Promise of Joy (33 page)

“If it is swift,” William Abbott said moodily. “If it is decisive. If it is clean, if it is final … none of which is certain on the dusty plains of Gorotoland or in the jungles of Panama.”

There was a silence and into it Cullee Hamilton spoke finally in a hesitant yet determined tone.

“There is one other way, Mr. President. It goes against your grain, it goes against mine and, I suspect, against that of all of us here. And I hate to give any credit to that jackass Jawbone for suggesting it: nonetheless, he did. And that’s to stay in place. Simply to send in enough to stabilize the battlelines, regain as much as possible where we’ve been pushed back, which can probably be done with a third of the effort you’re contemplating—and then sit tight. Go back to the UN. Continue the diplomacy. Fight the propaganda war. Hold where we are—and wait for some break to come. It could perhaps be done that way. It’s a possibility.…”

“But not, I think,” the President said, “a very good one. We had stalemate when Bill was in the White House, and what happened? We tried diplomacy, we tried deals, we tried secret negotiations, we held where we were—and the minute they thought we were off balance, they struck. And they’ll strike again, whenever they think they have the chance. They don’t give up.… No,” he said, and his tone again became firm, so that they felt a near hopelessness as they listened, though basically they sympathized. “I don’t want stalemate, because I think that only means a delayed victory for them later. Rightly or wrongly—history will have to decide—I lived that day at the Monument Grounds and Ted Jason died. If it had been the other way around, he would be sitting here now, and no doubt you’d have stalemate, delay, maybe even appeasement and surrender—we’ll never know. But
I
lived and
I
was elected, and even though many had misgivings about me, the majority elected me knowing that I have always advocated a firm policy, a direct policy—a ‘tough’ policy, if you like. So for better or worse, that’s what we’ve got. That’s my nature and my philosophic belief and my personal conviction—and so that is how I am acting, not as Ted Jason would, because I am not Ted Jason, but as Orrin Knox, because I am Orrin Knox.”

He looked at their tense and worried faces. Old friendship, understanding, sympathy, affection, softened his face and his voice as he concluded.

“I know this is not easy for any of you. I know you are afraid—as, let’s face it, I am afraid. If any of you wants to walk out of here and repudiate me, I shall certainly understand and I shall certainly not hold it against you—you know me well enough to believe that, I hope. But being what I am, I cannot do other than I am. I should like to have you with me, and I appreciate, more than words can adequately express, your affection and concern, which I reciprocate. But I must do it my way, for that is the way in which I believe.

“The consequences to my country, the consequences to”—for a second his voice trembled, then grew strong again—“to my family, the consequences to me, may be incalculable. But
I believe
there is a place for right and justice in the world and
I believe
it has come to me, in my turn, to try to save them. I know history is full of men who believed they were doing this, only to find that history did not agree with them, and it turned out eventually that all-unknowing they were doing something entirely different. But I can only remain firm, and try. Because that is my being—that is what I am.”

When he concluded there was another silence, very long and very solemn this time; and only after several minutes had passed did William Abbott, looking tired and old but still indomitable, stand up, put on his coat, his topcoat and his hat.

“Orrin,” he said, holding out his hand. “I don’t know where we will all be in three or four days. But I suspect I’ll be standing with you, wherever it is.”

“And I,” Cullee said, shaking hands, too. “And I,” said Bob Munson and Warren Strickland, and Robert A. Leffingwell and Blair Hannah.

And so with great emotion the moment ended and they went forth from the White House into the ghostly night, to be driven home through ghostly streets to their respective abodes.

As often happened, because the Sheraton Park was on the way to “Vagaries,” the ex-President rode with the ex-Majority Leader.

As he dropped Bill Abbott off at the hotel shortly before 3 a.m., Bob Munson broke their hitherto silent ride to say with a heavy sigh:

“Well, many of us have always believed his way was the right way. We just never quite thought anybody would ever have the chance to really prove it out. Now he’s got it, and he’s doing it, and he isn’t letting anything deflect him.”

“And,” Bill Abbott said, “I think we had better all pray like hell, for him, and for the country, and for everybody, everywhere.”

