Mr. Adam (13 page)

“Honestly,” Homer said. “You're not sore about my suggesting—about Marge?”

“Not a bit, Homer. Go on to sleep. Just dismiss it from your mind.”

“Thanks, Steve,” he said, and fell back on the pillow.

I went to my bedroom and turned on the light and Marge instantly raised her head and said, “Stephen, this is a fine time to be getting to bed. It is—” she looked at her watch—“nearly three o'clock. If that's all you think of me you can just get into your own bed.”

“Don't worry,” I told her. “I will!”

“Stephen, what on earth is the matter with you?”

“There are a number of kinds of infidelity,” I said, taking off my shoes and slamming them on the floor. “It isn't necessary to be physically unfaithful. You can be unfaithful in spirit. One is as bad as the other.”

“Stephen, stop talking in riddles.”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

She made a face at me. “All right, then, stay over there in your own bed.”

“You certainly have changed a lot,” I said, “since this morning. This morning you were silky sweet to me. Now, you don't want me to touch you.”

“I didn't say I didn't want you to touch me.”

“Yes you did. You told me to get into my own bed.”

She sat up, looking very pink and round and powdered and clean and smooth. “Stephen, you don't know a damn thing about women!”

I turned out the light.

CHAPTER 10

I
t was one of those awakenings when you know something is wrong, and for a while you cannot figure out what it is, and then you discover that it is yourself. My head felt floaty, as if it were filled with helium and wanted to disengage itself from my trunk, and my elbows and knees ached. When I sat up I definitely had white flashes and spots in front of my eyes. “Oh,” I groaned. “I feel awful.”

“That's too bad,” said Marge, looking at me with deep interest. “What's the matter, hangover?”

“I didn't drink enough to have a hangover.”

“Oh, I think you did,” Marge said.

“No I didn't. I think I'm sick.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Marge said apprehensively. “I certainly hope not. I'll bring you some aspirin, and coffee.”

The coffee tasted horrible. “You put salt in here,” I accused her, “instead of sugar.”

“No I didn't. Really I didn't, Stephen. Just stay in bed and you'll feel better. I'm sure you'll feel better.”

“Call Tommy Thompson,” I said. “I think I've got pneumonia, or something.”

She got Thompson in a hurry. He was sleepy-eyed, and wearing a maroon dressing gown I suspect he had filched from the Army. He held my wrist, and felt my forehead, and looked under my eyelids. “Pulse is a little rapid,” he said. “I don't see anything else wrong.”

“When I look at things,” I said, “they won't stand still. Things keep jumping around.”

“Nerves,” Thompson said. “Just plain nerves. You'll feel better in a little while. You ought to relax for a few days. Why don't you and Marge fly down to Florida?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “We're in the last lap, now. I'm not going to leave here and have something happen. I want to get this job wrapped up, and finished. Then we'll take a vacation, won't we, dear?”

“It would be lovely,” Marge said.

After thirty or forty minutes I began to feel better, as Thompson had predicted. But all day long everything I ate and drank tasted salty.

Tommy and Maria and J.C. Pogey went back to New York on the Congressional that afternoon, and Homer and Marge and Jane went to the station to see them off. The last thing Pogey said, he said to Homer. “Son,” he told him, “if everything doesn't work out the way it is planned, don't feel too badly about it. Not your fault. It just wasn't set up to be that way.” I never saw such an incorrigible pessimist.

Monday, on which we had hoped to begin A.I., passed, and the other days of the week trooped past after it. Generally, people seemed satisfied with the N.R.P. plan for selecting the first A.I. mother, and those who would be next in line. But Moscow wasn't satisfied, and said so very plainly. The Russians didn't mind selecting an American for the first A.I. mother, but the second ought to be Russian, and the third perhaps might go to Great Britain. As to the smaller states,
they weren't to be considered until much, much later. As a matter of fact, the Russians didn't see any need for including Poles, Rumanians, Hungarians, Turks, Egyptians, or Persians in the plan at all. Those lands, the Russians said, could be re-populated any time, and the Soviet Union would be glad to attend to it. The State Department countered by asking Russia, for the tenth time, whether it was true about the two Mongolians. The Russians said this was strictly an internal matter.

