Palace Council (41 page)

CHAPTER
57

Conversation over Breakfast

(I)

I
N
M
AY
of 1970, soldiers of the Ohio National Guard shot and killed four student demonstrators at Kent State University. The deadly rounds came from M-1 rifles, stripped-down versions of the weapon being used by American troops in Vietnam. The soldiers claimed self-defense; perhaps they were worried about being burned to death, for many of the demonstrators carried lighted candles. Responding to the news of the shootings, the Dow Jones Industrial Average suffered its largest single-day decline since the assassination of President Kennedy. Wall Street was betting on chaos. And for a time chaos seemed to reign. President Nixon warned solemnly that tragedies happen “when dissent turns to violence.” Perhaps it was the Guardsmen who were dissenting, said the wags. Across the country, some two million college students went on strike. There were marches, formal and less so, in large cities and small towns. There was vandalism. There were battles. In New York, hard-hatted construction workers clashed with antiwar protesters, beating them with pipes and boards, putting many students into the hospital, formally dissolving the glorious student-worker solidarity still worshiped in many a campus coffeehouse. The hard hats waved a banner proclaiming
GOD BLESS THE ESTABLISHMENT
, and, in the spirit of the moment, tried to take over City Hall. Troops of the National Guard were mobilized nationwide, occupying dozens of campuses. And not just the campuses. Personnel carriers showed up on city streets. Army units were held in reserve around the country in case the revolt got out of hand.

Four days after the Kent State shootings, protesters descended upon the Mall. Buses came from everywhere. The night before the demonstration, the students held a prayer vigil. William Sloane Coffin delivered a homily. Judy Collins sang. The group walked quietly to the White House to leave candles on the wall beneath the wrought-iron fence, in memory of the dead at Kent State. The city was prepared for the worst. Heavily armed soldiers had taken up positions to protect government buildings. An inventive variety of barriers, from sawhorses to barbed wire to buses, augmented walls, and fences.

Afterward, many of the students camped out on the Mall. Eddie was a featured speaker at the rally, but the night before, he trolled the crowd. Silly though it might have seemed, he thought perhaps Junie would be there. He thought he spotted her in the throng once or twice, but he was wrong. Eddie had a tent of his own, and helped others set theirs up: not for nothing those enforced years in the Boy Scouts. He had decided not to spend the nights before or after the demonstration at his own home. He did not want to fight the traffic to the Mall. He wanted to be nearby, just in case things got hairy. In addition to the tent, he arranged alternative accommodations through Gary Fatek, who called in a favor at the overbooked Marriott.

But Eddie preferred the Mall.

The feds, of course, were out in force, most of them no doubt dressed to look like students—he searched for white crew socks as a clue—and the protesters passed around stories of cars slipping past the encampment filled with men in suits, snapping photographs as they went.

Shortly before five, he heard a ruckus. He pulled on sweater and sneakers and left the tent, following the few who were awake and on the move. He carried his notebook. Marijuana smoke hung in the heavy air like morning fog. A knot of kids had gathered on the steps of the Memorial. Crewcut men stood uneasily around. Maybe somebody was being arrested. He slipped out his notebook, hoping to record some grit. Then he reached the front and found the President of the United States chatting nervously with the students in the predawn mist.

(II)

E
DDIE WAS ASTONISHED.

He remembered the Nixon of the fifties, somewhere in Latin America, plunging into a crowd of jeering demonstrators and being spat upon. Voters had loved him for that. Now here he was again, in the belly of the beast. Not just talking but listening. Aurelia's friend. The man on whom Lanning was gathering dirt. Eddie crept closer. A respectfully angry young man was telling the President that he was willing to die for what he believed in. Nixon assured the group that he understood, adding that his generation was trying to build a world in which it would not be necessary for people to die for what they believed in. The students looked skeptical, but seemed impressed that he was there. Nixon told them to go ahead and shout their slogans tomorrow, that was what America was about, just keep it peaceful.

Everybody shook hands.

