“I don’t know who she is or where she is,” said Julian. “One day, a year and a half ago, I had a brief note from her at school, right out of the sky. She needed money desperately, for some emergency. She figured I was on an allowance from you. She asked for a loan to be mailed in cash. She told me to mail it under a different name to General Delivery at the main post office in New York City. I did. After that, I tried to find that name she gave me in the New York directories. There was none like that. Maybe she uses many names. Anyway, I wrote her, using that name, and a couple of months ago she paid me back in cash. There was another note from her. She’s got a better position, whatever it is. She’s going with a great crowd, and she made it clear they were white. Oh, she’s doing fine, she’s doing just great. She’s got equal rights, because she was born color-lucky like the white folks. And all I’m asking is that you let me work harder on the outside for the same acceptance and decency.”
“Mindy’s wrong,” said Dilman. “Deceit is wrong. Julian, you’ll have your acceptance and decency in the open, on your own terms. T. C. was fighting for it, and you tell your friends I will, too.” He suddenly felt tired. “I moved today, I moved into that”-he pointed through the French doors-“plantation house.” He smiled weakly. “That’s our home for the next year or so, Julian. There’ll be a room for you, for weekends and holidays. When are you going back to Trafford?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“Very well. Why don’t you go up there-someone will show you the elevator to the second floor-and have a look around? It’s something to see. Crystal’s there right now. She’ll whip you up some lunch, and after that you get the valet to show you a room for yourself. I’ll catch up with you before you leave.”
Julian rose, softened, chastened by the realization of the White House. “I’m sorry to-to disagree with you, Dad, with all you’ve got on your mind. I’m staying on with my work in the Crispus Society, but I’ll try to do better in school, too. You can write the Chancellor that.”
Relieved, Dilman smiled fully. “Thanks, son. Just open that door, and go around the ell and through the ground-floor door. You won’t get lost.”
The moment that Julian had gone, Dilman consulted the typed card slipped into the silver holder on the desk. The card read:
Dilman picked up the console telephone receiver and pressed the buzzer. Instantly he heard Shelby Lucas, the agreeable, somewhat courtly, prematurely gray engagements secretary, inherited from T. C., reply on the other end. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“How am I running, Mr. Lucas?”
“About-about ten minutes ahead, Mr. President.”
“Is Mr. Poole here?”
“In the Fish Room, sir.”
“Please send him in.”
Putting down the console telephone, Dilman attempted to disengage his thoughts from his son, from the accusations of his son and Mindy, and concentrate on what he must say to Poole. He remembered how impressed Julian had been that an author of Poole’s stature had undertaken to write his father’s biography. From the first, Dilman had been less impressed. He had found Poole repulsive in appearance, deficient in objectivity, and more unreasonable than Julian about equal rights for Negroes. He was a race chauvinist, the Negro counterpart of the Zeke Millers. His perspiring journalistic professionalism seemed barely to perform on a jellied foundation of emotionalism. There was something oily and insincere about him. His questions, well researched, well prepared, often seemed to have no relationship to his own curiosity or interest.
Behind Poole’s deference to his subject, Dilman suspected, lay mockery and contempt. Dilman could not be sure, but his sensitivity always entertained these suspicions when his biographer left the Senate office or the brownstone living room. Time and again Dilman had been tempted to call the project off. He had not wanted a researcher rummaging through the storeroom of his past life. He had not wanted this book written about himself, even though it was to be published by a Negro press, presumably for Negro readers. Dilman had feared that it would be read by white constituents, too, who might decide that he was not representative of them, and next time vote against him. Yet because the Reverend Spinger and other Negro leaders wanted the book as an inspiration for the Negro young, to turn them away from violence, to show them what one of their own had accomplished in a democracy, Dilman had continued cooperating.
Several times since he had been sworn into the Presidency, Dilman had thought fleetingly about the book, wondering if he should permit its publication now that his role had changed. Of course, previous Presidents had made themselves available to biographers during their terms of office. But his own problems were ones that they had not possessed. He had been unable to come to a decision. There had been so many calls from Poole during the week, which he had avoided, that at last he had been embarrassed into taking one. On the telephone, he had been aware at once that Poole’s approach had become even more self-effacing and deferential. Dilman had accepted his biographer’s congratulations and good wishes, and heard out his set speech about the increased importance of the book now that its subject had graduated from senator to President. Without committing himself to the book’s continuance, Dilman had agreed to see Poole as soon as possible, and requested him to work out a date with the engagements secretary. Since then Dilman had been too busy to give Poole or the book another thought, but now this was one more minor matter that he must settle.
The corridor door had swung open, and engagements secretary Lucas was saying to someone not yet visible, “Right in here, Mr. Poole.”
Leroy Poole came through the door like a beach ball. The door closed behind him, and he stopped, dipped his obese face, murmuring, “Mr. President of the United States,” and then he advanced toward the desk, pudgy hand outstretched. “Once more, my sincere best wishes, Mr. President. I think all of us are very lucky we have someone with your experience to carry on.”
Dilman half lifted himself from the swivel chair, and lost his hand inside Poole’s chubby clasp, thinking how much it was like shaking hands with a boxing glove. Dilman waved toward the chair. “Sit down, Leroy.”
Poole eased into the seat, his arms aloft, as if to bring all of the office down into their laps. “The office looks so different from any of the photographs I’ve seen. Somehow you come to expect a throne room, considering that this is the most important office in the world.”
“One of the most important,” Dilman corrected him.
“Yes, I guess the others consider theirs just as important,” said Poole.
“They do, and they’re demanding equal time. I don’t want to be abrupt, Leroy, but I’m afraid they won’t let me be as casual about appointments here as I was in the Senate Office Building. So let’s get right on-”
Dilman paused. The French door behind Poole had opened, and Julian was standing there, worried and harassed, and at his elbow was the Secret Service agent called Sperry.
“I-I’m sorry to break in like this,” Julian was saying, “but I went into the ground floor like you said, and this gentleman grabbed me and asked for my pass, and I had none. I told him who I was, but he frisked me, and then said I couldn’t get upstairs until I was cleared.”
Dilman calmed his son with a gesture. “All right, Julian… Mr. Sperry-”
The Secret Service agent came alongside Julian. “Sorry, Mr. President, I was sure he was your son, but I couldn’t take any chances unless he was identified or I was instructed.”
Dilman nodded. “You were correct. Consider him identified as my son, and ask Chief Gaynor to make out a permanent White House pass.” Dilman realized that Poole was on his feet, studying Julian. Hastily, Dilman performed the introduction. “Julian, meet Leroy Poole, the writer you so much admire.”
Julian’s eyes protruded more noticeably as he eagerly stepped forward to shake Poole’s hand. “Gosh, Mr. Poole, this is an honor-”
“A pleasure for me, too, Mr. Dilman. I’d been looking forward to meeting you at least once before completing your father’s biography.”
“I’ve read every one of your articles,” Julian said. “I even heard you lecture once at our school.”
“Your school? I remember your father telling me. You’re at Trafford. I don’t recall-”
“It was the students’ branch of the Crispus Society.”
“I remember,” said Leroy Poole.
Dilman’s cough interrupted the exchange. “Sorry, Leroy, but I am crowded for time… Mr. Sperry, will you take my son up to the second floor?”
“Thanks, Dad,” said Julian. His eyes lingered admiringly on Poole. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Poole.”
