Advise and Consent (25 page)
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Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Contemporary Fiction
For several months after he entered the university he continued to write at regular intervals, but always without answer. Presently, at first in desperation but then in a more relaxed and pragmatic fashion, he turned to the easy sex of the town, and for a time that became the surest road back to sanity; he never regretted it or gave it a second thought, for he perceived instinctively that he needed it, indeed had to have it if he was to regain balance, and so went about it without compunction and without worry, violently though it flew in the face of his upbringing and earlier character. That was all in the past now and a grown man was being forged; he said good-by, a little late and without regrets, to the boy. “Seab does everything just a little larger than life,” somebody was to remark of him once, years later. Nothing proved it more than the practical, realistic, matter-of-fact, and virtually emotionless way in which he went about getting himself over the transition from adolescence to maturity.
At the end of the school year he returned home, and inevitably was asked to Roselands again by the colonel. For a wild moment all the agonies returned, but nothing of this showed on the surface and he accepted with outward pleasure. Aside from a convulsion of heart and mind so great that he thought he would faint on the steps when he first saw her, his meeting with Amy passed off without incident; and before the evening ended he realized that while he would love her forever, and that it would in all probability keep him from marrying anyone else, he had come back armored and invincible with the invincibility of pain suffered too long, too unjustly, and too deep. But he was not to realize until several years later, when she finally decided she loved him, just how invincible he had become; for though it was still true that he would love her—or his dream of her, perhaps—forever, he found that in a curiously remote and removed sort of way he no longer cared enough to upset his life and go through the agony of subjecting himself to her again.
After that, the little bitter game was played out over the years as neatly and inevitably as might have been expected. Shortly before he went away to law school she offered herself to him again, and this time he took her savagely enough to satisfy his own ego; and then he walked out and didn’t come back. There were appeals and apologizings and beseechings then, but they were on the other side and he did not respond; something was frozen away inside that never unthawed in the heat of their renewed association. Inevitably in time there came the spiteful marriage to someone she didn’t love; and then, after twenty childless years and a union that satisfied appearances but never fooled either her sister or him, her husband died and she returned to Roselands, still trying to revive the past. There followed the long series of visits to the plantation over the years, the long talks with Cornelia, who had never married but had remained at home to carry on shrewdly and successfully after her father’s death, with Amy always present but saying increasingly little. And in time, when another twenty years had passed so fast he hardly knew it, there came one night the frantic call from Cornelia about a heart attack, the hurried arrival, too late, at Roselands, and the burial in Barnwell beside the colonel and her mother; and then, three years later, the same sad journey for Cornelia, and then the tale was done. A long time ago, ma’am. Yes, ma’am, a very long, long time ago.
And now he was Seab the Irascible, Seab the Invincible, Seab the Holy Terror, the Scourge of the Senate; but not entirely—not entirely. Years after her death, one day in the Old Senate Office Building, he had seen far down the corridor a girl go swinging by, so much like her that before he knew it a strange animal sob welled up and broke from his lips. He looked around hastily, but the girl was far off, no one else was around, no one had heard him. After a moment he went on, smiling grimly to himself. What would they say, all his critics and enemies, if they could see an old man crying for his youth? They wouldn’t believe it, because none of them believed that he had ever been young. But he had—he had. That was his little secret, for whatever good it did him now.
It had affected his public life in ways he sensed but could never be sure he understood in full. There had been iron in his soul before; maybe Amy had refined it into steel. There had been a youthful determination to win a fair break from the world and make his own way on even terms with others; maybe Amy had turned it into a ruthlessness bordering on vindictiveness. There had been an ambition that never rested; maybe Amy had driven it to the heights. Maybe after all it wasn’t just Seab who had “run the government”; maybe Amy had helped to run it, too. At any rate, he recognized it for what it was, the major personal experience of his life, and because to a considerable degree it did furnish “the key to Seab,” it was something he never revealed to anyone. The lost years belonged to him, and he was not about to have them pawed over by strangers; to him and Amy and their golden world, so brief in time and so eternal in consequences.
