Fluke

by Blinder, Martin;

  “Warren —?”

  “In here.” Carrie enters and Harding jumps up, clasping both her hands in his with great warmth. “Carrie, my dear . . .”

  “Senator Harding, as I live and breathe. Good morning, Mr. Harris.”

  “Morning, Mrs. Phillips.” Walt grapples conspicuously with his pocket watch. “Chief, I’ve got to, uh, get down to the grange.” He turns mock serious. “Now — no dilly dallying. I’ll need that finished by three o’clock. At the latest.”

  “Yes sir” says Harding. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Walt withdraws.

  “What a lovely surprise, Warren,” says Carrie. “We thought you weren’t due in Marion until tomorrow.”

  “Yes, well I managed to slip out a little ahead of recess. Those final days — why don’t you have a seat there — such a flurry of pork. Every senator wanting his. It’s a disgrace. So this time I thought I’d just leave a bit early. It’s so gosh darn hard telling any of the boys ‘no’.” He turns back to the press. “I’ll be done with this in just a minute.”

  “You’ve always been gracious to a fault, Warren. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say ‘no’ to anyone. Good thing you’re not a woman. You’d be pregnant all the time . . . what on earth are you doing?”

  “Tomorrow’s front page. Nothing quite like typesetting to relax the mind. You cannot imagine how I miss it.”

  “I see. Why not get yourself a little printing press to play with while you’re in Washington?”

  “Matter of fact, I have. Called the United States Treasury.” He smiles at her. “You look wonderful. As always. And how is Mr. Phillips?”

  Carrie peers up at the wall clock. “Almost lunch time — he should be two sheets to the wind by now.” She pauses. “I’d had hopes of — seeing more of you this summer.”

  Harding fumbles with some letters and seems to need an extra moment to respond. “Actually, I don’t expect I’ll be here but a week or so. Possibly you’ve heard — Teddy Roosevelt wants back in the White House. He’s asked me if I’d pitch in and . . .”

  “Of course. I can certainly understand how a prominent and distinguished United States Senator might no longer have much time for . . .”

  “Now that’s absolute rubbish.” He stops work, wipes his hands with a towel and rises. “And as for ‘prominent and distinguished,’ truth is, Carrie, I’m pretty small potatoes in that place.” He utters a sad little laugh. “Quite mediocre. I doubt my being there has made the slightest difference. To anyone.”

  Carrie stands and moves toward him. “You are anything but mediocre, good sir. And you continue to make a profound difference. Especially to me.” She caresses his face. “Wherever you are.” She aims her lips at his mouth — and somehow gets his cheek.

  For a moment she just looks at him with a penetrating gaze, then takes a step back. “You’ve been seeing someone. Haven’t you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Six months and what — two letters? Slip quietly into town. Don’t call.” Her soft, full mouth hardens into a tight smile. “You have someone. In Washington.”

  “No. Not — not really.”

  “Not really? You know, Warren, the truth doesn’t hurt nearly so much as your keeping it from me.”

  Harding shakes his head. “We’re just friends.”

  “’Friends.’”

  “She’s — quite young.”

  “Certain skills women pick up at a remarkably early age these days.”

  “Please, Carrie —. Don’t. There’s never been . . . there’ll never be anyone . . . like you.”

  Carrie’s eyes glisten as they sweep lovingly across Harding’s face. “You’re a dear sweet man, Warren,” she says, softly. “I wish I could have kept what we had. I truly, truly do.” She shrugs. “But I’m forever mired down here, and — you’re there.” She reaches out, squeezes his hand, then turns away. “I should go.”

  “Carrie, let’s talk a bit . . .”

  “Goodbye . . . Senator.” She’s hurries from the room, Harding following. Awkwardly, he pushes the front door open for her, jingling the bell. She flies out and down the street. Harding watches her unhappily from the doorway, takes a deep breath, and slowly exhales.

  13.

