The Henderson Equation (9 page)

"That's a panderer, a garbage dump. What happens in
the pages of the
News
takes place in Captain Patterson's pygmy
mind."

"But he's dead."

"From the grave, then. That's not a newspaper."

"Please don't take offense, Nick," Myra interjected. "Father's insult is purely generic."

"Not necessarily," Mr. Parker said, trying but
failing to smile broadly. No one, not even Myra, could trifle with his
obsession.

"Every man who works for the
News
bears
responsibility."

"Like the Germans," Charlie said, shrugging his
shoulders.

"Exactly, Charlie."

The maid brought trays of steaming food, which they ladled
ceremoniously onto their plates. The old man was silent for a few moments,
chewing carefully, absorbed in his own thoughts. Midway through his dinner, Mr.
Parker began again, fork in midair.

"Personality," he said, as if it were a chapter
heading, like "Objectivity" earlier. "It will ruin journalism.
That's why the
Chronicle
has no by-lines on its front page. I will not
have personality dominate the news. It is not fair to the people. By-lines are
merely an excuse to editorialize, to bring the news into the realm of personal
opinion. We have a high responsibility to unbend the truth, especially in Washington, where the truth is in short supply."

"But it makes for boring reading," Charlie said,
firm but respectful. "It's too reasoned, too juiceless. The competition is
not building stories in pyramids the way the journalism textbooks teach. And we
are competing, for attention. It's not enough that we've got to fight other
newspapers for the reader's interest, but television's beginning to happen. And
life itself is getting more frenetic."

"Exactly why we need a newspaper, at least one, that
subjugates personality, that tells the straight story. The people must be given
a chance to form their own opinions, to get the facts without bias." He
was silent for a moment as he finished the food on his plate.

"Bias," he began again with his peculiar
pedantry. To Nick, the method of presentation was contradiction in itself of
the old man's point of view, since his personality dominated his own
presentation. "Most, I say most, newspapers in this country reflect the
bias of their owners in their news columns. Study the way the
Washington
Post
or the
Star
present their news, the Scripps chain; even the
failing Hearst newspapers roar out their bias as a kind of tribute to crazy
Bill. And McCormick. There's egomania for you. And Cissy Patterson. Her
personal prejudices still reek from the pages of the
Times-Herald
. Go
from city to city and see if it isn't true. The process of disseminating
information is the product of only a few obsessed minds, the bias of power and
personality." He seemed to be trying desperately to convince Charlie, a
special clue, it seemed, in assessing what was obviously so tantalizing to
Nick's friend.

"Mr. Parker," Charlie said slowly, uncommon to
his style, searching for a diplomatic path. He was walking on eggshells here.

"The name of the game is circulation. Without
circulation, readership, you're working the tiller of a doomed ship." The
nautical reference seemed another hint to Charlie's new life among the swells,
confirmed later by pictures of sailboats in the library. "You can't run a
mass media enterprise for the happy few, unless you run it as a hobby." It
was a cutting reference, since Nick could almost feel Myra wince. "In a
way, the
Chronicle
reflects your own bias. I don't necessarily mean
ideological, although the editorial pages leave no mistake about where you
stand personally. Even the objective truth as you present it is, after all,
only your objective truth. We're dealing with an onrushing river of facts,
plucked at random by your reporters as they ride the tide. It only appears to
be objective in the heat of the moment, within the time frame demanded by your
headlines. It's only an ideal."

Mr. Parker was listening carefully, an ear cocked, as if he
were probing Charlie's words, picking through them like a man searching for
something. When he did not speak, Charlie continued.

"I'm not saying you should pander like the
News,
but you've got to make some compromise with the public. Besides, the idea that
all you have to do is tell both sides of a story and the public will react with
reason, is naïve. It assumes that the public has a balanced brain and is
waiting patiently to weigh both sides of any given question. In the first
place, the public has little patience, and little time, to steep itself in the
questions. They may not even be paying attention. And you don't just run a
newspaper for only the informed few."