Then, smiling shyly, the President moved down the line toward his car, surrounded by an increasing number of worried White House staffers who had come looking for him. He reached Eddie, and the political hand shot out for the automatic, quick pump. Eddie started to speak. Nixon passed on. Eddie felt deflated. He thought Nixon a terrible President, but something childlike inside wanted to be singled out for special recognition. At his car, Nixon waved awkwardly to the protesters, then turned to whisper to an aide.

“Did you see him?” said a student standing near Eddie, chest full of medal ribbons bought at a flea market. “Was that really the baby killer?”

Eddie, about to say something, felt a touch on his elbow. A Secret Service man asked if he would please come this way. Eddie was led down the hill, past the crowd, then back to the street. An instant later, he was in the limousine, across from Nixon.

“Didn't want to embarrass you in front of the kids,” the President explained calmly, as if the two of them saw each other every day. “Can't have them thinking you're part of the power structure.” He pointed. “We're going up to the Capitol.”

“We are?”

“Never thanked you for those kind words.” Nixon's gravelly voice was always awkward at expressing emotion. Actually, he had thanked Eddie, seven years ago. “Good man. Glad you're back safely from your travels. I know you're speaking tomorrow. Have to say nasty things about me. I understand that. It's politics. Do what you have to. That's what we do up here, Eddie. What we have to.” Gazing out the window as they streaked along Constitution Avenue. Only one other aide was in the back, a buttoned-down young man who looked uneasy about the President's rambling. “These kids—they're great. I love the kids. All right, some of them are bums. Burning up the campuses. But most of them, they just want peace. Who doesn't? You know I'm a Quaker. When I was younger, I thought Neville Chamberlain was a hero. I thought Winston Churchill was a monster. Shows you how much I knew. But it's natural to want peace. Natural.”

“Yes, sir,” said Eddie, bewildered, sitting there with the President, wearing jeans and a sweater. He had left his backpack in the tent. He was glad he had remembered his wallet and his notebook. He wondered if anybody had yet liberated his sleeping bag.

“Did you see we promoted Oliver Garland to the court of appeals? Good man. Good heart. Good friend. Knows how to keep secrets. He was a friend of yours, too, wasn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

A brief silence, although he could tell at once that Nixon disliked silences.

“A good man,” the President resumed, drumming his fingers on the sill. Even that simple activity seemed somehow clumsy, a little off, like an instrument out of tune. “Kevin was a good man. Matty. All those Garlands. We need more men whose hearts are in the right place, Eddie. Especially these days. Might need your help. Man like you, a good heart, good head on your shoulders. The world is changing, and some of what we hope to do—”

He stopped. They had reached the Capitol. Nixon hopped out, dragging his small entourage past suddenly wakeful security guards. They found somebody to open the House chamber, and Nixon showed Eddie his first congressional desk. He sat down—to Eddie's eyes, happily—then sent one of his aides to sit in the Speaker's chair. The early morning grew surreal as the President told stories of the old days. Eddie felt half asleep, but Nixon's energy crackled. At the Lincoln Memorial, the man had seemed exhausted and a little befuddled. Now he was rejuvenating before Eddie's tired eyes. On the way out, he chatted with the cleaning staff. A black woman asked the President to sign her Bible. This was too much for Eddie's crowded sensibilities, and he was ready to find a taxi back to his tent, but Nixon took him by the elbow and led him to the car. The chief of staff materialized from somewhere, urging a return to the White House, but Nixon said no, he and his old friend Eddie were going out to breakfast.

“Really, no, I should—”

“You can't refuse your President,” said Nixon, smiling gaily.

Minutes later, they marched past an astonished maître d' into the restaurant of the Mayflower Hotel. The waitresses stared at the President, but also at the funny little Negro in dirty jeans. Later, the newspapers would speculate unconfidently that Nixon had decided to buy a meal for some poor soul who lived on the street, a publicity stunt, maybe, to deflect attention from the demonstrations. The President and Eddie sat alone at a table. Nixon ate hash and eggs. Eddie, whose interest in food had grown no greater over the years, had cornflakes and half a grapefruit.

