Washington, D.C., page 8
“I’m sorry, Senator. Not giving you any warning. But it happened so suddenly. We didn’t plan it.”
“Obviously.” That was too cold, Burden decided. “I know how things are. She’s most attractive. Congratulations.”
Clay was nervous, and Burden was pleased. In their somewhat complex relations it was always Clay who was cool and Burden who tended to shift this way and that as emotions swayed him. But Clay was hardly cool now and Burden realized that he was afraid he might be fired. For a moment Burden had toyed with the idea. It would certainly gratify Diana who had a vindictive streak known only to Burden, who saw himself in her. But Clay’s job was safe; Burden could not do without him.
“I’ll see you Monday.” He smiled vaguely at the young man. Then he and Diana went inside to say goodbye to their hostess. But Frederika was not to be found. She was upstairs, said the butler, with Miss Enid.
“Telling her the facts of life, I’ll bet!” Blaise burst in on them. “What do mothers and daughters talk about at such times?”
“I don’t know,” said Burden, “having never been a mother or a daughter.”
“Diana, what do they say to one another? You’re a daughter. Tell us the secrets of women.”
“I don’t really know. I’ve never been married. So I haven’t been talked to. I suppose it’s warnings women give to one another.”
“Warnings about what?” Blaise seemed really to want to know.
“Men. What else? The common enemy.” Diana’s voice almost broke.
“Well, well, what have we here, Burden? An enemy of man?”
“She exaggerates.” Burden tried to maneuver Diana to the front door but Blaise would not let her go.
“I’m sure you won’t surprise your father the way Enid surprised me.”
“I’m not awfully good at surprises. Anyway, I’m not apt to. It’s not as if there were anyone interested in me.”
“Come now,” Burden said, growing alarmed. “You have your beaux.” He turned to Blaise. “And I hate them all, don’t you? Yet why should a young man who likes one’s daughter seem such a threat?”
“Well, the threat has become reality in this house.” Blaise was suddenly hard. “I hope you have better luck. Both of you. Oh, here’s something Ed Nillson wanted me to give you. I don’t know what it is. Probably a mash note. He admires you tremendously.” Blaise gave Burden an envelope.
“Thank you for lunch,” said Burden. “And the surprise,” he could not keep from adding.
“It was not exactly my surprise.” Blaise helped them into the car, which Henry had brought around. “But we must take what comes.” As Burden and Diana drove off, Blaise remained in the driveway, waving as though he were never going to see them again.
“He was unexpectedly cruel, I thought,” said Burden finally, realizing that they must soon come to the point.
“He’s in love with her. Why shouldn’t he marry her?”
“I didn’t mean Clay. I meant Blaise.”
“I didn’t notice, I’m afraid.” She kept her face turned from him as they drove through the green Virginia jungle.
“You wanted to marry Clay.” Like a surgeon who must operate without anesthetic, Burden made the first incision swiftly. The skin broke. The patient gasped, but survived.
“Yes. You might say that I did.”
A quaint way of putting it, Burden thought; one might say anything. “What did he tell you just now, on the lawn?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not my business, I know.”
Diana looked at him, eyes dry and bright; the patient was running a fever. “No. I really mean I don’t remember. I couldn’t concentrate. He kept talking and I kept thinking: he’s married Enid, and what do I do now? I suppose he said he was sorry. I don’t know. He was nervous, and Clay is never nervous.”
“The money must be irresistible.”
“No!” Diana was vehement. “I’m sure it wasn’t for the money, or not very much. I’m afraid it was for Enid. Look at her! Who can compete with that?” And then the patient had a relapse. The sobs were small, more like an attack of hiccups, thought Burden, no longer the skilled surgeon of the heart but a kindly general practitioner, offering a shoulder for a girl to cry on, only to be rebuffed.
