Preserve and Protect (20 page)

He had sat for a moment longer at his desk in the upstairs study, and then rose, as so many of his predecessors had before him, and walked out onto the balcony to stare across at the Washington Monument rising immaculate and perfect against the suffocating night. It had been another day in the nineties, no breeze stirred, the heat still lay heavy on Washington. He thought of many things and many men, and sighed. There was never peace in this house. Never.

Why, then, did so many want it, and why did even he, who had come to it unexpectedly and without desire, find himself perilously close to wanting it too?

Now, after a reasonably sound sleep, he had awakened to a day that seemed everywhere, and particularly in this sad house, unusually hushed and still. Everything was muted, there was little of the subdued but insistent stir and movement that he had already, in two short days in residence, come to recognize as characteristic of the White House as day began. His sister and brother-in-law in the next bedroom talked in quiet murmurs as they went about getting up. The knock of the valet on his door was startlingly loud. When the maid came with the breakfast trolley, the clink of silver on china and ice on glass seemed shattering. They ate on the balcony, and in the open air the hush over the city seemed as deep and complete as the silence in the house.

“Well,” he said finally, pushing back from the table, “if you’ll excuse me, I have an errand to perform.”

“Give her our love,” his sister said, and he nodded.

“I’ll be in my office, after. They want us to be downstairs at the door promptly at eleven-fifteen.”

“Yes,” his sister said.

Quietly he left the balcony, quietly he went along the corridor to the other wing, smiling briefly but not speaking to the two solemn-faced maids he met along the way, and the two Marines who stood at attention by the stairs. Outside the door he paused for a moment to talk to the Navy nurse who had taken up vigil when Beth Knox and Dolly Munson had finally gone home yesterday morning. Then he knocked gently, heard her soft voice bid him enter. This was what the pomp and circumstance came to, when all was said and done: a sad widow, looking at him with sad eyes.

“Lucille, my dear,” he said gravely, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. “How are you today?”

“Not—too bad, Bill,” she said, with a little effort, but managing. “I think I’m almost ready.” She gave him a fleeting, self-deprecating smile. “I’ve been ready since six a.m., actually.” She raised a hand that trembled noticeably and brushed her hair back above her right eye. “Now, isn’t that foolish of me?”

“No,” he said quietly. “It is not. May I sit down?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said hastily. “What will you think of me? Sit over there by the window and I’ll join you in a minute. The doctor says I’m to finish at least half my cereal, but”—and again the fleeting, sad little smile—“it isn’t easy.”

“I think he’s right,” he said, sitting on one of the sofas that faced each other across a rich ruby Aubusson. “It’s going to be a difficult day.”

At this comment, perhaps too blunt and unvarnished, but characteristic, she looked genuinely amused for a second.

“Dear Bill,” she said. “Dear old Mr. Speaker!” Then the animation faded, the sadness rushed back. “I wonder,” she said quietly, “if I’ll get through it.”

“Of course you will,” he said; and, deliberately using the name: “Harley would expect you to.”

For a moment he thought she might break down, but then it had the effect he hoped it would. She sat up straighter and took another spoonful of cereal with a thoughtful expression.

“Yes,” she said presently, “he would. And of course I will. It won’t last too long anyway, will it?”

“About two hours,” he said. “We ride to the Capitol to get the—where the procession forms—and then back down through town to the bridge and over to Arlington—and then perhaps half an hour—and then that’s it.”

“That’s it,” she echoed bleakly. “That’s it. Oh, Bill, I—”

“Now,” he said, rising quickly, “suppose you abandon the rest of that cereal as a lost cause and come over here with me. We have things to discuss. Come along, now.” And he put a hand under her arm and helped her stand up, which she managed somewhat shakily, but dutifully, as though she were an obedient little girl. “Now,” he said, when she was seated facing him across the glowing rug, “what are you and I going to do to make sure that this country goes along the way Harley would have wanted it?”

“Yes,” she said, and he was relieved to see that she was really considering the question, with an interest that brought back a little of her usual rosy warmth, “yes. I’ve been doing some thinking about that, Bill. I think you’ve done very well, so far—what you’re doing overseas I think is what my husb—what Harley—would have done. I hope you won’t let them scare you out of it.”

“Scare me?” he asked with a mock-chiding disbelief. “Lucille!”

