Irish Above All

by Mary Pat Kelly

  “Yes, he was rough. Calling me a Bolshevik commissar and saying I’ll merge the US and Russia,” Roosevelt said.

  “You wonder what effect reading stuff like that had on Zangara,” I said.

  “Now Nora,” Ed said, “no point in speculating.”

  “Nora’s right. I know there are Roosevelt-haters out there. If I worried about them I’d return to Hyde Park and forget politics entirely. It is irritating to be vilified just to sell newspapers as you know, Ed.”

  “I do,” Ed said.

  I wondered if the fellows who stirred up the hate realized they were making targets of men like Roosevelt. And maybe Cermak and Ed, too.

  “Though nothing Hearst said was any worse than what my own vice president accused me of,” Roosevelt said, “when he was running against me for the nomination.”

  “Are there still fellows in Texas mad enough at you to find Zangara and…” I started.

  “Nora. That subject is closed.” Ed made a chopping gesture with his hand.

  Roosevelt said nothing.

  “Joe Kennedy’s friendly with Hearst. Might be able to keep Hearst in line,” Roosevelt said.

  The train was moving now. We passed through an orange grove and then a small station. Deerfield Beach, the sign over the platform said.

  “Ever been to the Boca Raton hotel?” Roosevelt asked Ed.

  “I haven’t.”

  “Marvelous place. Those Mizner brothers thought that someday houses will cover this whole area.”

  “Make no small plans,” Ed said. “That was Daniel Burnham’s motto. He’s the one imagined Chicago.”

  “I like that,” Roosevelt said. “Make no small plans. Poor Mizner lost his dream in the Great Crash. Coffee, Ed?” Roosevelt asked.

  A porter wheeled in a cart. He was an older Negro man, gray-haired, who stood very erect. “It’s an honor to serve you Mr. President,” he said as he poured the coffee into china mugs and set them on the small end tables.

  “President-elect,” Roosevelt said, “but thank you. What’s your name?”

  “It’s not George, sir.”

  “I know that,” Roosevelt said.

  Passengers had started calling every Pullman porter George—because Pullman’s first name was George.

  “I’m Melvin Grant, Sr.,” the porter said.

  “And are you a union man?” Roosevelt asked.

  “I am. Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters,” he said.

  “I’ve met your Mr. Randolph. Bit of a radical.”

  “Yes, sir.” The porter nodded. “They call him a Bolshevik, but then they call you that too, sir.”

  “They do indeed,” Roosevelt said.

  “We all voted for you, sir. Lots of hope in our union now,” Grant said.

  He reminded me of one of the Negro officers I’d met in France, named Lieutenant Dawson. A college graduate when none of the men in our family had even finished high school.

  Grant poured coffee into Farley’s cup. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Farley. We appreciated your fairness.”

  “Thank you.” And for the first time I saw Farley smile.

  “We’ll be pulling into Palm Beach in thirty minutes, Mr. President,” Grant said. “Time to set up for lunch. Perhaps you’d like to move outside to the platform.”

  “In other words, get out of the way,” Roosevelt said.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “That was a nice compliment for you, Jim,” Ed said as he and Farley maneuvered Roosevelt’s chair onto the viewing platform.

  “Fellow must be a boxing fan,” Farley said.

  What are they talking about? I wondered, and looked at Ed.

  “Jim was head of the Boxing Commission in New York and insisted that a Negro boxer be allowed to fight the champ in Madison Square Garden. Harry ‘The Black Panther’ Wills wasn’t it, Jim?”

  “Yes,” Farley said. “The fellow could have been Heavyweight Champion of the World, but never could get a title fight.”

  Don’t let them get started on boxing matches. Ed could talk for an hour about the Tunney-Dempsey fight. I was there in the first row and the sound of those punches landing, the sight of all that blood unnerved me. One Irishman beating the brains out of another. That’s sport? I’d said as much to Ed at the time.

  “How I got my start,” Ed had said. “Boxing and politics. A way to climb the ladder.”

  Negro men are taking their turn now, I thought.

