you to stay around and develop an educational policy for gifted children.”
TJ felt his hope depart like air from a deflating balloon. Not that, please, he prayed. Don’t tempt me with that.
“Now why don’t you take a couple of minutes and just describe for us what it is you want to get done here.”
TJ took a deep breath, struggled to gather his frantic thoughts, hoped against hope that he might be able to leave behind at least a shadow of his policy, his dreams, his life’s work.
“There are two basic patterns of thought about gifted children,” TJ began, repeating words he had said a thousand times before. “One states that every child is gifted in one way or another. This school of thought generally maintains that it is better to keep all children together in a sort of melting-pot approach to education. The more intelligent children stimulate the slower children to learn faster. The slower children are not ostracized by being placed in visibly slower-paced classes. Teachers are not placed in the situation of lowering their expectations for a group simply because they carry the label of slow learners.
“I disagree with this, and I feel that the most recent data supports my opinion. Our uNIVersity system is not based upon the concept of treating all students the same, and I feel that latitude should be built into the grade school system as well, especially after the age of puberty. We are holding back the learning potential of our brightest children because of the unproven belief that slow learners will suffer if special classes or special schools are pulled ahead. We are punishing some of our young people for being intelligent, or for wanting to learn, or for having a deep interest in a subject that other children their age are not yet ready to tackle.”
Norman Greenbaum made a couple of notes on the pad in front of him, said, “So what you’re proposing is a nationwide system of special classes for gifted children.”
“Classes and in some cases schools,” TJ replied. “With a series of checks and balances designed to maintain an even spread across the range of race and income level. And with the opportunity given every year, through a series of national examinations, for new students to join in.”
Greenbaum showed no reaction save for a brief nod of his head and another series of scribbled notes. “How long do you think it would take to put together a position paper?”
TJ hesitated, said, “No more than a couple of hours. Most of the information is already gathered, and written down in one form or another.”
“Can you let me have it before three o’clock?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” Norman Greenbaum set down his pen, stood, brought the others to their feet with his eyes. “The President wants to speak to you at the earliest possible moment, I would say either late this afternoon or sometime tomorrow. Let me have your paper as quickly as you can, so that I can brief him in advance.” He nodded once. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Outside in the hallway TJ turned to Silverwood, said, “John, I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“Don’t press your luck,” Silverwood cut in, his voice hard as stone. “There’s nothing I’d like more right now than to punch your lights out.”
Silverwood turned away, said over his shoulder, “I don’t care what arrangement you work out with Greenbaum. You’re poison, TJ. If I never see your face again it’ll be too soon.”
TJ entered his office still sick at heart from the exchange with Silverwood. Quietly he instructed Nak to pull out the related files and have the papers retyped in concentrated form. The paper Greenbaum wanted was essentially complete, and had been since before TJ arrived. It was the same concept he had been working on for more than five years. Five years. A long time to carry a dream. TJ felt deeply for those children, wished there was something concrete he could do for them, ached at the very clear choice that had been placed before him. He tried not to think about the meeting with the President. Whenever it trickled into his conscious mind the fear ran through him like an electric shock.
TJ went into his office and closed the door. He stood in the middle of the floor, made a silent plea for guidance. A thought struck him, as though it had been waiting for him to
ask. TJ reached for his coat, walked out, told his secretary he would be back in a couple of hours. He hoped he could find this place in Adams-Morgan where Catherine was working without too much trouble.
****
“They won’t let me work with nobody but the little ones,” Catherine said, as she led him down the musty-smelling hall and into the ratty kitchen. Tape held the cracked windowpanes in place, the linoleum was so scarred and pitted that the floorboards showed through, and all the appliances were rust-covered. But the place was spotlessly clean, and there was not a speck of dust anywhere.
“I’m really sorry to take you away from your work, honey,” TJ told her.
“Shoot, these old bones could do with a rest. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“That’s probably best. Last time I tried to light that stove I thought I was gonna set the house on fire. How ‘bout some juice? I believe we’ve got some apple juice left. I swear, those children must drink a gallon a day.”
“Yes, all right, some juice would be fine.”
“Here, take that chair with the busted arm and set it by the window. That’s probably the strongest one in here.” She pulled the squeaky refrigerator door open with a hard yank. “Like I said, they won’t let me work with the teenagers, though Lord knows they’s just as much in need as the little ones. The thing is, they’re not as trusting of strangers as the young ones are, so they won’t let anybody work with them who can’t give them a promise of staying at least three years.”
“You look very happy, though,” TJ said quietly. And she did. Her hair was pulled back and pinned tight to either side of her head, which accented her broad features and strong high cheekbones. She looked tired, and her shoulders seemed to be drooping a little as she poured his juice into what looked like a former jelly jar. But her face was alight and her eyes were sparkling. “Your expression reminds me of when our daughter was still a baby,” he remarked.
That made her laugh. “Lord, have mercy, I’m way past that time.”
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