“Well, I know you won’t,” she said, with a smile that he was pleased to note was more like herself. “I can’t imagine anybody scaring the Speaker out of anything. Particularly now,” she added—and for a second she hesitated and he realized that she was making a real effort as she ended firmly—“now that he is the President.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “But there are vicious forces loose, Lucille. Vicious and dangerous.”

She shivered and her eyes widened with remembered horror.

“Yes, I know. They were outside this house Sunday night. Oh, Bill!” she said urgently. “Do be careful, do be careful!”

“I shall,” he promised grimly.

“They killed Harley, didn’t they?” she asked, and for a long moment he did not answer, staring moodily out the window at the green trees, the Monument, the hot, dull sky overcast with intimations of thunderstorms to come.

“I don’t know, Lucille,” he said finally, “I can’t honestly say that. The commission is already finding some strange things. A couple of the crew were involved in a Communist group in Annapolis, there’s a lead into the ground crew in San Francisco that may develop something, the body of a man with a gun was found among the victims—”

“No!” she protested in a horrified voice. “Then they—they weren’t going to take any chances, were they? If it didn’t happen one way, it would happen—”

“Now, Lucille,” he said firmly, “you must not, you must not, let yourself get into that kind of thinking. All that we actually know is that Air Force One crashed because of some sort of malfunction. We have no evidence as yet of any genuine conspiracy, or any kind of plot, or anything. There are coincidences that are strange, but that’s all we know. Until we know more, I don’t think you should let yourself brood about it, because that way lies nothing but pain and unhappiness for years to come.”

“I think Ted Jason knew about it,” she said, almost in a whisper, and again he replied sharply and firmly.

“I think Ted Jason is a fool about certain things, but I don’t think—don’t think and won’t say, and wouldn’t want you ever to think or say, either—that he was in any way knowingly involved in Harley’s death. Ted’s an ill-advised and perhaps ill-fated man in many ways, but I don’t believe that he would ever let himself be pushed that far. The irony of it is, of course,” he added with a grim little smile, “that if the people who may have been responsible ever find the heat getting too much for them, they’ll turn on him and try to make it appear that he did know. That’s the type they are,” he said with a sudden savage distaste. “Scum of the scum of the earth.”

“They’re going to cause trouble for Orrin, aren’t they?”

He nodded.

“Surely. I think the convention was only the beginning. I think we’re going to have many tense times before this is over, Lucille. And perhaps for years after that, if it doesn’t come out the way they want.”

“How horrible they are,” she said softly. “They want to destroy this country, I think.”

“I think so too. I took an oath, though, you know, to preserve, protect and defend, and by God, I’m going to do it. And so is Orrin, if he gets it. And even, so is Ted, if he gets it, unless he’s absolutely worthless. And I don’t think he is.”

“No,” she agreed with a wan little smile. “I suppose he isn’t, really. He’s like everything else in America, all mixed up between good and bad.…What do you want me to do, Bill? I’ll do anything you say.”

For a moment he looked at her thoughtfully. Then he smiled affectionately and shook his head.

“Nope. I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’ve always thought Lucille Hudson was one of the smartest politicians in this town. I expect you’ll know what to do when you decide the timing is right. I’ll just wait and be surprised like everybody else.”

“Well,” she said, and he could tell from her pleased expression that for the moment, at least, she was taken out of herself and her grief, “I’ll just have to see what seems best.”

“I’m sure instinct will tell you,” he said. “What will you do, Lucille? Go back to Michigan?”

“Oh, no,” she said promptly, and it was obvious that she had been giving this a lot of thought, too. “There’s nothing for me there, any more, and here, at least, I can stay in the swing of things and still be part of what’s going on. For the time being, I’m going to be with the Munsons.”

“Are you,” he said. “That will be nice for you. And nice for them.”

“Yes,” she agreed, looking excited and taken out of herself for a moment by the prospect. “You know that guest house Dolly has at ‘Vagaries,’ down the slope toward the greenhouse. It’s all furnished and ready to occupy, with its own drive and entrance and all, so that I can be close to them and be with them when I want, but not be a burden. And Harley—left enough—so that money’s no problem. And also, I suppose I get a—a pension from Congress, so I should be quite comfortable there, I think. For a while, at least. I may get my own place later.”

“I think it’s an excellent idea. And Lucille—you’re always welcome here, you know. My sister and brother-in-law are going to be with me, and we’d all like to have you here just as often as you can.”