  Two Secret Service agents stood behind us, though I wondered if someone couldn’t shoot at Roosevelt from behind the bushes and scrub that we were passing through. We were not moving very fast and slowed down even more as we went around a bend. I was looking into the green dimness, imagining the glint of a rifle barrel and not paying much attention until I heard Roosevelt say, “Enough, Jim!”

  “But the head of the union’s an avowed communist, Franklin,” Farley said. “A. Philip Randolph. Why would a man hide his first name behind an initial?”

  “If I were a Negro man in this country, I might well be a communist or at least some kind of revolutionary, too. We must offer an alternative, Jim, within the system or else, my friend, all those good people who voted for us, white and colored, might very well tear the whole building down and then…”

  “Mussolini,” I said.

  “Yes, some version of the proverbial strong man on the horse,” Roosevelt said, nodding at me. “So you should bless unions, Jim.”

  “I’m with you, Franklin. But you might make that speech to your vice president,” Farley said. “He hates unions.”

  “Garner’s served his purpose,” Roosevelt said. “I’ve been elected. He’s an understudy who will never go on stage.”

  “Except he’d be president right now but for a few inches,” I blurted out.

  Roosevelt didn’t even turn his head. He pretended he hadn’t heard me, but Ed had.

  He shook his head at me. That subject was closed.

  4

  We pulled into the Palm Beach station. The Secret Service agents made Roosevelt stay in the railroad car while they walked along the empty platform in pairs, looked behind a parked locomotive, moved a baggage cart, and then formed a line in front of the crowd waiting near a barrier made of three sawhorses.

  Only a few hundred or so people here.

  “More Republicans than Democrats in Palm Beach,” Farley said to Roosevelt.

  “Including members of my own family. Most of my Roosevelt cousins prefer the politics of Palm Beach and Newport,” he said. “It’s my mother’s people, the Delanos, who made me a Democrat.”

  Once again the mother decides allegiance, I thought, remembering Padraig Pearse.

  “Ah, here he comes. Your compatriot, Nora. Joseph Patrick Kennedy and a member of his brood I see,” Roosevelt said.

  Brood.

  The man striding out of the crowd did look like one of ours. Tall, well set up, with narrow shoulders though. This fellow had never been a boxer like Ed.

  The Secret Service barely slowed him down. Whatever he said to the agents, Kennedy was through the barrier in seconds and moved up to the viewing platform. Looking down, I saw he was also a redhead though his hair had darkened, as had Ed’s and mine.

  A very thin boy followed Joseph Kennedy. About fifteen, I thought. Light brown hair, a bit of it falling into a face that would be handsome if his cheekbones weren’t so prominent and his skin so pale.

  “For Christ’s sake, Franklin. Can’t you even make this train run on time? Been waiting an hour,” Joseph Kennedy said.

  Who speaks to the president-elect of the United States like that? Joseph Patrick Kennedy, I guess.

  “Jack hasn’t been well,” Kennedy said. “And standing out in the damp like this doesn’t help.”

  “Damp? It must be seventy degrees out, Joe,” Roosevelt said.

  “Direct sun’s no good either,” Kennedy said.

  Joseph Kennedy started to climb up onto the viewing platform.

  “Hold it, Joe,” Far
ley said. “We’re going into the car. You can come in through the door like a normal person.”

  “He’s not a normal person,” Roosevelt said and laughed. “You should know that, Jim.”

  “Louis Howe better not be with you,” Kennedy said, as he climbed up onto the train, “or I’m not riding with you to Washington.”

  The men moved into the car. The boy, Jack, stood below looking up at me.

  “Come on,” I said, and stretched out my hand.

  He took it and jumped onto the platform.

  “Thank you,” he said to me.

  Inside the car a long table was covered in white linen, with five place settings. Real silver and china.

  Only five, I thought, but Roosevelt noticed.

  “Could you set another place, please?” Roosevelt asked Melvin Grant. Grant laid out new silverware and china, then placed another chair at the table. Jack sat down.

  Grant cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ve asked an assistant server to work with me.”

  “Do you really need—” Farley began.

  “Well you see, sir, the helper is my son. He’s only sixteen, but I’m training him, and meeting you would be something he would remember his whole life.”

