Fall slaps Harding on the back. “Been lookin’ forward to your arrival, Warren. Have I heard correctly that you play a crafty game of five-card stud? The poker caucus could use some fresh blood.”
Webb chuckles. “You mean some fresh cash, don’t you Al?”
Harding shakes his head. “Poker is one pleasure I may have to forego while I’m here, Senator Fall. The missus has made it quite clear. Can’t afford to leave the Senate any less well-off financially than I am already.”
“Why don’t ya call me Al,” says Fall. “And let me assure you, friend, that in the century and a half of this august body’s proud existence, no member has ever left less well-off financially than when he arrived.” He slaps Harding’s back a second time, and continues on his way.
Harding and Webb move on, encountering Fall’s very antithesis, sixty-six-year-old Henry Cabot Lodge, an austere Boston Brahmin, barely five feet, thin, pinched, exacting, effete in dress and manner, and certain in the knowledge that God — if not the electorate — has long been saving him for the presidency of the United States.
“Warren, doubtless you know our majority leader?”
“An enormous privilege, Senator Lodge,” says Harding, with a perceptible bow.
Lodge’s handshake is stiff and formal, the tone of his speech one of suppressed rage. “Most pleased to have you in the club,” Lodge replies in his clipped Bostonian. “This institution needs more strong Republican voices, what with Professor Woodrow Wilson and his internationalist clique infesting the White House. I’ll be counting on your help in preparing some enlightening lessons for the good professor.”
“Well,” says Harding, “I, uh, certainly want to do all I can . . .”
Lodge resumes his steps. “Splendid. Tea in my chambers at five, gentlemen?”
He’s gone without bothering for an answer.
Moments later, Webb and Harding reach the Senate floor. Webb is a tolerant, closet moderate in an increasingly reactionary Republican party, and one of the few with something approaching a sense of humor. He points to an ornate door off to one side. “The Senate Dining Room, Warren. Avoid at all costs. The food’s prepared entirely by civil servants — doesn’t so much sate as kill the appetite.”
They continue down a side aisle toward their desks. Just across the aisle, a dandy sporting a startlingly huge pompadour settles behind his. “Marcus Blakewood, New Jersey,” Webb whispers. “Working on marriage number five, I believe. A Senate record. Even for a Democrat.”
“Five marriages . . . !”
“Marcus is a man of intense but brief enthusiasms.” As they approach, Blakewood gives them a friendly wave. “And don’t be taken in by all this cordiality,” warns Webb, softly. “Makes it that much harder distinguishing friends from mortal enemies.”
Harding looks at him. “Enemies? Here? That’s the last thing in the world I intend to have.”
“You’re to be in Washington for quite some time, Warren.” Webb smiles. “Never know — you just might develop a taste for them.”
Part Two
10.
Sad to say, during the first few years of Mr. Harding’s term in the Senate, despite his fondest wishes, he found little time to visit Marion. I had only the poor comfort of seeing his dear face in the newspapers. Yet, my feelings for him continued to grow; intense yearnings, unspeakable desires I could not share with a living soul.
Then one day, on impulse, I took pen in hand. It was probably a rather silly letter, all Marion gossip and the like. But it provided a decorous reason for me to boldly inscribe in green ink “Dear Mr. Harding,” — and then picture my darling’s eyes reading those words.
Joy of joys, he actually wrote me back — several lovely lines on the letterhead of the United States Senate! After regaining my composure, I wrote him again. Soon I was up to a letter a day. Many I dared not mail, but the little chatty ones, I did. Now and again he answered, and I would read his sweet words over and over.
As for the rest of my time, I just made do with my memories and my dreams, while keeping busy in my auntie’s millinery. Till finally I had two hundred dollars put aside — enough for a trip to Washington, D.C. My first ever. Of course, spending several years’ savings on such a venture could hardly please my father, who habitually referred to the capital of our nation as “that den of iniquity.” But since no one in living memory had ever heard a murmur of approval from his lips — about any place, anyone, or anything — his predictable condemnation of my intended excursion had the effect upon me of a raindrop falling in the Sahara.
