Advise and Consent (57 page)

“How did you know what I was going to say?” Lafe asked with a smile. Brig shrugged.

“It’s the standard thing to say in such cases, isn’t it?” he said. “And this is quite a standard case, I’m sure.”

“Look,” Senator Smith said, skillfully navigating around a truck in the rolling, winding road as it plunged up and down through the spring-ripe hollows, “don’t get bitter, boy. Mabel’s a lovely girl and a fine, decent person. So are you. Trust wise, kindly old Uncle Lafe and don’t get to brooding about it, okay? After all, you must have had plenty of time in the Pacific to find out what you wanted, didn’t you? Unless it was dramatically different from ETO, that is. Over there, we never lacked opportunities!”

Brig laughed in a more lighthearted way.

“No, Daddy,” he said. “We didn’t lack opportunities in the Pacific, either.”

“Then you surely tried what you wanted to try and did what you wanted to do and then came home and added it all up and decided you wanted to marry and settle down, didn’t you?” Lafe said. “So what makes you question the bargain now?”

“You keep saying ‘bargain,’” Brigham Anderson said rather sharply. “What makes you think it was a bargain?”

“Wasn’t it?” Lafe asked with some surprise. “A bargain between desire and custom, dream and reality, wish and career, sex and society? We all make bargains in some way. You have to.”

For a moment the Senator from Utah made no reply; and then he spoke in a curious, faraway, questioning tone.

“Do you?” he asked. “Do you really?”

“Look, buddy,” Lafe said humorously, but even as he spoke some instinct told him he was making a mistake, that it wouldn’t be received humorously, “just what
did
you do in the Pacific, anyway?”

He was aware as soon as the words were out that he had gone too far in some way he didn’t understand, because suddenly his friend wasn’t there anymore; the wall that came down between Brig and the world when he wanted it to was suddenly in place. The level dark eyes looked calmly into his when he glanced up quickly from the road, but there was no communication, only a politely attentive friendliness that gave not an inch to anyone.

“Oh, come now,” Brig said pleasantly. “This is getting awfully dramatic for a nice spring day. Let’s talk about you for a change. I still think
you
ought to get married.”

The Senator from Iowa smiled and let the moment go, even though he knew he would puzzle about it later until he understood it; and even without understanding it he knew in some instinctive way that right here in the midst of the clear golden day he had suddenly become afraid for Brigham Anderson. But as with any experienced politician none of this showed.

“Well, do you know,” he said lightly, “this will come as a great shock to you, pal, but I’m seriously thinking about it.”

“No!” Brig said in a much more responsive and delighted tone.

“Yes, sir,” Lafe said, “I am. There’s this little girl from Iowa who works for the Armed Services Committee over in the House, and I met her a couple of months ago, and one thing led to another—”

“It always does with you, doesn’t it?” Brig said with a smile.

“Well, it did, yes,” Senator Smith said, “specifically about a month ago at my place. Well, I thought that was that, but—it turned out it wasn’t. There’ve been a couple of times since, and then last Friday night, I was quite sure I would never see her again after that. Intended not to, anyway. But do you know, the funniest thing happened? The next morning—that was the day the nomination broke—somebody on the Iowa State Society called and wanted to know if I knew of anyone to nominate to be queen of the society ball for the Cherry Blossom Festival, and before I really stopped to think I gave them her name, and last night they elected her, and now I’m supposed to crown her and be her partner at the ball, and—and, well,” he said in a rather puzzled tone, as though he couldn’t believe this was happening to him, “I’m beginning to suspect that maybe I won’t be saying good-by to her after all.”

“You’re hooked, Senator,” Brig said. Lafe shook his head in a baffled way.

“I’m beginning to think so,” he said. “I find I get restless when she isn’t around. I suppose that’s a sure sign.”

It’s one of them,” Brig said. “Well, I think that’s wonderful. I expect you’ll settle down and never look at another woman, after all those thousands of bedrooms stretching out behind you into the past.”

“I suppose,” Senator Smith said, rather glumly. “What a hell of a depressing prospect!” He grinned. “Am I ready for it, that’s the question? Maybe I need more preparation.”

Brigham Anderson snorted.

