Rhoda’s voice called from the bedroom, “Pug, will you come here? I’m going out of my MIND.”
He found her glaring at the full-length closet mirror, in a tight blue silk dress, the back of which hung open, displaying underwear and an expanse of rosy skin. “Hook me up. Look how my stomach is bulging,” she said. “Now why is that? The stupid dress didn’t look the least bit like this in the store. It looked fine.”
“You’re not bulging,” said Victor Henry, trying to fix the snaps despite the poor light on her back. “You look very pretty.”
“Oh, Pug, for God’s sake. I’m bulging a FOOT. I look six months pregnant. I’m horrible. And I’m wearing my tightest girdle. Oh, what’ll I do?”
Her husband finished closing the snaps and left her. Rhoda looked much the same as always, and was making much the usual evening-dress noises. Her laments and queries were rhetorical, and best ignored.
Byron still crouched on the stool. “Dad, I thought you might mention this thing to the President.”
Victor Henry’s response was quick and curt. “That’s an unreasonable notion.”
Heavy silence. Byron slumped down, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Pug was jarred by the hostility, almost the hatred on his son’s face.
“Byron, I don’t think your wife’s uncle’s citizenship mess is a suitable problem to submit to the President of the United States. That’s all.”
“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t do it. You’re sore at me for marrying a Jew, you always have been, and you don’t care what happens to her.”
Rhoda marched in, pulling on gloves. “For heaven’s sake, what are you two jawing about? Pug, will you put on your jacket and come along?”
On the Pennsylvania Avenue side of the white House, the Henrys passed several dozen pickets, marching with antiwar signs in a ragged oval, and chanting, “
“Good evening.”
A tall Negro in a colorful uniform opened the door, sounding — at least to Rhoda — like the basso in
“Oh, yes, yes, oh my. Princess Marta? Well, she ranks me all right,” said Rhoda with a nervous giggle.
“I guess we’re early,” Victor Henry said.
“Not at all. Please come this way.” He left them in the large public room called the Red Room, saying they would go upstairs soon.
“Oh, dear, think of Warren missing all this!” Rhoda peered at the paintings of Presidents hung near the high ceilings, and the elegant red-upholstered furniture. “Him, with his love of American history.”
“That’s just it,” Madeline said, looking around with bright-snapping eyes. She wore a long-sleeved black silk dress buttoned to the throat, quite a contrast to her mother’s bared arms and bosom. “It’s like walking into a history book.”
“I wonder if it’s okay to smoke,” Byron said.
“No, no, don’t,” his mother said.
Pug said, “Why not? There are ashtrays all around. This is a house. You know what the White House is really like?” He too was nervous, and talking to cover it. “Commandants quarters on a base. The big fancy house with stewards that the boss man gets to live in. This one is the biggest and fanciest. Just the cumshaw of becoming Number One.”
“But the thought of actually keeping house here!” said Rhoda. Despite themselves they were all speaking in unnatural voices, hushed or too loud. Even with an army of servants, I’d go mad. I can’t imagine how she does it, especially traipsing around the country the way she does. Byron, watch those ashes, for heaven’s sake.”
“May I present Mr. Sumner Welles?” The chief usher led in a bald lean gloomy man. “And I believe we can go upstairs now,” he added, as the Undersecretary of State shook hands with the Henrys.
An elevator took them up. Behind his desk at one end of an enormous yellow room hung with sea paintings sat the President, rattling a cocktail shaker.
“Hello there, just in time for the first round!” he called, with a big grin lighting up the jowly pink face. His voice had a clear virile ring. He wore a black tie and dinner jacket with a soft white shirt; and when Pug leaned across the desk to take drinks, he noticed the brown trousers of a business suit. “I hope Mrs. Henry likes Orange Blossoms, Pug. That’s what I’m mixing. Good evening, Sumner.” Would you prefer something else? I make a fair martini, you know.
“Thank you, sir. That looks just right.”
In the center of the room at the mantel, Eleanor Roosevelt stood drinking cocktails with a tall black-haired woman and a sharp-faced, aged little man. On either side of them warm breezes stirred the lace curtains of open windows, bringing in a heavy sweet smell of flowers. The usher introduced the Henrys to Mrs. Roosevelt, to Princess Marta, and to Mr. Somerset Maugham. When Rhoda heard the author’s name, her stiff manner broke. “Oh my! Mr. Maugham! What a surprise. This may be very bad form, but I’ve read all your books and I love them.”
The author exhaled cigarette smoke and stammered, “That — that’s charming of you,” moving only his thin scowling lips, his aged filmy eyes remaining cold and steady.
“Well, we’re all here. Why don’t we sit?” The President’s wife moved a chair near the desk, and the men at once did the same, all except for Somerset Maugham, who sat in a chair Byron put down.
“Anything very new on the
“Not since about five o’clock, sir.”
“Oh, I’ve talked to Averell in London since then. The connection was abominable, but I gathered there was no real news. What do you say, Pug? Will they get her?”
“It’s a tough exercise, Mr. President. Mighty big ocean, mighty bad weather.”
“You should know,” said Franklin Roosevelt slyly.
“But if they winged her, as they claim,” Pug went on, “they ought to catch her.”
“Oh, they hit the
Rhoda was trying not to stare at Crown Princess Marta, who, she thought, held a cocktail glass like a scepter. Unconsciously imitating her posture, Rhoda decided that her skin was almost as good as Marta’s, though the princess was younger and had such rich black hair, done up in a funny way. Contemplating royalty, she lost track of the war talk, and was a little startled when everybody rose. They left the President and followed Mrs. Roosevelt to the elevator. When they arrived in the dining room, there sat Franklin Roosevelt, already whisked to his place at the head of the table. Here too, strong flower scent drifted through the open windows, mingling with the smell of a big silver bowl of carnations, the table centerpiece.
“Well, I had a good day!” the President exclaimed as they sat down, with the obvious intent of putting everybody at ease. “The Ford Company finally promised Bill Knudsen to make Liberators in their huge new plant. We’ve been sweating over that one. The business people seem to be waking up at last.” He started on his soup, and everyone else began to eat. “We want to put out five hundred heavy bombers a month by next fall, and this will do it. Mr. Maugham, there’s good news to pass on! By next fall, we’ll be making five hundred heavy bombers a month. That’s hard intelligence.”
“Mr. President, the — hard intelligence is” — Maugham’s stammer caught everybody’s attention, so they hung on his words — “that you s-say you’ll be making them.”
The President was smiling before the author got the words out; then he roared with laughter. This houseguest was privileged to make jokes, Pug saw.
“Mr. Maugham was a British spy in the last war, Pug,” Roosevelt said across the table. “Why, he even wrote a spy novel.
“M-Mr. President, you know a houseguest would never do that. I am not a f-f-ferret now, I assure you, but a lower form of life. A-a-a sponge.”
