(1964) The Man (57 page)

“Am I?” said Poole. “Okay, Big Man, ask him—and then let’s see what you’ll do!”

He banged the telephone in Dilman’s ear.

Douglass Dilman stood motionless, the receiver still poised at his mouth and ear. Kemmler and Lombardi were right, and Poole had confirmed it. And they were right about another thing, too. There was no room in America for Turnerites, black or white. They were savage. They were vicious. No tactic, no matter how slimy and foul, was too low for them to accept, with their psychotic minds, and to brandish as a club. Kidnaping. Murder. Now—family blackmail. The Lord damn them and curse them every one.

He jiggled the telephone for the White House operator, and demanded she get him Edna Foster.

When his secretary came on, he said, “Miss Foster, I’m coming down to the office. Ring up Attorney General Kemmler. If he’s not home yet, leave a message with anyone there. Tell Kemmler to come back to the White House immediately. Say the President has made up his mind and must see him at once.”

“Yes, Mr. President. Will that be all?”

“All?” He wondered: Could there be more? Something nagged. “Uh, one last thing. Before you go home, Miss Foster—that letter you wrote to Trafford University, turning them down—tear it up. I’ve changed my mind. Write Chancellor McKaye I consider it a privilege to accept that honorary degree, and I’m glad to accept the invitation to make the principal address. Inform him I will speak not only to his student body and faculty, but to the nation, on a policy decision of national importance. Have you got that, Miss Foster?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And then write a short note to my son—to Julian—tell him I’ll be at the school on Founders’ Day, and that I want him there, because—because after the ceremony—I want to have a private talk with him about a matter that concerns us both. Is that clear, Miss Foster? Leave both letters on my desk for signature, and then go home. Now, you’d better get that call in to Kemmler first.”

He hung up, and then he strode to the door, opened it, and went into the corridor. The ever-present Otto Beggs was still on duty.

“Is the show over with?” Dilman asked.

“Fifteen minutes ago, Mr. President. They kept it going with encores, hoping you’d get back. The guests are gone. Except there’s one gentleman—”

It was then that Dilman sighted Nat Abrahams slumped on a red chair in the Main Hall, puffing his pipe. Abrahams came to his feet, waved, and started toward Dilman.

“I thought I’d hang around a little bit,” said Abrahams as he approached, “in case you needed a friendly ear. I was worried the way you left the East Room. Anything I can do, Doug?”

“Damn kind of you, Nat. Thanks. There’s nothing anyone can do for me tonight—except me.” Dilman tried to smile. “Believe me, Nat, I’d rather be talking to you than to the Attorney General. But he’s the one I’ve got to go downstairs to see.”

Nat Abrahams nodded agreeably. “Another time, then.” His eyes did not leave Dilman. “I’m not prying, Doug, but is everything all right?”

“Nat, everything is lousy, and I’m afraid it’ll get worse. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you about it someday soon. Anyway, what was that girl singing in there before? Yes. ‘I’ll lie in de grave and stretch out my arms’ and ‘Lay dis body down.’ That’s what I’d like to do tonight, Nat.”

“Not yet, Doug.”

“No, not yet. . . . Good night, Nat. And, Nat. Don’t let your kids grow up to be President. They deserve better. Remember that.”

ADDRESS OF THE PRESIDENT AT THE FOUNDERS’ DAY CEREMONY, TRAFFORD UNIVERSITY, NEW YORK, AFTER RECEIVING AN HONORARY DEGREE IN PHILOSOPHY.

COPIES OF THIS SPEECH ARE BEING DISTRIBUTED TO THE PRESS AT TRAFFORD UNIVERSITY AND FROM THIS OFFICE.

Chancellor McKaye, my fellow citizens:

It is a great pleasure for me to participate in this ninety-second celebration of the founding of your illustrious school. I am deeply gratified by the academic distinction being conferred upon me. This is not simply because the award has been given by a Negro university to one who is Negro, but because the award has been given by an institution—whose program and teachings have risen above the narrow confines of racial thinking—to one who is working as an American member of our national community and not as an Afro-American member of our country.

