Alternate Gerrolds (4 page)

The founder of the John Birch Society insisted publicly that the president was a Communist agent; that was the only logical explanation for the floundering of America—Stevenson was trying to bring the country to its knees so that the Soviets could triumph without firing a shot. “Khrushchev says that he will bury us—and Adlai Stevenson wants to hand him the shovel.” Stevenson’s response: “No, I’m a capitalist. I’ll sell him the shovel.” But the joke fell flat. It’s a bad sign when even the press corps doesn’t laugh at the president’s jokes. Even worse, the late night TV talk show hosts, Steve Allen and Jack Paar, were starting to make jokes that were hostile to the president. Those jokes would be repeated in a hundred thousand stores and offices the next day and the day after that.

And then, that grandstanding little son of a bitch—the congressman from Van Nuys—stood up in the House of Representatives and introduced a Bill of Impeachment. He charged the president with “non-feasance in office,” whatever that was. Maybe he’d meant it as a joke to call attention to the rampant hostility on the Hill, or maybe he’d intended it as a way to get himself a little public attention, or maybe he’d meant it only as a political stunt, deliberately designed to embarrass the president—or maybe he just meant it.

Whatever the case, the press took it seriously. And because the press took it seriously, so did the American public. And within two weeks, a House Committee was drawing up Articles of Impeachment and holding hearings. The House Republicans were still angry over the slapping down they’d gotten over the Committee on Un-American Activities, so they were only too happy to go after the egghead—“You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggheads.”

But there was no support on the left side of the aisle either. The Democratic party’s unity was fractured so badly, there was talk it might break apart into two new parties. The South wanted out because Hubert Humphrey, that babbling little Porky Pig senator from Minnesota, had been trying to introduce a civil rights plank into the party platform every year since 1948. And the closing of unnecessary military bases all over the country had further undermined the president’s support in every town that had lost jobs as a result. The shutting down of all those unnecessary air-defense and missile-building projects hurt Southern California the worst. And Detroit was claiming that the administration’s rigid insistence on auto-safety standards and smaller cars and gasoline efficiency had shut down half the assembly lines in America, so he couldn’t depend on much support from Labor.

But, an impeachment—at least that was something that Americans could agree on. Adlai Stevenson’s campaign pledge had abruptly come home to haunt him: “We’re going to demonstrate to the entire world how democracy really works.”

The broadcast concluded with a recap of last Friday’s uproar in the House of Representatives and the mean-spirited vote to impeach. The Senate was already organizing for the trial. From where I sat, they looked like a bunch of kangaroos laying railroad tracks to oblivion.

Cronkite hadn’t told it all; he’d missed a lot of the backstage squabbling and infighting; but he’d replayed most of the worst news—and in retrospect, the cumulative weight of it was crushing. Even I found myself wondering, “Maybe the president is right.” Maybe it’s impossible to continue under these conditions and unfair to the American people even to try.

Abruptly, I knew what I wanted to write. I rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter and quickly tapped out,
“The problems of America and of the free world demand the full attention of our elected leaders. This country needs a full-time executive. It is unfair to the nation and
to the office of the presidency to continue trying to operate in the current atmosphere of public dissatisfaction and distrust. Accordingly, this Friday, at twelve o’clock noon, I shall resign the office of the presidency.”

I wondered how long Vice President Kennedy would last in front of the jackals. Already he was a laughing stock for marrying that silly blonde actress from Hollywood. (The new Monroe Doctrine: “Ooh, ooh, aaaahhhhh.”)

Never mind that. I rolled another sheet of paper into the typewriter.

I looked at the two speeches, side by side. Not quite my best—I would have preferred a few more jokes; but neither of these speeches lent themselves to the famous Stevenson wit. I put each one into a folder and headed up the hall to the Oval Office.

His secretary looked red-eyed, as if she had been crying, but she just nodded at me without actually meeting my eyes. The door was standing half-open. “Go on in,” she said.

I knocked on the door and pushed in. “Mr. President?”

He was sitting at his desk, reading through a stack of leather-bound briefing books. He held up a finger, a familiar “wait-a-minute” gesture,” while he finished reading. He nodded, initialed the book, scribbled something on it, closed it and put it in the out basket. He looked old, much older than his years—and tired too. But that was a given; nothing aged a man like the presidency. Almost automatically, President Stevenson reached for the next one, opened it, checked out the summary page, then closed it again and put it aside on his desk. At last, he looked up at me. “The work piles up. Even on the eve of impeachment.” He sighed. “What have you got for me?”

