Presidential Shadows

by Michael Cantwell

The holidays are a time for giving thanks and giving back,” Grandpa told us during dinner the night after Christmas. He and Grandma came over for leftovers. Mom always thought leftovers were better tasting than the big meal on Christmas day.

  “My former company is a big supporter of Habitat for Humanity,” Grandpa said. We have donated supplies. In addition, our employees have volunteered countless hours over the years. I worked on a few homes before I retired and on over twenty more since. I’ve arranged for our family to paint the inside of a home near downtown Trenton tomorrow.”

  “Pops, this is an odd time to be doing this type of work. Can’t we volunteer on one in the spring when the weather is better?” Dad asked.

  “No, we’re not going to wait. I had to call in a big favor to be the family volunteering to paint this particular home. President Carter and his wife will be joining us. They’ve been big supporters of the program. They’re doing a tour through Jersey for a couple of days to raise awareness. As you might imagine, many people wanted the opportunity to work with the President.”

  “Are you going to behave, Frank?” Mom asked.

  “I will be respectful of the office Mr. Carter held, Maureen,” Grandpa said. “I never voted for him, but I respect what he and his wife, Rosalynn, have done not for only for Habitat for Humanity but also with the Carter Foundation. As you know, Mr. Carter was a navy man. You will never hear me speak ill of any veteran.”

  Star smiled and asked, “Am I part of the family who can paint? I would like to meet President Carter.”

  Before anyone could respond to Star my brother asked, “Do I have to go? Star can take my place.”

  “Yes, Star, you are family now,” Grandpa said. “As far as you, Steve, I would like for you to go, however, I won’t force you.”

  “I will,” Dad said. “You will be in attendance wearing your best smile, Junior.”

  The following morning, Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Steve, Star and me were holding paintbrushes in front of a small wooden house on Norway Avenue. We were all wearing orange shirts given to us for the photo.

  After the photographer snapped a few photos of our family, a large black car pulled up. Three men in dark suits and awesome looking shades jumped from the car and inspected in and around the house. They asked us a few questions. They even checked all my pockets. When they finished walking around, one of men in suits talked into his wrist. Another car pulled up behind the one already parked at the curb.

  A gray haired man sporting a giant smile waved to us as he got out of the car. He waited for a woman to get out as well. The walked holding hands to the front lawn where we were standing.

  “Good morning, everyone. I would like to introduce ya’ll to my lovely wife, Rosalynn. My name is Jimmy, Jimmy Carter.”

  The people from Habitat for Humanity scrambled to get in front of us and introduce themselves. The photographer from the Trenton Times clicked one image after another. Mom, Dad and Grandpa shook hands with President Carter and his wife. I stood off to the side. I had already met Abe Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, Cal Coolidge, James Polk and James Madison. I was in no rush to meet Jimmy Carter. I would wait until everyone was done slobbering all over him and his wife.

  Mr. Carter and his wife shuffled through the small crowd. He spotted me. Jimmy came over and extended his hand. I introduced myself. “Hello, Mr. Carter. My name is Alex Schuler. I’m in the eighth grade and I get good grades. My Grandpa Frank asked if I would help you paint today. I know a lot about presidents, but this is the first time I get to paint with one.”

  Jimmy flashed his trademark smile again. “That is quiet a resume, Alex. I am a nuclear physicist by training and a deeply committed Christian. It would be my pleasure to join you this morning.”

  “You sound sorta like Andrew Jackson and James Polk, Mr. Carter.”

  Mom and Dad were standing behind me. “What Alex means, President Carter, is that he knows those men were from the south and he recognizes your accent. Isn’t that right, Alex?” Mom asked.

  “Whatever you say, Mom. But he really does sound something like those guys.”

  The photographer from the paper asked us to get in a group with my family, the President, his wife, and the Habitat people. It was cold outside. I was happy we were painting the inside of the house. After a few more photos, it was time to do actual work.

  My brother, Star and I were shoved into an upstairs bedroom to paint. I could hear my parents and other people talking with Mr. Carter and his wife downstairs. I didn’t think they were doing much painting. We finished painting one bedroom and moved to paint another. Grandpa Frank was painting the upstairs bathroom by himself. After a couple of hours, it was break time. Sandwiches and bottles of water sat on a small round table. Mr. Carter sat next to me on the floor in the downstairs living room. He didn’t have one drop of paint on his overalls. How hard could he have been working?