Indeed, it is about our relationship to our nation as a whole, as Americans, and nothing else, that I wish to address you today. You are aware of the racial unrest in our country. You are aware, also, that the Department of Justice and I have been studying evidence of the activities of these super-government, super-American societies and organizations, composed of extremists of the right and left, of white and black, responsible for fomenting such dangerous unrest in these critical . . .

IT
was a cool, shining autumn morning, and President Dilman, feeling slightly ridiculous in his tasseled mortarboard and warmed by his dark gown, sat comfortably on the outdoor, flag-decorated stage, basking in the sun, only partially attentive to Chancellor McKaye’s laudatory introduction.

Except for the Washington press corps, predominantly white, seated in rows down to his left, busily engaged in reading and marking the mimeographed advance release of his address which Tim Flannery had passed out minutes before, the sea of faces stretching before and around him was black. The faculty and alumni, the ones he could see clearly because they were directly below in folding chairs, appeared interested and hospitable. The mass of the student body beyond, crowded and standing (and Julian probably among them, having rejected a place on the platform), represented a jagged inky blur offering no visible clue to its friendliness or hostility toward him. The fact was, they were there, orderly and silent, and to Dilman this seemed a good sign.

While he was no judge of crowds, Dilman guessed that there must be more than three thousand persons present, an amplitude of humanity that blanketed every foot of the rectangular grassy quadrangle, and the walks and shaded malls leading into it as well. What gave the scene its added dignity, even majesty, were the old stone buildings, vine-covered, rising behind the audience, the Social Science Building, Medgar Evers Memorial Library, the School of Law Building, and Garrison Hall, the student union.

Trafford University was, he told himself again, a gracious and resplendent school and campus. He would never understand why Julian had not made peace with it.

He shifted in his chair to enjoy the sun more, and was surprised again at the lack of tension and fatigue in his body. Certainly he had every reason to feel tired. His administrative duties in recent days had been hectic. He had affixed his signature to the African Unity Pact, previously ratified by the Senate. He had, after some brief soul-searching, allowed the insulting New Succession Bill to become law, not with the approval of his signature but by letting it remain in his desk drawer for ten days and a Sunday, whereby it had automatically become a statute. He had released, through Flannery, his only comment on the New Succession Bill: that he had not been able, in good faith, to sign it or yet to veto it. Since he doubted its constitutionality, he preferred it to be the House’s law and the Senate’s law until it could be judged properly by the Supreme Court in the first test case that should arise.

Certainly, too, he had had every reason for feeling worried in recent days. The White House press room, and his own Oval Office, had been filled with nerve-racking reports about the Hurley trial, the pros and cons on the possible banning of the Turnerite Group, the latest outbreaks of racial violence in Raleigh, Fort Lauderdale, Wichita, Oklahoma City, Cincinnati, Houston, San Diego, Oakland. He had not looked forward to this visit to Trafford, to the potentially explosive announcement he would make on this occasion, and, equally disagreeable, to the private confrontation with his son.

Yet here he was, and it was not bad at all. He felt relaxed. He felt welcome among his own. The speech would likely be well received. And as for Julian, whom he had seen momentarily with the reception committee, that small, reticent boy seemed utterly miscast for the violent role that Leroy Poole had said he was playing. Yet, reconsidering the last, Dilman retained one misgiving: would Poole have dared hurl such a charge as a lie, knowing how easy it would be for him to check it out?

Suddenly, he heard the words “—give you, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”

He realized that the learned, dusky face of Chancellor McKaye was turned toward him, that there was scattered applause from up front, and that his turn had come at last.

Dilman rose, accepted his degree, accepted the Chancellor’s handshake. Then, putting the beribboned degree aside, he mounted the rostrum, extracting his triple-spaced typed speech from beneath his gown, placed it on the lectern under the curve of microphones, and smiled at the unsmiling black sea stretching before him. “Chancellor McKaye, my fellow citizens—” he began, hearing not his voice but its curious echo in this building-encircled outdoor arena.

