attentive. Because Dilman appeared absorbed, as if soaking in and memorizing every fragment of data, Abrahams had not wished to spoil it by reminding his friend that he had been through these rooms not once but on two occasions before. The first time, Abrahams and a dozen other attorneys involved in civil rights causes had been brought to Washington by President Kennedy for a two-day conference, and they had toured the ground and first floors of this mansion. The second time, Abrahams and officers of the American Bar Association, then meeting in Washington, had attended a reception given by President Lyndon Johnson, and again Abrahams had been part of this tour.
During T. C.’s abbreviated term of office, Abrahams had not been invited to the White House. He had supported the minority opposing the Party’s nomination of T. C. and Porter, and even though, once T. C. had been nominated, Abrahams had backed him, he had not been forgiven. Abrahams suspected that it was T. C.’s aide, Governor Talley, notable for a mastodon memory (if little else), that separated the good ones from the bad ones, and who had listed Abrahams as lukewarm. Abrahams had, in fact, cast his ballot for T. C. only as the lesser of two evils, and because T. C. had been committed to the Party platform, which had extended lofty if generalized promises to the restless minorities.
Abruptly, his recollection of the last half hour’s tour was brought to an end by the waiters removing the empty soup bowls.
He looked at Dilman, and he said, “You know, Mr. President-”
Dilman’s scowl was immediate. “Cut it out, Nat. You want me to call you Barrister Abrahams?”
“I was merely testing you,” said Abrahams with a chuckle. “Okay, Doug, it’s an
“Well, I want Sue here as soon as possible,” Dilman said. “You said it’s only a mild cold.”
“The hotel physician promises she’ll be up in a day or two.”
“Then I want you both over for a rerun of this meal in a few days.” He took up the glass of Bordeaux and held it toward Abrahams. “To you and your new future, Nat.”
Abrahams toasted him back. “Happy Presidency, Doug. You’ll make out.”
They sipped the wine, and then Dilman said, “I want to see as much of you and Sue as you can spare of yourselves. I’m busy as a beaver all day, and have plenty of homework at night, but I’ll be eating alone a good deal. With Julian up at school, and-well-I don’t have anyone around I can really kick off my shoes with. I need you both, Nat.”
He was about to say something more when the servants came in with heaping platters, and he fell into silence. Abrahams guessed that Dilman would not speak during the evening while any of the White House staff was within earshot. He is wary and defensive, Abrahams thought; he’s afraid of letting anything slip, anything that might be misconstrued, whispered behind the stairs, and create gossip and paragraphs for enemy columnists. Sensible enough, Abrahams thought, and decided to go along with his friend and hold his own tongue until they were alone.
While they were being served their slices of beef, potato pancakes, and more wine was being poured, Dilman spoke only once. He pointed to the vegetables. “Those peas, Nat, savor them, because you’ll be digesting history. Mrs. Crail says they were grown and picked from Teddy Roosevelt’s mint garden.”
After the waiters had retreated, the two of them ate quietly for a full minute. Abrahams, his mouth full, said, “Mmm, the pancakes aren’t bad, Doug. You’re running a fine kosher kitchen.”
“I’m sure that confuses them. That and the fact that I don’t like watermelon.” He spoke the last without bitterness, but with dry humor. He went on, “I meant what I was saying before, Nat. I want you and Sue here as often as you can come. This is the loneliest time I’ve ever faced. It’s bad enough being a widower President, in the White House by accident. But being a colored one, to boot, makes it-”
“Enough of that nonsense,” Abrahams interrupted. “You’re not getting any sympathy from me, unless I get my share. Don’t forget, I’m only a white darky whose grandfather was beaten to death in a Polish progom.” He had spoken lightly, but suddenly he became serious. “Plenty of white Presidents have been unpopular and lonely, Doug. I remember reading a letter in some collection-R. H. Dana wrote it to one or another of the Adamses, wrote it from this town in the 1860s-to the effect that Lincoln-it was about President Lincoln-that ‘he has no admirers, no enthusiastic supporters, none to bet on his head.’ I’m sure for a time Lincoln felt like an outcast locked in this house… but yes, we want to see you whenever you’re free, which I’m sure won’t be as often as you think. And we want to see you not because we’re sorry for you but because we need good companionship, too.”
