Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [96]
“I hate to call you on a pretty Sunday, Clarise, especially because of what you’re going through with your son. But this has to do with that.”
“Should I sit down?” Clarise asked, wishing she had a cigarette. She’d quit smoking twenty years ago.
“Maybe.”
“Go ahead, Joyce. I’m in a chair, not far to fall.”
“I just got off the phone with Ken Shoenlein, Topper Sybers’s chief of staff. We go back a long way together on the Hill. He called me as a courtesy to an old friend. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“And?”
“He called to tell me that Senator Sybers is going to call for the president to withdraw your nomination—unless you offer to do it.”
“Because of what’s happened to my son?”
“Yes. Sybers, according to Ken, feels your personal troubles would make it too difficult for you to devote sufficient time and attention to the NEA. That’s nonsense, of course, nothing more than an excuse to get rid of you.”
“At least he’s not claiming I corrupted my son through the TV shows I produced.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Will the president do that? Withdraw my nomination?”
“Not according to the VP. I called her chief of staff to tell her what Sybers is threatening, and she got hold of Vice President Maloney, who said the president will do it over her dead body, an overstatement, but reflective of her position.”
The day had been a cocktail of emotions for Clarise, anger, sadness, frustration, and only fleeting moments of resolve to stand tall against whatever was flung at her. Now, that resolve consumed her.
“I can’t control what President Nash decides to do, Joyce, and can only hope he won’t bow to Senator Sybers. But I know one thing: No one is going to force me to withdraw my name. I’m in it until I’m told I’m not.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, Clarise,” she said, a happier note replacing the seriousness that had permeated her voice.
“What do you suggest I do?”
“Nothing. Enjoy what’s left of the day. We’ll be working behind the scenes with the president. See you tomorrow at the luncheon?”
“Of course. It’s for me, isn’t it? The guest of honor has to be there.”
Joyce laughed. “The guest of honor,” she repeated, “and the next head of the NEA. See you tomorrow.”
“WHAT AN ARM,” Rick Klayman said.
He was at Mo Johnson’s house enjoying a family Sunday barbecue, and ended up playing catch with the middle son, eighteen years old, an outstanding pitcher for his high school baseball team.
“Big-league potential, Ricky,” said the proud father, dressed in green Bermuda shorts and yellow T-shirt, and wearing a large white apron with KING OF THE BAR-B-Q written on it in red letters. “Had his fastball timed last week. Ninety plus. Scouts are showing interest.”
Klayman handed the glove to Johnson, rubbed his palm where the pitches had stung, and joined Etta, Rachel Kessler, two other couples, and the Johnsons’ other sons on the patio. The sounds of an early Miles Davis quintet came from small, wireless outdoor speakers.
“I’m so glad you could join us,” Etta said to Klayman and Rachel. “We’ve been wanting to get you here for a cookout for months now.”
“There never seems to be time for anything that’s fun,” Rachel said with a laugh. “It’s work, work, work.”
“All work and no play makes for a dull child,” Mo commented as he unwrapped plastic from a large platter containing marinated rib steaks. “Who said that?” he asked Klayman, “and don’t say Abe Lincoln.”
Klayman threw up his hands. “Maybe it was Lincoln,” he said lightly.
“James Howell,” Rachel said. “And the dull child was named Jack.”
Everyone laughed; Klayman applauded and said, “Only Rachel would know something like that. She’s a treasure trove of trivia.”
“You should go on Jeopardy!, Rachel.”
“Rick is a Lincoln scholar,” Mo said, preparing to place the steaks on the gas grill.
“Not a scholar,” Klayman said, “but I do read a lot about him.”
“You must have been fascinated with the murder at Ford’s Theatre,” someone said.
“I wouldn’t say fascinated,” Klayman said. “I’ve spent