Diana pulled away from him, covering her face with her hands. Not until they crossed Chain Bridge did she put them down. In silence they drove beside the malodorous canal where horse-drawn barges moved slowly through the summer haze. Just before the first of the tumbledown Negro shanties at the edge of Georgetown, she said, “You won’t do anything, will you? To Clay?”
“Fire him? No. I need him.”
“I wish you would.”
“Fire him?”
“Yes!” The jaw set. How like his father she was! The blood does continue! Nothing dies, ever. The thought intoxicated him. He would continue. “You don’t mean that. You’re not that petty.”
“I do mean it, and I am that…furious. I would like to see him dead.”
“Diana…” He tried to recall the name of Medea’s father.
“I’ll get over it. I’m sorry to make such a fuss.”
“Did he ever…say that he wanted to marry you?”
Diana stared through glass at the dark rose brick of Georgetown. “Yes,” she said to the window. “He did. Last Christmas. At the Sulgrave Club. Before a dance. I was wearing my first black dress. The one Mother didn’t like. ‘You look thirty years old,’ she said, ‘and in mourning.’ But I thought I looked rather good. So did Clay apparently. We were to marry as soon as Congress adjourned, this spring. But Congress went on, and on, and Enid got him, in July.”
“We’ll adjourn next week, I think.” Burden was deliberately irrelevant “Shall we go North somewhere? To Maine? Would you like that? Bar Harbor?”
But Diana was no longer listening. She had withdrawn inside herself. The patient was now in coma, and nature must do the rest. Like all medical practitioners, he relied ultimately on the body’s recuperative powers.
Then Burden realized that he was still clutching the envelope Blaise had given him. He opened it, expecting to be shocked. He was. The letter contained a check drawn on a New York bank to the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, made payable to the “James Burden Day for President Committee,” and signed by Edgar Carl Nillson, Treasurer. He glanced quickly to see if Diana had noticed the contents of the envelope; she had not. Quickly, he tore the check into tiny pieces, and threw them like confetti into the street.
He would be the President but without the help of Nillson. If he was not true to himself, he was nothing. Old saws occurred to him. He recalled the McGuffey Reader he had studied as a child, on every page a moral lesson. Despite later knowledge, he still believed it all. Honesty is the best policy. A stitch in time saves nine. Every man has his price. No. Not true! He crumpled the envelope and with finger and thumb shot the wad straight at the bronze statue of an admiral. Full steam ahead! That was more like it. And then on January 20, 1941: I, James Burden Day, do solemnly swear…I will be good.
TWO
I
“Oh, very good! Very, very good!” Mrs. Foskett beamed. Short fingers tapped the upturned cards, as though sending them messages by code.
“What is very good?” Burden looked at the display of cards. A queen of diamonds was the only face card. He recalled that diamonds meant wealth.
“You have been very worried about money.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No, not everyone. Not by any means. Some very poor people never worry about money and some very rich people do nothing else. Oh, I could write a book!”
“Don’t, Mrs. Foskett! Ever!” He played at alarm but there was always the genuine fear that Mrs. Foskett might one day spill the beans, and there were some most distinguished beans to be spilled. At least a dozen Senators that he knew of came to her old brick house in California Street to have their fortunes told. One member of the Cabinet never made a move without first telephoning Mrs. Foskett to find out whether or not the stars were auspicious. It was remarkable how many sophisticated men were superstitious. He himself did not actually believe that the future could be charted since tomorrow was an abstraction which, literally, did not exist. Yet often one needed hints as to how to act, and he had found that many of Mrs. Foskett’s intuitions had been extraordinarily useful; nor was he alone. She was by far the most successful of a considerable tribe of fortune tellers, handwriting analysts, and astrologers who had taken up lucrative residence in the capital of a nation as yet uninspired by a new religion.
“Your money situation will improve quite soon.” She studied the cards a moment. “Before the end of the year, I should say.” Burden kept his face a mask. He tried never to give her clues.