  The entire nation was shocked when on the 2nd of February, 1919, Teddy Roosevelt passed away. Suddenly, in his sleep. Gracious — he was only sixty-one and the very model of robust health and American vigor. Perhaps it had something to do with the terrible Spanish influenza that was going around, but who would have expected it?

  It was an especially difficult loss for the Republican National Committee. Mr. Roosevelt was our leader and certain presidential candidate. There was really no one to take his place. And our annual Lincoln’s Birthday Ball was but a week and a half away. I can assure you none of us were feeling very festive. But finally, the Committee decided to go forward as planned. They said Teddy always loved a good party. And they saw it as an opportunity for their wisest minds to work out who amongst them might best pick up the torch.

  On the evening of February 12th, a fleet of chauffeured limousines pull up to a Washington estate on Delaware, one block from Embassy Row. Black men in white gloves scurry to open their doors. Animated passengers, many well lubricated, emerge in their gowns or tuxedos, trip up the marble steps, gold and gems glittering, and sweep into a mirrored ballroom humming with the Lodges, Falls, McPhersons, Sinclairs, and most every other Republican of note, there to be greeted by a stern, life-size portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, rimmed in black crepe, and by its side, one of Abraham Lincoln, no less sober.

  Beneath the social chatter and gladhanding, a great deal of serious politicking is under way. None is more intense than that of two heretofore relatively obscure men. The first of them, three-star General Leonard Wood, ramrod straight in his full dress uniform, is visibly uncomfortable pretending to be just one of the boys, and is doubtless wishing he could simply order the party to give him the presidential nomination. Lobbying effortlessly across the room is the man deemed best positioned to deny the general his fondest hope, Thomas Lowden, the ambitious governor of Illinois, physically slight but brandishing an outsized political sense.

  Off in a corner, Nan endures the enthusiasms of her nominal escort, a spirited young congressman who for the last twenty minutes has been pontificating upon the immorality of taxing corporations. She has positioned herself so as to always keep the ballroom entrance in view; her lecturer immediately loses what little of her interest he may have enjoyed when she spots Harding and Florence making their appearance, arm in arm, Florence leaning on a cane.

  At last, my darling — the first time I’d laid eyes on him in a week — and for me, the main reason to attend the ball. Tonight, Florence, who seldom ventured out of Marion, unexpectedly chose to accompany her husband. I myself had not seen her for over a year, and I was now struck by, well, how old she looked.

  Over her companion’s shoulder, Nan’s eyes follow the two new arrivals threading their way through the room. Harding’s personal popularity is unmistakable as he fields a flurry of warm greetings and handshakes, surprised smiles at his wife’s rare appearance, and many a manly embrace. Just as he’s making a quarter turn to reach another outstretched hand, Nan catches his attention, charging the air between them. He winks at her, she giggles. Nan’s congressman assumes she’s enjoying his last turn of phrase and chuckles along with her, then realizes she’s looking past him. He spins round and follows down her line of sight, just as Harding turns away.

  Harding and Florence inch along in the general direction of the party’s most seasoned hands, senators Fall, Lodge, Guthrie and Harry Daugherty. The four insiders glare at the “outsiders,” Wood and Lowden, as the two scratch for commitments.

  Fall shakes his head. “Will you look at that pair!”

  Lodge raises his glass to Roosevelt’s portra
it. “After the giant dies, the pygmies emerge from the forest.”

  “T.R.’s body’s barely cold,” Guthrie grouses, “the convention months away, and already they’re scrounging for votes.”

  “Nonentities,” scoffs Fall. “Both of ‘em.” He turns to Lodge. “The nomination’s yours for the asking, Henry. I’d bet my ranch on it.”

  Some twenty feet away, Harding, having deposited Florence with several other wives, starts handshaking his way toward the quartet. Daugherty spots him coming and decides the moment is at hand to launch his audacious, convoluted plan. “From what I hear, Al, you’ve bet your ranch once too often. And in all due respect, gentlemen, I find these two particular ‘nonentities’ quite worrisome.” Daugherty looks squarely at Lodge. “One of them just might collect enough delegates before the convention to deny the nomination to the man we all know to be Roosevelt’s rightful heir.”