“Thank you, Bill,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I have so many good friends in Washington.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, “and don’t you ever forget it. And now, my dear,” he said gently, standing up and holding out his hand, “I’ve got to get back to the office and tend to some things before we go to the Hill.”

“Of course,” she said, her voice getting shaky again as she accompanied him to the door. “Downstairs at eleven-fifteen, is that right?”

“That’s right,” he said gravely. “Are your daughters and their families coming here, or do you want us to pick them up at the Carlton?”

“They’re coming here in a few minutes,” she said, her eyes filling again. “They wanted me to stay over there with them these past three days, but I—I wanted to stay here until—until—”

“Of course you did.” He kissed her again. “Now, my dear—be brave for a little longer, and the ordeal will be over.”

“It won’t be too bad, will it?” she asked in a tiny voice, like a child seeking reassurance.

“No,” he said gravely. “It won’t be too bad.”

But in this, of course, he was mistaken, for it was not a world nor a century that permitted the decent the privilege of being left in peace. It was a world of horrors in a century of evil, and on this day as on some others, all of its pretenses were stripped away and nothing but the glaring skeleton of mankind’s hope looked out upon its ghastly spiritual desolation.

However, the funeral of Harley M. Hudson, late President of the United States, began in relative calm and dignity, and for a time it appeared that it would continue so to the end. Lucille was at the door at eleven-fifteen, white and trembling but holding her head high. Her two daughters, her sons-in-law and the five grandchildren were at her side. The President, his sister and his brother-in-law joined them a moment later. Senator Munson and Dolly, representing the Senate (Bob having been elected president
pro tempore
following the death of Senator Cooley) were with them, as were Representative Swarthman and Miss Bitty-Bug, representing the House, which had not yet had time to elect a successor to the Speaker. The Chief Justice and his eight associates came next, Tommy Davis tossing the President an archly defiant little glance as they formed in procession to go out to the limousines. Secretary of State Knox, Beth and his Cabinet colleagues and their wives, followed by the dean of the diplomatic corps and his wife, completed the White House party.

At eleven-thirty exactly, the first limousine, carrying the President, his sister and Mrs. Hudson pulled slowly away from the steps, the others following in evenly spaced procession. Slowly the cortege moved down the curving drive lined on both sides with the men of Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines standing rigidly at attention; turned right past Albert Gallatin and the Treasury, right again and down the short incline, and then left along Pennsylvania Avenue past thousands upon thousands of silent citizens, and the rigid double row of servicemen standing at ten-foot intervals all the way to the Capitol, looming on its hill a mile to the east.

There the members of the White House party left their cars and walked up the worn stone steps to the rotunda where more than half a million people of all races had filed past Harley’s coffin during the twenty-four hours it had lain in state there, a tally that rather surprised some of Harley’s critics who had thought he was as unpopular with his fellow citizens as he was with them. (Another 110,000 had paid their respects in the East Room of the White House before the body was moved to the Capitol.) Inside in the hushed chamber with the great dome soaring above, the light filtering down upon the catafalque and the grave faces of the dignitaries, the Senate, the House and the heads of foreign states joined the party. Then the flag-draped coffin was carried slowly down the steps and placed on the caisson drawn by eight matched grays. The cortège reassembled in its limousines, orders rang out in the still, humid air; the beat of muffled drums began, and with a slow, implacable, heart-shattering dignity, yet another President of the United States began his last journey down Capitol Hill.

Again the cortège moved slowly, slowly, along Pennsylvania Avenue to the Federal Triangle, past solemn-faced young servicemen and silent thousands (quite a few, reporters noted, were weeping, though it was only for bumbling old Harley Hudson, that poor excuse for a President); slowly it turned left into Constitution Avenue, moved slowly past the great federal buildings and more thousands standing hushed and respectful; turned left and, at Lucille’s request, left again and around the east side of the Lincoln Memorial so that for a moment the statue of the saddest of all Presidents looked down upon the somber passage of his distant successor; moved slowly across Memorial Bridge toward Lee Mansion and Arlington National Cemetery on their soft green hills; and there, under the sullen heat of a sullen sky, met the anguish of the age as another procession, led by a hearse and seeming to materialize out of nowhere, shot from the left through the surprised, unsuspecting ranks of military and police and careened alongside the Presidential cortege with horns blaring, riders screaming and placards waving.