A Shade of Difference (90 page)

“Mr. President,” said Fred Van Ackerman, getting a little bleary-eyed himself but speaking with the strength of an implacable revenge and the advantage of better than thirty years over his opponent, “I object.”

At 3:23 a.m., the whispering voice in the now almost completely silent chamber came to a halt, and as its owner stood slumped and exhausted, looking about him with a vague slowness that obviously did not perceive very much, Bob Munson leaned over and said in an urgent whisper, “For God’s sake, Seab, give it up! You’ve done enough. Now quit it, damn it!” But after a prolonged, agonizing moment, during which everyone sat forward tensely, the terrible, touching whisper began again, “Now, Mr. President, I was telling the Senate—”

Ten minutes later, at 3:33, the Secretary of State was observed to return to the chamber with a piece of paper in his hand, which he gave to the Congressman from California. Ignoring the immediate murmur that arose through the chamber as everyone turned to follow his movements, Cullee got up and, looking neither to right nor left, carried the paper down the aisle to the desk of the President Pro Tempore. Again the whisper stopped, and in the silence the old man could be seen, first looking vaguely then gradually focusing, upon the tall young figure before him. “What are you—what—” he began again in a baffled whisper, and Cullee whispered back, “For you, from the President.” “Thank you, sir,” Seab Cooley whispered slowly. “I do thank you, sir.” But it was obvious as Cullee bowed and then returned, looking sad and stricken, to his seat beside the Secretary, that the message of the President was not going to be read by its recipient. He made the attempt, continuing to whisper something that even Bob Munson, leaning forward to glimpse Orrin’s carefully large printing as it lay on the desk before them, could not understand; but it was obvious that the words did not penetrate. Then with a great, visible effort of will, Seab straightened his shoulders and opened another book and, although he clearly could no longer perceive its contents, whispered doggedly on.

At 4 a.m., still whispering, he reached for a glass of water, missed, and knocked it to the floor in such a way that its contents spilled across his books and papers. For several moments he stood looking down at them with an unseeing, almost stupid expression as Bob Munson mopped them off with his handkerchief, filled the glass with water from a pitcher brought hurriedly by a page, and held it out to him. He started to take it, but again he missed, and this time it fell to the carpet with a crash. A long, low sound of pity and consternation came from floor and galleries. After another agonizing pause, while they all waited breathlessly, the President Pro Tempore made another great, ponderously painful effort, and the racking whisper resumed.

At 4:13 a.m. (“Hot damn!” said the
New York
Post,
glancing at his watch in the Press Gallery above, “I’ve won the pool!”), the slow, agonized, inaudible whisper again stopped altogether. The tension in the chamber suddenly shot up to an almost unbearable pitch, for this time it seemed obvious that the Senator from South Carolina could not possibly go on. And this time, all those who thought so were correct. He had spoken more than eight hours at the age of seventy-six, and he could speak no more.

“Bob,” he whispered, and he felt as though the fearsome effort of that one word would bring his death surely, on top of what he was feeling inside, “Bob—” And he held out a hand blindly toward the Majority Leader, who took it and, rising at once to his feet, assisted him to sit down, tremblingly and shakily and so abruptly that it looked like a collapse. In the Press Gallery several reporters rushed out to dart downstairs to be near the floor if he should have to be carried out, and everywhere across the chamber there came a release of talk and comment that Victor Ennis in the Chair finally had to silence with a heavy gavel.

“Mr. President,” Bob Munson said in a voice touched with emotion, “the Senate has witnessed a gallant performance by a great public servant. Many of us do not agree with his position in this matter, but I think all who are generous of spirit, tolerant of mind, and loving of heart can accord him the honor and respect which are due him for all his many great years of service to our country. Mr. President, I move that the Senate now approve H. J. Res. 23, offered in the House by the distinguished Congressman from California. I request the Yeas and Nays.”

“Evidently a sufficient number,” Victor Ennis said, and it could be seen from the galleries that in one last gesture, the senior Senator from South Carolina raised his right hand a couple of inches before letting it fall back limply in his lap. It could also be seen that the Majority Leader waved commandingly to the junior Senator from Iowa, who got up and hurried to his desk; but the obvious intent of this was thwarted as the Senator from South Carolina shook his head ever so slightly and rejected the offer to help him off the floor. Lafe sat down uneasily in a seat nearby as the roll call began in the once more silent room, watching the President Pro Tempore with a concerned and compassionate stare.

