To Burden’s relief, his connection with Nillson did not become a major issue. For one thing Nillson’s difficulties with the government had not so far involved the Indian land sale. For another, though Nillson had been indicted on several counts, he had yet to be convicted of anything. As a result, neither his challenger in the primary nor his opponent in the election was able to do more than deplore the company the Senator kept.

  Ironically, it was Burden’s sense of justice that cost him votes. He was savagely attacked for defending the Nisei. “Nip-lover” was often scrawled on his posters. Just before election, in desperation, his Republican opponent had charged that Senator Day was a secret agent for the Japanese Government (why did the Senator see Ambassador Kurusu ten days before Pearl Harbor?). Because of this hyperbole, the Republican lost; to Burden’s secret surprise, for he had been convinced that this time he would lose and if he did, he had not the slightest idea what would become of him. He had no life outside the Senate. But virtue had triumphed, and he was safe for six more years.

  In a good mood, Burden ended his speech with a pleasantry. During the laughter, he dropped his menu in the pool of melted ice cream. The chairman thanked him; another speech made.

  Tired but pleased, Burden proceeded through the crowded room, shaking hands, giving autographs, allowing the photographer (only one, a bad sign) to take his picture with various worthies. Then, with a last wave to the room, he crossed the lobby to the newsstand.

  As he searched for his own name in the afternoon paper, a familiar voice said, “That’s what I call disloyal! Reading the opposition!” It was Blaise.

  Burden greeted him loudly, his voice still pitched for public speaking. They had not seen one another since the election. “Well, what’s the word from our boy?”

  Burden went blank. What boy? Whose boy?

  “Clay wrote me two weeks ago that he’d be on the move again but of course he couldn’t say where. He’s in Guam at the moment, or so my spies tell me.”

  “I haven’t heard from him lately.” In fact, except for a note of congratulation in November, Burden had not beard from Clay since the election. This was odd, since Clay was usually meticulous about “keeping in touch.” Burden wondered if the Nillson affair might have made Clay reluctant to write him. The rising man wants no part of the falling one. But I did not fall, thought Burden grimly, buying a magazine emblazoned with the legend, “The Dogface War in the Pacific, by Harold Griffiths.”

  Blaise tapped the cover with a blunt forefinger. “Harold’s a phenomenon. Damnedest thing. Outsells Ernie Pyle. Never suspected he had it in him. Pansy, of course. That’s what makes him so good writing about soldiers.”

  “I’m surprised you let him write for anyone but you.”

  Blaise scowled. “Who would’ve guessed it? Anyway, I’ve got him tied up for newspapers.” Blaise bought the same magazine. “You know,” he said, “I’m going to be the President’s guest at the Inaugural next week.”

  “Traitor.” Burden smiled.

  “Well, maybe.” Blaise lit a cigar. As he did, several farmers’ wives came up to shake Burden’s hand and wish him well “because you think right!” to which Burden made his usual response, “May the good Lord increase your kind.” Then he turned to find Blaise, cigar lit, watching him.

  “You see,” said Burden, “I am still loved.”

  “Why not?” Blaise was not impressed. “I’m going to the White House not because I like the old shyster…”

  “You supported him last time.”

  “Only because I couldn’t take Dewey. No, I’m going because of this United Nations business. I’m all for it, Burden.” Blaise spoke as though in warning.

  “I know you are.” Burden was demure.

  “You fellows in the Senate aren’t going to make trouble, are you?”

  Burden found himself enjoying the situation. “It’s possible. I don’t really know. A lot will depend on how Franklin handles us. Wilson treated us like schoolboys. That was a mistake.”

  “You behaved like schoolboys, too,” grumbled Blaise. “Anyway, the President wants to play ball with you. The only reason he picked Truman for Vice President was to help out with the Senate.”

  “That may have been a mistake.”

  “You’re not going to make any trouble, are you?”

  “Trouble? How can we? Two years ago we approved a postwar international organization.”

  “But you didn’t vote.”

  “No. But I was in favor of the resolution, because it made Senate approval of any treaty mandatory.”

  “Which means you boys will have the final word on everything.”

  “We have it anyway. Article Two, Section Two, the Constitution.” Burden changed the subject “You know, we’re still keeping that Second District seat warm for Clay. I mentioned him quite a few times when I was in the district. They like him.”

  Blaise brightened at the thought of Clay. “That’s terrific! Of course we’ll have to find some way of getting rid of the incumbent, but that shouldn’t be too hard. After all: the returning soldier, in uniform…”

  “Not hard at all.” Burden heard youth knocking at every door. “We’ll do everything we can for Clay. Don’t worry. How’s Enid?”

  “All right.” Blaise dismissed his daughter with the first gray ash of the cigar. “Did Ed Nillson find you?”

  Burden was startled. “No. Is he in town?”

  “Ran into him this morning, at the Press Club. He was on his way to the Hill, to see you. Poor Ed.” Blaise puffed a great blue cloud into Burden’s eyes. “Did he hurt you much in the election?”

