decided to call upon him. Our meeting was partially social, partially devoted to discussion of immediate domestic problems in the civil rights area. We did not touch upon any specific Negro groups besides the Crispus Society and its role in working with the government in the civil rights legislative program.”
“Did you talk about the Minorities Rehabilitation Program?” a reporter yelled.
Dilman looked blankly at the semicircle of men and cameras in front of him. He said into the microphones, “We discussed the MRP Bill, among many other legislative acts. We are in accord in our belief that progress toward equality can be attained only by due process of the law, never through the actions of vigilante groups of any race who would take the law in their own hands.”
There was a spattering of applause, and, from afar, a shrill cat-call and a solitary boo of disapproval.
“Reverend Spinger and I spoke privately about these matters, and informally. In the near future I expect to hold more formal meetings with all national leaders, Negro and white, who are eager to cooperate with the government in maintaining peace, and finding an orderly solution to our mutual problems. That is it for tonight, my friends… No, no questions, or I’ll collapse of starvation.”
With Beggs and a wedge of other agents leading the way, Dilman hastened to the limousine and ducked inside. As he sank into the cushioned back seat, and Beggs squatted on the jump seat, the car began to pull away. Covertly, Dilman lowered his head but lifted his eyes to catch sight of the illuminated upstairs living room windows. He could make out both Spingers in one. The other window frame was empty. For the heartless monster public there was no Wanda Gibson.
Then, sitting back, Dilman caught Beggs looking at him oddly. And then, with a sinking sensation, he knew that you could guard and guard against the monster, and in the end there was no defense. Somehow, someway, there was always one, as Beggs might be one, to let the monster come through. He wondered what Beggs thought. He wondered if the monster would be loosed, and if it might strangle him.
He shut his hot eyes and behind them cursed his foolhardiness-and his cowardice.
At precisely nine o’clock, Nat Abrahams noted, they entered the Family Dining Room on the first floor of the White House.
As a liveried butler opened the door from the Main Corridor, and Dilman went inside, Abrahams thought again what a strange experience this was for both of them. They had eaten together in so many mean and contrasting places, in crowded cafeterias of the Pentagon and officers’ messes of Army bases during the Second World War, in cheap
Following his host across the floral carpet, Abrahams had an opportunity to examine the Family Dining Room briefly. The walls were yellow, the ceiling white. To the right a gilt convex mirror, with a gold eagle perched upon it, hung over the marble fireplace. To the left stood a Philadelphia breakfront filled with blue-and-gold chinaware. Ahead were two windows looking out toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Abrahams was able to identify two oil paintings: one plainly President John Tyler, resembling somewhat Truman’s first Secretary of State James F. Byrnes; the other, reproduced in the guidebook that Sue had purchased, was of a brigadier general mounted on a black horse, John Hartwell Cocke of Virginia, he thought.
They had reached the mahogany pedestal table, and Abrahams counted eight chairs of richly grained wood set off by white upholstery surrounding the table. The White House maitre d’hotel, a smiling South American in cutaway coat and striped trousers, held the President’s chair for him at the head of the table, and a white-coated colored waiter attended Abrahams’ chair next to the President’s. Dilman sat first, and then Abrahams took his seat.
Abrahams could see that Dilman was ill at ease, brushing nervously at his rumpled business suit, blinking up at the chandelier, at the flower centerpiece, then at the ostentatious table setting, classic tulip-shaped glassware, elegant Limoges plates, sterling knives, forks, and spoons. While the tomato soup was ladled out from a silver-gilt tureen, Dilman glanced sheepishly at Abrahams in the manner of one who wonders which spoon to use first. Abrahams smiled, winked, unfolded his gold-crested napkin and dropped it over his lap. Dilman did the same.
