up Bayard Publishing, and then the foundation-looking after the First Amendment shouldn’t have to be such a full- time job, but it is-that we didn’t have time to think about Olin Taverner. Of course, we used to see him at the Symphony or the Chicago Club, but, once he moved into his retirement apartment, he stopped coming into the city. I hadn’t thought about him for a long time.”
“You didn’t think about him even though some commentators-including your own son-have been urging us to revisit the McCarthy era and see people like Taverner, or Congressman Bushnell, as American heroes, trying to protect the country from internal enemies?”
Dennis looked as earnest as if he knew or cared what he was talking about: what he really wanted was to provoke Renee into some on-air reaction. But she had her advice to Catherine well in hand: rise above it.
“I think it’s dangerous when we start to turn people who want to subvert the Constitution into heroes. We need to think especially carefully about that these days, where we’re making it hard to hear any dissent from our current government’s policies. But unlike some of our talk-show hosts and editorial writers, I don’t believe those who disagree with me should be jailed, or hounded out of the country. All I want is for them to respect my right to hold differing views from theirs.”
“Even though your own son has been among those leading the charge?” Renee Bayard’s smile grew wooden. “Edwards’s essays in Commentary and the National Review haven’t been leading a charge, Dennis. He takes a different tack on the issues than his father and I might-but at least I know that we raised a child who can think for himself. Child-of course, he’s a grown man now, with a daughter Calvin and I are incredibly proud of. She insisted on joining me in the studio tonight.”
Dennis looked a little sour as the camera moved away from him to a glowing Catherine seated at the corner of the studio. He started talking to force the camera back to his face. “Speaking of jailing people who disagree with us, Renee, people have often wondered how your husband walked away from those hearings without either a contempt citation or a sentence.”
“There was no reason for Calvin to be in prison. He committed no crime and he was never charged with one. However much our son dis
agrees with our politics, I don’t believe he would claim his father should be put in prison.”
“But Calvin was a member of the Committee for Social Thought and Justice,” Logan persisted. “And he refused to answer questions about it to Congress. That interview was shown on television; I found an old copy this afternoon when we were looking for footage on Olin Taverner”
Renee looked startled as the grainy black-and-white tape began to run. It took us back to the old House hearing rooms, with men in the doublebreasted suits of the day. I recognized Calvin Bayard at once: his lean face, pale hair, even the good-humored smile with which he greeted someone behind him, were much as they’d been when he spoke to my law school class twenty years later. He sat alone at a table facing the committee, not even a lawyer at his side, his long legs stretched out in a pantomime of the man at ease. On a raised dais, six men faced him from behind a nest of microphones.
Channel 13 had written the men’s names in white above their heads. Olin Taverner, austere, hair combed back from his forehead, looked like the model for the upright public man. In contrast, Congressman Walker Bushnell, the committee chair, had a face as round as a lollipop; his buzzcut hair turned him into the caricature of a thug.
Taverner spoke first. “You were at a meeting of the Committee for Social Thought and justice on June 14, 1948, in Eagle River, Wisconsin, were you not, Mr. Bayard?”
Calvin Bayard chuckled. “I attend a great many meetings, Olin, just as you do. I don’t remember all the names and dates. You must have an amazing calculating machine in your head if you can remember the exact date of meetings that far back.”
Taverner leaned forward. “We have testimony from other witnesses whose memories are good that you were in Eagle River on June 14, 1948. Do you dispute this?”
Bayard answered impatiently, “I can’t discuss the matter because I don’t know whether you had testimony or not, and I don’t know who did or didn’t provide it.”
Taverner slapped the tabletop. “We have reliable testimony that you were at this meeting. Who else was present with you?”
Bayard hooked his fingers in his belt loops and leaned back in his seat. “Mr. Chairman, when Mr. Taverner and I were boys in rural Illinois, we often found weasels and rats prowling around our henhouse. They like to slide through the cracks under cover of dark. The weasel doesn’t come out in broad daylight and meet you face to face the way a dog will.
“Now, I wouldn’t like to characterize any of my distinguished friends in the publishing or entertainment industry this way, or even those serving this committee, because every man at the end of the day has to face his own conscience in the privacy of his bedchamber, and my conscience may tell me something different than what yours, or those of my friends’, do. But slithering around under cover of darkness, or under pretense of patriotism, why my dog would know what to do with a creature that acted like that.”
A gasp went up among the spectators in the committee room. Taverner himself started to shout something, but Walker Bushnell silenced him by reaching across to put a hand over Taverner’s microphone.
“So you refuse to tell this committee who was at the meeting with you on June 14, 1948,” Bushnell said.
Bayard looked at him steadily. “Mr. Chairman, the greatest pleasure America’s enemies have is seeing her leaders attack our cornerstone, the right to free speech, a free press, free association. I will not give succor to our enemies by violating those rights.”
The tape, ended there; the camera tonight flashed back on Renee Bayard. She was dabbing tears away from the corners of her eyes. I felt pretty sniffy myself.
Dennis Logan said, “That was a fine speech your husband gave, but people are still left wondering why it moved Olin Taverner and Walker Bushnell. After all, your husband was the only person who ever got Olin Taverner to let go once he’d dug his heels in. But Calvin didn’t name names, he didn’t go to prison, he wasn’t even fined. What was his secret?”
“Poor Calvin, with all the work he did to allow people like you to say whatever you want whenever you want- and all you want is to put him behind bars.”
“Renee, that isn’t fair, is it? It’s a legitimate question. Now that Olin Taverner is dead, is there any harm in letting us know how your husband persuaded him to leave him in peace?”
“Calvin always had a great deal of charm.” This time her smile held genuine warmth-even a touch of mischief, which made her seem suddenly appealing. “He charmed me right out of Vassar when I was twenty. He might have been able to charm Walker Bushnell, too, although it would have been heavy work. You’re too young to have known the congressman, weren’t you, Dennis? But I typed up some of the-“
Logan could feel the interview slipping out of his control and hastily said, “We had hoped for a comment from Calvin on Taverner’s passing, but he wouldn’t come to the phone.”
The heavy lines settled back in Renee Bayard’s face. “On Olin’s death, you mean? Calvin hates euphemisms for the most common acts of our bodies, and nothing is more common to us all than death.”
Logan conceded defeat. “When we come back, more on Olin Taverner and the House committee he served, this time with a team of constitutional scholars. Renee, thank you for coming in. I know this can’t have been an easy evening for you.”
The station shifted to a commercial before Renee’s answer came on. Lotty switched off the set.
“I’d say game, set and match to the lady,” Max said. “He wanted something that he couldn’t get from her.”
“It was very moving, that old piece they ran,” Lotty added. “I’d never paid much attention to those hearings. But how extraordinary that their son is betraying them.”
“Not betraying them,” I objected. “They raised him to think for himself.” “He’s not thinking for himself,” Lotty said. “He’s echoing what every other rightwing lunatic in America is saying.”
“What I want to know is why he’s living in Washington while his kid is in Chicago with her grandmother. And how he came to think so differently on politics from his parents. And why Calvin Bayard has no comment on Taverner’s death. And a lot of other stuff that’s none of my business. I’m going to take my sore nose home to bed, although whatever you put in this drink, Lorry, I feel a whole lot better. Thanks-for everything.”
She and Max saw me to the elevator, their arms around each other. Riding down the elevator I felt both the assurance one gets from seeing others in love, and the pang of feeling separate from the world of lovers.
