(1964) The Man (84 page)

After she had gone, Nat Abrahams filled his pipe, settled into the chair between the couch and television set, and smoked as he watched the screen. There was a close shot of Representative Zeke Miller rising from his bench, notes in his hand, grinning, waving a greeting to someone, then addressing the chairman and the House.

“My honorable colleagues,” Miller was saying, “we on the Judiciary Committee who have recommended this distressing action are not unconscious of our responsibility to our constituents, and to our traditions of justice. We are fully aware that this is only the second occasion in two centuries that it has been found necessary to bring such all-fired powerful proceedings against a Chief Executive of the United States. It is for us a distasteful undertaking. Yet we must have the courage to face our duties and back up our convictions. We must accept the shocking facts as they have come to us, and we must elevate our patriotic concern for our beloved America’s future above any sentimental concern over a single weak and dangerous—yes, downright dangerous, for the tyranny of the weak is the worst tyranny of all—individual. Aware as we are that we may face the opprobrium of the squeamish, as well as the protests of Communist appeasers, misguided and devious liberals, sanctimonious and professional minority lovers, we must suffer their slings and arrows to perform the greater good. We beg you not to let your intelligence be hamstrung by the propagandists, but to permit cool reason to accept and weigh the incontrovertible facts in this case.”

The camera revealed a close-up of Zeke Miller, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, gulping water from a glass, and then it held tightly on him as he continued.

“In speaking of the one who was the object of another Presidential impeachment in another time, namely, Andrew Johnson, two of our predecessors in this very chamber, both from the great state of Illinois, remarked that the object of the impeachment was ‘as mendacious as he is malignant,’ that ‘this nation has been too long disgraced by this man, this accidental President. Let him be removed.’ I say, let that wise American injunction guide us in our deliberations today.”

On the television screen, Miller consulted his notes, and then looked up. “Allow me to elaborate on the four major points in our resolution for impeachment, one by one in their order, and offer to you the evidence of how President Douglass Dilman has degraded himself and debauched our democratic government, through reptilian cunning and unsavory habits. Let us begin with our first charge, the astounding and appalling conduct of this accidental President of the United States in his relationship with the mulatto female, an employee of the Soviet Union, known as Miss Wanda Gibson, and the serious consequences of this allegedly illicit relationship. First of all—”

With a start, Nat Abrahams became aware of Wanda’s presence behind him. She was standing stock-still, holding the tray of coffee, cream, sugar, her hurt eyes trained on the television screen.

Every instinct of decency impelled Nat Abrahams to rise swiftly, putting himself between Wanda and Miller. He reached to the set, found the right knob, and turned it off. Miller’s harangue was interrupted in mid-sentence, his image blotted from view.

Wanda closed her eyes briefly, then said, “Thank you, Nat.” As he pulled his chair to the coffee table, she inquired, “Cream and sugar?”

“Sugar. I need it.”

He laid his pipe in the ashtray and began to drink the coffee.

Wanda Gibson circled the coffee table. “Doug telephoned me from Cleveland last night, after the speech,” she said. “He didn’t want to talk about that though, only to find out if I’d read Reb Blaser’s column in the Miller paper. He’d read it. Apparently it appears in Cleveland too. Have you seen it?”

“I don’t read Blaser’s column,” Abrahams said.

“You should, because lots of others do, and they’re people too, and they have as much to say as we do.” She plucked the folded newspaper off an end table. “You want to hear the column? Well, the first paragraph, anyway. The heading says, ‘The Red and The Black.’ Then it goes on, ‘Now then, good citizens, if our illustrious President has done nothing else during his short term in office, he has revived an interest in the classics, especially in Stendhal’s
The Red and the Black
. The difference is that Douglass Dilman has rewritten the sordid and immoral French yarn, and given it a peculiarly modern twist. The Red, in the new version, is the infamous Soviet undercover agent, Franz Gar, and the Black is his executive office assistant, Wanda Gibson, the comely Negro paramour of the President of the United States.’ ” She lifted her eyes. “Enough?”

“Too much, considering the source,” said Abrahams. He hesitated, frowning, and then he said, because he felt she was one that he could tell the truth to, “Wanda, you’ve got to steel yourself for more of the same. This could be only the beginning.”