  “I don’t know if we want an untrained—” Farley said.

  “Sixteen,” Jack said. “Same age as me. And learning a trade too. Good for him.”

  “Speak when you’re spoken to, young man,” Farley said.

  “I encourage my children to say what’s on their mind and Jack makes a good point. Here’s a boy ready to work, following in his father’s footsteps,” Joseph Kennedy said. He looked at Roosevelt. “I’m sure you won’t object.”

  “How could I?” Roosevelt said.

  Grant waved his hand. A young Negro boy, who looked very like his father, came in. “His name’s not George either. This is Melvin Grant, Jr.” He wore a starched white jacket and dark pants, not the full uniform of his father.

  Roosevelt extended his hand to him. “I’m glad to meet you, young man,” he said.

  A long pause before young Grant was able to return the president’s handshake.

  “How about a picture, Nora,” Roosevelt said, and I took the Seneca out from under my chair, stood up and snapped three pictures of them.

  “What about Jack?” Joseph Kennedy asked. “He’d like a photograph with you too, Franklin.”

  “Of course,” Roosevelt said, and Jack was up and next to the president. No hesitation in this handshake.

  “And are you following in your father’s footsteps young man? Increasing the family fortune?” Roosevelt asked him.

  “He is not!” Joseph Kennedy said. “I’ve made enough money so my boys won’t have to bother with business. Jack here’s going to be an author. Write great books.”

  “That sounds worthwhile,” I said.

  “I’ll write a tome on how my brother Joe became president of the United States.”

  Joseph Kennedy nodded.

  “Good idea. My oldest son is an extraordinary young man. Smart, great personality, a fine athlete on the Harvard football team. I played baseball myself for the college. Won a championship for the old alma mater, as he will. And Joe Junior applies himself to his studies, which is more than I can say for John Fitzgerald Kennedy here. Almost got expelled from Choate. In fact, a bout of pneumonia saved his bacon. He’s taking a semester off to catch up. All he does is read, read, read.”

  “But if I am to write—” Jack Kennedy started.

  His father interrupted, “This boy devours history books and biographies, Franklin, but try to get him to finish his math homework, or get in an assignment on time. Never had these issues with Joe, and my daughters are no trouble. Too early to tell about Bobby though. He’s a bit too taken with Jack the rebel, and Teddy’s a baby. All good stock though. Longevity is in Rose’s family and my mother’s still alive.”

  The Grants were serving us now. Fish.

  “Grouper,” Grant said. “And hush puppies. With corn bread and fried okra.”

  “A Southern meal,” Roosevelt said. “Alright with you Joe, or would you and Ed have preferred corned beef and cabbage?”

  I caught Ed’s eye.

  “This is fine, Franklin,” Joseph Kennedy said, “though I could have brought some lobsters. Get them sent down once a week.”

  Then Joe Kennedy said that he thought the most important cabinet position was going to be secretary of the Treasury.

  “And I suppose you’re the best candidate?” Farley said.

  “I only want to help,” Kennedy said.

  “I’m thinking of setting up a commission to regulate the market,” Roosevelt said. “Figure out a way to stop 1929 from ever happening again. Ed Kelly here thought you’d be a perfect chairman. What did you say, Ed? Set a thief to catch a thief?”

  Roosevelt laughed, but neither Joseph Kennedy or Ed joined in. What is Roosevelt up to? I wondered. It was almost as if he were setting Joe Kennedy and Ed against each other.

  As if he knew it was time to interrupt, Melvin Grant said to his son, “Tell the gentlemen why they should save room for some key lime pie.”

  “My mother baked it specially for you, sir,” young Grant said to Roosevelt. “I brought it from home in Deerfield Beach.”

  I watched Melvin Grant make sure that each piece was absolutely equal as he cut the pie.

  Grant’s son carried two pieces of pie from the sideboard to the table. He placed the first one before the president-elect. Conversation stopped. Farley, Ed, and Joseph Kennedy stared at the young man.

  Who was next in the pecking order? “Serve the lady,” Melvin Grant said to his son, who put the plate in front of me. A diplomat.