“Preparation, my hat,” he said. “Any more preparation and you wouldn’t be able to stagger up to the altar. Mabel will be delighted. So am I.”

“That’s good,” Lafe said. “You’ll like her.”

“Any girl you choose will be fine with me, son,” Senator Anderson said in a kindly tone. “Anything you want to know, just ask me.”

“Go to hell,” said Senator Smith with dignity. “God, what a beautiful day.”

“Yes, it is,” Brig agreed. “Do you ever get the feeling at times like this that it’s wonderful to be off alone miles away from the Senate with nobody knowing where you are or who you are or wanting you to do something for them, and all those problems and worries left behind? I certainly do.”

“Oh, I do, too,” Lafe said quickly. “I take this thing out about once a week, all by myself, head out into the country and just ramble for a couple of hours. It does wonders. It’s a great job, United States Senator, and I wouldn’t be anything else; but sometimes being one of one hundred people out of all this great nation, with all the terrific responsibilities we have and all the terrific pressures we’re under—it gets kind of rugged, now and then. Particularly in days like these when it sometimes seems quite possible that if we fail it will all be wiped out and may never be reestablished. It isn’t easy.”

“No,” Senator Anderson said, “it isn’t. It makes you wonder if you’re worthy of it, sometimes. Or,” he asked in a lighter tone, “am I just being too damned philosophical for words?”

“No, indeed,” Senator Smith said amicably. “Not a bit. What are friends for, if you can’t talk to them? I feel that way sometimes, too. I think, here I am, helling around all the time—what right have I got to say I know enough to help run the country? What right have I got to uphold all these fine principles and make speeches to my high-school classes when they come here about what a great heritage they have and how noble they should be? How noble am I, for Christ’s sake? Not very. And what right have I got to set myself up to judge other men and their motives and take stands on things because I say they’re right or wrong? What’s right and what’s wrong, and what does Lover Boy Smith know about it?”

“There, there,” Brig said with a chuckle. “Don’t let it get you down. But, of course,” he added more seriously, “you’re entirely right. It’s a problem everybody faces everywhere. Who’s perfect? Who’s to judge? But somebody’s got to, otherwise nothing would ever get done. About all you can do, I guess, is add up the good you do and the bad you do and strike a balance that does as much justice as possible to your own needs and the necessities of society, and then go ahead
....
At least,” he said with a thoughtful frown and a recurrence of mood that shadowed the bright day suddenly, “that’s what I tell myself.”

“Well, one thing I think we can say for ourselves,” Lafe remarked, giving him an intent appraisal for just a second, “at least we have the humility to admit we aren’t perfect. And that we do judge from a real confusion of motives, sometimes, because somebody’s got to judge in order to keep the country going and we’re the ones who’ve been elected to do it, and so we do.”

“We can have the humility to admit that to each other,” Brigham Anderson said with a sudden smile. “I’m damned if I’m going to admit it to my opponent in Utah next time.”

“You aren’t going to have any opponent in Utah next time,” Lafe said, in one of those remarks people remember later with wonder in entirely different contexts, and his companion laughed.

“I’d like to think I was in that solid,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m not
....
It does get tough sometimes, though. You wonder if you’re being fair.”

“Since you mention it,” Senator Smith said quickly, and Brig laughed.

“Yes?” he said dryly.

“I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to,” Lafe admitted with a grin, “but since you mention it—are you being fair about the nomination?”

The senior Senator from Utah was silent for several moments before replying, and his colleague was afraid that again he had pressed too hard on some sensitive nerve; but he reflected that Brig had indeed broached the subject, so he concentrated on his driving and waited patiently for the answer. It came in a thoughtful voice.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I think so. I really think I am. What I know—and I’m not going to tell you what I know, Lover Boy,” he added with a quick flash of humor—“while it may not indicate any great crime, does go to the fundamentals of the man’s character and whether he is reliable, whether he can be trusted, whether we really would be right to put him in that job at this particular time, or indeed any time.”

“In other words, you’re judging,” Senator Smith said humorously, and a curious expression that wasn’t humorous at all but dead serious and possibly even with a certain pain in it came into his companion’s eyes.

