Free The Manchurian Candidate by Richard Condon Page B

handed out cigars whether the press people wanted cigars or not. Raymond’s mother was dressed up to about eight hundred dollars’ worth of the best taste on the market. The only jarring note was the enormous black purse she carried. It looked like a purse. It was a portable cigar humidor. She would have given the press people money, Raymond knew, but she had sensed somehow that it would be misunderstood.
    All the cameras were strewn about in the grass while everybody waited for the President to arrive. Raymond wondered what would they do if he could find a sidearm some place and shoot her through the face—through that big, toothy, flapping mouth? Look how she held Johnny down. Look how she could make him seem docile and harmless. Look how she had kept him sober and had made him seem quiet and respectable as he shook hands so tentatively and murmured. Johnny Iselin was murmuring! He was crinkling his thick lips and making them prissy as he smirked under that great fist of a nose and two of the photographers (they must be his mother’s tame photographers) were listening to him as though he were harmless.
    The airport. O Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. She had got the AP photographer by the fleshy part of his upper right arm and she had got Johnny by the fleshy part of his upper left arm and she had charged them forward across that concrete apron at the National Airport yelling at the ramp men, “Get Shaw off first! Get that sergeant down here!” and the action and the noises she made had pulled all thirty news photographers and reporters along behind her at a full run while the television newsreel truck had rolled along sedately abreast of her, filming everything for the world to see that night, and thank God they were not shooting with sound.
    The lieutenant had pushed him out of the plane and his mother had pushed Johnny at him and Johnny had pulled him down the ramp so he wouldn’t look too much taller in the shot. Then to make sure, Raymond’s mother had yelled, “Get on that ramp, Johnny, and hang onto him.” Johnny gripped his right hand and held his right elbow, and towered over him. Raymond’s mother didn’t say hello. She hadn’t seen him for over two years but she didn’t say hello and neither did Johnny. Thank God they were a family who didn’t waste a lot of time on talking, Raymond thought.

    Johnny kept grinning at him insanely and the pupils of his eyes were open at about f .09 with the sedation she had loaded into him. The pressmen were trying to keep their places in a tight semicircle and, as always at one of those public riots where every man had been told to get the best shot, the harshest, most dominating shouter finally solved it for all the others: one big Italian-looking photographer yelled at nobody at all, “Get the mother in there, fuh crissake! Senator! Get your wife in there, fuh crissake!” Then Raymond’s mother caught on that she had goofed but good and she hurled herself in on Raymond’s offside and hung off his neck, kissing him again and again until his cheek glistened with spit, cheating to the cameras about thirty degrees, and snarling at Johnny between the kisses, “Pump his hand, you jerk. Grin at the cameras and pump his hand. A TV newsreel is working out there. Can’t you remember anything?” And Johnny got with it.
    It had taken about seven minutes of posing, reposing, standing, walking toward the cameras, then the photographers broke ranks and Raymond’s mother grabbed Johnny’s wrist and took off after them.
    The assistant press secretary from the White House steered Raymond to a car, and the next time Raymond saw his mother she was handing out cigars in the Rose Garden and paying out spurts of false laughter.
    Everybody got quiet all of a sudden. Even his mother. They all looked alert as the President came out. He looked magnificent. He was ruddy and tall and he looked so entirely sane that Raymond wanted to put hishead on the President’s chest and cry because he