McPherson drops the second. “Warren, we very much want you to run in his place.” Harding flinches visibly, but McPherson presses on. “Even with your long friendship, you’re personally untainted by the senator’s — misfortunes.”
“Never get all them reformer types riled. . .” adds Jess Smith, his voice an octave above the rest.
“In fact,” continues McPherson, “I can’t think of a single credible reason anyone might have to vote against you, can you?”
Harding shakes his head. “Seems folks found all kinds of reasons just two years ago, when I made that fool bid for governor. Talk about overreaching. Fellas, please don’t think me unappreciative. I’m flattered, I truly am, but I’m afraid the answer . . .”
Daugherty doesn’t wait for the answer. “Point is, it won’t be easy for any Republican this year. But, properly financed,” he glances meaningfully at Sinclair, “you may well be our best chance to keep Bill’s seat. You got a duty to your party, sir.”
McPherson nods vigorously. “And to our good mutual friend. Bill specifically asks that it be you who carries on his great work. Says you’re one man we can always count on. He’s sure right about that.”
Daugherty delivers the coup de grace. “It all comes down . . . it all comes down to a question of loyalty.”
McPherson gives Harding his most ingratiating smile. “Well, Senator Harding, what d’ya say?”
Seconds tick by. Harding seems unable to say anything.
And then the inner office door flies open and Florence bursts in. “He says yes, gentlemen, of course, Senator Harding says yes.”
That night, sultry and still, finds Nan holding down her park bench opposite the Star. Never before has she had to stand watch this late. Since her arrival a good two hours ago, a fall moon has risen, lending her a distinct shadow. Harding’s dark offices appear empty.
Sitting alone in the lightless back room amongst his silent presses, Harding stares unseeing at the typesetter. What many men would consider uncommon opportunity has somehow brought him a sense of profound loss, even foreboding — another chance to fail. Yet, how could he be so ungracious as to turn the boys down? What would they all think of him? And poor Duchess — she’d probably take to her bed again for weeks.
Finally Harding rises, passes through the front office, takes his Panama from the rack and trudges out of the building, Old Abe at his heels.
Old Abe was not only Harding’s third consecutive Airedale but the third to be named Old Abe. Not ordinarily a man of passion, all his life Harding fervently despised change. A thaw in February and a cold snap in July were equally unsettling. He fretted if Florence failed to find a decent chicken for their Sunday dinner; Sundays and chicken seemed to him inseparable. He resisted buying new trousers till its predecessor had been worn thin to the point of transparency. He despaired if a favored pair of shoes were finally beyond repair. He had yet to see where a phone-call might serve better than a letter, and though he now conceded the utility of Duchess having their home electrified, the wiring had been entirely her initiative, done over his protests, all with her own money.
But these were transient vexations, easily managed. On balance, Harding had designed a safe, satisfying life of ironclad predictability and calm. His Tuesday and Friday night unions with Carrie Phillips were adventure enough for any man. In all things, Harding never felt the need to push himself or test the limits, attempting only what was sure to go well. Thoroughly comfortable with his place in the sun, not yet fifty, he had achieved his apotheosis, extracting from life precisely what he wanted: peace and quiet.
That is, until today. Whatever in God’s name had he let himself in for this time? Hadn’t he done his bit for the party with that foolish run for governor? His father had always warned him — go out on a limb and someone’s sure to come along with a saw. Now here he was, sticking way out there. Way out. Warren Harding, sacrificial lamb. Warren Harding — public idiot!
Nan watches Harding leave the Star and head down the street. She stands and falls in behind him.
He comes to a street-corner, where a ragamuffin approaches, palm out. Harding digs into his pocket and gives the boy a handful of coins. They glitter in the moonlight. Then he resumes his steps, turns left, stops, changes his mind and turns right, toward the fairgrounds.
The cicadas are shouting at one another as Harding wanders onto the baseball diamond. Nan continues to observe unseen as he picks the broken limb of a tree off the ground and shuffles over to home plate, the site of many a weekend triumph. He raises the limb to his shoulder and takes an imaginary pitch.