“On this vote,” Senator Ennis announced twenty minutes later, after there had come another dramatic pause when the Clerk reached Senator Cooley’s name and a just barely audible “No” had been whispered, “the Yeas are 53, the Nays are 47, and House Joint Resolution 23 is approved.”

In the ensuing half hour, while the last-minute articles were put in the Record, the last-minute speeches made, the business of the Senate concluded for another year, the President Pro Tempore sat silent and unmoving beside the Majority Leader. From the galleries his face looked gray and fallen-in upon itself, his body huddled and slack and curiously crumpled and small. Only once did he make a gesture, and that was to raise one hand with a painful slowness to his forehead, press for a moment, and then bring it down again; its violently agitated trembling was clearly visible to everyone. At one point the Majority Leader leaned over and asked with a deep concern, “Are you all right, Seab? Do you want to stay?” Very slowly the President Pro Tempore turned his head, and for a second a last gleam of irony touched his eyes. “I haven’t missed an adjournment yet, Bob,” he whispered with a painful slowness. “Don’t … intend … to … miss … this one.” The Majority Leader smiled hopefully, as though this comment presaged a quick recovery, but immediately the gleam had faded, the expression of recognition had disappeared, Senator Cooley had turned back to continue what was apparently going on inside himself, a terrible battle to remain where he was and not be taken from the floor in collapse. Lafe and several others who had gathered in seats nearby in case they were needed kept a watchful eye; but despite his obvious awful tiredness no one, even now, dared insist that Seabright B. Cooley leave the floor.

Above in the galleries the M’Bulu gathered himself gracefully together and, with a last faintly scornful look at the Senators below, departed the chamber. Beth Knox and Dolly Munson made their farewells to Patsy Labaiya and came downstairs to await their husbands in the Senators’ Reception Room. Patsy, with a defiant little air, waved farewell to Ray Smith of California and went downstairs to find her chauffeur and be driven off through autumn-dark, still-sleeping Washington, silent and deserted in the cold little wind that was beginning to rise ahead of the dawn. On the floor, Fred Van Ackerman, smugly pleased, gave one last contemptuous glance at his beaten opponent where he sat sunken and unresponsive, closed his book with an audibly satisfied snap, and left the floor. The Secretary of State, after asking the Majority Leader to tell Seab that he, Orrin, would come to see him later in the day, went out to find Beth and take her home. The Congressman from California, recipient of many congratulatory handshakes from Senators who had voted for his resolution, tried to accept them with a reasonable show of gratitude, though he did not really know, at that exact moment, how he felt about it. Certainly not gleeful, certainly not vindictive, and certainly not triumphant; just a sort of gray, flat, curiously uninvolved feeling—if anything, melancholy, uneasy, and sad. He had won, but he understood that, for him, many things were not yet over. Also, as soon as the vote was announced and he knew he had won, there had come a sharp recurrence of his earlier alarm. He would have called Maudie again, if it weren’t so late. Perhaps the sound of her voice would give him anchor somewhere in the sea of inchoate reactions in which he seemed to be adrift. Perhaps it might. He didn’t know.

But even as he had the thought he was informed that he would have the chance to find out. A page came quickly to his side from the Majority cloakroom.

“Sir,” the boy said, “some lady who says she’s your maid is on the phone. She wants you right away. She sounds real worried.”

“Yes,” Cullee said, hurrying forward even as his heart began to pound with a fearful constriction, “I’ll be right there.”

Shortly before 5 a.m., the Majority Leader, in accordance with tradition, announced to the Senate that he and the Minority Leader had transmitted to the President the information that the Senate had completed its business and had asked him if he had any further communications to make to it before it adjourned.

“The President said he had no further communications to make to the Senate at this time,” Bob Munson said, “and, in accordance with the resolution of adjournment passed at 5:45 p.m. yesterday, I now move that the Senate stand adjourned sine die.”

“Without objection,” said Victor Ennis, “it is so ordered,” and the long session that had seen the nomination of Robert A. Leffingwell, the death of Brigham Anderson, the Russian and American expeditions to the moon, the conference in Geneva, the visit of the M’Bulu, the Hamilton Resolution, and Seab Cooley’s filibuster passed into history.