Domestically, things were better. The Congress viewed the plan as an unexpected and welcome gift of patronage. Whenever a Congressman has a chance to give away something that doesn't belong to him, it is so much gravy. It was a splendid opportunity to pay off political debts, win social favor, and endear themselves with women's organizations. It was just ticklish enough, politically, to be exciting. And since the N.R.P. had placed a week's deadline on the nominations, they could always plead that the Administration forced them to choose in haste, in case their nominations failed to meet public approval. Some made their choices public—when they were absolutely certain they were politically foolproof. But most said they wouldn't divulge the names until the drawings.

In that week we took Homer down to the Eastern Shore, for fishing, and to Bowie for the opening of the spring racing season, and to the National Theater, and for a trip through the Shenandoah Valley, and by the time the next Monday rolled around Homer really appeared fairly healthy. I do not mean that he could go out and chop down trees. I merely mean that he looked as if he could beget a number of babies.

On noon Monday we went to the Capitol. That is, Marge and I went to the Capitol. We left Homer at the hotel, at his own insistence. He was fearful, and I suppose rightly, that he would receive an ovation if he were discovered sitting in a gallery while the drawing took place, and he was deathly afraid of public attention.

The drawing was held on the floor of the House, and the scene was so familiar, with its warlike connotation, that it seemed like looking at an old newsreel. Only this time it wasn't Wilson or Roosevelt wearing the blindfold.

When the preliminaries were over, the President reached his hand into the goldfish bowl and drew out a capsule and handed it to the Clerk of the House. He opened it, unfolded a slip of paper, and shouted into the banked microphones: “Number 646. The number is 646!”

Up from the well of the House there floated an excited feminine scream. “What was that?” Marge asked.

“Just an overwrought female,” I said.

“I don't know,” said Marge. “Do you know what it sounded like to me. It sounded just like when a woman wins a door prize at a bridge party, or right after she yells ‘Bingo.' I wonder who had number 646?”

I noticed an unusual commotion in the Press Gallery. Ordinarily the Press Gallery moves swiftly and efficiently to get out the flash, but now it seemed to be erupting in all directions. “I'll find out what happened,” I told Marge, left my seat, and worked my way down the corridor.

I ran into Bingham, the UP man. “How about a statement?” he asked before I had a chance to speak.

“On what?”

“Don't you know who he picked?”

“No.”

“Number 646,” Bingham said, “is held by Fay Knott.”

“You mean one of her candidates?”

“No, by her, personally.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I feel sick. You'll have to excuse me.” I did feel sick. The baroque tiled walls of the corridor were all leaning in towards me. I blundered my way back to Marge. “Let's go,” I told her, “646 is Fay Sumner Knott. What a catastrophe! What a disas
ter!” I thought of the President. “That poor unlucky man,” I said. “That poor, poor unlucky man!”

When we reached our car Marge asked, “But why did she nominate herself? I don't think that is fair.”

“I suppose,” I said, “Fay Sumner Knott couldn't find any other woman in her own state as admirable as herself. That's the way she figures, you know.”

“What's going to happen?” Marge asked. “Can't you get it cancelled, or something? Is it really so bad?”

“Wait until I break the news to Homer,” I said.

We reached the hotel and we went up to 5-F. Jane opened the door for us and I walked in, feeling that there should be signs around saying, “Achtung—Minen!”

Homer was waiting in the living room, with the early editions of the afternoon papers strewn around his chair. “Well,” he said, “what's the verdict?”

“Senator Knott,” I said.

“What about her?” Homer asked.

“She won the draw. She's going to be A.I. Mother Number One.”

Homer started to rise, lost control of his legs, and sat down again, his mouth hanging open. “No!” he said when he could speak. “No! No! I won't do it, Steve. I won't have anything to do with this any more. Why she's the worst—the absolute worst—I'm going away right now.” He got to his feet, and started for the door.

“Now wait a minute, Homer,” I pleaded, clinging to his arm. “Wait a minute and let me tell you something.” He was hard to stop as a telegraph pole that wants to go somewhere, but I slowed him down before he reached the door. “Homer,” I said, “there are a lot of things to consider—an awful lot!”

I led him back to his chair, and he sat down and he put his head in his hands. Every few seconds he'd shake his head and pull his hair. “Homer,” I said, “what is to be will be. It was all done fair and square, and you can bet that the President didn't want to pull
her number out of the goldfish bowl because he doesn't like her any better than you do or I do. But this is a democracy, Homer, and that's the way we have to do things.”

“It is a democracy for everyone except me,” Homer protested. “I've got a hundred and forty million dictators sitting on my neck and I don't like it and I'm going away.”

