The worst burden, she could tell herself alone, was
It had been so on the farm in Wisconsin. The tread of the Western Union boy’s footsteps as he came up the walk, the tinny faraway voice of the long-distance operator, had always meant emergency, and emergency was the enemy of order, peace, security. This enemy, and only this one, had always broken her father’s composure, reduced his authority, and its threat had frightened her then and it frightened her still. And now, of all people on earth, it was Edna who had the one job-position-where emergency was an expected weekly visitor, although for her always an unexpected visitor, leaving her as damp and upset as she might be left by a skipped heartbeat.
Last night late, after midnight, there had come the telephone call from Governor Wayne Talley, the President’s closest aide, and the word he had used was
“Hello, Edna, did I wake you up?”
“No-no, I was just reading.” Then she had realized the hour. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Nothing special. The usual. Look, Edna, are you well enough to come in tomorrow? How’s your cold?”
Automatically, she had coughed. “I suppose I’ll live. Yes, of course I’ll be in.”
“I’d like you to make it early, real early. T. C.’s orders.”
“You name it,” she had said.
“Around six A.M. I know that’s rough, but it’s rough all over. The Russians are giving us a bad time. T. C. will be at the table early with Kasatkin. When they break, it should be about noon or so in Frankfurt, and that’ll make it seven in the morning here, daylight time. It’s going to be an open conference call from Germany. We’re piping it into the Cabinet Room, so you get set up for seven or eight people. And you’d better hang around in case he has something personal to dictate. Okay?”
“I’ll be there, Governor Talley.”
“Sorry to do this to you, Edna, but it’s an emergency.”
There it was. Emergency. And here was she. Disconcerted.
The chauffeured limousine had been waiting before her Victorian-style apartment on Southeast E Street, just off New Jersey Avenue, when she had emerged at five forty-five. By ten minutes after six, she had crossed the empty Reading Room in the press quarters of the West Wing of the White House, and quickly gone to her cubicle between the Cabinet Room and the President’s Oval Office.
After snapping on the overhead lights, and hanging her coat beside the bookcase, she had telephoned downstairs to ask someone in the Navy Mess to bring up some hot, hot coffee and a slice of toast. Now, shivering as she waited, resenting the early hour and the loss of two much-needed hours of sleep, resenting even more the nameless emergency that shattered her pattern of work and peace of mind, she began to sneeze. Hastily she sought the package of Kleenex in her leather purse, yanked one free in time to cough into it, and then wadded it to pat her painfully reddened nose.
Trying to ignore the ache between her protruding shoulder blades, determined to bring herself up to the day’s beginning, she moved woodenly toward the small wall mirror next to the beige file cabinet, with its ugly security bar still locked in place down the center. With antagonism she stared into the mirror, blinking miserably at her bird’s nest of brown hair, all stringy, at the faint crease in her forehead, at her swollen watery brown eyes and the slight bulges below (bags filled by overtime hours), at the shiny long straight nose, and then at the quivering dry lips.
She went back to her desk for her comb and compact. Seated before the gray electric typewriter, holding the compact’s mirror above her, she toiled to achieve a semblance of efficient neatness. She had a plain face, she knew, but at its best, all well and rested, it was at least passable. George Murdock said that it was more, and she wanted to believe him, but when so many people had told you that your face had character, you knew for certain you did not have good looks. Certainly it was a face that could not afford tension or sleeplessness or the common cold.
She wondered whom or what to blame for this morning’s wreckage. She could not blame George. Dutifully, it having been a week night and with her constant sniffling, he had brought her home early from their dinner. She could not blame herself for staying up until Talley’s call after midnight, trying to read but really thinking of the miracle of her eight months with George and speculating about the months to come. After all, that was important, this thinking and daydreaming about George. It was the first time in her entire thirty years that she had had the chance to indulge herself so, that is, indulge herself seriously, that is, in secret hopes for the future.
For six years T. C. and the job for him had been enough to fill her mind. Now there was not only the President, but another, two in her life of equal importance-how it would please George to know his august standing!-and this was a pleasure worthy of her budgeted thinking time. Nor could she blame her ravaged morning face on T. C. for bringing her in here at six o’clock instead of eight. Banish that thought, she thought; veto it, it’s unconstitutional. No, not T. C., he was guiltless, a dedicated, wonderful, great man, so far away, arguing and fighting with those Communist leaders about Berlin and about Africa and about the planets.
Then she realized where to put the blame, and since it was on one still so fresh in his grave, she was sorry and ashamed. She could date her teary, tired, streaky face back to the Vice-President’s funeral ten days ago. It had rained, and they had stood there, the high and the mighty and herself, too, soaked to the bones, staring at Richard Porter’s wet oak casket, listening to the minister’s highpitched supplication,
The unreality of the Episcopalian funeral lingered in Edna’s mind. She had felt apart from the ceremony at the time, as she was this moment. The Vice-President’s death had not upset her deeply, nor, as far as she had observed, had it emotionally moved any of the official family either, except by its suddenness and its threat to all mortality. The reason for this, she decided, was Porter’s relative unimportance. His passing left no gap, rendered the nation no weaker. He had been a good bluff man, in an affable salesman sort of way, full of cliches and politics and gallons of bourbon and Throttlebottom stances the cartoonists so enjoyed. He had been a professional politician and natural Vice-Presidential candidate brought into the campaign in order to lure the uncertain Far West with him. He had served his purpose, and in death T. C. was his legacy. Because of Porter, T. C. was Chief Executive by an overwhelming mandate from the people instead of by a close plurality. Poor Richard Porter had played his role, served the Party and the electorate, and without him life would go on unaltered. It was the seventeenth time in history the government would be without a Vice-President, and no longer unusual. It was T. C. who mattered, to Edna and to the country.
Closing her compact, Edna fully absolved the late Vice-President of responsibility for her head cold and wretched face, and now, her face repaired, her mind clearer, she smelled the steaming coffee on the desk behind her. Somebody from the Navy Mess had noiselessly come and gone, and because of her self-absorption, she did not know who it had been and whom to thank. She sipped the coffee, recoiled, blew on it to cool it, and finally, breaking the slice of toast, munching it, she was able to drink down the contents of the cup.
At last, feeling better, forgiving the day for its earliness, forgiving everyone for everything, she came to her feet. Her platinum wristwatch, a generous gift from the First Lady, showed the time to be twenty-six minutes after six o’clock. Right now, Edna guessed, T. C. and his staff were leaving the Kaisersaal, the splendid dining room of emperors of the Holy Roman Empire located in the Roemer, Frankfurt’s five-gabled city hall. The European press, and recently the American papers, had gleefully taken to calling the meeting between the President of the United States and the Premier of Soviet Russia the Roemer Conference, reminding readers that Frankfurt’s city hall had been the site, during the Middle Ages, where international merchants gathered to trade.
Well, Edna thought, T. C. has done his trading for the morning. Now, driving the several blocks to the Alte Mainzer Palace, his headquarters in Frankfurt, he is probably considering what problems of the trading he must discuss this afternoon (over there) or morning (over here) with select Cabinet members and Congressional leaders. Edna had seen photographs of the President’s ornate Gothic ground-floor bedroom in the ancient Palace- the Bonn government had suggested the President use the ancient Palace for his living quarters instead of the United States Consulate across the Main River, because it was roomier, more picturesque, and nearer the
