Vicarson often wondered if it would have been the same with Trevayne’s predecessor.
Goddamn, he was a good president! A really fine president, thought Vicarson as he watched Andrew get out of the car and hold the door for Phyllis, simultaneously talking with the Secret Service men at his side. People had confidence in him; people everywhere. If comparisons were to be made with those in the recent past, a columnist for the New York Times had said it best: «… the calming nature of Eisenhower, the grace and fire of Kennedy, the drive of Johnson.»
Sam felt sorry for the opposition party, parties. After only eighteen months in office, Trevayne had set a tone, an outlook. He’d established an attitude. For the first time in years the country had a collective pride in its leadership. The Man before Trevayne had almost reached that level, but the sharpshooting snipers on the right and left had prevented him. Trevayne, because of either a general desire for tranquillity or the force of his own personality—and his ability to listen—had defused the extremists. It was probably a combination of both, thought Vicarson.
Trevayne was the right man for the right time. Another man might not be capable of sustaining the calm, sometimes more difficult than weathering a storm. Not that there was any lack of excitement. The Trevayne administration had made bold innovations in dozens of areas, but they were dramatic more in concept than in execution. And their announcements were subdued; they were called desirable shifts of priorities, not hailed as landmarks, which a number were. Housing, medicine, education, employment; long-range national strategies were implemented.
Sam Vicarson was enormously, realistically proud of President Andrew Trevayne.
So was the country, he felt.
Sam was surprised to see an old man getting out of the other side of the presidential limousine. It was Franklyn Baldwin, Trevayne’s ancient banker friend from New York. Baldwin looked like hell, thought Vicarson. It was understandable; Baldwin had just buried William Hill, the friend he’d known since childhood. Big Billy Hill was gone; Baldwin had to be aware that his own time wasn’t far off.
It was a mark of the President’s sense of obligation that he had attended Hill’s funeral; a mark of his swift grace that he’d insisted on saying a few words before the formal eulogy. A mark of his kindness that he’d brought old Frank Baldwin back with him to High Barnegat.
A «Mark of Excellence.» That had been the very appropriate phrase used during the campaign.
Phyllis watched her husband helping Frank Baldwin up the short steps to the front door. Sam Vicarson offered assistance, but Andrew shook his head imperceptibly; enough so the young lawyer understood. The President alone would attend to Mr. Baldwin.
Phyllis felt a surge of quiet pride when Andy did such things, gave meaning to gestures.
The prince doth render concern and the court doth follow, bettered by its better. A description Froissart gave to the court of Chatillon in his First Chronicle… Prince, young king—and not so young, thought Phyllis. There was much of Froissart, or what the Arthurian chronicler always wanted to find, in Andrew’s White House. She knew her husband would laugh at such a suggestion. He’d tell her not to romanticize courtesy, not to find symbols where none were intended. That, too, was part of the aura that Andy exuded; the office magnified his quiet goodness, his confident modesty. Even his humor was laced with self-effacing irony.
She’d always loved her husband: he was a man to be loved. Now she found herself almost revering him, and she wasn’t sure that was good or even healthy, but she couldn’t help it. She realized that the awesomeness of the office lent itself to reverence, but Andy refused the mantle of heavy-lies-the-head. He gave out no stern reminders that the ultimate loneliness was his, no plaintive cries that decisions were never easy. No hollow dramatics of justification were to be found in his explanations.
But he had explained.
«A nation that is capable of reaching the planets can tend to its own land. A people who have taken so much from the earth can render a just portion back into it. A citizenry that has supported—fairly and unfairly—the expenditures of millions beyond its borders, can certainly build within…»
And he had proceeded to expedite these deceptively simple inaugural beliefs.
Phyllis followed her husband and Frank Baldwin into the house, where a military aide took their coats. They walked into the large living room, where some considerate soul—probably Sam, thought Phyllis—had lighted a fire. She’d been worried about old Baldwin. The funeral service for William Hill had been one of those long High Anglican chores, and the church drafty, the stone floor cold.
«Here, Frank,» said Trevayne, holding the back of an armchair, turning it slightly toward the fireplace. «Relax. Let me get you a drink. All of us; we could use it.»
«Thank you, Mr. President,» answered Baldwin, sitting down. Phyllis crossed to the long couch and saw that Sam Vicarson had moved a second armchair opposite Baldwin. Sam was so good at that sort of thing.
«Scotch, isn’t that right, Frank? Rocks?»
«You always remember what a man drinks. I think that’s how you became President.» Baldwin laughed, winking his old eye at Phyllis.
«Much easier, believe me. Sam, would you do the honors for me? Scotch on the rocks for Mr. Baldwin; Phyl and I will have the usual.»
«Certainly, sir,» replied Vicarson, turning toward the hall.
Trevayne sat down in the chair facing Baldwin, Phyllis next to him at the end of the couch. He reached over and held her hand briefly, releasing it when the old man smiled at the sight.
«Don’t stop. It’s nice to know a man can be President and still hold his wife’s hand without a camera around.»
«Good Lord, Frank, I’ve been known to kiss her.»
«Now you may stop,» added Baldwin with a soft laugh. «I keep forgetting how young you are… It was most kind of you to invite me here, Mr. President. It’s much appreciated.»
«Nonsense. I wanted your company; I was afraid I was imposing.»
«That’s a gracious thing to say; but then, I read so often in the newspapers that you possess such qualities. I always knew you did.»
«Thank you.»
«It’s all been remarkable, hasn’t it? Do you remember, my dear?» asked Baldwin of Phyllis. «I remember, because I’d never been up here. I always picture in my mind an office, or a home, a club—whatever—when I telephone someone. Especially if I don’t know the surroundings. In your case it was a window looking out on the water. I recall distinctly your saying that Andrew … the President, was out in a sailboat. A cat.»
«I remember.» Phyllis smiled gently. «I was on the terrace.»
«So do I,» said Trevayne. «The first thing she asked me when I got in was why hadn’t I returned your calls. I was honest; I told her I was trying to avoid you.»
«Yes, I remember your saying that at the bank. At lunch… I beg you to forgive me for interrupting your life so completely.» The old man’s tired eyes showed that he was, indeed, asking forgiveness.
«Aurelius, Frank.»
«Who?»
«Marcus Aurelius. You quoted him. ‘No man can avoid …’»
«Oh, yes. ‘What he’s meant to do. At the moment …’ You called him a mutual fund.»
«A what?» asked Phyllis.
«An inept joke, Phyl. As I came to learn.»
Sam Vicarson returned with a silver tray on which there were three glasses. He offered the tray first to Phyllis, and as she nodded, he caught Trevayne’s glance.
Although it was customary to serve the President after the First Lady, he would approach Baldwin next.