“Also…oh, this is good! In the next three weeks there will be news which will please you very, very much. It has to do with…” She frowned, as though puzzled. She gave him a swift look but he was noncommittal. She shuffled the cards expertly; then the brown fingers turned up certain cards. “It concerns your career so I suppose that must mean your campaign for the nomination next year. You see, there it is, the ace in combination with…”
“Will be nominated?” Never before had he asked her such a direct question.
“Goodness! You do want to know everything. Well, it’s not for me but for the cards to say. And you know how they are. Sometimes they are right on the nose. Other times they don’t seem to make any sense at all.” She stopped and looked at what she had dealt. “Someone close to you is causing you great grief.”
This was almost true. Diana had moved to an apartment near the Library of Congress where she was now working. When she did visit Rock Creek Park, she was dutiful but un-informative. He had no idea whom she saw or what she did. Wanting to avoid Clay and Enid, she had abandoned all her old acquaintances, taking up instead with obscure New Dealers attached to the various new agencies.
“Your daughter must be very careful about her health. Particularly the kidneys. You must tell her to have a thorough medical checkup immediately. I don’t like the look of these cards at all. Not at all.” Mrs. Foskett gathered in the deck. “That’s it, Senator. I know how irritating it is not to find out immediately what one wants to know. But we must be patient. Meanwhile, I’m working on your horoscope, where some very interesting things are beginning to show up, very interesting indeed! I particularly like the look of your Sun. It’s a good Sun. I’ll be in touch with you when I know more.”
Mrs. Foskett led him to the front door. He paid her, feeling as always that he was leaving a whorehouse. “I suppose you’ll be going to the garden party for the King and Queen?”
“Didn’t the cards tell you that?” He could not resist this.
“Not a word from the cards but I read your name on the British Ambassador’s list this morning in the paper.”
“Yes, I’m going. We’re also going to the dinner tonight, at the White House.” He wondered why he had added that. It sounded as if he were boasting. In any case, he had been invited not because the President wanted him but because protocol required his presence.
“How exciting! I must say I haven’t seen Washington so steamed up over anything since the Prince of Wales came to town, remember? I was there the day when he planted a tree at the Cathedral. What a handsome boy he was, and how badly he turned out. Cancer. They’ll do it every time if they haven’t got a good Moon. You have a good Moon, Senator, a steady romantic life.”
“You will make me blush, Mrs. Foskett!”
“Oh, Senator, if only I could! Well, give the Queen my regards. I like the way she does her hair, so courageous.”
* * *
—
Pennsylvania Avenue was already roped off for the parade from Union Station to the White House. Burden had not been asked to be in attendance at the station when the President and Cabinet received the King and Queen. But he did not in the least mind. He was doing quite well as it was. Tonight would be his first White House dinner since the Court fight two years before. It would be amusing to see all the contenders gathered in one place for the President had, no doubt deliberately, seen to it that nearly everyone who wanted his place in 1941 would be at the White House, except young Mr. Dewey.
Burden entered his office to be told that “Dewey is leading Roosevelt by four per cent in the Gallup Poll!” Clay was exuberant. “The President couldn’t run for a third term even if he wanted to. The Republicans would lick him.”
“The country’s going conservative. No doubt of it.” Burden looked at Cicero, as though for confirmation. The telephone rang. Clay answered it. “Yes, the Senator’s here. No, he’s not available. He’s going to the garden party. Yes. I’ll tell him. Thanks.” Clay put down the receiver. “Man from Hearst. They want to talk to you about the Gallup Poll. They’ll call back tomorrow, for an interview.”
“In which we shall say nothing while suggesting everything.” Burden had not been so contented in years; he wondered why. Today’s pageant? Mrs. Foskett? The Gallup Poll? For the moment all things conspired to make him happy and he was not one to quarrel with providence.
He went to the closet and took out morning clothes. “Unbearable to have to wear this costume today.”
“I’m glad I’m not going.”
“Is Enid?”