It was perhaps no wonder, then, that he should have loomed large against the pageant of his times. The Wilsonian liberalism that never really died found itself muted and without much companionship in the
foredoomed twenties; revived again under Franklin Roosevelt, it inspired a consistently progressive voting record that was not enough to blot out the apparent rapacity for patronage, power, and steadily rising appropriations for his native state and its sisters of the South. The character was too vivid and colorful, the facile, shallow attack too easy; writing about Seab Cooley was one of those things that the Washington press corps reserved for a dull day when there wasn’t much news, because it was always easy to dream up something colorful about the Senator to fill up space.
Behind all this, in a mind that remained unfailingly alert and passionately dedicated to the country, he had watched with Bob Munson and Orrin and the other old hands while America rose higher and higher and then spiraled suddenly into tailspin with no one knowing the answer and no one sure of the future and no one certain that the tailspin would be ended and the course again made steady. Basically, although he had chosen to make a great public show of personal enmity for Bob Leffingwell, although it was true that he had never forgiven him for giving him the lie direct on that far-back day, his real dislike went to the fundamentals of what he conceived to be the sickness of the times. For he saw Bob Leffingwell, with all his graceful flirtings with this cause and that over the years, with all his clever skatings along the outskirts of the flabbily-principled and dangerously over-liberal fads of his era, as that perfect symbol of mid-twentieth-century America, the Equivocal Man. He could always find an excuse for being hospitable to this, he could always find a reason for not being too hostile to that; he seemed always, or so it appeared to Senator Cooley, to slide smoothly just between the sharp edges of clashing principles and there find a glib, soft, woozy area of gummy compromise and rationale that effectively blurred everything, enervated all issues, weakened firmness, and sapped resolve in a way that hamstrung his own country and made it easier for her enemies to move a few steps farther along the path they had set themselves. Seab was fully aware, Bob Munson might be interested to know, of all the implications of the Leffingwell nomination, and he knew full well the forces he hoped to mobilize behind his opposition to it. He had preferred for a little while to let the impression stand that he was fighting the nomination just as he had always fought it, as a matter of personal feud with the nominee; but his purposes went deeper than that. Bob Leffingwell, to Seab’s mind, was one of the most dangerous men in America, and he felt with all the angry passion of all his angry years, that he had never engaged upon any project more vital to his country than his campaign to keep him out of the office of Secretary of State.
At this thought, as he turned down the final wing of corridor and approached the floodlighted entrance to the Caucus Room, a sudden black scowl came over his face, and it was this that the television cameras and the press photographers caught with quick delight as he entered. It was one more proof that bolstered the legend, and he went on into the crowded, electric room without bothering to erase it with his customary slow smile and “How you all?” Let them send it out as it stood, if they liked; let them add to the legend of Seab the Terror. So much the better for the cause he was conducting now.
***
Chapter 3
“I say, Big Chief,” John Winthrop murmured, leaning toward Brigham Anderson at the committee table, “what says yon smoke signal appearing on the horizon?”
“Oh, God,” Senator Anderson said with a grin. “It looks as though he’s on the warpath already, doesn’t it?”
“He doesn’t look exactly cheerful,” Senator Winthrop agreed, but as it turned out these forebodings were entirely unwarranted, for once inside the door an amiable change came over the senior Senator from South Carolina. A quick glance around the room informed him that it was fully as crowded as it had been on Saturday, the same full complement of press and television, the same jam-packed audience filling the spectators’ seats and crowding along the walls and in the aisles; and his expression at once became bland. The blandness increased when his eye fell on the nominee, reading a
New York
Times
calmly in the little section of chairs in back of the witness stand while he waited for the hearing to begin. Senator Cooley gave a cheerful wave to his colleagues at the table, changed course abruptly, and was on Bob Leffingwell before he knew it, hand outstretched and a slow, appraising smile on his face. For just a second—long enough to lose a little of his grip on his customary poise—the director of the ODM looked startled. Then he too rose and held out his hand, while press and photographers swarmed in on them and the tension in the room suddenly shot up in a burst of excited murmurings from the audience.
“Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said with a fair attempt at cordiality while the flash bulbs popped and the cameras clicked and the crush of reporters crowded them closer together, “I’m delighted to see you.”
“Well, now,” Seab said softly, “that’s mighty nice, Mr. Director. It is indeed. But I want you to know your pleasure isn’t even close to mine. No, sir, it isn’t even close. In fact, if I
hadn’t
seen you here today, I would have been most e-gre-gious-ly disappointed, Mr. Director. Most egregiously.”
“Well,” Bob Leffingwell said rather lamely, “that’s good. Shall we shake hands again? The photographers seem to want us to.”
“I suspect,” Seab said in a confidential way, with a wink and a grin and just loud enough so the reporters could hear, “that they just want to see us shake hands because they think we don’t like each other. Do you suspect that’s it?”
“Oh, I’m sure that isn’t it,” the nominee said and hated himself for adding a nervous little laugh. “But I suppose we’d better do it, or they won’t be satisfied.”
“I expect so,” Senator Cooley said calmly, suiting the action to the word. “Is this what you all want?”
“That’s it, Senator!” somebody cried approvingly. “Mr. Leffingwell!” somebody else cried, “can you stand a little closer, please? In a little closer, Senator!” And when they obliged, with Seab looking perfectly calm but the nominee beginning to look a little strained, somebody else called out in a tone as close to mockery as he dared, “Thank
you
, Mr. Secretary!” And for just a moment—which was what they were hoping for—Seab in spite of himself looked annoyed at the use of the title, a blaze of flash bulbs exploded in their faces, there were further cries of “Thank you, Senator!” and, more firmly now, “Thank you, Mr. Secretary!” and the picture-taking was over. The reporters were still hovering close, however, as Bob Leffingwell started to sit down, and the Senator decided to give them a little more for their money.
“I want to ask you about your virus, Mr. Director,” he said, leaning over the nominee and placing a knotted brown hand on his shoulder. “I hope it’s cleared up, I surely do.”
“All gone, thank you, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said smiling up at him and looking a little more relaxed. “It went over the weekend and I’m feeling good as new now.”
“That’s good,” Senator Cooley said softly. “That’s good, Mr. Director. Because I suspect—I just suspect now”—and a slow grin crossed his face and he looked at the listening reporters with a sly twinkle in his eye—“I just suspect that before these hearings are over you may just need your strength. Yes, sir, I just suspect you may.”
“I’m ready for it, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said, retaining his smile but speaking just a little more loudly than he intended; and Seab gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze before he let it go and started his slow progress toward the committee table.
“I hope so, Mr. Director,” he said comfortably. “I hope so. Because I’m feeling mighty fine, I want you to know, Mr. Director. Yes, sir, I haven’t felt better since—well, since the last time you and I were together at one of these little gatherings we both enjoy so much.”
“I’ll do my best, Senator,” the nominee called after him in a suddenly firm tone, and Seab looked back with no further word but only a smile composed about equally of amusement and pity. Then one of the reporters offered the director of the Office of Defense Mobilization a cigarette, and he took it with outward composure but a revealing alacrity as he settled back with his newspaper again while Seab moved on to the committee table and the reporters scattered to their places.
“Round one to Seab, I gather,” John Winthrop murmured.
“Apparently,” Brigham Anderson said. “This is not going to be a pleasant experience for any of us, I can see that.”
“Did you think it would be?” Senator Winthrop asked, and Senator Anderson smiled rather grimly.
“I had hoped we’d preserve the amenities,” he said.
