The Redhunter (62 page)

Harry studied the face of his beautiful old confederate. There was an Irish resolution written in it: What is, is. And she
would stay there if it meant the rest of her life.

“I went with him to the office last week, just said I wanted to look around, say hello to the staff. You—I know you know—I’ve
been on a leave of absence. Not supposed to clock in there anymore. My salary is next to zero. Anyway, I watched him walking
down the Senate hall. Greets everybody like they’re his closest friend. You know, Harry, he hasn’t said
anything
—not
one word
—against any of the senators who voted censure—did you know that? Not
one
, never. Not even that white-haired old traitor Pat McCarran. There’re still one or two reporters who want to interview him.
Mostly he says to them, Go talk to Don Surine, or Ray Kiermas, or Mary Haskell. He tells them—”she smiled—“that they know
as much about all this stuff as he does at this point.”

“Any speaking engagements?”

“He gets a few requests. Almost always says yes. Then about five days before the date, he says no, not feeling up to it. He
told Mike Wallace yes on Mike’s new coast-to-coast program, and two days later I had to call and say—What did I say? He was
sick. Or he had to go to Geneva. I forget. Mike didn’t like it. It was his opening show. He got Jim Eastland.

“On the regular lecture business it’s Mary Haskell who has to relay the no, and some of the people go
crazy!
They’ve sold a lot of tickets, they’ve taken ads in the newspaper, they persuaded the principal
to introduce him, they’ve arranged for buses to bring in students from fifty miles away. Mary just says there’s nothing to
be done, doctor’s orders. Sometimes it’s somebody who knows Joe personally, and sometimes they get through to this number
here. When that happens I’ve got to say, ‘Joe’s asleep,’ or ‘Joe’s at the doctor’s office.’ Sometimes, if it’s somebody I
know he was close to, I put Joe on. He’s very sweet always, the old Joe. Says things like with his sinus the way it is he’s
not permitted to fly. They go away, after a while.”

“A lot of visitors?”

“Not many. Some of the old gang come in. Dirksen, Goldwater came last week, no, week before last. Forrest Davis was here just
last Sunday. He and Joe had a good-old time. He stayed for dinner, and after that they watched the
Ed Sullivan Show
together, laughed quite a lot. You staying for lunch, Harry?”

“You want me to do that, Jeanie?”

“If you want. I’ll fix it for three—Tierney’s asleep upstairs. Then if you think you ought to go on after visiting with Joe,
okay. If you stay for lunch, I’ll have something for you.”

“Okay.”

She led him into the study. Joe was seated in the armchair, the television on. He didn’t hear Jeanie until she raised her
voice. He turned and saw Harry.

“God-
damnit
, it’s good to see you, feller!” He rose from his seat and put his arm around Harry, who took his hand warmly.

Jean nodded to Harry. “I’ll get back to work. See you later.”

“It’s fine to see you, Joe.”

McCarthy’s eyes glistened with pleasure. Then, furtively, he raised his index finger to his lips. “Shhh!” he whispered.
“Follow me!”

Harry followed Joe out of the study into the kitchen. They could hear the vacuum cleaner on the second floor. Joe bent over
and opened the cabinet drawer under the sink. He ran his hand about the empty space. He stood up. His face was contorted.
Surprise, indignation, resolution.

He walked to the bottom of the staircase.

“Jeanie?
Jean-ie!
”

The vacuum stopped.

“Yes, Joe.” The voice came down from upstairs.

“Jeanie, it ain’t fitting what you did. That’s no way to treat Harry, come all this way from New York.”

There was a silence. Jean came down the stairs, walked to the corner of the kitchen, reached into her pocket for a key, and
used it to open her locker. She pulled out a bottle of vodka and, wordlessly, handed it to him.

“Thank you, Jeanie.”

She walked back upstairs. Joe turned to Harry. “Let’s go back in the study now, have a little good-old time.”