“I don’t think so.” Clay promptly changed the subject; he never discussed his marital life with Burden, who was duly grateful. He disliked confidences. “I’m going over to the House Office Building. One of the Texans is ‘pourin’,’ for all those who weren’t invited to the Embassy.”
“Find out what they think of Garner.” The collar was much too tight. He scowled at himself in the mirror.
“I plan to.”
“And me.” Burden smiled at himself in the mirror.
“That’s why I’m going. I think that of all the conservatives we’ve got the best chance.”
“They called me a radical when I first came to town.” Burden adjusted the morning coat. It was too snug about the hips. “I wanted to nationalize the railroads and smash the trusts. Well…” He sighed, wondering which had changed the most since 1914, the world or himself.
Miss Perrine appeared at the door. “Mr. Overbury, your wife’s on the phone.”
“I’ll take it in here.”
“You do look nice, Senator.” Miss Perrine smiled at her employer.
“Thank you, my dear. I suppose I do look nice, by Senatorial standards.” She giggled and shut the door behind her. “Unhappily, Senate standards are not the highest,” Burden added for Clay’s benefit but Clay was talking to his wife.
“That’s all right. No, I understand. I’ll see you later.” Clay hung up and said, “She is going to the garden party. Well, it’s historic, I guess.”
Burden often speculated about Clay’s marriage. On the surface, all things were as they should be. They lived in a small rented house on N Street. They had a daughter named Alice Frederika. They had everything except money, for Blaise had not relented.
Just as Burden was about to inquire, tentatively, how matters stood at Laurel House, Clay said, “I forgot to give you your new speaking schedule.” He left the room.
Just as well, Burden decided, staring at his favorite quotation from Plato which, framed, hung on the wall. It was from one of the letters: “Each of us is born not for himself alone. We are born partly for our country, partly for our friends. The various contingencies that overtake our lives also make many demands upon us. When our country herself calls us to public life, it would perhaps be strange not to respond, since one must otherwise at the same time give place to worthless men who do not enter public life for the best motives.” The sentiment of course was aristocratic. Plato had suffered too much from democracy to find in the people’s voice anything more inspiring than an animal’s roar. If only because of this, Burden found him congenial. They would have liked each other. Burden fancied that he might even have helped Plato to understand the Tyrant of Syracuse and of course Plato would have taught him—did in fact teach him—that the unexamined life was not worth living. And though there were limits to how much examination any situation could bear, Plato had got him into the habit of scrutinizing his own motives. He knew of course that he was inclined to give himself the benefit of much doubt, employing arguments hardly worse than some of those which Socrates used to propound to the amazement of simple questioners who seemed never able to follow up a dialectical lead; even so, Burden was afflicted with conscience, a unique disadvantage, he knew, in a man who wanted to be President.
Clay returned with several papers clipped together. “It’s shaping up beautifully. You’ll follow the President all through September. Wherever he speaks, you’ll speak, a few days later. He visits the West Coast; so do you. He stares at the Grand Canyon and talks about conservation; so do you.”
Burden studied the list, his pleasure in so many speaking dates somewhat diminished by the thought of crowded smoky auditoriums, clutching hands, endless introductions.
“It will certainly annoy Franklin. No doubt of that.”
“Do you think he’ll talk to you tonight?”
“ ‘How are you, Brother Day!’ ” Burden mimicked the famous voice with all its resonant artifice. “And that will be all, except an occasional glare from those chilly eyes. He does hate, you know.”
“Well, he is hated.”
“Not by me.”
Clay looked at him with genuine surprise. “You really don’t hate him, after all he’s tried to do to us back home?”
“Look what I do to him in the Senate. Anyway it’s hardly personal. At least not on my side. Two ideas are set upon a collision course, that’s all. He believes government must do everything, and I don’t see how it can do much more than it does if we’re to keep any sort of private freedom. Neither of us is really right, but I think that what I believe is closer to the good life, to the original idea of the country, than what he believes, or is.”