“Oh, we’ll preserve the amenities, all right,” Senator Winthrop said, “but the blood and guts are going to be running all over the place.”
“If I can help it,” Brigham Anderson said firmly, “there’ll be as little of that as possible.”
“Are you going to challenge Seab?” Senator Winthrop asked quizzically, and Senator Anderson gave him a direct look.
“I’m the chairman of this subcommittee,” he said flatly. “You don’t think I won’t if I have to, do you?”
“I expect you will, Brig,” John Winthrop said comfortably. “I just wanted to see if the starch was in you this morning. I didn’t really think it wasn’t.”
“It’s there,” Senator Anderson said shortly. “Never worry about that
....
Well, Seab, did you get him sufficiently terrorized to start off with?”
“Why, now, Senator,” Senator Cooley said blandly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I truly don’t. Can’t I exchange time of day with an old friend? Pretty pass if I can’t, Mr. Chairman, I must say. Where do you want me to sit?”
“Sit right here by me, if you like,” Brigham Anderson offered, but Seab rejected the suggestion with a little wave of the hand.
“That’s Mr. Knox’s seat,” he observed with a twinkle, “and he might not like it. You know Orrin. Mighty touchy man, Orrin. No, I’ll just find myself a place somewhere down the table, thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” Brig said. “Glad to have you.”
“Yes, I know, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Cooley said with the same little twinkle. “I surely do know how glad.”
And after looking thoughtfully up and down the table he moved slowly on to take a seat far down at one end where he was separated from his colleagues in an isolated eminence that immediately seemed somehow ominous and forbidding. There he settled himself slowly into his chair and stared out at the audience with a deliberate lack of expression.
“Hmm,” Brigham Anderson said. “Psychological warfare.”
“All the tricks,” Winthrop of Massachusetts said with a smile. “We’re going to see them all before this is over.”
“Here come my other little problems,” Senator Anderson said, “so maybe we can begin.”
At the door Senator DeWilton and Senator Richardson came in together, the senior Senator from Vermont looking, as always, faintly disgruntled, and Arly, as always, sardonic and rather spiteful. Brigham Anderson gave them a cordial wave and, noting that Orrin Knox was coming in just behind them with his usual briefcase full of papers, hunched his chair forward a little, and picked up the gavel. All three, however, went out of their way to detour by Bob Leffingwell and shake hands, while the photographers duly recorded their handclasps and the reporters faithfully jotted down their words in newsmen’s shorthand in the hope they might be as colorful as Seab’s. They weren’t. (DeW: Mr. Leff., har y? Kn: Bob, gld see y, hope yr flg btr. Rich.: Gd mg, Bob. Sgoing be long, tough summer. Leff. to each: Gd mg, Sar, sgood see y.) This rite performed, his colleagues came along to the committee table and Brigham Anderson hunched his chair forward just a little further, placed a hand around the microphone in front of him, and lifted the gavel. The room quieted down, the television lights went on, the press got ready; he rapped sharply for order and began.
“This subcommittee of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee,” he said, “is meeting on authority of the full committee to hear such witnesses and take such evidence on the nomination of Robert A. Leffingwell to be Secretary of State as may be necessary to assist the Senate in appraising this appointment. There is, first, a procedural matter to be decided, and since we meet under terms of the resolution of the senior Senator from Arkansas, adopted last Saturday, which requires that all our proceedings must be held in public, we are foreclosed from settling it in customary fashion in closed session prior to the public hearings. We will have to decide the order of witnesses, and the Chair is ready to welcome any discussion along this line that may suit members.”
“God damn,” whispered AP at the press table, “that’s the way to speed things along.”
“Quiet,” UPI retorted, “give the boy a chance. He’s got four prima donnas on his hands, and that ain’t hay.”
“He’ll make it,” the
Times
predicted. “Wait and see.”