  “You spoke of knowing about presidents when we met, young man,” Jimmy Carter said. “Who is your favorite president?”

  Mom walked in from the other room holding a small brush with not much paint on it. I really hoped they weren’t expecting my brother, who complained about paint fumes all morning, me and Star to do all the work.

  “I like reading about presidential history,” I said. “Our class went to Gettysburg and saw the battlefields and cannons. I’m not sure I will ever forget that day. President Lincoln told me how sad he was at Gettysburg because of all the soldiers who died there. It is hard to pick my favorite president. I liked meeting President Lincoln. He’s a neat guy. Thomas Jefferson told me all about how he wrote the Declaration of Independence. I don’t know who is my favorite. I do know it wouldn’t be Tommy Wilson.”

  Mom interrupted. “Alex is a ferocious reader, President Carter. When he says he meets these men, he means meeting them in the words written on the pages of history books.” She shot me a dirty look.

  Carter nodded and said, “My favorite president, and the one I admire most, is Harry Truman.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, “He dropped the bombs on Japan and some machine got him elected.”

  Jimmy smiled again. “The machine?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Truman told me that you can’t ever get elected without a political machine. One of the other old presidents told me that too.”

  “He means he read about it, Mr. President,” Mom said staring me down.

  “Whatever, Mom. President Carter knows what I mean.”

  Jimmy laughed. “I’m not too sure what anyone means at this moment but I do know about political machines. I campaigned across this great land for two years building my machine to ensure election as president. I built one when I became Governor of Georgia as well.”

  I looked at Mom and back at Mr. Carter. “Do you need special tools for this machine and what do you do with it after you’re elected?”

  There was that smile again. Jimmy’s pearly whites lit up the room. “Alex, a political machine is made up of people, money, influence and associates who spread the word about your message. We even have a few people who drive their neighbors to the voting booth on Election Day. It’s not a machine made of steel or wood, but of determination.”

  I sat on the floor thinking about a machine made of people and money. Star joined us.

  “Mr. President, I want to thank you for all the work you do for human rights. Me being a human, I can see why your work is so important.”

  Jimmy shook hands with Star. “Human rights was the soul of my foreign policy, because human rights is the very soul of our sense of nationhood. Neither I, nor America, invented human rights. In a very real sense, human rights invented America.”

  “Whoa,” Star said. “I’m gonna have to meditate on those words tonight.”

  I was going to ask Mr. Carter if he could talk to my Dad about reducing my chores under the idea of human rights but I wasn’t sure that’s what everyone was talking about. I asked a different question.

  “Grandpa told me you’re a peanut farmer. Do you reall
y work on a farm?”

  One of the men in dark suits helped Jimmy get up from sitting on the floor. I could hear his knees creak. I stuck my hand out for a little help but the man in the suit mumbled a word or two and stood next to Mr. Carter. I stood up on my own before helping Mom get up. Star was already standing.

  “I no longer do much work on the farm. I’ve completed several books and I’m currently writing one on the Middle East. When I get tired on the computer, I walk twenty steps out to my woodshop. I build furniture or paint. I’m an artist too.”

  “I didn’t see you do much painting here,” I said.

  Mom scolded me for being impolite. I thought I was only telling the truth. Mom later told me I should learn to be “politically correct.” Whatever that meant.

  Three men in dark suits opened the front door and looked around. One walked over to Mr. Carter and one to his wife and led them towards the door. Before leaving Mr. Carter said, “Remember something for me, Alex. You can do what you have to do, and sometimes you can do it even better than you think you can.”

  I figured that was Jimmy’s way of telling me break time was over. After the black cars pulled away, the newspaper people left, as did the small crowd who had gathered out front. I wasn’t so lucky. We stayed the remainder of the day painting, though I had to admit, the owners of the house were nice people. They had a kid who was about my age. We painted the kids future bedroom earlier. The kid told me it was the first time he was going to have his own bedroom. He had lived in a small apartment since he could remember. He slept in the living room his entire life. It felt good inside being able to help that kid.

