Promise of Joy (8 page)

“I was about to appoint a committee to escort him here,” the President remarked with some asperity, “but distinguished committeemen seemed to prefer arguing about it.”

“But you said ‘at such time as may be mutually convenient,’” Roger P. Croy pointed out, unabashed, “and that immediately created speculation.”

“Only by those who wished to create it,” the President said. “As a matter of fact, I understand the Secretary is ready to come here this afternoon. In fact, I have good reason to believe he may be on his way right now. In any event, I am going to appoint a committee to escort him here, and I would suggest that the committee meet him at Checkpoint Alpha rather than try to venture further from the Center. This will avoid,” he remarked, as distant amused hooting greeted the words, “possible uneasy moments for all concerned.”

“Will the nominee be sufficiently protected?” Blair Hannah inquired.

The President nodded, his face suddenly grim. “He will be, by troops who have orders to shoot to kill.”

“Mr. President,” Roger P. Croy said in a sad, unhappy tone, not facing him but staring somberly straight into the cameras, “can’t we have an end to all this talk of shooting and killing? Is there to be no end to it, even now, after all these horrors?”

“Talk to your friends,” the President said coldly. “It is up to them.”

“Mr. President!” Roger Croy said sharply, as along the press tables at the side of the room there ran a little current of whispered annoyance, and from the mob beyond there rose an abrupt shout of angry protest. “That is no way to talk to a member of this committee! Whoever has done these dreadful things in recent days, they are not friends of mine, nor friends of anyone on this committee, nor do any of us have any kind of allegiance or obligation to them. You owe me and all of us an apology, Mr. President. I demand it.”

“Apologies will come when apologies are due,” the President said with a deliberate indifference. Outside the room the angry protest rose again; inside, many looked annoyed. But he remained indifferent, having decided upon a course of action and not intending to be deflected from it. “To escort the nominee I appoint the distinguished committeeman from Illinois, Mr. Hannah; the distinguished committeewoman from Pennsylvania, Mrs. Baffleburg; the distinguished committeeman from Vermont, Mr. Boissevain; the distinguished committeewoman from Alabama, Mrs. Rupert; the distinguished committeewoman from South Dakota, Mrs. Jennings; and”—he exchanged looks with Roger P. Croy that brought some flicker of amusement to the audience—“the committeeman from Oregon, Governor Croy. I believe if you will now proceed to Checkpoint Alpha, you will find that the nominee is on his way.”

And such indeed appeared to be the case, for distant on the angry wind came a rising wave of shouts and screams and animal sounds that portended the arrival of someone mightily displeasing to the mob. In this fashion the nominee for President of the United States arrived at Kennedy Center, on a wave of imprecations, vilifications and obscenities from his fellow Americans; not exactly, as he remarked to his son and daughter-in-law, riding in the heavily guarded limousine with him, a triumphal progress, but the only kind that could be expected, given the situation in which they found themselves.

Nonetheless, for all that he managed to treat it with an outward lightness that got him and his children safely through it despite the jeering, hate-filled faces and the occasional egg or rock or brick that bounced off the car, such a response from his countrymen could not help but make him even more heartsick and depressed than he was already. Thus when they finally reached Checkpoint Alpha and were safely inside the military cordon, it was apparent to the searching eyes of the cameras and the press that Orrin Knox was a somber and unhappy man. It was also apparent, from the way in which he leaned heavily on Hal and Crystal, and the awkward way in which he walked, very slowly, very hesitantly, very painfully, that he was still a very sick man. But he was here; and after all the detrimental things had been duly noted by the media, and by the members of the welcoming committee who watched his halting approach with worried and in most cases genuinely upset expressions, a grudging note of admiration began to sound in the comments that went forth on the air, and to appear on the faces of those who watched.