Carrying two new suitcases, Nan makes her way along the platform of Marion’s train station, crowded, bustling, and everywhere adorned with World War I exhortations —”BUY LIBERTY BONDS,” “ROUT THE KAISER,” and “UNCLE SAM wants you!” At twenty-one, she has come into a stunning maturity, as thoroughly observed by a homeward-bound row of disabled doughboys.
And so, the moment had come to surprise dear Mr. Harding with a little visit — to see with my own eyes the splendid things my senator was doing for America.
Largely, what Nan’s senator was doing was prudently keeping out of America’s way. Predictably, the day of Nan’s unannounced arrival, like so many days before, Harding is secure in his office, wreathed in cigar smoke, a glass of bourbon close by, immersed in a poker game with Albert Fall and a trio of other legislative lightweights, Senators Paxton, Guthrie and Blair. Fall tosses a couple of bills on the mound accumulating on the table. “I’ll see you. Raise you five.”
“Warren?” asks Paxton.
“I’m out.”
“Too rich for my blood,” says Guthrie.
Harding and Guthrie fold their cards. A buzzer sounds.
“Christ,” says Fall, “not now. I thought Henry had his quorum.”
Fall, Blair and Paxton continue on with the game.
“See you, Al,” says Blair. He throws several bills on the table. “And raise you another five.”
There’s a knock on Harding’s door. A senatatorial page opens it a crack and sticks his head in. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Gonna be a voice vote. Mr. Lodge needs two more.”
Fall is unmoved. “I’m sure as hell not going to fold this hand for a lousy seaport tariff bill. New Mexico’s landlocked.”
Harding rises. “Maybe if I get out of here now I’ll at least keep my shirt.”
Guthrie joins him. “Already lost mine. Guess I’ll tag along.”
Presiding over the senate, Lodge has scraped together his quorum — some two dozen senators are in their places, prepared to do their leader’s bidding. Harding and Guthrie reach their desks moments before the roll call reaches them.
“Senator Guthrie?” asks Lodge.
“Guthrie votes no.”
“Senator Hall?” Lodge continues.
“Hall votes no.”
“Senator Harding?”
“Harding votes no.”
Harding’s modest three-word speech elicits wild applause from a young woman in the gallery. Startled senators look up in unison. With fifty eyes upon her, Nan freezes mid-clap and shrinks into her seat. Harding smiles up at her. Their eyes connect.
But neither is able to find a way to acknowledge the voltage between them as, early that evening, they dine together in the Willard Hotel’s Potomac Room. Seated opposite Harding in the most splendiferous restaurant she has ever seen, Nan struggles with a bill of fare the size of a Tolstoy novel. A tuxedoed waiter looks on paternally. Harding sips his second bourbon. Nan’s sarsaparilla is untouched. She peeps out at him from behind her menu. “This is so kind of you, Mr. Harding. It all looks so good. My oh my.”
Harding nods. “Everything is good. What is it you want, my dear?”
What I wanted was for him to reach out to me, to lift me up into his arms and hold me. Right there. In that restaurant.
“Gosh, sir, so many things. How
do you possibly choose? Have you decided?”
“I always have the Delmonico. The best in Washington.”
I hadn’t the slightest idea if the Delmonico was fish or fowl, but little else on the menu was recognizable either.
“Well, if you think it’s that good, I must have the same.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle. And how shall your Delmonico be prepared?” asks the waiter.
“Prepared?” repeats Nan.
“Oui, Mademoiselle.”
“Perhaps . . . medium,” suggests Harding.
“Yes, medium,” enthuses Nan. “A splendid idea.”
Harding nods at the waiter who thanks them both and departs with their order.
Nan and Harding look at each other, then down at the table. She shifts uneasily in her seat.