If the President had entertained any naïve hopes that the events of the night would remain private, or that they would be fairly stated if they did not remain private, those hopes were exploded at noon in the world’s headlines:

Tashikov in Peking, reveals secret Washington meeting with President. Soviet leader says Knox adamant in pushing new offensives in war zones. He and Chinese warn President “must bear full responsibility for all consequences which will automatically flow from any new U.S. aggressions.” Promise “severest possible retaliation upon u.s. if war-mad policies continue.”

White House refuses comment.

Civil defense units take stations throughout country.

Atomic giants appear headed for direct clash.

And three hours later, in a corollary perhaps inevitable, given the nature of the world in the declining years of a sick and sorry century:

Son’s finger with wedding ring sent to President in special-delivery package. Captors issue statement to all media: “Rep. Knox and his wife will die at 8 a.m. tomorrow unless U.S. war plans are halted immediately. The President must appear on television and confirm this to the world, otherwise he will see his children again, but not alive.”

White House refuses comment.

Somehow he got through the afternoon, checked plans with the Pentagon, managed to maintain an iron control in the sight of the staff, managed to be the President, apparently undaunted and undismayed. At one point he did retire for a brief “nap,” during which he broke down completely—let the tears and agony come for the better part of fifteen minutes—then told himself that he had chosen his course, he must follow it to the end and must be brave—brave … and so presently reappeared and went back to work, eyes red-rimmed, face drawn and white but adamantine again as he went about the final details of preparation. You could not deal with such people. Recent years had proved that you simply
could not,
or not only two lives, but all, could be lost.

At various points his predecessor, Cullee, Stanley, the Munsons, Warren Strickland, the Maudulaynes, the Barres and Krishna Khaleel all called to express awkward but desperately earnest sympathy; tinged, inevitably, with an overtone of fear as to what was going to happen. He thanked them all gravely, reiterated his confidence that all would be well, gave no sign of yielding. Saddened and as desperately unhappy as he at the abysses, personal, national and international, which seemed to be opening beneath their feet, they too went back to their accustomed routines, achingly precious now that all routines appeared on the verge of dissolution. Somehow the day, the world, life, the universe, inched forward, slowly, slowly, under the dreadful burden of what appeared to be about to happen.

At 9 p.m., one hour from the time when he was to call the Pentagon with the final code word to launch the attack, the appointments secretary announced that an unexpected visitor wanted to see him. Any other time he might have refused, but now there was nothing left to do but await the hour and try not to think any more about anything, if he could help it. His visitor, of whom he had always been very fond during their days together in the Senate and at the UN, might provide welcome diversion.

“Show him in,” he said, and after a moment the appointments secretary did so, saying, “Senator Smith,” in a quick, almost embarrassed way and then withdrawing hastily as Lafe came forward hesitantly toward the desk.

“Lafe,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Orrin—” Lafe said, “Mr. President—” He shook hands, hard. “I am so sorry.”

“Sit down,” the President said. “Don’t be sorry. There’s so much to be sorry for that it’s beyond—don’t be sorry. I am grateful to you for coming. I need company, right now. None better for me, I suspect. What’s on your mind?”

“The continuity of life,” Lafe said, quite unexpectedly for a practical mind not often given to philosophizing. “Two things have happened to me today and I thought you might like to hear about them. Not that they are very important in view of—of what you’re facing—”

“Of what we’re all facing,” he said gravely, and Lafe nodded unhappily.

“Right … But, anyway, they mean something to me, and I thought maybe they might mean something to you, and that maybe—maybe you’d be a little heartened by them. So,” he added somewhat lamely, “I thought I’d just come by and tell you. No other reason. I just thought I’d come by and tell you because I thought—maybe—right now—you’d like to hear something good—unimportant, I suppose—but good.…”

“I would be delighted,” he said with a momentary return of the old ruefully humorous Orrin, “to hear something good, however unimportant.” Quite abruptly, quite beyond his control, his eyes filled with tears. Lafe’s responded, and for several moments they both stared hard out the window at the frozen night and said no more.

“Well,” Lafe said finally, his voice trembling a little but managing to stay reasonably steady, “the first is that I asked Mabel to marry me this morning and she said yes.”

“How wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Lafe, I am so pleased for you both. That
is
good news, indeed.”

“I thought it was nice,” Lafe said carefully, “particularly since she’s been so bitter about politics since Brig died, and so determined to stay in Utah and not venture out.”