  “Yes.” Burden chose not to elaborate.

  “I figured so. Well, at least he stayed out of jail. That’s something. Good to see you, Burden.”

  * * *

  —

  Ed Nillson was in the inner office, according to Miss Perrine, who looked frightened. Ed was sitting on the sofa, head in hands. But when he saw Burden he greeted him gaily. “Hope you don’t mind my barging in like this. But your office is the only quiet place around here.”

  Burden was stung by the truth of this observation. No longer in the running for President, he was simply another Senator. But not for long. In a few days time he would be the most talked-about member of the Senate. Thinking of the card he was about to play, his mood improved and he was almost exuberant with the man who had very nearly cost him his political life.

  “You look well, Ed. I’ve missed you. We all have.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.” Nillson was as bland as he had been that day when they first met in front of the Capitol. He never showed distress, even now when he was under indictment from a Federal grand jury, largely because “of your son-in-law.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I would gladly murder him.”

  “What is sad is that I was doing all right with the Internal Revenue people. We were even doing all right with the Justice Department, but apparently there was a call from the White House from one of Billy’s friends. And that did the trick. That’s what made the last indictment possible. He has a vengeful nature.”

  Burden sighed. “You are not the object of it.”

  “If not the object, I am at least the principal victim.”

  “But it was me he was getting at. If you recall, Billy’s revelations were made before the primary. He wanted to defeat me. So did the President. That’s why the White House helped him.”

  “Not a loyal young man.”

  “Not loyal at all. But I survived. And so will you.”

  “Oh, yes.” Nillson was easy. “At this moment I don’t think they can get me on anything. Why, we’re even clear on the land sale.”

  This time the “we” made Burden shudder. He examined the Congressional Record on his desk. “That’s good to hear,” he whispered.

  “The fact that to this day we’ve never found one Goddamned drop of oil on that land didn’t hurt the cause a bit. Now, Burden, what I want from you…”

  Burden stiffened. Nillson laughed. “It’s not that bad. Just tell your son-in-law that if he doesn’t lay off I’ll see to it that everyone knows he is currently a member in good standing of the Communist Party.”

  “Have you proof?” Burden was not surprised.

  “I’ve had proof for the last six months.”

  “Then why didn’t you use it?”

  “Because you were up for re-election. Knowing me was bad enough. A Communist son-in-law would have finished you.”

  Burden was stunned. If ever a man was practical it was Nillson. Yet he had allowed himself to be hurt in order to save a friend’s career. Burden felt the tears start. He stammered. “You did nothing, just because of me?”

  Nillson smiled. “There is a certain loyalty among thieves.”

  That was better. “Thieves” shocked Burden, as Nillson had intended it should. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “By warning him.”

  “I’ll do that. Don’t worry.” Burden felt the adrenalin flow. He would enjoy his task. So, he suspected, would Diana.

  “Tell him that now that you’re safe from the voters for a while, I don’t in the least mind making trouble.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Burden.

  Nillson rose. “Hope you’re going to support this United Nations business.”

  “If I tell you something, will you not repeat it?” Ever since the conversation with Blaise, Burden had been eager to share his secret.

  “I’ll do my best.” Nillson regarded him with fond amusement.

  “Well, I plan to make a speech next week in which I shall renounce isolationism and support the United Nations.”

  “Wonderful!” Nillson was genuinely pleased. Then he smiled. “And so, by doing the right thing, you’ll be back on top. That’s very unusual.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Burden, and they laughed like schoolboys, shook hands like conspirators, and parted friends.

  * * *

  —

  It was already dark when Burden arrived home. Henry opened the door for him. From upstairs his wife called, “That you, Burden?” and he shouted, as he had done for thirty years, “I’m home!” Then he went into the living room.

  Sitting stiffly on a straight chair beside the fire was Billy Thorne. Opposite him on the sofa sat Diana and a stocky young man in uniform who looked familiar. On the coffee table between them were strewn papers and what looked to be a disemboweled magazine. “May I come in?” Burden asked.

  Diana ran to him, kissed him. “We’ve got wonderful news!” The young man shook his hand and he saw that it was Peter Sanford, a likable youth, if somewhat characterless. Out of the corner of his eye, Burden saw that Billy had grudgingly hauled himself to his feet.

  “Good evening, Thorne.” Burden poured himself an unusually stiff drink. “What’s the good news?”

  “The magazine, we’ve got the money for it! We’re putting out the first issue right now.” Diana was ecstatic.

  “It’s being published in the spring, not now.” Billy sat down in his chair with a clatter.

  “Well, soon,” said Diana.

  Burden took his usual seat beside the fire. “Where did you get the money?” He indicated Peter. “From this young man?”

  “This young man has no money,” said Peter. “I got the money from a lady, Mrs. Samuel I. Bloch. I don’t suppose you know her, sir.”

  Burden sat up straight. Irene. The tea. The falling. “But I do know her.”