In the milling flurry of farewell handshakes, cordial wishes for good vacations, invitations to drop-in-if-you’re-in-the-state, promises to see one another, and so on, that always turn the chamber into a noisy confusion after the last gavel falls, Bob Munson nodded to Lafe Smith, who came quickly to his side.

“Help me with this,” the Majority Leader murmured, and together they turned to the President Pro Tempore, now a little more lively, a little more responsive, as many of his colleagues stopped by to shake his hand and congratulate him on a gallant fight.

“Seab,” Senator Munson said, “Lafe and I want to see you home. May we?”

There was no answer for several seconds, and then Senator Cooley leaned forward, put both hands on his desk, and started to raise himself to his feet. Instinctively they started to help him, then as instinctively held back, as above in the Press Gallery the few remaining reporters paused to watch closely. But he fooled them all, he told himself inside his weary mind, he fooled them all and stood before them again, upright and on his feet and able, if slowly and cautiously, to move again.

“No, thank you, Bob,” he whispered as they hovered close. “No, thank you, friend Lafe. I’ll be all right … I’d … best … make it … my own way.” A faint smile crossed his face. “That’s … the only … way … I know.”

“But,” Lafe protested. “It won’t be any bother, Seab, really. Let me get us a cab and I’ll run you out to the hotel.”

“I think … I’d like to take … a little walk … before I go home … thank you,” Senator Cooley whispered. “I think fresh air … may be … what I need most … right now.”

“Seab—” the Majority Leader said gravely, but the President Pro Tempore gave a little dismissing shake of his head.

“I’ll manage, Bob. Don’t … worry about … me.… A little … fresh … air … and I’ll be fine.… If you could have … one of the boys … bring my coat from … the cloakroom—”

“I’ll get it,” Lafe said, and quickly did so as the galleries emptied and the floor thinned out, so that only a little handful of departing Senators and page boys remained to watch.

“Thank you,” Senator Cooley whispered as Lafe helped him put it on. “Possibly you can help me … to the lavatory … if you will.” Again a tiny show of humor crossed his ravaged face. “Wouldn’t want to act … like a baby … right here on the floor … Bob … Wouldn’t want … to … do … that.”

“Sure thing,” Lafe said, “and then we’re going to see you home.”

But after they had accompanied him as he walked with an awkward slowness but a still indomitable independence off the floor to the Senators’ private toilet and there completed his painful but desperately necessary business, he still refused their offers. And finally, with a great reluctance, but unable to sway him and not quite daring to insist even in the face of his obvious absolute exhaustion, they bade him a deeply troubled good night at the entrance to the great terrace that runs around the West Front of the Capitol and looks down upon the town.

“Think … I’ll … just … walk along here and then … down the Hill,” he told them, still in the agonizing whisper. “I’ll … feel more like … sleeping, after a little … fresh air.”

And so the last they saw of him that night was his once powerful old figure, shrunken and worn, looking piteous and small in the folds of his heavy overcoat, starting out in the face of the wind, now quite cold and sharp as it whipped up from Virginia and the Potomac and the reaches of the storied streets below, to take his little walk before sleeping.

Silent and deserted still lay the boulevards of the sleeping capital as the Congressman from California sped home. Autumn’s long-lingering night had not yet begun to fade, the east was still in darkness, in all the long run from the Hill to Sixteenth Street he saw only two taxicabs and a couple of early milk trucks. The City of Perfect Intentions and Imperfect Men would not begin to come fully awake for another hour or two. At the moment he had it virtually to himself, little Cullee Hamilton from Lena, S.C., as he drove home as fast as he dared, wondering fearfully in the wake of Maudie’s frantic call what he would find this time at the end of his long, dark street.

There had been in her voice a genuine terror that had instantly called up its counterpart in him. She had been awakened by a noise downstairs, as though someone were furtively trying to pry a window; she had managed, with great courage, to get up and sneak down; had seen a figure, or possibly several, she was not sure in the darkness, outside the French doors in the dining room; and had screamed “Git!” with all the frantic vigor in her terrified voice. Then, trembling with fear, she had turned and fled back to the upstairs phone and called him, not knowing whether the intruders had obeyed her command. “Watch yourself,” she had begged him when he cried out that he was coming home at once. “Watch yourself, hear!” He had grabbed his coat, flung himself down the stairs, raced back to the House garage to get his car, and gunned out and away so fast he had almost knocked down the guard who held the door open for him.