Advise and Consent (95 page)

Again there was a little silence, and finally the Senator from Illinois looked up and spoke in a way that moved them all.

“Well,” he said quietly, “my friends—my dear friends, of so many years’ standing and so many battles together
....
Of course Lafe is entirely right. He doesn’t want the responsibility, and neither do any of you, and I haven’t the right to ask you to help me shoulder it. So I won’t, any more. It’s something I’ve got to solve, and solve alone, I guess
....
Although,” he added in a more hopeful voice, “maybe Hank can help me.”

“I’m sure she will do all she can,” Senator Cooley said softly, “but I’ll wager even she won’t be able to finally do it for you, Orrin. Something like this, only one person in all the world can do for you. You know that, Orrin.”

“Probably,” Senator Knox said in a desolate voice. “Probably...”

“Well,” Bob Munson said with a sudden briskness, “I think I’d better get back to the floor and see what’s going on.”

“I’m with you,” Lafe said with a grin. “I feel like saying a few things to make a few people mad.”

“So do I,” Stanley said, and Warren Strickland laughed as they left the table.

“I might join in, too,” he said. “I think this debate needs a little livening up.” “Thank you all,” Orrin said in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “Thank you all so much.”

“What are friends for?” Lafe asked simply. “Come on, Bob, last one out is something I might say if it weren’t for the N.A.A.C.P.”

And thus they emerged laughing together from the Majority Leader’s office and, still laughing, brushed aside the queries of the eager band of reporters who had inevitably found their place of meeting. No cautionary word of secrecy had been uttered by any of them, nor was it necessary, for the thought of revealing anything of so intimate a conversation did not even cross the minds of these old friends.

A few minutes after they reached the floor, however, the junior Senator from Iowa just happened to have occasion to wander into the cloakroom just behind the senior Senator from South Carolina.

“I don’t know about you,” he murmured, “but I’m going to keep right on rounding up votes as though there weren’t any doubt at all.”

Senator Cooley nodded.

“I don’t think there is,” he said. “No, sir, I don’t think he quite knows it yet, but I don’t think there is, at all.”

Despite this calm assurance on the part of his friends, however, it was still with the inner turmoil that couldn’t quite keep from showing that he sat through another hour of debate as the floor and the galleries which had emptied for dinner, began to fill up again as they always do for a night session. The press sent in three different times to try to get him to come out for an interview, and each time he refused; some of them even tried, humorously, to mouth questions silently to him from the gallery, but he only smiled firmly and shook his head. Let them guess and keep guessing; he wasn’t going to complicate his own difficulties by getting himself in a false position answering questions. There still faced him the promise he had given Powell Hanson of a statement before the Senate recessed for the night, but he was not even sure now that he would do that. It might be better to sleep on it. He would have to talk to Hank and see what she thought. Then it might be clearer.

“We just tried to corner Orrin,” the AP and UPI reported breathlessly to their colleagues a little later, “but he outran us.”

“Where’s he going?” the
Times
asked, and his colleagues shook their heads.

“I don’t know,” AP said, “but he’s sure hell-bent for something.”

“We paced him through the Rotunda,” UPI said, “but he gained on us going down the British Stairway. By the time we reached the bottom he had doubled back toward the Senate and gone to ground in one of the back elevators. The door slammed in our faces just as we got there. It went up.”

“I haven’t had such a problem in pursuit since I was at O.C.S. during the war,” AP said. “You never saw such a neat piece of evasive action in your life.”

Behind him as he waited in the archway under the great stone steps of the deserted House side he heard the revolving door go around, and then a friendly hand gave his elbow a firm squeeze.

“Orrin,” the Speaker said, “this is a nice surprise for us lowly characters of the House. To what do we owe the honor?”

“It isn’t an honor, Bill,” he said with a smile. “I’m just hiding out.”

The Speaker smiled in his fatherly fashion.

“Good place,” he said. “We’ve got lots of room over here. A man can get lost faster in the House, I say, than he can anywhere else.” He chuckled suddenly. “That’s what I tell my freshmen when they come here. Yes, sir, I say: “You know, a man who doesn’t co-operate can get lost faster in this House than he can anyplace else on earth.’” The chuckle grew to a laugh. “Scares hell out of ’em,” he said.