The following Thursday, back in New York, Harry turned on the television to look at the news. The announcer gave the bulletin
from the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Senator Joseph McCarthy was dead.

HANBERRY, 1991

“You went to the funeral, of course. Tell me about it.”

“Funny, the flight to Washington was overbooked that morning, and who should I bump into making a scene at the ticket counter—because
there wasn’t a seat there for some filly he was traveling with? David Schine. I had trouble, that day, exchanging civilities
with him. On that plane was me, dear Elena, who I married a month later, Schine, and maybe one hundred priests. I’m exaggerating,
of course, but they came from all over the country.”

“To concelebrate the mass? Or just to attend it?”

“Both. There wouldn’t have been room that day, even at St. Matthew’s, for all the clergy at the altar. Let’s say there were
fifty up there, the rest finding seats wherever they could in an absolutely packed church. The vice president came in, looking
solemn. They placed Nixon in the second row. Allen Dulles of the CIA was there; what must have been the whole Congress, maybe
excepting Senator Flanders, I guess; and a bunch of generals and admirals—you wouldn’t think they had been estranged by the
Army-McCarthy episode. Then an incredibly moving eulogy by a monsignor. The music was
something
, like wrestling with death itself. (The organist was obviously a McCarthyite.) Jeanie in black lace, resolute, beautiful,
stately. She did a very sweet thing. I was in maybe the tenth row, by the aisle. Walking down the aisle, solo, Vice President
Nixon behind her,
she spotted me. She put out her hand and brought me to her side, to walk down with her. The music turned tranquil, and we
emptied out to the crowd on the street, a million cameras. Just like the old days, only they weren’t shouting out questions.”

“Did you go on to the funeral in Appleton?”

“No. I didn’t much want to go. When he died, four or five newspapermen and radio and TV people hunted me down, wanted to question
me, Why had I resigned? et cetera, et cetera—I didn’t tell them anything, but I didn’t want to be stuck in Wisconsin where
I couldn’t have said no. They ran the Appleton funeral on TV, extraordinary outpouring. I haven’t figured it out even now;
Joe went from being almost forgotten to being treated with defiant love and honor. Not quite overnight stuff: There was a
quickie tribute in the Senate on the sixth of May—he died on the second—but they had a fullblown tribute in August, and you’d
have thought it was George Washington who died.”

“Any surprises?”

“Well, yes. There were his old favorites speaking, but a lot who weren’t. What was amazing was a kind of unanimity of sentiment
about how good he was to his fellow senators. A lot of them talked about Joe’s personal traits. It’s all published in a government
volume. I’ve got it here. Listen to Lyndon Johnson.

“Joe McCarthy had a rare quality which enabled him to touch the hearts and the minds of millions of his fellow men. One thing
that can never be disputed is that the name of Joe McCarthy will never be forgotten. There was a quality about the man which
compelled respect, and even liking, from his strongest adversaries’—”

“Well, that just plain isn’t true. You’ve shown me what some of those adversaries said about him—and what he said about them.”

“Yes, that’s absolutely true. But McCarthy’s attacks were always public. He never said anything mean about anybody unless
there was a camera there. Strangest thing. And that personal manner got through to them, affected their personal judgment.
And when Senator Johnson and those others spoke that day—there were thirty-three senators who gave tributes, half of them
Democrats—they were speaking for the record, and that is what they said. Quite a few of those who spoke had voted to censure
him. For instance, here’s Senator Stennis, old-guard South. ‘I was attracted to him through his
intense interest in humanity and his consistent and unvarying kindness, not only towards his colleagues, but towards everyone.’
”

Harry flipped the pages. “Here’s Senator Anderson. Clinton Anderson. No friend of McCarthy. ‘Generally, I never agreed with
his manner of expression nor subscribed to his selection of sentiments. But I never failed to understand where he stood; and
that steadfast quality of heart and mind is, I believe, of some value in this Chamber to the American people.’ ”

“ ‘
Selection of sentiments
.’ Oh, dear. Eulogy time.”

