Early Warning

Arthur now professed to be glad of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The only time he’d been really worried, he said, was when he was getting on the plane in Des Moines right after Claire’s wedding — the U-2s had photographed the equipment in Cuba, and Arthur, not having yet seen the photographs, had imagined such powerful missiles and warheads that when he saw the medium-range R-12s that were there, he was almost relieved. He said to Lillian, “So they kill us in Washington. They can’t get everyone with that crap.” And, yes, maybe it had been touch and go there for a moment — no one would ever know the truth about that, would they? Even the Kennedy brothers, even Khrushchev, even General LeMay probably would never know — all of their memories of those moments would be filtered through a mix of relief and regret. At least no irretrievable impulse or accident had intervened. And so, Arthur told her, in the end, it did everyone good to have to face up to the implications of ten years of posturing, and when Khrushchev decided that he wasn’t Stalin after all, and Kennedy decided that he wasn’t Churchill, the subsequent clearing of the air was worth the shock. Not to mention that Kennedy had decided to dismantle the Thor missiles in England and the Jupiters in Italy and Turkey — he had turned out to understand the Golden Rule, and LeMay had turned out to understand that Kennedy was indeed commander-in-chief.

But Arthur was drinking more — four times since Christmas, Lillian had had to put him to bed, and another time she had found him passed out on a lounge chair by the pool. And hadn’t the idea crossed her mind that he stopped at the lounge chair because he couldn’t make it to his real goal, the deep end, nine feet of prospective release from every argument, every uncertainty, every dilemma? How long had it been since he wanted to make love? Valentine’s Day he made a game of it, with chocolates and a new peignoir, but the old ardor, that combination of lust and paternal yearning, had been absent.

She stood at the door with the Realtor, nodding. The Realtor’s instinct was that the place would show beautifully. She held both of Lillian’s hands between hers and moved them up and down. Then the Realtor turned her head and said, “Oh, I think you have a visitor. Well, Mrs. Manning, I really look forward to this! How are you, sir?” And she clickety-clacked down the walk and got into her Lincoln. The man nodded to the Realtor and hurried up the walk, hunched over but smiling. Lillian’s gaze flicked to his car — only a Ford, a Country Squire. And then Lillian was shaking his hand, and he was saying, “Mrs. Manning! We haven’t met before, but your name is always on Arthur’s lips. I gather you are a font of wisdom!” And Lillian said, “Would you like to come in, Mr. Bundy? I’m afraid Arthur isn’t here at the moment.”

He said, “Thank you, I would like to chat with you for a moment or two. I won’t take much of your time.” He did have that gaze that sought hers out. While he was shaking her right hand, his left hand went to her elbow and then to the small of her back, and she was given to understand that she would do whatever he asked.

They went into the living room, and he sat on the pinkish sofa, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees, and his shoulders hunched. He said, “Now, Mrs. Manning — but I think of you as Lillian. May I call you Lillian?”

Lillian nodded.

“I just heard of Arthur’s plans this morning, at breakfast, and I jumped in my wife’s car because it was right outside the door with her keys in it. That’s how worried I am about Arthur.”

Lillian said, “I think Arthur will be fine once he’s got a different job.”

He smiled. “Ah. Maybe. What I’m worried about is Arthur abandoning me. Every day, I say to the President, ‘Mr. President, Arthur Manning says this, or Arthur Manning says that,’ and if I can’t say that to the President, I don’t know what I will say.”

Lillian felt herself staring. Then she said, “I don’t think Arthur realizes he has such influence. He’s never even met the President.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? The President is very, very good at ignoring everyone in the room. It’s the ones outside of the room that make him nervous.” He smiled. Lillian realized that she was supposed to smile also, and did.

“What does Arthur say?”

“Arthur is very cautious,” said Mr. Bundy. “And I have to say, when we got the news of Ap Bac, it impressed me, and it impressed the President, that Arthur wasn’t in the least surprised.” Arthur had told Lillian about Ap Bac — a battle in a village in South Vietnam where the Viet Cong had made the South Vietnamese and the American reinforcements look like fools. Bundy shook his head. “Terrible rout, that was, and about as far from Saigon as from here to Baltimore — less even.” He wrung his hands and shook his head.

Lillian said, “I didn’t hear about that.” It was the job of all the wives never to hear about anything.