  By the time we got home, it had started to snow. When I woke up the next morning, the snow was still falling. I looked out the downstairs front window. Star was twirling around in the front yard with nothing on but jeans, a shirt, and a large towel. She was spinning the towel above her head, dancing in circles. She reminded me of the time I saw Stevie Nicks on MTV, when MTV played music videos. I liked playing in the snow, but not the way Star did.

  The house was quiet other than my brother’s endless snoring. Dad was sipping hot chocolate in the kitchen. Mom and Grandmother Helen were still upstairs. After wolfing down a few waffles and a quick chat with Dad, the time was perfect to hit the streets with my sled.

  I carted it down the porch steps and stopped next to Star. I reminded her about William Harrison, who died a month after becoming president, because he gave a speech in the cold. She kissed my forehead and thanked me for being concerned.

  The snow covered my ankles with every step. Neighborhood kids were dashing down our usually quiet street, filling it with sounds of joy. I yanked my sled two blocks to the top of the street, which sloped two more blocks beyond my house. Bruce was there wrapped in several layers of clothing. I wondered how he could move.

  “What’s the deal, Bruce?” I asked. “Does your mom think we live at the South Pole?”

  He shrugged.

  A few adults were in their driveways cleaning snow from their cars. I wished they weren’t in such a hurry to pull their cars into the road. I didn’t want the cars to mess up our perfect runway, which only happened a couple of times a year. I was going to get as many runs down the street as I could before the snowplows showed up or Dad called me home to shovel our walkway.

  There was a path already packed down from the kids who beat me to the streets. I loved sledding. It was one of my favorite things to do. I ran a few steps and lowered my belly on to my trusted Flexible Flyer, smiling all the way to the bottom. Bruce followed me down the hill.

  “Awesome ride, eh Bruce?”

  He shrugged. Then smiled, barely able to wobble back to his feet.

  We made several more trips down the hill before Wendy showed up at the top of the street. She was wearing a puffed out purple winter coat and pink earmuffs. Her sniffling nose was red.

  “Sledding is more fun with two on the sled,” she said.

  “What planet are you from?” I asked. “Sleds are made for one person.”

  “Boys are so stupid sometimes. You can sit on the front and steer with your feet, Alex. I can sit behind you and hold on to your waist. I did it that way with my cousin, Ritchie, when we visited his family in the Poconos last winter. They have giant hills in the Poconos.”

  “I don’t know, Wendy. The sled might break in half if two people are sitting on it.”

  “Are you calling me fat you mindless little twerp?” Her words were as cold as my toes.

  I was shocked. I had seen Wendy upset before but never like this. I felt bad. I wasn’t calling her fat. I just wanted to ride on my own sled. Alone. I shook my head a few times looking at her sad face and runny nose. I looked at Bruce and his blank stare.

  “Ok, Wendy. I’ll steer but don’t hold on too tight. I don’t want to throw up my waffles.”

  Bruce was standing next to me. Wendy winked at Bruce. Within seconds, she was a different person. Girls were impossible to understand in the eighth grade.

  I wedged myself to the front of the sled with my feet on the guiding rails. Wendy sat behind me. Her legs laid next to mine. Her grip around my waist was tighter than expected. For a mere moment, I felt her head lean against my back. I shook my shoulders, getting ready for our maiden slide as a team down the hill.

  “Your job is to push, Wendy,” I said.

  “My job is to sit here and look pretty, goofball.”

  Goofball? Whom was this girl calling a goofball? I thought I was being super nice to the red-nosed purple clad girl who was invading my sled and cutting my solo sledding time short.

  “Just shove some and stop calling me names,” I said. She refused to budge.

  Bruce got behind us and pushed us down the hill. Wendy started giggling in my ear. Her death grip around my waist increased. She leaned her face against mine. I was hoping no one in my house saw us. My frozen feet were maneuvering the sled down the hill as straight as possible. My hands were clenched to the side of the sled. That was, until I sneezed.

  My right foot came off the railing long enough to send us towards the curb and pile of snow that Mr. Bennett had created while shoveling his side walk. My body hurled forward. Wendy followed. Snow masked my face. I rolled over looking upwards only to see Wendy smiling down at me.

  “That was fun, can we do it again?” She asked.

  “Do what again? Sled down the street only to bash into a pile of snow?”

  “Well, yes that and this too,” Wendy said.