The scene also had its effect in the Playhouse, where two television screens, one on each side of the podium, kept members of the Committee in touch with the outside world. By the time the slow little cavalcade had paused, so that the Knoxes could greet the welcoming committee—even Roger P. Croy, looking somewhat embarrassed, managing a reasonably friendly handshake—a mood of quite genuine warmth had begun to develop; and as they proceeded slowly to the elevators and ascended to the Playhouse, it continued to grow. By the time those in the room heard a stir in the hall, the crack of rifle stocks as the guards came to attention and muffled voices in deferential greetings, the mood was far more welcoming and receptive than anyone would have believed possible a scant fifteen minutes before. Outside, the ominous rumble of the mob continued to surge, a hostile and unrepentant sea. But inside the room where history was to be made Orrin Knox was in far better shape politically than he or his supporters had dared to hope.

When William Abbott said gravely, “Ladies and gentlemen, the next President of the United States!” and the doors swung open to reveal him standing, pale but erect, between his son and daughter-in-law, they found themselves instinctively on their feet, applauding, smiling, shouting their welcome.

Only a few remained aloof—some of the media, either personally unfriendly or professionally unimpressed; Patsy Labaiya, looking grim and unforgiving; Vasily Tashikov, on his feet but ostentatiously unapplauding. But these were hardly noticed in the wave of sentimental warmth that accompanied the family as they proceeded slowly down the aisle, slowly up the steps, to shake hands gravely with the President, giving him the quick, quiet smiles of old friendship, and then take their seats in the three chairs prepared for them at his left.

For a moment, while the cameras dutifully sought out the Munsons, the Maudulaynes, the Barres, Krishna Khaleel, Robert A. Leffingwell, Mr. Justice Davis and many another prominent face, the nominee stared out over the room as though he hardly sensed their presence at all. Gradually they grew silent as the more sensitive among them realized who he must be thinking about; but before the moment could become painful Hal touched his arm, he started, recognition returned, he smiled, more easily now, and acknowledged their greeting. The applause welled up again and drowned out the distant roar, still unabated in its hostility. Finally the applause died down and with it the discontented noises of NAWAC, as everyone began to concentrate, with an almost frightening intensity, on the man who sat, propping himself slightly forward to accommodate his obvious pain, at the left hand of the President.

“Members of the Committee,” William Abbott repeated gravely, “it is my privilege and pleasure to introduce to you the Honorable Orrin Knox of Illinois, next President of the United States.”

This time the applause, on the part of many, was more dutiful: but it came. Outside there was an automatic booing in response. Again it all died away and a profound, expectant silence settled gradually on the room, the city, the nation, wherever men and women listened—and there were many, many millions who did—to the nominee for President.

As always with Orrin, there was that first long, appraising moment during which he looked quietly at his audience, judged his approach, formulated it, prepared to deliver it; except that, this time, it took him a little longer because, this time, it was far more important. Emotionally, also, it was perhaps the hardest moment of all his long public career. The moment lengthened, tension rose. Finally he began, in a voice still somewhat shaky and weak but growing stronger as he went along.

“Mr. President,” he said, while beside him Hal and Crystal watched with an almost fiercely protective attention, “members of the Committee”—he paused, and with his next words, by the strange sentimental yet tough-minded alchemy of politics, they knew it was true beyond challenge, they knew there could really be no question whatsoever of removing him from the ticket—
“my
partners in this campaign:
on behalf of my family and myself”—his voice almost broke, then grew steadier—“and on behalf, I know, of Mrs. Jason—we wish to thank you all from our hearts for your expression of sympathy in this most trying hour for us. It means a great deal to have your sympathy and support. We are very grateful.…”

He stopped; obviously mastered powerful emotions; went on.

“And so now we meet again, to come to grips with the problem created, by party or parties unknown, for reasons not yet clear but certainly inimical to all that is good and hopeful in this democracy, for you and me.

“History will have its say about Edward M. Jason. I will say only that we had reached an accommodation—sincerely, I believe—that would have permitted us to campaign together and, had we won together, to govern this country effectively together.

“Now the central figure of that hard-fought, bitterly won compromise has been violently taken from us. And together you and I must find his successor. Without too much bitterness, I hope, and without too much political strife. Because we face a very hard battle to win, and to make our ideas prevail.”

There was a noticeable stirring in the room, and at the press tables the
Los Angeles Times
whispered to the
Cleveland
Plain Dealer, “Whose ideas
prevail?” “That’s the gist of it,” the
Plain Dealer
agreed moodily. “Whose ideas?”