Senator Knox laughed, too.

“You’re an old reprobate, Bill,” he said. “I’m glad I’m not under your thumb.”

“You’re not under anybody’s thumb, Orrin,” the Speaker said. “Except I hear this afternoon maybe you’re under
his
thumb. Is that true?”

And he looked at the Senator from shrewd old eyes that over the decades had seen thousands of ambitious men come and go, each seeking his particular place in the sun, some making it, some failing, almost all in one way or another dependent upon his favor or enmity for it. But the Senator from Illinois never had been, and he questioned him now not in the sense of wanting to interfere but with a respectful curiosity, because he liked Orrin Knox and wanted to know how things were with him.

“No,” Orrin said slowly, “it isn’t true, Bill.” He paused. “Just between us—” He began and then stopped to give the Speaker a quick glance. The Speaker nodded gravely.

“How else?” he asked simply.

“He’s offered to back me next year if I’ll go along on Leffingwell,” the Senator said. “What shall I do, Bill?”

The Speaker was silent for a while, and then he too rejected, kindly but firmly, the opportunity to give advice.

“Seems to me that’s your problem, Orrin,” he said. “I don’t honestly know what I’d say. Appears to me you’ll have a good chance next year. Whether you can do it without him—whether you can do it over his opposition—that’s another matter
....
On the other hand,” he said slowly, “whether you’d want to keep on living with Orrin Knox if you got it on a bargain of that kind, that, too, I don’t know
....
It’s been a bad business,” he said with a sigh. “Messing the party up like this. Killing people. I was awfully sad about Brig. Awfully sad. He was a fine boy.”

“That’s one reason,” Senator Knox said, “that I just don’t see how I can make a deal with him.”

“Mmm,” the Speaker said. “I reckon he was a little upset about that himself.”

“Oh, he was,” Orrin said shortly. “After the fact.” They fell silent again.

“Well,” the Speaker said, “it’s a hard problem, Orrin, but I guess I’m no different from everyone else you’ve asked, if you have asked anyone. I imagine everyone’s turned you down. Nobody wants to give advice on a thing like that.”

“That’s right,” Orrin said, rather forlornly, “nobody does.”

“Who are you waiting for?” the Speaker asked, and, being a shrewd and wise old man, guessed. “Bee?”

“Yes,” the Senator said.

“A fine woman,” the Speaker said. “A fine, fine woman. I hope she’ll be able to help you, Orrin
....
But in any event,” he said, “one thing, anyway: I think maybe you can count on me for next year. I don’t know what you’ll decide or what he’ll do, but I have a pretty good idea what I’m going to do. I’m going to be for you, if it’s any help.”

“Any help?” Senator Knox demanded. “Any
help?
My God, Bill, you know it’s all the help in the world. I appreciate it more than I can say. I’ll never forget it. Never.”

The Speaker smiled.

“Oh, you might,” he said. “Men have a way of forgetting things, in this town.”

“Well,” Orrin Knox said tartly, “I don’t.”

“I know you don’t, Orrin,” the Speaker said. “I expect that’s one of the reasons I’m for you. You’re not a forgetter. It’s all of a piece with the rest of you. I know where I stand with you. That’s more than I can say,” he added with a dry little smile, “about our mutual friend.”

There came a flash of headlights, a car swung into the archway.

“Here she comes,” the Speaker said, and then as he saw the long, black limousine, “Nope, it’s mine.” He held out his hand. “Orrin, my friend,” he said. “Good traveling, whatever your road.”

“Thank you, Bill,” the Senator said. “You’re a true friend.”

“You have more than you think,” the Speaker said as he got in. “Never think you don’t.”

He waved in a kindly fashion and his chauffeur took him off, a figure grown old and wise in the ways of men and politics, brought successfully by the years to a position where all his ambitions were achieved, all inner storms were over, he could look with a firm but friendly eye upon those of other men; and where his word, once given, could not be swayed by anyone.

“Well,” she said, turning the car down Independence Avenue, “what shall we do, go to Hains Point and neck?”