When the soup had been served, and the maitre d’hotel and waiter had backed away, Dilman said, “You’d never guess I told Mrs. Crail-she’s the official housekeeper-I wanted an informal dinner, no fuss, absolutely no fuss. Look at this. Anyway, Nat, I won the battle of the menu. She had in mind-let me think-oh, yes-boiled rolled flounder, roast turkey with something called jelly celestial, scalloped sweet potatoes, and God knows what not. She kept saying that was the kind of small menu T. C. liked for informal dining. But I put my foot down, so I’d get off on the right one. I said, ‘Mr. Abrahams is my oldest friend, and we’re going to eat what we always enjoyed most, the kind of food you can talk over.’ I don’t know how it’ll come out, but I think it’ll be a reasonable facsimile of old times.”
Abrahams had been spooning his soup. “Brisket of beef?” he asked.
Dilman grinned. “Exactly. The beef, and a green salad with oil and vinegar, a noodle-and-ham casserole, hot sliced carrots, and-hold your hat-potato pancakes with apple sauce.”
“Latkes,” said Abrahams, giving them their Jewish name.
“I don’t think they’ll come out quite the way Sue’s mother used to make them. Oh, yes, and I remembered red wine-they have the best years, Bordeaux, the kind that makes me sleepy. Just like those nights sitting in between the zinc bar and pinball machine in that joint off the Champs-Elysees.”
A waiter appeared and poured water, followed by the maitre d’hotel, who placed the wine bottle on a side table. Dilman lapsed into silence, and sipped the tomato soup.
Abrahams enjoyed the thick soup. Except for the constricting black bow tie that Sue had made him wear, as being appropriate for high places, he felt relaxed. When the Lincoln limousine had picked him up at the Mayflower Hotel, and was bringing him to the South Portico of the White House, he had suffered a mild attack of apprehension, wondering if some protocol would be imposed, worrying whether Dilman would be as he always had been. The apprehension had been dispelled at the moment of their impulsive bearish embrace of greeting.
The months that separated them from their last meeting had visibly changed Dilman. Although he appeared more friendly, less withdrawn, than he had as a senator, his eyes were red-flecked, tireder, Abrahams had seen, and there were rigid lines of tension around his mouth. Also, he walked more ploddingly, like an elderly person recovering from major surgery. Yet the week as President had not inwardly transfigured him, had not weighted him with any more reserve or aloofness than he had normally possessed. Abrahams guessed that his friend was too new to the post to comprehend it fully. If anything, he seemed uncertain about his role, as if misplaced in some Dantesque purgatory between the Senate and the White House.
After Abrahams’ congratulations and Dilman’s inquiries about Sue and the children, they had gone from the elevator into the Main Hall of the first floor. There had been an empty stretch of seconds when Dilman did not know where to take Abrahams, or what to do next, but this impasse had been resolved by the dignified Negro valet, Beecher, who had seemed to materialize from nowhere.
“I almost forgot, Nat, but I asked Beecher to take us on a quick tour of the first floor,” Dilman had said. “I could use a refresher myself. Besides, the walk will give us both appetites.”
They had been led to the vast East Room, with its gold drapes and gilt benches and Steinway piano (Beecher: “Each of the three chandeliers weighs 850 pounds and has 50,000 pieces of crystal, and each requires two houseboys a week to clean it”). They had been led to the Green Room, with its Daniel Webster sofa and Martha Washington armchair and James Monroe clock (Beecher: “Please take note of the portrait of President Eisenhower over that door and President Kennedy over this door, and, of course, the portrait of The Judge”). They had been led to the Blue Room, with its velvet upholstery and gold Minerva timepiece and white bust of George Washington (Beecher: “The three windows looking down on the south lawn may be converted into doors by sliding them upward and opening the wall panels beneath”). They had been led into the Red Room, with its cerise silk-covered walls and Jacqueline Kennedy breakfast table and crimson Empire sofa (Beecher: “This portrait of President Wilson was painted in Paris in 1919 by an English artist, but as you can observe, it was left unfinished”).
By the time they were in the immense and drafty State Dining Room, Nat Abrahams had become less