Bob Munson knew when the phone rang who it would be, and when Mary buzzed and he picked up title receiver in his inner office he was not disappointed. This morning, he noted, the President’s voice sounded as confident as ever, but there was a slight, an almost indefinable tiredness running through it. This alarmed him and it must have shown in his own voice, for as soon as he finished saying hello the President asked sharply, “What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m feeling fine,” Senator Munson said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” the President said heartily, and then the Senator sensed him remembering that he had admitted differently a couple of days ago. “I’m feeling all right,” he amended. “I just thought I’d call and find out how things are moving up there. How’s the hearing going?”
“I haven’t been in yet,” Bob Munson said. “I’m going over pretty soon.”
“Seab pulled a fast one Saturday, didn’t he?” the President asked, not without a trace of the admiration of one political craftsman for another. “Had you all on the ropes, eh?”
“It wasn’t quite that bad. But he got his way.”
“How much longer is he going to?” the President asked.
“I expect most of the week,” the Majority Leader said calmly. “Brace yourself. There’s probably going to be bad news until this hearing is finished, I imagine; it’s tailor-made for his talents.”
“How does Brig feel about it?”
“He wasn’t too happy about taking the chairmanship, but Orrin and I bowled him over with fulsome compliments and he reluctantly consented. He’ll be fair about it, and he’s the only man I know who can stand up to Seab if things really get rough.”
“Can’t Orrin?” the President asked.
“Orrin can,” the Majority Leader agreed, “but on this one we’ll let Orrin make up his own mind without being shoved, I think. It will be better that way.”
“How do he and Brig feel about Bob Leffingwell?”
“Not so hot,” Senator Munson said, “but willing to be convinced. I doubt if they’ll really get in the way when all’s said and done. After all it is a Cabinet job, and they’re pretty loyal to you, on the whole.”
“Even Orrin, who thinks he ought to be sitting where I’m sitting?” the President inquired with a certain dryness in his tone.
“Even Orrin,” Bob Munson said firmly. “They’re fair-minded men, both of them, and unless somebody comes up with something pretty dreadful, they’ll go along.”
“Well, that’s good,” the President said. “Do you want anybody else from down here to come up and testify?”
“I think not,” the Majority Leader said. “I think the sooner we can wind it up the better; and that means the fewer witnesses the better. Witnesses just mean more time, and the longer it goes the more chance there is for somebody to throw a monkey wrench into it. I’d say everybody stay home down in your department and we’ll worry along up here as best we can.”
“That was my thought too,” the President said. “What about helping you line up votes? Is there anything I can do down here, or anybody I can call who can call somebody else and put on the heat?”
“Not yet. We’ll get to that, but let’s just see how the hearing goes, for the moment. It may be it will be so smooth that nobody will need much pressure. Not that I really think so, you understand, but it’s nice to dream.”
The President laughed. “I’m glad your sense of humor is keeping up, anyway. Mine got a little out of joint over the weekend when I saw what Fred Van Ackerman had to say in New York. This mood in the country has me worried, Bob; too many people are getting ripe for another piecemeal surrender if it can just be tied up with pretty pink ribbons so it won’t look like a surrender. And that two-bit little bastard knows it. I think he’s dangerous.”
“I know,” Bob Munson said with a sigh. “People don’t understand a war unless there’s a gun going off someplace; they still don’t see the other kind that doesn’t make any noise but just goes on eating and eating the guts and the heart out of you until you collapse.”
“That’s it,” the President agreed. “I wonder if I should go on the air again?”
“What would be the excuse? There’s got to be one, or it looks forced and that takes away half the impact.”
“Yes,” the President said. “Well. I shall wait and I shall see, and maybe the opportunity will come soon. If it doesn’t, I’ll make my own opportunity, because it’s got to be done. Too many people are beginning to listen to Fred and his likes.”
“Of course you know he may be one of your strongest supporters on this nomination,” Senator Munson said, and the President gave a snort of surprise.