“It isn't as bad as you think,” I told him, and motioned to Marge and told her to quick bring some liquor. “It could be much worse, Homer. Suppose you had to marry her and live with her? But you don't. You don't even have to see her. Actually, it doesn't make any difference to you whether she is number one or number eleven million eight hundred thousand six hundred and forty-two, now does it?”

“It makes a difference that she has a number at all,” Homer said. “Imagine, when she has a child that will be my child too!”

“Well, all your children are bound to look pretty much alike, you know, Homer,” I argued. “As a matter of fact you probably won't be able to tell one from the other in a few years.”

“I've thought of that too,” Homer replied, “and believe me I don't like it.”

Marge brought drinks. Her hand was unsteady when she gave them to us. I remembered that Marge liked Homer, and she always felt she had a personal stake in him. “Now drink your drink and let's talk this over sensibly,” I said.

“That's another thing I don't like,” Homer went on stubbornly. “How would you like to go out on the street and everyone would have the same face and all of them would be like yours?”

“Well,” I admitted, “I think it would be confusing, but at the same time that just illustrates how impersonal this matter has got to be to you.”

Homer drew a deep breath, and drank his highball without taking his glass from his lips and just at that moment Gableman came in, followed by Abel Pumphrey, and both of them looked fresh
and happy. Pumphrey grabbed Homer's hand and began to pump it and said, “Well, well, now we're on our way, aren't we, Homer? The worst is over, and there's all clear sailing ahead.”

“That's what you think!” Homer said. “The worst is just beginning.”

“No, you mustn't feel like that,” said Mr. Pumphrey. “My boy, it was almost a miracle, having Senator Knott become A.I. Mother Number One. Almost a miracle! There can't be any criticism of N.R.P. about that pick—no, sir. It shows that the Administration is absolutely unbiased, allowing a member of the opposition to win the draw. And the Senate will like it, too. They'll all be proud to have one of their members become a mother.”

Homer could not speak. I forced another drink into his hand.

Gableman showed a mouth full of rotting teeth in a wide grin. “Senator Knott is down in the lobby right now,” he said. “She's coming up in just a moment to pose with you. She is an extremely attractive woman, isn't she, Homer? Even if she did cause us a little trouble some time ago, I don't think the President could have made a luckier choice, that is, from the political standpoint.”

Homer choked on his drink and gasped, “Did you say she was coming up here?”

“Yes, just as soon as all the photographers and newsreel men arrive,” said Gableman.

Suddenly Homer relaxed, in the manner of a fighter loosening up in his corner. “If she comes in here,” he said, very softly, “I'll strangle her.”

“You'll what?” said Abel Pumphrey, the veins jumping up from under his Herbert Hoover collar.

“I'll tear her to pieces and throw her up for grabs,” Homer said, “like this.” He extended his long arms and showed how.

I decided it was time to intervene. “Gentlemen,” I said, “Mr. Adam is overwrought. He has been unnerved by the strain. I think you had better excuse him. You had better go on downstairs and tell
Senator Knott that Mr. Adam is sorry, because if she comes up here I really do think he will slap her around.” I led them to the door, and got them outside.

“What's wrong with him?” Gableman asked. “Has he gone nuts?”

“My gracious,” said Abel Pumphrey, “I never realized he was so temperamental. Why, he acts as if he thought he was the biggest man in N.R.P.! If anyone should have retained a grudge because of what Senator Knott said in the Senate, it should have been me. But I took it in my stride, and now I welcome Senator Knott as the ideal American A.I. mother. She has beauty, brains, and, ah, money. What more can Adam want, particularly when he doesn't have to actually, ah, to actually have any connubial contact with her.”

“I think it's a little personal,” said Gableman. “I'll always figure that Adam and that actress had a good deal more in common than archeology.”

“I would watch him closely,” Abel Pumphrey advised. “Very closely indeed. I simply don't understand him. I don't understand him at all.”

Homer was still in his chair in the living room. “Well, I got rid of them,” I told him.

“Thanks, Steve, but I really don't think I'll go through with it.” He spoke very quietly, calm as a banker who has reached a decision not to make a questionable loan.

“I'll tell you frankly, Homer, I don't think there's much of a chance that Fay Knott will produce a baby anyway. She was married a couple of times, and nothing happened. When her second husband died, people said he froze to death.”

“It is the principle of the thing,” Homer said.

“That's exactly it—a matter of principle,” I argued. “Is it right for any one man to put himself in the place of God, and condemn the world to slow death? You don't want to be in that position, do you?”