“Oh, I know.” She sat down, one hand massaging the other. “I’ve turned away two dozen photographers and reporters today.”

Abrahams put down his coffee cup, and took up his pipe. “Mind?”

“Please—”

He passed a lighted match over the tobacco. “I’m here to help you, if you require help, not only because Doug wants it, but because I want it.”

“That’s kind of you, but—”

“Wanda,” he went on, “I’m not interested in newspaper dirt, any more than you or Doug should be. I’m interested in seeing that you are treated fairly under the law. I’ve already been to the Department of Justice. I’ve been assured that there is absolutely no evidence in their files that would enable them to charge you with being a Communist. As of today, Justice has no plan to prosecute you in any way. Yet, inevitably, you will be questioned, and I wanted to see you before that begins.”

“Too late,” she said calmly. “It’s already begun.”

“Who?”

“The legal counsel for the House Judiciary Committee, a Mr. Wine. He was here at the crack of dawn today, with aides, to hand me a subpoena. Either I had to appear before the subcommittee, or testify before him and sign my statement. That’s what I did, the last.”

“What did he want to know?” Abrahams demanded hastily.

“Everything. Where I was born, educated, how I lived, jobs, family, everything. Most of it was about Doug and myself, when and where we met, how often we saw one another when he was a senator, after he became President, how frequently we talked on the telephone, how—”

“How many times did you see Doug after he became President?”

“Only once, I’m sorry to say, once and no more. He came here to offer me a job in the White House. I turned it down. Of course, we had a number of telephone conversations.”

“What else were you asked?”

“Exactly what our conversations were about. That Mr. Wine was so obvious and embarrassing, all those suggestive questions. Did Doug tell me about what went on in the Oval Office, at Cabinet meetings, the National Security Council meetings, and so forth? Did I discuss Doug with my employer?”

“What did you tell him, Wanda?”

“The truth. What else was there to tell? I have heard no secrets, so I had none to pass on. I doubt if Franz Gar even knew Doug was a friend of mine. Then—then all kinds of nasty stuff about my having lived here when Doug did—both of us under the same roof—the illicit love routine.”

“I hope you told him to—”

“To drop dead? No. I’m a straightforward person, a defect of mine, but it makes sleep easier. I said the President and I never had an affair. We have known each other nearly five years, and he has never done anything more aggressive than kiss me, embrace me, hold me, hold my hand, and that yes, we have always been fully clothed in one another’s company. Good Lord, you know Doug as well as I do. To him, all women are Vestal Virgins, unless sanctioned by the church and state to procreate. That’s why I almost laughed at their other charge of immorality—Doug, the libertine, trying to rape that daughter of Senator Watson. Can you imagine them swallowing that?” She halted and looked hard at Abrahams. “No one will believe that, or the things about me, will they?”

Abrahams shifted uneasily. He could never lie to this woman. “People believe what they want to believe, Wanda.”

She was immediately disturbed. “Then you think he might be impeached? He doesn’t think it is possible.”

“Anything is possible, but he is most likely correct in his estimate of it. This may amount to no more than a means of public censure. I did some superficial browsing on the subject this morning. Impeachments by the House of Representatives are few and far between, Since 1797, the House of Representatives has considered innumerable impeachment charges, yet voted to send Articles of Impeachment to the Senate only twelve times in history.”

“
Only
twelve times,” repeated Wanda, aghast. “I thought only once—Andrew Johnson.”

“No. He was the one President ever impeached. But the House has the right to consider impeachment of other civil officers, too. Besides President Johnson, impeachments were voted against an associate justice of the Supreme Court, a secretary of war, a senator, and eight Federal judges.”

“What happened to the twelve who were impeached? Was that the end of them?”

“God, no, Wanda. Impeachment by the House is not a trial but a hearing. If the majority of the House votes against the evidence, the whole matter is dropped for the time, although the House brought impeachment proceedings against Andrew Johnson three times before it got a favorable vote. If the majority votes in favor of impeachment, that is but the first step. It means the person facing impeachment has been indicted for high crimes, and then, and only then, does his case go before the whole Senate, which is converted into a High Court, with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court presiding if the President is being tried. Then the person being impeached can have a defense, can retain a staff of attorneys—managers, they are called—to combat the charges of the House managers. Of the twelve men who have gone on trial before the Senate since 1797, eight were acquitted, and four were found guilty, all the guilty were judges, and none was punished beyond removal from office.”