There was no way I could then know of the worries weighing down so mightily upon Mr. Harding that last year he was to live in Marion, though I could see that he faced a problem of some magnitude, and that it was bringing him great distress. How I wished I could have run to him with a word of comfort, or perhaps just held his hand that soft summer night. But I was a mere sixteen. I could do nothing, save entrust this dear man to the many others in his life who I believed surely loved him as did I, and would do all they could to ease his cares.
Harding sighs deeply, lowers the branch, and breaks it over his knee.
7.
Unfailingly on time for her twice monthly 11:00 a.m. glimpse into the future, Florence Harding, in hat and veil, stands on the front steps of a small corner two-story wood frame house. She glances to her left, then to her right. Satisfied she’s gone unnoticed, she spins the bell. A fortyish woman, matronly in appearance and dress, opens the door and with a nod, bids Florence enter. Nothing about her or her unassuming home would suggest that it is here, at the confluence of Marion’s Third and Main, that the fate of the world was consistently and reliably revealed.
The woman shows Florence through a parlor and on into the kitchen where they seat themselves at opposite ends of a small maplewood table covered with a gingham cloth. An octagonal wall clock ticks domestically. Without fanfare, the woman spreads out a pack of cards. Everything is low-key, matter of fact. No hocus pocus. This, after all, is Ohio.
Today, Florence has a very specific question for her. “Madam, you must tell me . . .”
The woman, as we might expect, is well ahead of her. “Ah yes, it is quite clear, Mrs. Harding,” she says, her voice full of promise.
“It is?”
“Your husband continues to draw upon many powerful forces. They propel him forward at great speed. His progress now seems inevitable.”
Florence looks at her triumphantly. “So then, he — he will succeed. That’s what you see, isn’t it,” she insists. “I’ve always known it. In my heart.”
The woman nods in agreement, though smiling cryptically. She slowly picks up a card and examines it in silence, then another, and another. Still, she says nothing. The wall clock marks off the seconds.
Florence cannot contain her impatience. “Yes? Well, what do they say?”
But the woman takes her time. With clairvoyance comes responsibility — one doesn’t go off half cocked. When at last she speaks, her words are measured. “This magnetism of your husband’s — it gathers up people’s dreams. Helps them to come true.” She pauses and then adds, cautiously, “but perhaps not always his dreams.”
“Wurr’n has no dreams,” asserts Florence. “I mean, he’s never been a dreamer. He, he only wants — what any capable man would. Just that, at times he’s lacked confidence. In his abilities. But I’ve always had faith.”
The woman rearranges the cards, gleaning yet another insight. “Your faith is well placed,” she says, softly. “So long as you remember, Mrs. Harding: there is balance in the universe; for every great force there is a countervailing power.” She looks up at her again. “Nothing is ever without cost. There is always a reckoning.”
8.
Even the most celebrated of journeys can begin with steps so small as to be imperceptible. How many of us at an unheralded ga
thering that day in an inconsequential Ohio town might have predicted where Mr. Harding’s road would ultimately lead? And despite my fantasies, how could I possibly have divined that we would be traveling that ascendant road together?
Nan, ever more reluctantly in the company of her father, is in the genial crowd of nearly two hundred clumped around Marion’s courthouse steps, waiting deferentially for the “Harding for U.S. Senate” kickoff rally to begin. Mr. Britton excepted, Harding’s popularity seems to touch young and old, and cuts across every strata of Marion society. For the most part, the attendees are day-workers, small businessmen, farmers and the like, but here and there are the decidedly well-to-do, several sitting in horse-drawn carriages or in chauffeured motorcars. Behind the wheel of her electric, Carrie Phillips is among the last arrivals, silently rolling up to take her place with the monied set. Peering down at them all from the makeshift dais at the top of the old granite stairs are Harry Daugherty, Jess Smith, Ralph McPherson, and Charlie Forbes — but thus far, no Harding.