  “Of course he does! She found him when he had his stroke, in the street.” Diana was innocent. “I told you that, Peter.”

  “A fine lady.” Burden sounded, he knew, as if he were seeking votes: a fine fellow, a good friend, a great American. He had often regretted the end of the affair with Irene. But he had had no choice. Half his life he had lived in dread of the moment when a doctor would tell him that there must be no more sex, ever again. Yet after the stroke when he had been told as much, he had experienced relief as well as despair, no doubt due to the fact that for him the spirit had always been weaker than the flesh. Yet the cold knowledge that all loving was past made death seem near. Swallowing bourbon, he made up his mind: during the summer recess, he would definitely put himself in a hospital with the single request that he be restored—and he would be restored, for medicine was fabulous nowadays. In any case, it was unthinkable that youth could not somehow be regained. Suddenly his right eyelid began to twitch; a sign of fatigue. He finished the drink. “I like Mrs. Bloch,” he said. Then he added, “Very much.”

  “So do we,” said Peter. “She’s giving us a free hand, too.”

  “A free hand to do what?” Burden was benign in his lack of interest. He must find out the name of that doctor in Switzerland who had successfully rejuvenated so many aging men.

  “To publish a decent socialist magazine,” bellowed the never-for-long-silent Billy Thorne. Burden winced at his son-in-law’s voice. He could never get used to it. The period in which they had all lived together had been harrowing. No matter where Burden was in the house, he could hear Billy’s voice. It got so that he even found himself growing impatient when that rasping voice was too long silent. Then there had been the constant scattering of books. In every room there would be books, left open, with elaborate marginal notes. Since many of the books were Burden’s there was inevitably a scene. Finally Billy defaced a biography of Cicero. Burden remonstrated. “Terrible old phony,” Billy responded, pulling down Cicero and admirer with one tug.

  “Decent, naturally,” Burden echoed softly.

  “We’ve had enough of alienation. Now we want action.”

  “Alienation?” Burden thought he knew what the word meant but Billy made it sound as if it were some sort of political party.

  “Alienation of the intellectuals.” Billy always liked to explain. “We’ve been alienated from American life much too long, without influence. But when the war ends, we’ll have a real chance to make connection with the people, with the soldiers returning, to change a greedy society into a generous one.”

  Burden avoided this lurid bait and chose instead to surface at the phrase “without influence.” “Surely under the New Deal, you’ve had a good deal of influence.”

  “The New Deal’s finished!”

  “That’s true, Father.” Diana joined husband in cabal against father, after first giving the father a smile to show that she was still his, despite necessary lapses.

  Burden tried a flanking movement. Peter seemed a weak link in the chain of socialism. “Are you a socialist?” he asked.

  Surprisingly, the young man laughed. “Of course not. I’m nothing. That’s my function. To be nothing. Silently I shall express that point of view.”

  Burden realized that he had misjudged the boy. Long experience of interrogation, however, had taught him when not to follow up. He shifted his line of questioning. “Have you had any publishing experience?”

  “None!” The boy seemed to regard this as a virtue. “But I’ve observed publishers…”

  “At close hand. He knows what not to be.” Billy insulted Blaise.

  “There are so many things one ought not to be.” Peter gave Billy a swift cold look which pleased Burden. It was plain that they detested each other. Diana might yet be saved. “My function, sir,” he turned to Burden who saw how young indeed he was, “is to find money, and I have found it. Mrs. Bloch will finance us, in exchange for a dinner at Laurel House.”

  The harshness of this made Burden sit back in his chair. The laughter of the others did not much help. Yet it was true. That was exactly why Irene would give money. Laurel House was her Versailles, and not until she had taken her place within the sacred circle could she consider herself arrived. Though Burden disliked Peter’s cruelty, he found the hard sense of reality refreshing, even unique in a rich boy. After thirty years among the rich, Burden thought he knew them well. He was most at ease with the self-made; after all, he was self-made, too. But the heirs were another matter. Diffident, shy, not easily fathomed (assuming there was anything beneath the surface gold), they tended to be guilty about their wealth, and Burden favored keeping them that way. But Peter Sanford did not seem guilty about anything. “Billy’s the editor, of course,” he was saying. “He knows about these things. Diana will…what?”

  “Answer letters. I type well. No, Father, I really do now.”

  Even though Diana was not an heiress, she shared, Burden knew, many of the traits, for children of successful politicians are deferred to like princes until the day the source of their distinction dies or is defeated and if they have no money, they sink into disgruntled obscurity, occasionally appearing at Washington parties, loudly quoting what Father used to say. Diana must be spared that fate.

  Burden turned to Peter. “But surely you will want to do something more than raise money.” Burden was genuinely curious. He recalled Peter as a child, grave and attentive and intelligent. Now he was positively merry, inattentive and more than likely intelligent.

  “Yes, sir. But that will take time. First,” he looked at Billy, “I must read Marx.”

  “Don’t. It would spoil your ignorance.” Billy meant to be unpleasant but Peter ignored him.