  The others got their pie, and conversation began again.

  “What about your being treasurer of the United States, Joseph?” Farley said. “A great thing to sign Joseph Patrick Kennedy onto the currency. Decorate the hundred dollar bills with a flourish or two.”

  “I’m guessing that’s a joke, Jim. I’m offering my skills to the president. I don’t need to be pacified with some ceremonial job that means nothing,” he said.

  “Garner told me the vice presidency wasn’t worth a bucket of hot piss when I offered it to him but he took it,” Roosevelt said.

  “Except that’s a job with some chance of advancement,” Kennedy said.

  “As we just saw,” Roosevelt said and laughed.

  I looked at Ed. How can they joke about the assassination attempt? But then I remembered the soldiers I nursed in France. Their black humor. Ed was laughing too.

  “You looked distressed, Miss Kelly,” Jack said, keeping his voice down.

  “I was there,” I said. Roosevelt, Kennedy, Farley, and Ed were paying no attention to us. They leaned toward each other, making a tent of their talk.

  “I was photographing Cermak and Roosevelt. I asked them to move closer together so maybe … the gunman was right behind me. It was very close, Jack. Roosevelt’s a lucky man.”

  “I suppose survival does depend on luck,” Jack said. “I’d say Dad saved me. A few more days in that school infirmary might have done me in.”

  I nodded. “Ed’s son wasn’t so fortunate. Got sick at his school, and, well, I think they could have done more for him.”

  “The headmaster accused me of malingering.” Jack Kennedy rolled the word out. “Students are seen as the enemy in those places. The faculty’s always on guard.”

  “They might have thought Ed Junior was faking. I was against sending him away,” I said.

  “My father thinks it’s classier to go to boarding school. If the WASPs do it, so should we. I missed home. When all us kids get together it’s great. I’m counting the days until summer and Hyannis. We all pile into the sailboat though my mother’s afraid it could capsize and we might drown, but no life without risk,” he said. “I’ve learned that much.”

  “I’d say Franklin Delano Roosevelt would agree with you,” I said.

 
“My dad told me not to mention the assassination attempt. A nut—acting on his own—that’s the story.”

  “I’m supposed to be silent but I wonder about Garner,” I said.

  “Can you imagine the uproar in the country if they thought Roosevelt’s own vice president wanted to kill him?”

  “I’m not saying the vice president is involved but what if some rogue elements in Texas…”

  “Hired a Mafia hit man?” Jack said. “Doesn’t sound very plausible.”

  The others were finished. Ed took a pack of cigars from his pocket.

  “Cubans. I was in Havana when Nora called me with news of the assassination,” Ed said.

  “The assassination attempt,” Roosevelt said. “Remember that, Ed, it did not succeed.”

  “Tell that to Mayor Cermak,” I said under my breath, but Jack heard me.

  “But the mayor’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” he said to me.

  “We hope so,”

  “Jack, I don’t want you breathing in this smoke,” Joseph Kennedy said. “Kick up your asthma. Go with Nora for a walk along the platform.”

  “My lungs are fine, Mr. Kennedy,” I said.

  “Nora,” Ed said, and swept his finger across the table.

  * * *

  Young Grant joined us as we walked down the platform to the head of the train and stood next to the locomotive. A Zephyr, Grant told us. Sleek, with a kind of pointed nose almost touching the tracks. Shiny. Did they polish away the soot?

  “How many cars can that thing pull?” Jack asked.

  “As many as it has to,” young Grant said. He led us up the steps into the back of the locomotive. “No coal needed. The steam is generated by—”

  “What the hell?” The engineer stood in the passageway that led to the engine proper. “You niggers aren’t allowed up here. You know that, boy. Now get.”

  “Just a minute there, mister,” I said. “Franklin Roosevelt himself asked this young gentleman to show us around.”

  “Who are you?” the engineer said. “A nigger-loving bitch like that wife of his?”

  “Look here, fellow,” Jack Kennedy started.

  “Can’t understand a word you’re saying,” the engineer said. “When will you Yankees learn to speak proper?”