  Lodge shrugs. “I doubt that. So they’ve picked up a few promises. It matters less who casts the votes than who counts them.”

  “Things are shaping up differently this time, Senator,” maintains Daugherty. “The convention could run away from you. With Roosevelt gone it’s likely to be wide open.”

  Though loath to admit it, Lodge is troubled by Daugherty’s admonitions. “All right, assuming that it is a possibility . . . ?”

  “I’d quietly start gathering in your I.O.U’s. Tuck ‘em away. Then, come the convention, we let Wood and Lowden have their moment.”

  “Their moment?” asks Lodge.

  “They despise each other. That’s good. We encourage ‘em to fight it out. Exhaust themselves while you lie low. When it looks like they’ve about knocked each other off, you step in. Gather up the pieces. The only ballot we need be concerned about is the last.”

  “That’s fine, Daugherty,” interposes Guthrie, “but what if, early on, like you say, either Lowden or Wood proves stronger than we thought? Maybe even sweeps the primaries.”

  “Yeah,” says Fall. “Suppose the first ballot is the last, and one of them walks off with the nomination, right out of the box?”

  Harding has finally reached the four conspirators. Daugherty couldn’t have timed it better. He gives Harding a big smile and places an arm around his shoulder. “That’s where party loyalists come in. Loyalists like our Warren, here. For example, we have Ohio commit ‘irrevocably’ to Warren Harding for President.”

  This is news to Harding. “What on earth are you talking about, Harry?”

  “As Ohio’s favorite son. Merely a gesture, Warren. But you’d tie up all of Ohio’s delegates. Keep ‘em away from Wood or Lowden’s people as long as necessary. That’s a huge block of votes you’d have tucked there in your pocket. Then, at the propitious moment, you simply release ‘em to Henry, here. And as Ohio goes, so goes the Midwest.”

  Harding knows full well that favorite son is a harmless holding position, not a serious candidacy, yet he is suddenly enveloped by a sinking, anxious feeling. “I don’t know, Harry. I’m not sure that’s such a . . .”

  “Indeed,” says Lodge, thoughtfully. “No Republican has ever won the presidency without Ohio. Best to keep those delegates under lock and key.” He turns to Harding. “Don’t look so glum, Warren. Running for the White House can be quite elevating. Be assured, years from now you’ll look back on your presidential flirtation with great fondness.”

  14.

  Florence is especially eager for this week’s preview of portentous events. Sitting across from her Marion seer, she leans forward, elbows resting on the gingham tablecloth. “I trust you know — my Wurr’n will be amongst those advanced at the convention next month.” The reliably clairvoyant woman facing her from the other side of the kitchen table today seems puzzled. Florence persists. “The Republican’s nominating convention. In Chicago?”

  The woman looks up from the cards spread out before her. “Actually, ma’am, I’ve never understood politics. So I don’t pay much attention. I’m sorry . . .”

  “He tells me he’s not really a candidate,” adds Florence, casually. “He says he isn’t there for himself. Just helping out someone else. This other senator. Senator Lodge? Henry Cabot Lodge? A very important man in Washington.”

  “I don’t believe I’m familiar with the gentleman. Still, quite the honor.”

  “Yes,” says Florence in a flat voice. “Quite.”

  “I know how much you’ve given of yourself to Mr. Harding’s work. By all rights, you must be feeling a great lady.”

  Florence shakes her head. “There are no great ladies in America. Just the occasional muffled, invisible woman — married to a great man. Hmph. Little did my father guess.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My father — he’s barely spoken to me since I married. ‘Beneath my station,’ he said.” A sardonic smile. “Wurr’n’s ‘suspicious blood lines,’ you see.”

  “Ah. I believe I did hear something — years ago . . .”

  “Then Wurr’n is elected to the U.S. Senate. That, father never expected.” She closes her eyes. “And now this.”

  “A swift change of fortune,” observes the woman.