  A pink mitten full of snow met my already snow encrusted face. Wendy laughed as she rubbed the quickly formed snowball into my cold nose. I reached up, grabbing hold of her puffy shoulders and pulled her down to my level. I rolled over, grabbed some snow and mushed it in her face. She continued to laugh. I laughed too.

  Bruce came out of nowhere and stood over us. Wendy and I were each lying on our backs, doing our best hyena impressions. Bruce shook his head. Wendy lobbed a snowball into his chest. I laughed harder. Bruce turned and started walking back up the snowy hill. Bruce must have not appreciated the humor of the moment.

  I helped Wendy up. She was still giggling. I pulled the sled from the snowbank. We began back up the hill.

  “I told you it was more fun with two on the sled,” Wendy said. There was no chance I was going to agree with her. Even if she was right.

  Upon arriving at the top of the hill, some fresh faces were arguing with the neighborhood boys. The tallest of the strangers was explaining how we all had to get in line for each run down the street. Each run would cost us a quarter. Some of the boys I knew started shoving with one of the strangers. Two of them were suddenly rolling in the snow, thumping each other with their fists.

  “Fight, fight,” yelled Jimmy Haas. Jimmy’s dad stormed up the block with a big shovel in his hands. He yanked the unknown boy away from Timmy Head MacNamara. Timmy got his knick name last spring in the schoolyard. The rumor is that Timmy ran into the corner of the brick school building with his head by acci
dent. A chunk of brick chipped off the building. Timmy shoulda head butted the bully.

  Jimmy’s dad restored peace on the street. We thought. After the five boys no one knew walked away, snowballs peppered us from several directions. Jimmy’s dad took one in the back. The boys, who we thought were chased off, came rushing back hurling snowballs at our small group. One struck Wendy’s cheek. She fell to the ground. Her cheek instantly turned pink. Her second favorite color. I bent down and began packing snow as one grazed my arm. Wendy was crying. Bruce was missing in action. Jimmy’s dad was yelling and waving his shovel at the bullies.

  I rose up and tossed one in the general direction of one the boys. Missed. Wendy was at my feet, in tears, asking me to take her home. I packed another snowball and hurled at one of the boys. Nailed him in the arm. Wendy was in the snow tugging on my leg. I shook her loose.

  The neighborhood boys, who remained, were tossing snowballs at the five jerks. We threw back with all our might. My brother Steve rushed up the block. He was grabbing snow along the way. Steve nailed a few of them.

  Jimmy’s dad was screaming out, “I’m gonna call the police. Now get outta here.”

  Wendy’s crying turned to a soft sob. I stood guard in front of her. The five who didn’t belong on our street, eventually ran away. Steve chased after them for another block, firing line drives at their backs. Jimmy’s dad stop yelling. Steve returned to check on me. I was feeling good at a few of my direct hits. Adrenaline pumped through my body.

  Bruce had taken position behind a tree. I was not sure how he could even throw with all the clothes he was wearing. He told me he hit a few of the boys. I helped Wendy off the ground and shook the snow from her coat. I brushed my finger across her cheek removing the last drop of snow and a few tears that remained. She smiled and gave me a hug. The hug felt good. I’ll never tell her. Sledding was over for the morning. I walked Wendy home before leaving to warm up.

  Steve was proud of himself having run off the strangers. He told Star all about it. Star’s reaction surprised me.

  “So you ran off some children in a violent manner? Is that what you are so proud of, Stevie?”

  “Hey, they weren’t children,” Steve said. “One goon was almost as big as me. I handled five of them myself. Besides, no one got hurt or nothing. Jeesh, lighten up, Star.”

  Star’s angry face told me it was time to remove my cold wet clothes. I filled the tub with steamy hot water. By the time I stepped out of the water, I had become prune boy. I dried off and threw on a fresh pair of jeans, long sleeved shirt, and jumped on my bed. I read a few pages about John Adams before dozing off.

  John was our nation’s first vice president and the second President of the United States, serving after George Washington. He was born in Massachusetts. He attended Harvard before becoming a lawyer. Mr. Adams also assisted Thomas Jefferson in writing the Declaration of Independence.

  John Adams wrote in my book, “The Declaration of Independence I always considered as a theatrical show. Jefferson ran away with all the stage effect of that; and the glory of it.”