This general irreverence and insouciance, which had done so much over the years to help him keep his balance, provoked the chuckle it always did.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, making it sound regretful. “The boys in the house tell me you’re a hell of a hot number, but—”

“Orrin Knox!” she exclaimed. “Nobody ever told you I was a hot number!”

“I wish they had,” he said. “Then I would have been prepared for it.”

She laughed and, he noticed, blushed a little.

“Now, cut it out,” she said. “You win. I’m sorry I even mentioned it.”

“I’m not,” he said. “It evokes many pleasant memories. It holds out promise of many future—”

“So are you going to be President of the United States?” she interrupted firmly, and his mood sobered at once.

“I don’t know,” he said as they came to Agriculture and passed under the covered bridge between the North and South buildings. “Do you think I should?”

“I’ve always thought you should,” she said. “Whether you should in this context is another question. What do the others think?”

“They wouldn’t say,” he remarked glumly. “They said, and rightly, that it was too important a thing for them to take responsibility. They told me I was on my own. So did the Speaker.”

“Oh?” she said. “When did you see the Speaker?”

“Just now,” he said. “He was just going home. He said one thing that in a way makes it even more complicated. He said he’d be for me regardless of what the President does.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “He’s a good friend.”

“He’s great,” he said. “But he wouldn’t advise me either. And you know something? Nobody thinks you will, either.”

“Really?” she said as they came to a turnout along the Tidal Basin and she drew off and parked. “How did they guess?”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked in genuine alarm. She leaned back and gave him the long, straight look he had often received in their life together.

“What did it sound like?” she asked.

“It sounded as though you weren’t going to help me,” he said in dismay. “That’s just what it sounded like.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” she said. “I always have, haven’t I?”

“Then tell me what to do,” he said.

“My dear,” she said quietly, “do you really want me to?”

At this he paused and thought for a long, long time, staring out across the water while she watched him with the same appraising, waiting look. Finally he spoke slowly.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. In a way—”

“Go on,” she said.

“In a way I’m not so sure I do.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s the first step in really coming to grips with it.”

“But you’ve always given me your advice—” he began.

“Yes, but this is really it. This is It with a capital I. This is the Presidency. What right have I got to put in my two-bits’ worth?”

“I’d give you the right,” he said, still protesting but knowing in his heart that he was already accepting her decision and beginning to be glad of it, it had come like a dash of cold water, but of course it was the only thing and he knew it, “if you wanted the right.”

She shook her head.

“My dear,” she said again, “nobody could want that right. The others were wise. It’s too big. Much as I want to help you, and much as I am prepared to help you in whatever you decide, the decision has got to be yours. About all I can say is what I expect Bill said and what I expect the others said: Orrin Knox has lived in a certain way and come to mean certain things to his country and his time. He has to decide now whether he wants to mean something else. It’s as simple as that.”

“Simple!” he said with a groan. “My God, what a word. Look at this,” he said, remembering the paper and giving it to her. “Does this make it simple?”

She glanced at it quickly and handed it back.

“Why don’t you give it to the Smithsonian?” she suggested with a smile. “They have everything else.”

“Oh, Hank,” he said, reaching for her hand in a last dependent gesture, “what am I going to do? What am I ever going to do?”

“I suppose,” she said, squeezing it firmly, “that you’re going to do what’s right for you to do. I’ve never known you—with a few exceptions,” she added with a chuckle, “to do anything else.”

“But if I decide the wrong way—” He said. She shook her head.

“Who’s to determine that?” she asked. “You, or the Lord? Have a little faith, Senator. It will all work out for the best.”

He thought for a moment and spoke in a much lighter tone.

“All I can say is,” he said, “you’re a hell of a lot of help.”

“I think,” she said as she started the car, “I have been. Where do you want to work this out?” she asked humorously. “Staring at Abe or brooding by the Capitol?”

“Abe may be a little tired of me by now,” he said with an answering, returning humor. “Why don’t you drop me at the foot of the Hill and I’ll do a little walking and thinking before I go back to the floor?”

“That’s fine,” she said. Five minutes later she stopped the car at the bottom of the long lane of slate steps leading up to the West Front of the Capitol and leaned over and kissed him firmly.