“But hang on, Alex. Anderson didn’t have to volunteer to say
anything
. It’s a very long list, the people who paid tribute. Crowned by—Everett Dirksen; king of Orotundity. He really put out. His
talk must have lasted twenty minutes. He told an interesting story. I knew about it because Jeanie had confided it to me.
But others didn’t. He told the assembly that when the debate on censure was raging, Joe’s arm acted up, and he was in the
hospital, his arm in a cast. Dirksen went to him. Here, let him tell it:

“ ‘The night before I visited him in the hospital, hours were spent drafting the text of three different letters addressed
to the president of the Senate, letters which I thought would be helpful. So I sat with Joe McCarthy in the hospital, and
he had his arm propped up.

“ ‘I said, “Joe, make it a little easier, because this is a rough go, as you know. I will do the best I can. But look. I have
a letter. I am going to read it to you. I want you to sign it. I think it will make the job a little easier.” ’ ”

Harry closed the volume. “Well, you guessed it. McCarthy wouldn’t consent to sign draft one, which was a pretty straightforward
apology on the Zwicker and Hendrickson count; or draft two—which was a milder quasi apology; or even draft three, which was
practically a reaffirmation of what he had said.—But listen to old Ev Dirksen.” Harry reopened the volume. “This is heady
stuff for me, even after thirty years.”

Harry’s voice registered a profound sadness when he read out, “ ‘What was his reward for this loyalty? Oh, the contumely which
was heaped upon him, the imprecations which were hurled against him; the vindictive fury which was unleashed against him;
the vilification with all its bitterness which was poured upon him. Mr. President, what is the monument to him? It is not
in the feeble words we utter, which
will pass on the afternoon breeze. But, rather, it is the living, pulsing shrine of hundreds of thousands of hearts in America
as attested to by the letters and other expressions.’ ”

Alex lifted his hand as if to say: Please, no more.

“Wait. Two more sentences. Ciceronian stuff. ‘As I came away’—Dirksen is talking about the funeral at Appleton—‘I thought,
He was only forty-eight years old. On the plane returning to Washington there first came into my mind a line one frequently
reads in Scriptures. It refers to an individual and the length of his days. Then I thought, What is the worth of a man’s days?
After all, the length of one’s days is not so important. What is important is the worth of one’s days, when he is here, measured
in terms of achievement and what he has done for the enrichment of mankind. The events in the life of Joe McCarthy tell in
large measure the story; as the wind caresses the trees in the great cathedral over the placid waters of the Fox River, I
believe it will waken living memories of a man who served his country well, fighting for the perpetuity of the Republic.’
”

There was a half second’s silence. Then from Alex, “Well. Dirksen said a mouthful, didn’t he.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “In my own book I’ll say a mouthful too, not quite the same way, not quite the same thing. Not exactly
a funeral eulogy, not like Ev Dirksen. Dirksen was unique. So was Joe.”

Alex agreed. “Yes. So was Joe.”

FICTION

“I have here in my hand … a list of names that were made known to the secretary of state as being members of the Communist
Party and who nevertheless are still working and shaping policy in the State Department.”

From America’s most celebrated conservative writer, William F Buckley Jr., comes an engrossing and unexpected historical novel
about one of the most controversial figures in American political history–Senator Joe McCarthy.

Senator McCarthy rose and fell in just four years, yet he gave a name, lastingly, to an era. In 1952 he was the most lionized
and the most hated man in America. But little was known about the man or his background. McCarthy’s personal charm and single-minded
determination took him from Wisconsin and his’indigent life as a chicken farmer to Washington, D.C., as the youngest United
States senator. But it wasn’t until February 9, 1950, in Wheeling, West Virginia, that McCarthy bewitched the nation–and unleashed
a crusade–with’ his claim that Communists had infiltrated the United States government.