  I fell asleep wondering if John was jealous of Thomas Jefferson. While sleeping, I had a dream I was a British soldier standing on guard at the Custom House on King Street. A young man was complaining about another soldier who left without paying his bill in a local shop. Before I knew it, people were surrounding me. I asked for help. A handful of soldiers came to my aide. The mob continued to harass us.

  Our small group of soldiers formed a semicircle. The crowd was throwing snowballs at us, calling us names, spitting on us. People from the crowd were yelling, “fire.” Church bells were ringing, adding more people to the protestors. My friend Private Montgomery was pelted with snowballs with rocks inside. He fell to the ground.

  My dream became hazy. I remember hearing musket fire and people crying. I woke up in a cold sweat. I sat up in bed. My book was lying next to me. My eyes were coming into focus. A voice came from the corner of my room.

  “The foundation of American independence was laid on a March day in 1770.”

  My sights turned to the corner of the room. A smallish man with white hair was staring back.

  “Twas not a popular choice when I represented the British soldiers in court. The soldiers in my view had no choice but to defend themselves. Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.”

  “Who are you? What are you doing in my room? Why are you rambling on about stuff I really don’t care about?”

  “John Adams. I am here to tell you about the Boston Massacre. You should care. The uprising came at a time when some were still sympathetic to the British Crown and others were less enthusiastic to a foreign leader. I am convinced that night changed the course of history.”

  “Big whoop. I was in a snowball fight earlier and it didn’t change a thing.”

  John smiled. “I beg to disagree with your assessment of today’s happenings. From what Sam Wilson informed me, that was quite a hug.”

  Hug? What was John talking about, a hug? Then I remembered Wendy giving me a quick squeeze. How could that possibly change history?

  “Whatever, Mr. Adams. It’s a little creepy though. I was dreaming about being a soldier surrounded by angry people. I heard shots and woke up.”

  John stretched his legs and patted his oversized belly. “Shots were fired by the soldiers. Three men were dead. After all settled down, it was imperative the soldiers be awarded a fair trial. No one wanted retaliation from King George. As I was saying, I with help from a few others represented the accused in the court.”

  “The soldiers were being attacked, they fired to protect themselves. They were on trial?”

  Adams laughed. “Now you see the dilemma we were faced with, Alex. I convinced the jury to see it my way. Six soldiers were acquitted. Two others were convicted of manslaughter for firing directly into the crowd.”

  “What about the people in the crowd, Mr. Adams?”

  “There are always two sides, Alex. Four were brought to trial. One of the servants who lied in court was found guilty of perjury. He was whipped and told to leave the province.”

  I thought I heard John wrong. “Whipped? You whipped people?”

  “A fair punishment seen by many. I was not one to agree with such measures on any human, including slaves, but it did happen.”

  “Did you own slaves, Mr. Adams?”

  John frowned. “Horrible, horrible, this idea of slavery. Despite owning a farm, I find it a disgusting practice for one man to own another. However, slavery comes in many forms. Liberty cannot be preserved without general knowledge among the people. Where annual elections end, slavery begins.”

  I moved to the corner of my bed to get a better look at Adams. “I was reading about you before I fell asleep. If I read your handwriting correctly, it said that you didn’t like the title, President of the United States. You wanted the title to be, His Majesty the President or His High Mightiness, the President of the United States and Protector of Their Liberties. Is that true?”

  “Yes, it is true. However, I lost the debate.”

  “It must have been fun hanging around with George Washington as the vice president, even if you didn’t like the title?”

  John shook his head. “I once told my wife, my country has in its wisdom contrived for me the most insignificant office that ever the invention of man contrived or his imagination conceived. No, I did not enjoy being vice president. Once president, I was constantly arguing with others who wanted the states to have power. I believe in a strong centralized form of government.”

  “I met President Jefferson. Is that why you two became pen pals. Did you fight in your letters? He told me that he wanted the states to have most of the power.”

  John wiggled in the chair. “In politics the middle way is none at all.”

  I could hear someone coming up the steps. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Adams
. But it’s time for you to go. Did Sam Wilson ask you to tell me anything else?”

  John stood up. “Sam didn’t tell me to offer this, but I will. There are two educations. One should teach us how to make a living and the other how to live. Farewell for now, Alex.”

  ~~~*~~~

  Chapter Twenty