Dilman had heard much of this before, but never spoken with such indignation. He held his own temper in check, determined to reason with the boy. “I didn’t try to keep you a Negro or anything else, Julian,” he said. “What you are, what you become, is in your own hands. Certainly there are gross inequities being practiced against us, but we’ve made gains and we’ll make more, and one day, under due process of law, this country will be everyone’s country.”
“The payment’s overdue more than a hundred years,” said Julian angrily. “We’re not waiting any more. We’re collecting.”
Dilman stared at his hands on the desk, “We’re being gradually paid up,” he said quietly. “Slavery and bondage are gone. Segregation is going. You’ll have it easier than I had it, and even the way times were, look what a Negro like your father could accomplish in this country. Both whites and blacks put me in Congress-”
“On the white man’s terms,” said Julian. Hastily he added, “I’m not being disrespectful, but I mean-”
“Julian, look where I’m sitting, look around the room you’re in-”
Julian had grasped the desk. “They didn’t mean for you to be here, Dad, they don’t want you here. We want you, but they don’t.” His voice was cracking again. “I haven’t told you everything I’ve been hearing.”
Dilman wanted to end this painful scene with one who was of his own blood, one who would not understand. “I know what’s going on, Julian,” he said. “Nevertheless, I’m here, and that speaks well of our situation in our country. It is proof of what is possible. I’ll do my job here, and all I want of you is that you stop trying to turn over the country with one push and concentrate on learning some reason in school-”
“Dad, I’m going to tell you, I’m going to tell you,” Julian interrupted. “All of us think it’s like a miracle, your being put here. You’ve got the chance of a lifetime to do in a little while what our people, and the ones who died and suffered, all the societies, couldn’t do in a century. You can force the whites-”
“I’m not forcing anybody to do anything.” Dilman’s tone had become harsh. “I’m the President of the United States, not the President of the Negro population, and whatever’s best-”
“I’m still going to tell you-listen, Dad, please listen-you’ve got to know what our people are saying outside-they’re saying if you were the President of the United States, all of it, that would be fine, too, but you’re not-won’t be-you’ll be like the ones before-the President of the whites-”
Dilman’s hands balled hard. “That’s enough from you, Julian, that’s quite enough. You remember who you are and who I am, and that I’m the one who’s still in charge of seeing you think right and behave right-me, not your callow friends.”
Sulkily Julian released his grip on the desk, and pushed back into his chair. “Okay, if-if you don’t want to talk-”
“Don’t bait me. And stop being childish.”
“I’m not baiting you the least bit. I’m only thinking how you always wanted us to be your kind of Negro, and none of us wanted it, not Mom, and not Mindy, and not me either. I always envied Mindy because she was born lucky, and got away, and I was born this way and got stuck. When I wanted to do something about it, become a person like everybody else, like Mindy, you wouldn’t let me, and you still won’t.”
At the first mention of his daughter’s name, Dilman had automatically begun to scan the office, to make certain that every door was closed to hostile ears. He could see that the doors were shut tight.
He brought his gaze back to his son. “I don’t want to discuss Mindy here.”
“And you don’t want to discuss me, either,” said Julian bitterly. “I’d trade places with her tomorrow, if I could.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Dilman. “All Negroes who pass aren’t so happy. The deceit-”
“She’s doing all right,” said Julian.
Dilman looked at his son sharply. “How do you know?” he demanded. “How do you know she’s doing all right?”
Julian’s immediate discomfort was evident. “I-I’m guessing. If she weren’t, wouldn’t you have heard from her, now that you’re President? If she weren’t better off playing white, wouldn’t she come forward to live in the White House?”
“You seem to know a good deal about her,” said Dilman. “You’ve been in touch with her, haven’t you?”
“Suppose I have?”
“I’m surprised, that’s all,” said Dilman, and his heart ached at her rejection of him, and then he was ashamed at the fear that had entered his head. When Mindy had gone across the line separating white from black, she had gone entirely, disappeared from every phase of the old life she had ever known. Only she knew her secret and her identity. Now she was not alone. She had shared her secret. The threat of it oppressed him. “Isn’t she afraid? Why should she take the chance of letting you know-”
“I don’t know who she is or where she is,” said Julian. “One day, a year and a half ago, I had a brief note from her at school, right out of the sky. She needed money desperately, for some emergency. She figured I was on an allowance from you. She asked for a loan to be mailed in cash. She told me to mail it under a different name to General Delivery at the main post office in New York City. I did. After that, I tried to find that name she gave me in the New York directories. There was none like that. Maybe she uses many names. Anyway, I wrote her, using that name, and a couple of months ago she paid me back in cash. There was another note from her. She’s got a better position, whatever it is. She’s going with a great crowd, and she made it clear they were white. Oh, she’s doing fine, she’s doing just great. She’s got equal rights, because she was born color-lucky like the white folks. And all I’m asking is that you let me work harder on the outside for the same acceptance and decency.”
“Mindy’s wrong,” said Dilman. “Deceit is wrong. Julian, you’ll have your acceptance and decency in the open, on your own terms. T. C. was fighting for it, and you tell your friends I will, too.” He suddenly felt tired. “I moved today, I moved into that”-he pointed through the French doors-“plantation house.” He smiled weakly. “That’s our home for the next year or so, Julian. There’ll be a room for you, for weekends and holidays. When are you going back to Trafford?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“Very well. Why don’t you go up there-someone will show you the elevator to the second floor-and have a look around? It’s something to see. Crystal’s there right now. She’ll whip you up some lunch, and after that you get the valet to show you a room for yourself. I’ll catch up with you before you leave.”
Julian rose, softened, chastened by the realization of the White House. “I’m sorry to-to disagree with you, Dad, with all you’ve got on your mind. I’m staying on with my work in the Crispus Society, but I’ll try to do better in school, too. You can write the Chancellor that.”
Relieved, Dilman smiled fully. “Thanks, son. Just open that door, and go around the ell and through the ground-floor door. You won’t get lost.”
The moment that Julian had gone, Dilman consulted the typed card slipped into the silver holder on the desk. The card read: The President’s Engagements. Beneath his son’s name was the name of Leroy Poole.
Dilman picked up the console telephone receiver and pressed the buzzer. Instantly he heard Shelby Lucas, the agreeable, somewhat courtly, prematurely gray engagements secretary, inherited from T. C., reply on the other end. “Yes, Mr. President?”