“You and Aurelia,” said the President, digging in. “What happened there? Thought you would be one of the great couples.”

Again Eddie was astonished: first, that Nixon knew there had ever been anything between them, and, second, that he cared. But of course he was an old friend of the family. Even since entering the White House, the Nixons had twice visited Wanda Garland, Kevin's mother, as all the darker nation knew.

“It wasn't going to work,” said Eddie, picking his words with care.

“On your end or hers? Give her another chance. Tell you something. Knew I was going to marry Pat the night I met her. If you feel that way—” He stopped talking, started chewing.

“Yes, sir,” said Eddie, bewildered.

“I know what you have to do tomorrow,” said Nixon, returning to his theme. “So you just go out and do it. Flay me alive. Not a wimp. Matter of fact, I have a fairly thick skin. And I know Frost wants you to talk to his people. Do what you have to do, Eddie. Tell Frost whatever he wants to know. Doesn't matter. He can't win. Believe me. Poor guy doesn't have a chance. So go ahead and do what you have to do, but when you're done, come see me. There's great work to be done in this country, and maybe we can do it together.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Eddie, startled by Nixon's knowledge, and not at all sure what the man wanted of him. It occurred to him that Nixon did not know, either.

“I hear you had a rough time in Vietnam.”

“Ah, no harder than anybody else.” His stock answer. “Sir—”

“Johnson's war, not mine. Kennedy started it. Doesn't matter. If it happens on your watch—and we can't abandon them. Cut and run. America doesn't do that.”

“Even when America's wrong?”

“Not a matter of right or wrong. Matter of reputation. They have to believe you'll do what you—” He scooped his thick head for a bite. The shy smile was almost apologetic. “Can't do it. Can't cut and run.”

“It's like playing poker, Mr. President,” said Eddie, hitting upon an analogy he hoped Nixon would find persuasive. “You know what they say. If you throw good money after bad, you wind up out of the game before you—”

“America doesn't cut and run.”

The President's eyes shifted one way, the other way, back again. He seemed restless and uneasy. He was said to be a brooder, a breed Eddie knew at first hand. Eddie looked around the restaurant. Aides stared back, and, beyond them, a few gawking early risers. All these smart people at his beck and call, but Nixon had pulled Eddie out of the crowd to eat breakfast. And then Eddie got it. The President of the United States had nobody else to eat with. He wanted company, and, on this particular morning, a left-leaning novelist who hated the war but had written a vaguely complimentary essay about him eight years ago was the best he could do. Nixon wanted to be Eddie's friend. Yet he had no small talk, which meant that it was up to his guest to keep the ball rolling. And Eddie knew just what ball he wanted to roll. So he took another bite and said, “Mr. President, if I may, there's a question I'd like to ask.”

“Ask.”

“It's about my sister.”

The President shoveled another clumsy bite into his mouth. “Nobody's above the law,” he said after a moment.

“I know this is going to sound very strange, sir. Please don't think me impertinent. I was wondering if you ever met her. My sister.”

“You know, I understand them. The radicals.” He put his fork down hard, nearly knocking his water glass to the floor. “People in a hurry. Kids today, they've had everything. My generation, we had to fight for—” He took a sip. “Grab a gun. It's natural. We fought. Now it's their turn.” The glass clattered. “Not that we can let them burn everything down. The President's first responsibility is the security of the nation. Took an oath, Eddie. Against all enemies foreign and domestic.”

“Yes, sir. Now, about my sister—”

“The thing is, Eddie, sometimes the methods you use to defend—well, you can't use them in the sunshine.” He brightened. “They tell me she's smart, your sister. Ivy League. Must be a pretty bright gal.”

“Yes, sir. She is.”

“Too bad which side she ended up on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She'll spend years in prison when we catch her. Sorry, Eddie. Can't avoid that. But it's not so bad. Some of the best writing of the century was done in prison.”

Eddie looked around the restaurant. Other diners continued to stare.

“The reason I ask about my sister—”

“Did you ever find her? Everybody says you're looking. Brotherly love. That's the way.”

“No, sir. I haven't found her. Not yet.”