“Why should she now?” he asked, mood abruptly changing, with a detached and almost ironic curiosity that, even in this moment, was also typical Orrin. “Are things any better?”

“No,” Lafe said with no attempt at dissembling. “But I think she finally decided that it was best to be together with someone you love if—if things are really going to come to the final showdown.”

“I would like to be able to do that too,” he said with a sudden terrible bleakness, “because I think perhaps they are. But at the moment, those I love are not—not here.”

“I know,” Lafe said in a tone as desolate as his. “Is there any way you can—any way—”

“No,” he said in the same far-off, abandoned-by-the-fates voice. “There can be no weakening by the United States in this situation or, I am convinced, the United States will go under. This means there can be no weakening by the President of the United States. So I am caught.” And suddenly, pounding his fists on the arms of his chair with a furious futility that shattered his companion completely for a moment, he cried,
“Caught, caught, caught!”—
and covered his face with his hands, eyes closed, rubbing his forehead slowly, pressing hard as if to drive out the demons that resided there.

For several minutes, while Lafe watched with a fearful absorption, he said no more. Then finally he looked up and in a voice that by some miracle managed to be relatively steady again, asked:

“And what is the other good thing?”

“Well, you know Jimmy Fry,” Lafe began with care, because this was perhaps his most emotional subject, perhaps even more than Mabel, particularly since they were sharing it together.

“Yes,” the President said. “I know Jimmy. Have you—?”

“Orrin, we’ve broken through!” Lafe cried exultantly. “We’ve broken through! He spoke to us! He
said
something! We’re getting through at last, Orrin! We’re getting through!”

And this time it was his eyes that unexpectedly filled with tears, the President’s that responded.

“I’m delighted,” Orrin said gravely. “I am so glad for you and Mabel, Lafe. Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Lafe said, blowing his nose vigorously and plunging gratefully into his narrative, “it happened this morning after Mabel agreed to marry me. I have that new setup for us all on Foxhall Road, you know, and I brought Jimmy down to it from the sanitarium on the Hudson several days ago. He seemed to stand the trip very well, and to accept the new surroundings very well—not that we really knew, because, as you know, it has never been possible to communicate. But this morning, after Mabel said yes, we decided we’d take Pidge and go and tell him.”

“How is Pidge?” the President asked, with a brief but affectionate smile for Mabel and Brig’s lively six-year-old.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Lafe said, proud and fondly parental. “Bright as a button and getting brighter every day. And fascinated by her new big brother, which I expect is why it happened.”

“He spoke to her, then,” Orrin said.

“Nope,” Lafe said firmly, “he spoke to
all
of us.”

“All right,” the President said, again with a fleeting smile. “Go on.”

“We went into his room and he was sitting by the window staring out at the trees—that heartbreaking blank look that his father and Cullee and I have seen so many times up at Oak Lawn. So Mabel and I went over toward him and suddenly Pidge went into a little dance and began to sing, ‘Mommie’s marrying Uncle Lafe! Mommie’s marrying Uncle Lafe!’ And then when he didn’t respond, she went up to him and pulled at his arm and said, ‘Hey, Jimmy! I said Mommie’s marrying Uncle Lafe! Aren’t you happy?’ And, Orrin”—his tone became hushed—“do you know what he did then? First of all, he actually turned his head toward us, which he’s hardly ever done before. And then he said—
he said,
Orrin—in a sort of croak, like a robot, almost, but quite distinctly—‘That’s nice. Are we happy?’ And Pidge crowed, ‘Yes, we
are
happy!’ And he said, again in that mechanical sort of way, but making sense, ‘Yes, we are happy.’

“Then”—Lafe smiled a little—“Mabel cried and Pidge cried and I cried—and Jimmy just sat there and never said another word, and hasn’t since. But he did it, Orrin—Mr. President—
he did it.
And if he’s finally done it, then he can do it again. I’ve been on the phone to doctors all day, it seems like, and they seem to think that now we’ve finally broken through, we can go on from there if he has love and care and patience. And God knows he’s going to have them. So,” he concluded, and again for a moment before the realities of the hour closed in on them again he sounded excited and happy, “that’s my second piece of good news. A pretty good budget for one day, don’t you think?”