Right on schedule, a brass marching band approaches, blasting away at John Philip Sousa. Daugherty glances at a pocket watch, then turns to Charlie. “Where the hell’s our candidate?” Charlie stabs his forefinger in the direction of the band’s tuba player. Daugherty shakes his head as he discovers that Harding is performing at his own rally.
The crowd cheers as the tuba bobs into view. Several moments later, the musicians reach the courthouse and halt on command. Harding passes his battered instrument to a band mate and sprints up the steps to applause and shouts of approval, then shakes hands with all on the podium as Charlie moves forward to introduce him.
Harding lays a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Hey thanks, pal, but just about everyone knows me pretty well, don’t you think? For better or worse.” He clears his throat, turns, faces his audience and warms it with his smile. He’s known most of these people all his life. This would be the easy part. “Afternoon good people. I sure do appreciate you sparing the time to come over today.”
Supportive murmurs rise up to him. Harding can make out “Hullo, Warren,” and “Glad to be here.” Carrie Phillips gives him a discreet wave.
“Guess you’ve all heard, some gracious folks contend that I might make Ohio a pretty fair United States Senator.”
A heckler’s voice rings out. “They must know something we don’t!” Good-natured laughter from the crowd, a lethal look from Nan. The heckler is her father.
“That may be, Mr. Britton, that may be,” responds Harding, amiably.
“Don’t take any guff, Warren,” shouts Marion’s greengrocer. “You’re gonna make one hell of a first-class senator!”
“Thank you, Rufus. And I’m sure anxious to get cracking, folks — get down to doing . . . doing what we all know needs to be done in Washington. For every one of you good people. But I make you this promise: If elected, one thing will never change: my home is here. In Marion. So I’ll be coming back. A lot. We’ll chat. Like we always have. I’ll want to hear about your problems. What I can do to help. Tell me whenever I’m off the beam.”
“You can count on it, Harding!” hollers Nan’s father.
“And first thing, Mr. Britton, I’m gonna create a special complaint bureau here in town. Just for you.”
Over the ensuing laughter, Jess Smith murmurs in Daugherty’s ear. “Guy knows how to work a crowd.”
“This little crowd, yeah,” replies Daugherty. “Trouble is, he still thinks he’s running for alderman.”
The rally over and a considered success, the atmosphere in Harry Daugherty’s chauffeured La Salle is celebratory as he and Harding, McPherson, and Jess Smith motor down Main Street. Charlie Forbes, asked at the last minute by McPherson to run him a “small errand,” is notably absent, freeing McPherson to make his move. “Warren, I’m sure I don’t have to tout Harry here — his legendary accomplishments — the wealth of political knowledge and experience . . .”
“Ran Senator Foraker’s last two campaigns,” interposes Jess, reverently.
“Knowledge and experience he’s happy to make available to you,” finishes McPherson.
Harding turns to Daugherty. “Well gosh, Harry, that’s quite generous. Lord knows I could certainly use your help. Yes indeedy.” He pauses. “Thing is . . .”
“Yes?” asks Daugherty, the slightest edge to his voice.
“Well, about Charlie,” Harding replies. “Charlie’s taken charge of all my previous campaigns. Been elected alderman four times, ya know . . .”
“We know, Warren, but we’re talking national office now,” says McPherson.
Daugherty is a model of conciliation. “You keep Charlie on. That’s fine. We’d be doing very different things. I’ll be coaching the in-field. We’ll have Charlie keep an eye on the out-field.”
“Just wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, that’s all,” says Harding. “Charlie and I go way back . . .”
“Hurt his feelings? No, we certainly wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.” Daugherty pauses. “So long as you and I have an understanding. Can’t have six different people making decisions, can we.”