Mr. Parker nodded as the plates were cleared.

"The
New York Times,"
he began.
"There is the closest thing we have to an objective newspaper."

"And even that has bias in its news columns."

"That's because they've let personality interfere. The
by-line again. I can remember when the
Times
had few by-lines on its
front page. You could trust its consistent vision, then."

"I think it took the only road open to it, a
compromise," Charlie said. "The
Times'
bias is in what they
leave out, not what they put in."

"Exactly," Mr. Parker agreed for the first time.
"'All the news that's fit to print.' Who decides what's fit? There's the
personality factor."

"You just can't eliminate the humanness from people,
Mr. Parker. Especially people who control information. It's one hell of a
newspaper no matter how you slice it."

Mr. Parker concentrated on his dessert. He was silent for a
long time. Myra's eyes kept moving from him to Charlie. She was a silent victim
of the male supremacy in the room, and in retrospect Nick realized the scene
provided a clue to later actions.

"Do you think Truman is finished?" Nick asked,
feeling the obligation of the guest to pay for his dinner with some
participation in the conversation.

"It looks that way, although he's a tough old
bird," Mr. Parker said. "I'm inclined to support him."

"Only because he's as contrary as you are,
Father," Myra said.

"Any man that's smart enough to defer to Marshall and
Acheson cannot be all wrong."

"He seems such a pygmy next to Roosevelt,"
Charlie said. "That's his major handicap, that damned comparison."

"You see how we make our judgments," Mr. Parker
said quietly. "Personality dominates. I worked for Roosevelt. I'd sooner
play poker with Truman."

"Father did play poker with Roosevelt," Myra said.

"Precisely why I'd rather play with Truman." For
the first time, Nick saw Mr. Parker laugh.

After dinner, Mr. Parker disappeared for the rest of the
evening.

"He's gone to the paper," Myra explained.

He's afraid that if he didn't read every word before it hit
the street, his damned objectivity would suffer," Charlie said.

"Objectivity," he mimicked Mr. Parker.

"I'm worried about him, Charlie. He's burning himself
out over that paper," Myra said, a frown darkening her face.

"It's an impossible burden," Charlie said,
reinforcing her observation. "The burden of truth."

"He's stubborn," Myra said. A telephone rang in
the distance. The maid came in and called Myra. She stood up.

"Hey, fellows. Tomorrow's our engagement party,"
she said, getting up.

"It'll be quite a bash," Charlie said.
"Everybody will cover it except, of course, the
Chronicle."

"Not objective?" Nick asked.

"Not objective."

Nick and Charlie sat in the huge living room, near a grand
piano on which perched a forest of photographs in a variety of gilt frames,
mostly family pictures with famous personalities. There was a picture of Mr.
Parker, Myra, and what was certainly her mother, with Roosevelt. Charlie's eyes
swept the long room.

"Well, what do you think, old buddy?" Charlie
asked. He seemed back in familiar character.

"I think you've stepped in shit."

"Not bad, right?"

"Right."

He leaned back on the soft upholstered chair in which he
was sitting and put his hands behind his head, elbows up, a pose of contentment
which did not quite fit the uncertainty that Nick caught in his eyes.

"What do you think of Myra?"

"She's lovely."

"She's got this thing about her father. A kind of
worship. It bothered me at first, but as I get to know the old boy, I'm
beginning to feel the same way. He's obsessed, as you can see. The paper's
taking a bad financial licking. Myra says he's already poured in five million.
Five million! Now there's an expensive obsession for you."

Nick looked around the room.

"It seems that there's lots left."

"Who knows? They don't discuss money around me,"
he sighed. "They don't discuss a lot of things." His eyes glazed over
for a moment.

"He wants me to go to work for the
Chronicle,"
he said suddenly. "Imagine me as the Son-in-Law. We'll be at each other's
throats in a week. I keep refusing."

"What does Myra think?"

"There's the problem, at least I think it is. He's a
man that puts great stock in his life, tortures himself inwardly about the
continuity of his precious expensive hobby. He doesn't believe Myra can handle it."