I passed across the two folders.

“Two drafts?”

“Two different speeches, sir.”

“I see.” He massaged his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then readjusted his glasses and opened the first folder. He read it quickly. “Well, that’s short and to the point.”

“I don’t think anything more than that needs to be said.”

“You’re probably right. Your judgment in these areas has always been on the nose. What’s the other speech?”

“Read it.”

He opened the second folder. I watched his features intently, looking for a clue to his reaction. He frowned, and at one point he shook his head, but I’d seen him do that even with speeches he approved of. At last, he finished and closed the folder. He laid it on top of the first one. “A good speech, Drew,” he said.

“But?”

“But nothing.”

I sat down in the chair opposite him. “Mr. President—don’t resign. It’ll look like weakness.”

“For what it’s worth, Vice President Kennedy agrees with you. He’s only forty, you know. I think he’s a little afraid of the responsibility. But he’ll handle it, I’m sure.”

“There’s nothing I can say, is there?”

“You said it all in the speech.”

“You don’t agree, do you?”

He shook his head.

“In one respect, you’re absolutely right. If I resign, it will weaken the office of the presidency for all who come after me. It
will
set a precedent.”

“And you don’t see that as a reason to fight?”

“No. If anything, it’s a better reason to resign. The office of the presidency has become much too powerful. Roosevelt was as close to a dictator as this country has ever had. Think of what he could have become if he had been motivated like Hitler. Maybe it’s time to rein in the presidency and make the office more responsible to the voice of the people. Maybe I can leave this country with a presidency that’s less
dangerous
.”

“You want to trust Congress with the future of the country?”

“The last I heard, that’s how democracy is supposed to work. We trust our elected officials.”

“Mr. President, resigning will destroy trust in the Democratic party. You know what that will do to the election process—it’ll give the Republicans a stampede.”

“The Democratic party is not America. And they’ll recover. They always do. Maybe after they’ve lost a few presidential contests they’ll lose some of their arrogance and rediscover some of their purpose. I hope so.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his nose again. “I’m tired. I’m beaten and I want to go home. I did my best. I’m not ashamed of that. But I know when it’s time to quit. It’s time.” He reached across the big
desk to shake my hand. “Thank you. You’ve done good work for me. I’ve always appreciated your loyalty and your advice.”

“Yes, sir.” It was a dismissal. I accepted his thanks perfunctorily and headed for the door. I suppose I should have thanked him for the chance to work for him, but I was hurting too badly. I could see why so many people hated him. Maybe the Republicans had been right all along. Adlai Stevenson was too smart to be president....

I headed down the hall, back to my office, and finally began doing what I should have done weeks ago. I started cleaning out my desk.

Adlai Stevenson had too much compassion and too much integrity, and he respected the so-called wisdom of the American people far too much to do any real good as president.

Okay, Mr. Stevenson. Go ahead. Resign. Forget the dream. Forget the promises. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the firestorm. Quitters are failures. A dumber man would have kept on fighting until he outlasted his enemies.

I slammed the last empty desk drawer in angry disgust. “Next time, I’m going to work for a man who’s too stupid to know when he’s beaten.”

Hmm.

The senator from California hadn’t declared yet, but he was certainly the front-runner for 1960, and many people were already looking to him to restore the nation’s pride and confidence in itself. They said he had the kind of stern statesmanlike quality the country needed right now. I didn’t particularly like the man, but he was a great poker player. He’d probably be one hell of a president. Best of all, he’d once remarked to me at a White House reception that he wished he had a speechwriter who could write an “Our Children” speech. At the time, I hadn’t given the comment any thought, but it was clearly a hint.

Okay, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about working for a Republican, but what the hell? I could learn. And Richard Nixon was exactly what this country needed and deserved.

—IS THAT THING ON? Good. Okay, go ahead. What do you want to know?

Kennedy, huh? Why is it always Kennedy? All this nostalgia for the fifties and the sixties. You guys are missing the point. There were so many better actors, and nobody remembers them anymore. That’s the real crime—that Kennedy should get all the attention—but the guys who made him look so good are all passed over and forgotten. Why don’t you jackals ever come around asking whatever happened to Bill Shatner or Jeffrey Hunter—?