A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [180]
“Turn that goddamned thing off!” Thornton snapped. “That goddamn kraut cardinal now wants to slap their guilt on us. Don’t forget, O’Connell is still a Catholic. And the Reverend Amos and his three kids are still Democrats.”
As Thornton received the minute-to-minute reports, Darnell all but hid himself in a corner, shriveling into a fetal position. It was befalling him to empty his head of his life and deeds. Surely, in a showdown Thornton Tomtree would come down on the side of decency. That proposition had kept them in place for over four decades. Why couldn’t he have seen what he saw now?
T3 was doing no more or less than making him an extension of himself. No, he would not curve the course. No, he would not go down graciously.
Yes, he would endanger the nation!
Oh, Lord! Darnell thought. There will be a still photograph to mark the era, like the Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima, or the little oriental war baby sitting in the middle of the road, or John-John Kennedy saluting his father’s coffin. What will this photograph be? A burning Star of David? Blood on the street? Someone’s stuffed bunny being clutched by a dead infant? What will be our Kristallnacht? Like the Monica Lewinsky-Clinton embrace, the Kristallnacht will bring back an ugly moment.
Dr. Jacob Turnquist did not sit opposite the President with a great deal of comfort. He squirmed.
“As the hard right groups have had a chance to organize, we can expect a renewal of street activities at daybreak. Once these incidents hop from town to town…I think we’ve reached a danger point.”
That was not what Thornton wanted to hear. He needed to speak to the vice president, to ascertain that the bedrock Christian Coalition was still in place. What was Thornton weighing? Why? How much danger should he allow?
Mendenhall came in sallow, a single sheet quivering in his fingers.
“Well!”
Mendenhall cleared his throat, a signal of a coming disaster. “Editorials for tomorrow, one hundred largest markets. Front page, ninety-two. Pro rioters, so long as they protest without destroying property or life…twenty. Call for the President to react…eighty-one. Believe Governor O’Connell…seventy-eight. Zionist plot…three. Postpone election…yea, twelve, nay, eighty…”
“Shit!” Thornton mumbled.
“Some of the editorials hit pretty hard,” Mendenhall said.
Thornton looked to Turnquist angrily. It was one thing to sit at a conference table espousing his political Princeton wisdom, but quite another to be in the bunker with shells flying all around.
“Vice president is on the phone.”
“Thank God,” Thornton said. “Where the hell did you set down, Matthew?”
“I’m in Tulsa.”
“Bring me up to date.”
“I have canvassed twenty-five of our largest Coalition churches. It’s a very mixed reading, Mr. President. It seems that O’Connell has made very significant inroads into our solid front. The women don’t seem to want guns, many of the men idolize O’Connell as a great hero, school prayer a non sequitur, and uh, right of choice…”
“What!”
“Well, they’ve always been taking the goddamned pill and visiting abortion clinics. They just feel it shouldn’t be covered up any longer. You’ve got to make a move. All we are doing is reaching now. We have to put men on the street and go on the offensive.”
“I was hoping I could hold up the process until afternoon,” Thornton said. “It crosses a thin line for reelection.”
“It’s very dangerous,” the vice president insisted.
“How do you stand personally in this!” Thornton demanded.
“We are speaking of a very disturbing image of America creeping in. Stop them now!”
Thornton slammed the receiver, then picked up another phone. “Find me Lucas de Forest,” he ordered.
It was four-thirty in the morning, a few hours left before the curse of darkness turned into the curse of daylight. He noticed the devastated Darnell Jefferson, an old slave in sorrow. Couple of good shakes and Darnell would be back on board.
“Hello!