“Yes, I am,” he said with a little sigh. “And like you, I wonder who I am to judge. But damn it,” he said angrily, suddenly doubling a fist and hitting the cowling of the dashboard, “you’ve got to judge. You can’t sit still and allow yourself to be paralyzed by your own shortcomings, or by something you may have done sometime, or by some past mistake, or something. You’ve got to judge. You’ve been elected to judge, and you’ve got to; and you’ve got to do it on your own conception of what’s best for the country, and if you really love the country you’ve got to stick with your judgment, no matter what.” And he repeated slowly and deliberately as though he were arguing with himself, as his colleague could see he was, “No matter what.”

Off on the left of the winding road in the sparkling sunshine there appeared the rambling contours of Normandy Farms set on a little rise among its trees and lawns, and Senator Smith decided it was a good thing they had come to it, for this was a good transition-point in the talk, with things left hanging that might not develop were they pursued consciously now but which might come of themselves later. Parking absolved him of any reply to Senator Anderson’s last comment, and Brig himself broke the mood when he got out by turning back to survey the car with an air of exaggerated awe.

“I meant to mention this at the house,” he said. “Very dashing. New, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lafe said with his engaging grin. “This is my sinning-in-the-nation’s-capital car. I drive an old black Ford station wagon when I’m home in the state.”

“What a cynic,” Brig said in a more relaxed and untroubled tone. “I don’t know why they never catch up with you.”

“Because if truth were known, my friend,” Lafe said crisply, “I am a damned good Senator. I take care of my people and I take care of the country insofar as I can. That’s why they only catch up with me to vote for me. You know how that is. You’re a damned good Senator yourself.”

“Aw, shucks, you’re so sweet,” Senator Anderson said. “I think we may see someone we know. Isn’t that a French Embassy car?”

“Oh, damn, I hope not,” Senator Smith said. “I brought you way out here so we could have some privacy to talk this thing out.”

“We won’t join them,” Brig said as they walked up the flagstone path and into the big, dark dining room. “Yes, there they are,” he remarked as over in one comer Dolly Harrison and Lady Maudulayne waved frantically. “I guess we’d better say hello, anyway.”

“Oh hell,” Lafe said. “Now this will be all over town and everybody will know I’ve been deputized to bring you back onto the reservation. But here we go
....
Ladies,” he said graciously. “See No Evil,” he bowed to Dolly—“Hear No Evil”—he bowed to Kitty—“And Speak No Evil”—he bowed to Celestine, who smiled.

“Since we’re in the presence of chastity and purity,” Dolly said with a little twinkle, “it would of course be impossible to see, hear, speak, or even think of evil.”

“Touché,” Lafe admitted with a carefree grin. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It’s delightful,” Kitty Maudulayne said, “and I’m going right back and tell Claude we saw you and we will all speculate as to what you’re doing out here. Something to do with Mr. Leffingwell, we will all think.”

“Well, what you all think might be right, you clever little diplomat, you,” Lafe said with a chuckle, “but you’ll just have to speculate, because we ain’t agonna tell yah. Particularly this one. He isn’t going to say anything.”

“Oh, dear,” Kitty said. “It would be so fascinating to find out all about it right out here in the country in this unexpected fashion.”

“Yes, dear,” Brigham Anderson said blandly, “but I’ve taken a twenty year vow of silence. Have a good lunch.”

“You too,” Dolly said, giving him an appraising look behind her cordial smile. He caught it and smiled impassively back.

“You can tell Bob, Lafe is doing his duty,” he said. “I’m getting the treatment. It’s designed to make me stop being a difficult boy and behave.”

“I hope it does,” Dolly said, and he could tell she really meant it. “Not,” she added, “that I personally give a hoot about Bob Leffingwell, but we don’t want you to get hurt.”

There was in her voice something so quiet and so firm and so friendly that for a moment Senator Anderson was profoundly moved. But he tried not to show it, and thought he had succeeded.

“Everybody is so worried about me,” he said lightly. “It’s going to be all
right. It’ll all straighten out when I see the President. Eat hearty and forget about it. We’ll see you later.”

“You’re coming to Crystal’s reception at my place after the wedding,” Dolly reminded them and they both nodded. “Good,” she said, and as they turned away and went outside to find an isolated table on the lawn she looked thoughtfully at her companions.