Daugherty’s chauffeur, Bobby Burns, a muscular, pugnacious man — a pitbull in shoes — eavesdrops as the men seated behind him shove Harding’s lifelong friend to the periphery of the campaign. A licensed private detective permanently on Daugherty’s payroll, he has come to admire his employer’s genteel use of force. In his youth, Burns had been partial to other forms, though even then always applied judiciously — why kill a man when your point might easily be made by breaking his knees? Now in his maturity, he has developed a keen interest in Daugherty’s subtler tactics, if not totally abandoning his own more physical instincts.
Fifty yards ahead, an elderly woman steps off the curb, inattentive to the slowly approaching La Salle. The boulevard is wide, the traffic negligible — room for Burns to miss her by a dozen yards. Instead he turns the wheel slightly, bearing down upon her. The right front fender brushes the woman’s skirt as the huge motor car glides by. Burns smiles, gratified by his precision driving and his victim’s fright.
Behind him, Daugherty, focused on his mission, remains unaware of his chauffeur’s pastime. Having despatched Charlie, he can concentrate all his fire power upon the candidate himself. “There’s a few other details I thought we might get straight, Warren. If that’s all right.” He nods at Jess Smith, who pulls out a pad and begins taking down notes.
“Sure,” says Harding. “Let’s have ‘em.”
“First off, your little friendship with — I’m told her name is Carrie Phillips . . . ?” Harding’s jaw drops. Smoothly, Daugherty continues. “You’ll want to keep it under wraps, okay? Till the campaign’s over. Second, we need more photographs. You’re a great speechifier but one good picture can obscure a thousand words. Pictures of you with children. Photogenic young people. I understand you and the missus are childless?”
“Well, uh, yes. Florence’s health has never . . .”
“We’ll find you some.”
“Er, find me some?”
“Some children. Youth — innocence sells. Appearances — that’s what politics are about now, Warren. Photographs. And we’ll need one of ‘The candidate walking his dog.’ Voters all love dogs.”
“I have a swell dog . . .”
“Let me pick the dog,” says Daugherty. He pauses. “One last thing.”
“All right. Let’s have it.”
“These — whispers I’ve heard from time to time.”
Harding’s anxiety rises precipitously. “Whispers?”
“That you might be part colored.”
Even McPherson is aghast at Daugherty’s blunt incivility and looks away. Up front, Burns’ ears strain for every detail.
“Harry,” says Harding, “that cockeyed rumor has dogged my family for generations. We have no idea what started it.”<
br />
“Sure. Is it true?”
“Of course not!” Harding turns and stares unseeing out the window. “I don’t know. Maybe a hundred years ago one of my people jumped the fence. Who the hell’s to say? Christ, I am who I am. Anyway, no one’s ever taken that stuff seriously.”
A strained silence, finally broken by Jess. “He sure don’t look Negro. I gotta say, Mr. Harding, you look exactly like I always imagined a United States senator should.”
Daugherty studies Harding’s profile for a moment. “You’re certainly right about that, Jess.”
McPherson joins in. “And as you say, Harry, appearances count. For everything.”
9.
Something sure counted. This time my prayers were answered. Mr. Harding was elected by a landslide. No ifs, ands, or buts.
All was not well with me, however. I must tell you, I quickly found that there was a part of my heart that could not share in the outpouring of joy that followed. For when the voters delivered my darling to the United States Senate, they sent him far, far away from me. So thrilled though I was, for days I just sat and cried. I couldn’t seem to stem the tears. Who knew when I might see Mr. Harding again? But I tried to take solace in the knowledge that this fine and worthy man was where he properly belonged, and was sure to prosper in the company of like statesmen.
Harding’s first morning on the job, Ohio’s senior senator, an avuncular Morris Webb, guides his awed colleague through the corridors toward the Senate chamber, introducing him to members they encounter, each and every one white, male, Protestant, prosperous, and ranging in years from middle-aged to senescent. Several, in office for decades, Harding already recognizes. None are more striking than New Mexico’s Albert Fall, towering in height, if not legislative acumen, today replete with a ten-gallon Stetson, boots, string tie, and a wad of tobacco in his cheek.
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