office are, except what I’ve seen and read. I don’t know what it is really like in there. I want to see you, speak to you, more than ever. I—I just don’t know—will they let me?”
“Doug, nobody owns you. You don’t have to wait for anyone to let you do anything, I mean in your personal life.”
“You’re right, Wanda.”
“It’s late, dear. You’d better get some sleep. I—I’ll be here. You call me when you can, anytime, I’ll be here.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Anytime. . . . Now sleep, dearest, and know we are all with you. Good night, Doug.”
“Good night, Wanda, good night.”
After hanging up, he had tried to analyze their talk. She had offered him encouragement, and her language had been warm, and yet, toward the end especially, he had sensed her remoteness. Still, he had thought, as he reached to turn off the bed lamp and then pushed his fatigued body beneath the blanket, she was for him and with him, no matter how disappointed she might be in him, and that was comforting, that was something; and then he had felt drowsiness, and then he had slept.
He finished knotting his knit tie, pulled on the coat of his charcoal suit, and consulted his wristwatch. He was afraid the journey his mind had taken to the events of last night, to the five years with Wanda, had consumed an hour of time. He was amazed and pleased to see that only six minutes had passed. It occurred to him that he had made a discovery no scientist had made before him. He had found what traveled faster than the speed of light: memory. The trouble was, no matter how fast it traveled, memory never stopped.
Determined to retreat no more from the unknown present into the more pleasant past, he left the bedroom and walked briskly into the living room. Lou Agajanian was seated in a chair, under the arch leading into the entry hall, smoking a cigarette. Immediately, the head of the White House Detail leaped to his feet in a pose of civilian attention.
“Mr. President,” he said, “the boss—I mean, Mr. Gaynor, he went off to catch a wink of sleep. Another agent, Mr. Prentiss, came in to spell him. He’s in the kitchen, at the rear service door.”
“Fine, fine.” Dilman indicated the chair. “Please relax, Mr. Agajanian.”
The Chief of the White House Secret Service Detail remained standing while Dilman entered the small dining room, which overlooked the street. He noticed that instead of his usual yellow breakfast mat and plain pottery dishes, Crystal had set the table with the formal white tablecloth and decorated dishes from the good set. Obviously, for her, this was an Occasion. Amused, he called off toward the kitchen, “Let’s go, Crystal, I’m here!”
As he sat down, Crystal rushed in and placed his orange juice before him. “Eggs an’ bacon comin’, Mr. President!”
Before picking up the orange juice, he studied the messages on slips of paper lying before the telephone: his son Julian had phoned from Trafford University (“Will call you back”); his Senate secretary, Diane Fuller, had phoned from the Old Senate Office Building (“Has to go out on your business, will call you back”); Secretary of State Eaton had phoned from his house (“To inquire how you are”); press secretary Tim Flannery (“Please set aside time for him early today”); Governor Wayne Talley (“Will call back shortly”). Those were the messages. He guessed that there might have been hundreds more, except that his phone number was unlisted, known only to a select handful of persons.
Drinking down the unsweetened orange juice, grimacing at the liquid’s bite, he reached over and brought the pile of newspapers before him. There were five to which he subscribed, two New York City dailies, and three Washington, D.C., newspapers, one of the latter a Negro press publication.
Quickly he examined the headlines streaming across each front page. The sensational New York newspaper read:
NATION GASPS! A NEGRO IS PRESIDENT
“Doug, nobody owns you. You don’t have to wait for anyone to let you do anything, I mean in your personal life.”
“You’re right, Wanda.”
“It’s late, dear. You’d better get some sleep. I—I’ll be here. You call me when you can, anytime, I’ll be here.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Anytime. . . . Now sleep, dearest, and know we are all with you. Good night, Doug.”
“Good night, Wanda, good night.”
After hanging up, he had tried to analyze their talk. She had offered him encouragement, and her language had been warm, and yet, toward the end especially, he had sensed her remoteness. Still, he had thought, as he reached to turn off the bed lamp and then pushed his fatigued body beneath the blanket, she was for him and with him, no matter how disappointed she might be in him, and that was comforting, that was something; and then he had felt drowsiness, and then he had slept.
He finished knotting his knit tie, pulled on the coat of his charcoal suit, and consulted his wristwatch. He was afraid the journey his mind had taken to the events of last night, to the five years with Wanda, had consumed an hour of time. He was amazed and pleased to see that only six minutes had passed. It occurred to him that he had made a discovery no scientist had made before him. He had found what traveled faster than the speed of light: memory. The trouble was, no matter how fast it traveled, memory never stopped.
Determined to retreat no more from the unknown present into the more pleasant past, he left the bedroom and walked briskly into the living room. Lou Agajanian was seated in a chair, under the arch leading into the entry hall, smoking a cigarette. Immediately, the head of the White House Detail leaped to his feet in a pose of civilian attention.
“Mr. President,” he said, “the boss—I mean, Mr. Gaynor, he went off to catch a wink of sleep. Another agent, Mr. Prentiss, came in to spell him. He’s in the kitchen, at the rear service door.”
“Fine, fine.” Dilman indicated the chair. “Please relax, Mr. Agajanian.”
The Chief of the White House Secret Service Detail remained standing while Dilman entered the small dining room, which overlooked the street. He noticed that instead of his usual yellow breakfast mat and plain pottery dishes, Crystal had set the table with the formal white tablecloth and decorated dishes from the good set. Obviously, for her, this was an Occasion. Amused, he called off toward the kitchen, “Let’s go, Crystal, I’m here!”
As he sat down, Crystal rushed in and placed his orange juice before him. “Eggs an’ bacon comin’, Mr. President!”
Before picking up the orange juice, he studied the messages on slips of paper lying before the telephone: his son Julian had phoned from Trafford University (“Will call you back”); his Senate secretary, Diane Fuller, had phoned from the Old Senate Office Building (“Has to go out on your business, will call you back”); Secretary of State Eaton had phoned from his house (“To inquire how you are”); press secretary Tim Flannery (“Please set aside time for him early today”); Governor Wayne Talley (“Will call back shortly”). Those were the messages. He guessed that there might have been hundreds more, except that his phone number was unlisted, known only to a select handful of persons.
Drinking down the unsweetened orange juice, grimacing at the liquid’s bite, he reached over and brought the pile of newspapers before him. There were five to which he subscribed, two New York City dailies, and three Washington, D.C., newspapers, one of the latter a Negro press publication.
Quickly he examined the headlines streaming across each front page. The sensational New York newspaper read:
NATION GASPS! A NEGRO IS PRESIDENT
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