“How long are you going to be here, Nat?”
“A week or two, maybe even a month. If it works out, I’ll take Sue back, spend a few days straightening out my things at the office, and leave her to pack or sell off the furniture and maybe stay on with the kids until the end of their semester. I’d return here, and she could follow me later.” He paused. “Under the new plan, I’d be living in Washington for three years.”
“That would be great, Nat.” Dilman grinned. “You’ll be living here longer than I will.” He ate slowly, thoughtfully. Then he said, “I think I was a little surprised when you wrote me about Avery Emmich’s offer, and that you were considering it. Didn’t I write you, asking you more about it? Maybe I didn’t. But even what you told me on the phone the other night doesn’t make it-well, entirely clear to me.”
“What do you mean, Doug?”
“You can’t live up on the Hill as long as I have without picking up a good deal of information about big business, big private enterprise. Not many come bigger than Eagles Industries. Nothing wrong with them, or any other corporation, except that Eagles isn’t notorious for being liberal or progressive. And Emmich, I gather, is a sort of throwback to Cornelius Vanderbilt, Astor, Gould. One of the public-be-damned gents, I always thought. Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, I’ve found it hard to fit you into that framework. The mental pictures I have of you and Eagles don’t harmonize. I know I’m wrong.”
Abrahams put down his fork. “You’re right, Doug. I’ve been through all that, until my conscience collapsed of weariness. Doug, it comes down to this-I’ve looked into Eagles, and if I had found out they were crooks, real crooks, or special bastards, or anything like that, I’d have blown the deal immediately. They’re no better or worse than the rest of American big business. The anatomy is the same, always-hard head, no heart, all hands in a thousand tills, mechanized, automated, conservative, with a single goal-profits. Okay. The democracy we fight to save. Eagles Industries needs me, men like me, with the liberal lapel button. For them, that’s good business, too. And I-I need a fat patron, Doug, because I’m threadbare, and have responsibilities, and can’t get any more life insurance. If the patron is willing to let me get fat, too, without putting me on a leash, it’s a good deal.”
“No more life insurance, you said?”
Abrahams could see the flick of concern in his friend’s dark countenance. He shrugged. “I’m exaggerating, self-dramatizing. It wasn’t a real coronary, only a yellow light that warned me to slow down. I want to slow down before it turns red and stops me dead. Nothing serious, no sword hanging overhead, but I love Sue and I love those kids and I want that farm. So I’m playing it safe. I’m trading three years of doing what doesn’t particularly interest me for a lifetime of living, of puttering around with what does interest me, after those three years. That’s the whole of it, Doug.”
“I agree with your choice,” said Dilman solemnly. “I’d do exactly the same in your place. Have you seen Gorden Oliver yet?”
“Twice, briefly. He came to the hotel. We’re still trying to reach agreement on several of my recent demands.”
“What do you make of him?” Dilman asked.
“Oliver? I don’t know. I must say, he threw me off balance on first meeting. I always fall prey to preconceived notions of what people will be like-I should know better, and I do. Anyway, word association, you say lobbyist and I say rotund, foxy, devious, green-backs, call girls, et cetera. I was surprised to find him rather out-doorsy, literate, direct, a qualified attorney, a family man.”
Dilman had been listening to every word. “Yes, he’s all you found, Nat. He’s also a little, just a little, of what you expected him to be. He’s been in and out of my offices on the Hill, with talk, free information, free tickets and invitations, free services, free jokes, for years. I have no reason not to trust him or like him. He’s been useful to me at times. And registered lobbyists do as much good as harm. But somehow, even though he’s New England-I