"Handle what?"

"The running of the paper. It's hard to imagine these
old rich types. They see double vision. Look back and forth in time. He sees
the continuity of the
Chronicle,
his half-baked idea of a newspaper
continued into the future
ad infinitum
. But he has no faith in females.
Was disappointed in his wife, but loved his mother. Freud would have a field
day with his libido. They're plotting to have me take over. I'm the compromise
candidate."

"That's fantastic, Charlie," Nick said. "My
God, it's like having the biggest electric train on the block."

"In effect, I'd be working for my wife. He has too
much faith in bloodlines to ever will the stock outside the line. He'd expect,
of course, that we produce sons." He stood up and stretched. "Come
on, let's take a walk."

They walked briskly down Massachusetts Avenue, past stately
homes, many now converted to embassies. The night air was soft, warm. They
passed over a bridge, below which traffic rolled quietly through Rock Creek Park.

"What do you think?" Charlie said again, dropping
a cigarette onto the grass in front of the British Embassy and punching it into
the ground with the toe of his shoe. Nick felt the weight of responsibility. It
was a burden he wouldn't accept. He remained silent. Charlie looked at him and
shrugged.

"Do you love Myra?" A question with a question.
Now it was Charlie's turn not to answer. He punched Nick on the upper arm.

"It's great to see you, kid. I really missed ya."

The engagement party itself was in keeping with Mr.
Parker's life-style, the kind of party a doting father would throw for his only
daughter. Flashbulbs popped as Washington's high and mighty paraded, tuxed and
bejeweled, into the great hall of the big house. Nick recognized famous faces.
But he was not experienced in party talk and preferred to stand aside and
observe the scene. He watched Mr. Parker, an always imposing figure, his huge
girth bound by a purple cummerbund, greet his guests and move through crowds of
familiar faces, touching hands, kissing cheeks.

To unaccustomed eyes it was a feast of power, and Nick
remembered thinking how much of his own destiny was affected by the decisions
of these men.

Charlie occasionally took respite with his friend,
identifying the cast of characters with an amusing running commentary.

"That hayseed is Barkley. He's the Senator who
outfoxed Roosevelt. He loves filthy stories. They always take place in Paducah. And that's Senator Taft, the balding fellow with the hair pasted over the knob.
And there's Perle Mesta, our hostess with the mostest, and the Cafritzes, if
you like to count Jews." Myra came over and planted a kiss on Charlie's
cheek, looking radiant in a pink chiffon dress, like a girl at her first prom.

"Love you," she said lightly, taking him by the
hand and leading him through the throng, as if on a tour. If there was any
hesitation on Charlie's part, Nick knew then that all that glitter was
seductive, beyond his capacity, anyone's capacity, to resist. There was, after
all, much to learn about these people in this environment, and since they
exercised a control over destiny, they were certainly worthy of greater
inspection.

"It's a zoo, old buddy," Charlie said later, when
the dancing had begun and the great and powerful moved to the odd beat of
Lester Lanin. It was unlike any rhythm Nick could remember, a special beat, as
if even the music had to be refashioned to conform to the exotic tastes of the
elite. They had moved through French doors to a stone patio which jutted out
into a well-trimmed garden. People huddled in conversational tableaus, intent
in their discussions, trading confidences. To Nick, other people's
conversations always seemed somehow more important to them than what he could
muster, weightier. In the soft shadowy light of the garden, that impression was
magnified as important looking men and women, elegant and mysterious in the
night, pondered fateful decisions in whispered tones.

"You seem to have found yourself in the eye of the
universe," Nick said, and immediately had the impression he was also
posturing.

"I think your description, like your prose, old buddy,
is a trifle purple."

"Really, Charlie, I'm as impressed as hell. Christ,
these people are just names in a paper to me. I've tried all evening to be
superior to it. You'd think a reporter would be more blasé about it. I have to
admit I do feel a wee bit inconsequential with all this brass."