  “Yes. A swift change.” Florence opens her eyes, hesitates, then again leans forward and whispers. “Can you tell me — what will happen? Is Wurr’n . . . could my husband actually become President of the United States?”

  The woman looks down, repositions several cards, and replies slowly. “I believe that he could.”

  Florence takes a deep breath. “And . . . will he? Will he?”

  The woman studies the cards’ configuration, looks up at her, says nothing, again stares down. The wall clock ticks off the seconds like gun shots. “Well? What is it?”

  At last, the woman nods “yes.”

  Florence swells with pride. “All these years I believed in him. Even when he didn’t. Those rumors about his family — vicious nonsense.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now Wurr’n will show them, won’t he.” She starts to rise.

  The woman holds up her hand, rings on all five fingers. “If you please . . . wait, Mrs. Harding. Just a moment, if you would.” She weighs her words. “Should your husband proceed on this course, there are — hazards. It may not be for the best.”

  “What — what are you saying?”

  Brow furrowed, the woman searches her cards for the right words.

  Florence continues in a rush. “A most extraordinary thing is about to happen. You — you’ve seen it yourself. Yes, certainly there’ll be problems, tremendous responsibilities, difficulties to be worked out, my God, that’s to be expected. But my Wurr’n, President — ‘not for the best?’ What a thing to say!”

  The woman looks up at Florence’s flushed face — and retreats. “As I’ve stated, ma’am, I don’t understand politics.” She smiles faintly. “Often life is illusion. Much is unclear. All the cards can ever offer is a bit of guidance. Hardly infallible.”

  Florence stands. “Indeed not.” She opens her purse. “How much do I owe?”

  The woman shakes her head. “The reading was very clouded today, Mrs. Harding. No charge.”

  15.

  Over the next six months I had dinner with Mr. Harding once a week. Right before his regular Wednesday night poker. Of course, even on my generous salary, supplemented now and again by my darling, it was no easy task coming up with that many different ensembles, but I was determined that he would never see me in the same outfit twice.

  The dear gentleman would call for me at my apartment at exactly 5:45, always with some lovely gift in hand — a blouse in my favorite color (green), a charming bracelet or brooch, once he even brought a book he thought I might enjoy. I felt very much loved. In every way — but one. Then, on the first Wednesday of August, for my twenty-second birthday, he gave me a rather special present — a first-class train ticket. I was to be a page at the nomina
ting convention in Chicago.

  August 10th, 1920, with its record temperature of 106 degrees, finds the Republicans at the Chicago Coliseum, breaking a record of their own — day three, a thirteenth ballot, and still no nomination. In over one hundred years, no previous nominating convention of either major party has ever required more than six ballots to choose a presidential candidate. But just as Daugherty had predicted, this year’s two front-runners, Wood and Lowden, whose antipathy for the Democrats pales alongside that harbored for one another, emerge from the primaries in a dead heat. Now neither seems able to close on the 497 votes required by the rules of the convention; and none of the favorite sons or wanna-be’s has yet to indicate the slightest willingness to donate the several dozen votes necessary to put either of the two leaders over.

  The convention floor, hot, smoky and cacophonous, is jammed cheek by jowl with nearly a thousand delegates, their aides and committee staff. Nan is everywhere amongst them, bouncing hither and yon, relaying messages. The delegates, clumped together by state, are to a man — and they are all men — wilted and bone-tired. Waving above this roiling sea of damp Republicans are signs with names of the forty-eight states, posters touting the candidates, state flags and banners.

  Much of the floor is about equally divided between Lowden and Wood supporters, but loyalists for Senator William Borah of Idaho, Massachusetts governor Calvin Coolidge, businessman-philanthropist Herbert Hoover, and the perennial standard-bearer, Henry Cabot Lodge, together are also substantial in number. Only the Ohio delegation totes Harding signs; few others at the convention have more than a vague idea who Warren G. Harding might be.

  A large “scoreboard” of electric lightbulbs behind and above the dais flashes the candidates’ names alphabetically, followed by their current delegate count:

  Borah24

  Coolidge18

  Harding33

  Hoover35

  Lodge55