The Man

He opened the manila binder to examine the bill a final time, but his vision was double, and his stomach heaved higher and higher toward his throat. He dropped the folder on the end table and gagged, clutching the arms of his chair, willing for himself the sea legs and stomach and mind and i

Half reclining in this state of stupor, Dilman tried to remove his mind from water to land. His memory sought out Wanda, Julian, Mindy, Aldora… piteous Aldora of their long ago… it had gone wrong the second-to-last day of the last week of their honeymoon, driving home through Joplin, Missouri… going into that nice-looking bar for a late afternoon drink, because Aldora from the start had always liked a late afternoon drink, and when inside having their cocktail, those two drunken young business fellows had come up, hey-buddying him, hey-buddy-what-you-doin-with-one-of-our-white-girls, hey-buddy?… and knowing they were loaded to the gills, trying to explain, not fight, explain that Aldora was colored like himself and his bride… and trying to leave until they grabbed him and held him, saying hey-buddy, you-not-leavin, no, not leavin with any white girl… and him trying to pull free, until they wrestled him down and pummeled him bloody and Aldora began screaming… and the men going at last, hooting and whooping… and he and Aldora… the real begi

He envied her, too, and wanted to escape the drowsy too-oft-relived nightmare, and now he had the Dramamine, and he escaped.

He dozed.

An eternity? An hour? How long had it been? He did not know, after the rattle of the door and then the persistent knocking upon it and then the calling out of his name had aroused him.

Blinking, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He swallowed. The Adam’s apple had ru

“Who is it?” he called out. He shook himself fully awake. “Who’s there?”

“Mr. President-”

He recognized Miss Foster’s muffled voice, and he said, “Come in, come in.”

She poked her head into the lounge. “Mr. President, Mr. Abrahams is aboard. Would you-?”

“Of course, send him in. I’ve been waiting for him.”

She left the door open, and the squishing of her sensible rubber soled shoes receded up the corridor, to be replaced in seconds by the solid smack of Abrahams’ leather heels.

Like himself, Dilman was pleased to be reminded, Nat Abrahams was not to the sea or manor born. Abrahams’ husk of brown hair had been tangled by his boat ride, and the bulky tweed coat he carried slung over one white shirt sleeve, and his tie pi

It occurred to Dilman, as it had occurred to him once before, years ago, how much resemblance his friend bore to Frederic Dorr Steele’s profile drawings of Sherlock Holmes, especially this moment when Abrahams, having greeted Dilman, stood in profile, too, his bony, falcon countenance adorned with pipe and jutting jaw, and all the admirable cold wisdom of the great detective. Could one imagine a hearty and windblown nautical Sherlock Holmes? Inconceivable. As impossible, Dilman decided, as Nat Abrahams and himself on this luxury yacht. With an ally of the anchored earth present, Dilman felt well for the first time. He felt as restored as if he had disembarked on terra firma.

Abrahams strode across the lounge, billowing a trail of smoke, clutched Dilman’s hand heartily, and pulled up a side chair.

“Quite a layout,” he said, his hand taking in the yacht’s lounge. “Been enjoying it?”

“It’s a hell ship, Nat,” he said. “This is what must have inspired Edward Everett Hale to write The Man Without a Country. I know how Philip Nolan felt. Any day, give me my own, my native land.”

Abrahams studied him. “Mal de mer, Doug?”

“Times ten,” said Dilman. “I became seasick going up the gangplank. You have no idea what it’s been like, Nat. All my advisers and officers and aides up there, inhaling, exhaling, full of salt air and the bounding main. Everyone telling me what a perfect day it is, great riding vessel, ocean like a carpet, and me alone, the only one, staggering around, trying to hide from them, not to let them see that all I want is to upchuck. I couldn’t fish, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even make sense talking to Eaton. I’ve devoted every minute to concentrating on not throwing up. I guess I wanted to uphold my position of authority. Tell me, how can you be Commander in Chief of the Navy and have your head in the toilet bowl the whole lousy voyage? They’re born to it, up there, their stomachs trained for it. How can I let them know their Commander thinks a knot is something you tie-and that the closest he ever came to a yacht was when he turned the pages of Holiday-and that all the President accomplished today was that he didn’t vomit? But I haven’t fooled them one bit, Nat, not Eaton or any one of them. They know I’m as out of place here as in the White House… What’s the idea winding me up like this, Nat? But anyway-you brought it up. How do I feel? Sick and demeaned, and thanks for coming to hear me complain.”

Nat Abrahams, pipe between his teeth, was shaking his head, so that some burning flakes drifted to the floor. He stamped them out, and then he said, “Doug, what are you trying to prove? You feel sick and demeaned? Demeaned about not being an old yachtsman with social background? Holy Daniel, look over your shoulder-what did Andrew Jackson and Zach Taylor and Abe Lincoln and Harry Truman know about yachting and Exeter or Yale? And they did right well, you bet they did. And sick, you feel sick? Well, you’re the boss, and if bouncing around on this roller coaster makes you queasy, get off, just get off. Tell them you don’t like it and want to go home. I’ve said this before, so forgive me, but why try to wear T. C.’s shoes, or even Arthur Eaton’s, if they pinch? You can afford your own.”