It is, of course, a sin to feel as I did about another woman’s husband. But it was never my intention to entice Mr. Harding away from his honor-bound conjugal duty; I wished only to add to his life those parts of my love he found worthy — to give to him in some way, not to take.
Harding fiddles with his swizzle stick. “Where did you say you were staying, Nan?”
“At the Shepherd’s Residence for women. On D Street.”
“Rather posh.”
“I’ll say. I’ve barely enough money for a week. But my train ticket home is all paid . . .”
“I see. A week. So short.” He looks at her. “Do you . . . have to go back to Marion?”
“Well, I—I guess. I never imagined . . .”
“I was thinking, Nan,” says Harding slowly. “Possibly you’d like to stay on a bit? In Washington. We could find you a less expensive room, then get you a job . . .”
“In — in Washington . . . !”
“Yes, I believe we could come up with something for you here. Perhaps at the Republican National Committee.”
I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
“Gosh, Mr. Harding, that would be wonderful. ‘Cept that — well, the only paying job I’ve ever had has been my auntie’s little hat shop. I — I really don’t know how to do anything.”
“This is Washington, my dear — you’ll fit in quite nicely.”
A terrific din — car horns, church bells and shouts from the street outside increasingly penetrate and begin to fill the restaurant. Diners chatter excitedly to each other as the waiter approaches, wheeling a silver cart bearing rolls and butter.
Harding looks up at him. “What in blazes is going on out there?”
“I’m told it’s the war, Monsieur. Rumor is, the Bosch are fini.”
“What?!” Harding jumps up, grabs Nan’s arm, virtually lifts her from the chair and leads her out onto Pennsylvania Avenue and bedlam. Sidewalks and roadway are choked with people in ecstatic disbelief — cheering, dancing, and hugging strangers. Church bells clang drunkenly.
Harding collars an animated young man. “What have you heard?”
“They say the Heinies quit. Kaiser’s fled Berlin, tail between his legs. He’s a Dutchman now. And my brother’s coming back from France! While he’s still in one piece.” He dashes off.
Harding shakes his head. “Four years of slaughter. Pointless slaughter. Over. It’s hard to believe.”
“I’m so glad,” says Nan.
No, not glad. I was delirious! For I was standing quite close to Mr. Harding, closer than I ever had before. With the crowd pressing in all around us we were soon squeezed together, my breasts hard against my darling. I felt two hearts beating, two hearts beating as one. I was dizzy, drowning in his manly scent that was suffused with bay rum and the lingering fragrance of his last cigar. I could hardly breathe. The surrounding tumult appeared to fade away and I was entirely alone with him. I heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing . . . save him.
Harding joyfully kisses the top of Nan’s head, backs his face away for a second, looks into her eyes — then wraps his arms around her. Nan’s arms encircle Harding’s neck. They kiss fiercely, their bodies immobilized as they meld together, while seemingly all Washington hollers and whirls around them.
11.
Till my dying day I shall remember our first kiss that glorious night we learned that the Great War had ended. It felt for a moment as though we might actually consummate our love. Right then and there. On Pennsylvania Avenue. Lord in heaven, I was burning up inside. But after that one passionate moment, my dearest’s conduct was so courtly, so protective, I remained quite chaste. In fact, it began to look as if I might well retain my maidenhood forever.
Less than a week after her arrival, Harding conducts a delighted Nan, clutching a box of candy and a small cellophane-wrapped bouquet of roses, through a small, simply furnished flat, fresh flowers in every room. Harding points out the living room window view of the Jefferson Memorial, then leads the new tenant through to the bedroom. Conspicuously, Nan sits herself down on the bed. She bounces on the mattress. But her guide appears caught up in the virtues of her walk-in closet, then he waves them on toward the kitchen.
Even a comprehensive tour of a one-bedroom apartment is bound to be brief. In a few minutes, Harding stands with Nan at the front door, preparing to leave. She faces him, arms at her side, quivering slightly. Tenderly he kisses her forehead. She closes her eyes, opens them . . . he’s gone.