The first of the speech went well, he felt. Although Talley, Flannery, Kemmler had all had a hand in the writing of it, had in fact written it, the third sentence had been inserted by himself, after a discussion with Nat Abrahams. This was the sentence about his pride in not being honored as a Negro by a Negro university, but in being honored as a fellow American by a distinguished school of learning that had broadened and risen above racial chauvinism.

Now, a little more uneasily, but keeping his voice deliberate and clear, he entered upon the controversial portion of his address. What he might say had been speculated upon in the press, on the airwaves, the entire week. Today what he said would be official. T. C.’s advisers had agreed that the announcement be made in his speech at Trafford University, because the atmosphere would be one of intellect and reason, and because the audience would be largely Negro, receptive to him, proud of him.

Now, as his eyes skipped to the words ahead, his voice faltered. He was not used to announcing agonized-over decisions in public. But there it was, in unmodified pica lettering on the page beneath the microphones, already released to the press, and he must read what had been written. Controlling his voice, enunciating with care, he plunged ahead.

“You are aware, also, that the Department of Justice and I have been studying evidence of the activities of these super-government, super-American societies and organizations,” he read, “composed of extremists of the right and left, of white and black, responsible for fomenting such dangerous unrest in these critical times when we must preserve unity and peace at home to maintain strength abroad.”

He held his breath, and then, leaving his deliberate manner behind, rushed in where former Presidents had feared to tread.

“Extraordinary challenges to our way of life, we have decided, must be met promptly and firmly by extraordinary countermeasures within the law. Drastic crimes against our government must be met and punished by drastic executive action. Recently, whatever its motivation, a deplorable crime occurred in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A county judge was kidnaped and taken across two state lines, to be held for human ransom. The leader of the abduction was caught by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and is now standing trial, and his individual case will be decided, without prejudice, on its own merits. The concern of your government, however, has been with the factors behind the crime itself.”

He no longer looked up from the printed words. His gaze was directed to the carefully prepared text. He read from it with measured emphasis.

“Irrefutable evidence, examined by objective minds, has made it clear that the Federal crime was not perpetrated by irresponsible individuals, but was an act of organization policy. The abduction, we now know, was committed by the activist Turnerite Group, which has been financially backed by the Communist Party, as the first act in a premeditated strategy to subvert our laws, our country, and take the administration of justice into its own hands. Such activity cannot be permitted in a democratic government by the people, of the people, for the people. And so, to halt its cancerous spread, and with full knowledge of my accountability to our tradition of civil liberties, I take this occasion to announce to my fellow Americans that I am invoking the Subversive Activities Control Act against the leadership and membership of the Turnerite Group. As of eleven o’clock this morning, the Turnerite Group is outlawed and banned, and any further activity of any nature by its members will be regarded as criminal and dealt with under the statutes that provide—”

There was a thin crackling sound that interrupted Dilman, a sound similar to that of an eggshell breaking, and it distracted Dilman and made him lift his face to the microphones. He saw at once that it had been an egg, a raw egg that had hit the microphones, broken and splattered, now spilling its liquid yolk down upon the page of his manuscript.

Bewildered, he looked out over his audience and saw that a curious thing was happening before his eyes. The black mass, so inert, so silent, had come alive like dark amoebae breaking apart, moving, under a giant microscope lens. The rear two-thirds of the throng was surging forward, pushing and upending the faculty and dignitaries from their folding chairs on the fore part of the campus lawn.

Suddenly there were red, white and blue signs and banners rising above the dark, animated pack of three thousand. Squinting, Dilman could make out the crude, savage lettering on one sign, then another, and another, and still another:
GO HOME, UNCLE TOM!. . . HE’D RATHER BE WHITE THAN BE PRESIDENT!. . . BLACK JUDAS! GIVE BACK YOUR THIRTY PIECES!. . . DILMAN, WIPE OFF THE BURNT CORK! SHOW YOUR TRUE FACE!. . . TWO RAT FINKS—DILMAN AND ZEKE MILLER!!

And, assaulting him like so many angry black fists, from beneath the signs, behind them, around them, he could hear a single choral chant screamed out by the infuriated horde: “Down with traitor Dilman! Down with traitor Dilman! Down with traitor Dilman!”