“And eternal disgrace.”

“Yes, I suppose you might say that. The legislator who was impeached, Senator Blount, was not actually tried but was expelled from the Senate, because it was determined that a congressman was not strictly a civil officer.”

“To go back to one point you made, Nat. You said that many impeachment cases have been put before the House, like Doug’s today. Only twelve were sent to the Senate, you said. What happened to the rest?”

“The indictments did not gain a majority vote. They were not passed. Most of the time, however, civil officers whose names are introduced by the House for impeachment don’t let it come to a vote. For example, fifty-five Federal judges have been investigated for impeachment. Eight were impeached, eight were merely censured, twenty-two were acquitted, and seventeen simply resigned their offices and put an end to the proceedings.”

“Nat,” Wanda said quietly, “Doug told me that he was given a chance to resign yesterday—yesterday morning.”

Abrahams felt his hand tighten on the warm bowl of his pipe. “He was? I didn’t know that.”

“Arthur Eaton came to him on behalf of the others. Eaton told him to step aside or quit, on some health pretext, or—or be prepared for what’s going on today.” Wanda fiddled with the buttons of her blouse, eyes downcast. “Nat, you can do something for me, and for Doug. Make him resign. Please do it for both of us.”

Abrahams studied her unhappy profile. “Why, Wanda?” he asked.

She lifted her head, and her eyes had filled. “Because I—I love him—love him too much to see him stripped and tarred and feathered and lynched in front of the whole world. It’ll destroy him, and any happiness he—both of us—might have had. Please make him quit.”

Abrahams felt helpless. “If Eaton couldn’t make him resign, what makes you think I can, even if I believed it was for the best?”

“I know Doug, his sensitivity. Coming from Eaton, it was an insult, got his hackles up. Coming from you, his closest friend, he would listen, knowing you want the best for him.”

Abrahams sucked at his empty pipe, and thought about it. Finally he met her anguished gaze. He shook his head slowly. “Wanda, I truthfully don’t know what is best for him. If he sees this through, he has two chances to survive, to win, to prove he deserves to be President. If he quits now, he loses, he has no more career in public service, he admits incompetence and worse.”

“He’ll be
alive!
” she exclaimed fiercely. “Everyone on earth will know the professional haters forced him out because he is colored; everyone will know. He might conceivably be popular again, have supporters, come back. And if he didn’t, he could go into private law practice, and we could make a life for—”

“Wanda, you can’t decide this for Doug, and neither can I. Please believe me. Even if he has been goaded beyond common sense, no one can make such a pivotal decision for him. He must make it for himself. That’s all I can say to you.”

“Yes,” she said wearily.

Nat Abrahams wanted to comfort her, but further words would be useless. He rose, and went to the coat tree. As he pulled on his overcoat, he said, “I’ll be on my way. I’m at the Mayflower. I want you to promise me, if any more of the House investigators come snooping, you’ll pick up that telephone and summon me. No more answers to questions without legal counsel at your side. Will you promise?”

She said nothing.

“Wanda, it’s for Doug’s sake as well as your own,” he said sternly.

“I promise,” she said.

“Fine. Now, no more television, either. Keep yourself occupied. Not all of our congressmen are witch hunters. Let’s trust there is a majority who still cling to sensibility and decency. If there is, this will be as forgotten as a bad dream. I’ll see you soon, Wanda.”

“Thanks for everything.”

Not until he had fully emerged into the cold afternoon, and gone down the walk to his car, did he realize how relieved he was to escape Wanda’s problems and Doug Dilman’s problems and the whole impossible situation. Closing himself into his sedan, he felt momentarily insulated from all constricting, suffocating evil, and grateful that he was the lucky person he was, free of torture and punishment, free to return to his untroubled and loving mate, to a new career that promised him wealth and security, to a life unfettered by savage scandal and constant cruelty. Never had he been more grateful than now for being who he was, with so snug and tidy a niche in so seething and blazing a world.