True to his word, my darling not only located a lovely place to live, he found me a wonderful position with the Republican National Committee. Would you believe that the job of junior assistant clerk paid more in a week than I earned in my auntie’s shop an entire month! Best of all, there was I, Nan Britton from little Marion, Ohio, now never far from Senator Warren G. Harding, and other of America’s greatest minds as they grappled majestically with momentous issues.
Henry Cabot Lodge reserved every Tuesday afternoon at four to meet with such great minds as could be found in the Senate Republican Caucus, gathering his loyal minions around a massive rectangular cherrywood table whose polished surface shone brightly, less so the intellect of some who regularly sat alongside. On this particular Tuesday, the occasion of a short but singularly historic meeting, the senators have all been supplied with copies of Woodrow Wilson’s Versailles Treaty, a formidable stack of some one hundred pages of very small print. Several read parts of the treaty to themselves with visible distaste. Senator Guthrie taps a page with his pen. “This ‘League of Nations’ Wilson proposes — it’s a pipe dream.”
Murmurs of agreement, most vociferously from Senator Paxton. “Or worse,” he asserts. “Give it an army to enforce its decisions and it’s a threat to our sovereignty. No army, and it’s a debating society — useless, utterly useless.”
All around the table, near unanimous growls of animosity. But Morris Webb gently dissents. “Better useless debate than useless war, don’t you think? And without the United States, the League would be very useless indeed.”
A strained silence.
Pained to see his Ohio colleague dangling all by himself, Harding hurries to his support. “Morris makes an interesting point there. What with most every country in the world on board, can we stay out?”
Fall shakes his head. “I take it, Warren, you’d have Borneo sending a delegation of goddamn cannibals to argue beef quotas with New Mexico . . .”
Lodge stirs slightly, all he need do to elicit the group’s undivided attention. “I have a more fundamental concern, gentlemen: does the United States wish to be embroiled again in the pernicious affairs of other nations, perhaps get dragged into another European war? What happens across an ocean somewhere is none of our business. And ours is none of theirs.”
General nods of agreement around the table.
Webb tries again. “Possibly — there’s a compromise here — that we join the League in principle — but reserve our right to act independently whenever it best serves our sovereign interests.”
Compromise — Harding’s
lode stone. “Yes, Henry, a compromise. There’s something appealing, don’t you think, about a forum where countries can sit down man to man . . .” Paxton interrupts impatiently. “Warren, with this president it’s all or nothing. You know Wilson doesn’t compromise.”
“Nor will I,” says Lodge. “Wilson thinks to ram his League of Nations down our throats. That alone would be reason for Republicans to oppose — and oppose unanimously.”
“So moved,” says Guthrie.
“Second?” asks Lodge.
“Second,” says Paxton.
“All in favor?” asks Lodge.
Save for Harding and Webb, the entire group votes “aye.” Moments later Ohio’s tentative spark of internationalism is extinguished, as the two holdouts hasten to add their votes to the others.
“Against?”
Lodge ventures his first smile in public since the Treaty of Versailles crossed his desk two months ago. “Well then — the ‘ayes’ have it.”
He lifts the face sheet off Woodrow Wilson’s blueprint for a permanent and lasting peace, an imaginative, daring plan not just to fairly settle up accounts of this war, but to anticipate and root out probable causes of the next.
Lodge ceremoniously tears the sheet in half.
12.
Carrie Phillips notes with vicarious satisfaction that the building housing the Marion Daily Star has been freshly painted, and the gold letters etched on the front window reflect further the paper’s newfound prosperity:
MARION DAILY STAR
Warren G. Harding, Publisher
Walter Harris, Editor-in-Chief
Circulation 140,000
But when, through the plate glass, she spots a familiar Panama hat on the rack, her pulse quickens.
Inside the composing room, Harding, sleeves rolled up, happily sets a page of lead type with skill undiminished by a four-year absence. Walt Harris looks on, amused. The front doorbell jingles, and Harding recognizes a honeyed voice he’s not heard for some time.
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