The same thought had obviously occurred to the Committee, for it was clear, from Mary Baffleburg’s pugnacious face to Roger P. Croy’s openly moody visage, that the candidate had come more quickly and more directly than they had expected to the nub of it. He came even closer, startling them all, in his next words.

“I did not,” he said, and something of the tartness of the old Orrin crept back into his voice, “in my zeal to make my own ideas prevail, plot, plan, organize, or connive in, the murder of Edward M. Jason.”

There was an audible gasp from somewhere in the room, and from the mob outside a startled, annoyed and restless sound.

“And that,” he added quietly, and for just a moment his eyes came to rest on those of Walter Dobius, staring coldly at him from the press tables, “is the first, last and only comment I shall ever make upon
that
vile suggestion.… Members of the Committee,” he said, his tone suddenly conversational and candid, yet filled momentarily with an abrupt and unexpected tiredness, so that Hal rose quickly and stepped to his side, “you will forgive me if I favor my health a little, for the time being. I am on the mend and expect to be campaigning vigorously soon, but right now”—he smiled and shook his head, throwing himself upon their indulgence and understanding—“I must give in, a little. I think if you don’t mind, I shall sit down to deliver the rest of this.”

And as Hal quickly brought forward his chair and adjusted the microphone, he did so, obviously in some pain but managing to handle the situation with dignity. This did not prevent, however, a distinct shiver of dismay from running through his audience, and indeed through all friendly listeners everywhere. A certain triumphant note came into the noise from the park. At the press table Walter Dobius turned to Frankly Unctuous and murmured, “Absolutely impossible. Abso—lutely impossible!” “But they won’t get rid of him,” Frankly observed morosely. “No way.”

The knowledge that this was indeed true presently brought a quietness to the room again. Beyond its confines the concerned might question, the violent might agitate, the critical might complain. Inside, they knew that for better or worse their hopes were pinned now on the Secretary of State, who simply must get better, as he promised, because there was no one else. Much as some of them might have misgivings, much as Roger Croy might have enjoyed making mischief an hour ago, they all knew that they were drained and exhausted, both emotionally and politically, to the point where they simply could not go through again the sort of battle for the Presidential nomination that they had gone through with Orrin Knox and Ted Jason. It was impossible.

This did not mean, however, that the Vice Presidential nomination would go by default, or that there could not still be a vicious battle over it. To that eventuality the candidate now addressed himself.

“Mr. President and members of the Committee,” he said gravely, shifting a little in his chair with a fleeting grimace of pain, “it is customary for one in my position to recommend his running mate. Usually the recommendation has been accepted. Much less often, it has not. I hope today it will be.

“I have not consulted in any way with my choice for this position. Indeed,” he said simply, while the buzz of speculation raced over the room, “I have not been able. Yet I am convinced that the one I should like to have—if you agree with me—will serve, and willingly. I can think of no other who could more fittingly fill this position, more fairly and honorably perform the duties of Vice President and yes, if need be, the duties of President. I shall not waste time upon qualifications, for they will be obvious. I shall not waste time upon appeals for your support, for I hope it will be gladly forthcoming. I shall not embellish or expand. I shall simply give you a name, commend it to your most earnest consideration and hope you will agree.”

He paused to reach for a glass of water, deliberately building tension, and as Hal quickly handed it to him, his purpose was amply achieved. “God
damn
it,” NBC muttered to CBS, pretty well summing up the mood in the room and wherever Orrin’s words were heard, “will you get
on
with it!” “Orrin,” CBS said, not entirely without a grudging admiration, “still knows how to create an effect.”

After taking a quick sip of water, however, it appeared that he would not prolong it unduly. He took out a handkerchief, carefully wiped his lips, carefully put it away. Only a slightly heightened emphasis in his voice when he resumed revealed that he, too, was under tension; though why he should be, he told himself, he did not really know, since his next words would be the simplest and most obvious available—so simple and obvious, he hoped, that he would carry the Committee with him by acclamation.