“Mr. Travis, Mr. Blake,” responds Harding. When they’re out of ear shot, he shakes his head. “So much attention I can hardly take a dump in private. Yet I’m — I’m lonely, Doc. Never get to see my old pals, any more. Everyone in this place is so damn solemn. Florence tries to be cheery but, well you know, she’s never exactly been the cheery sort.”
“Emm. And your — lovely young friend?”
Harding stops, turns directly to Sawyer and confides softly. “Last time — two months ago. For maybe six seconds. Along with about fifty other people. ‘Good afternoon, Mr. President.’ ‘Good afternoon. Miss Britton.’ I got to shake her hand. That was it.”
Sawyer nods sympathetically as they resume their steps. “You know what I think might lift your spirits? Put back that old bounce? Some of these new fangled vitamins they’ve come up with.”
“Vitamins?”
“That’s what they’re called. ‘A,’ ‘B,’ ‘C,’ ‘D.’ Especially ‘B.’ Yeah, that’s the ticket, I’ll bet. Regular shots — once, maybe twice a week.”
“Vitamin shots. You really think that’s gonna help?”
“I’m sure of it. We can have the nurse come right to your office. The sooner the better.”
Sawyer makes good on his prescription the very next morning. At ten o’clock sharp, a uniformed nurse arrives at Mrs. Samson’s desk, carrying a small black bag. Samson stands, walks the young woman to the door of the Oval Office, and knocks.
Harding opens the door and breaks into a big smile as Nan, in white from cap to shoes, strides in. He quickly closes the door, pulls her to him and kisses her forehead. “Look at you — my alabaster angel.”
“Yes, Mr. President, I’m an angel. Today I’ve come to take you to heaven.”
The first kiss unleashes a torrent of others, wherever Harding can find bare skin — her face, neck, hands and wrists. “I’ve missed you beyond words, dear Nan, dear, dearest Nan. I’ve been so alone . . .”
He fumbles at the pearl buttons of her uniform. She clasps his hands in hers. “Wait — wait. Let me . . .” Nan takes a few steps back, and beginning with the first button, slowly undresses. “Yesterday I saw a Greta Garbo movie. About Mata Hari.”
Doctor Sawyer saved my life. Weren’t for him, I can’t bear to think of what might have happened. I was wasting away, down to a hundred pounds. Could hardly sleep. And when I did, I’d have the most disturbing, terribly impure dreams. Dreams about our President. Then one day, there I was, actually walking into my darling’s arms. And it was no dream. God bless Doctor Sawyer. I realize now he was one of the very few real friends the President had.
22.
In full uniform, Surgeon General Sawyer climbs the steps to the Bethesda Veterans Administration Hospital and makes his way through a shabby chronic care ward crowded with the wheelchairs of young, maimed and limbless vets, and tight row upon row of beds occupied by middle-aged and elderly men, desolate survivors of earlier and forgotten wars, most unkempt, drowsing, a few smoking; though only partially disabled, all appear lifeless. A single attendant flits amongst them, going through the motions of providing care.
Sawyer has not been inside an institution like this since his training forty years ago at a public charity hospital, where doctors-to-be had the opportunity to make their inevitable mistakes and get off cheaply. Charity patients were grateful for any sort of medical attention and were quite forgiving of the earnest young men in white who were clearly struggling to do their best. It was in those early years that Sawyer caught his first glimpse of a profound discovery he was then to see confirmed again and again in his four decades of clinical practice: Some of his colleagues were healers. Many more were not.
It wasn’t just a question of smarts or diligence but of talent. An innate gift. Were a doctor not so blessed, then he might study at the finest institutions, acquire all manner of surgical skills or be the very embodiment of medical knowledge — and his patients would still do poorly. But a healer invariably saw things other diagnosticians missed. He’d discern that peculiarly sweet breath of the inexplicably feverish teenager, and thus recognize diphtheria. He could see past the white pallor of the perplexing, anemic patient’s hemoglobin-starved skin, and detect its underlying subtle lemon tinge that meant not blood loss, but a pernicious vitamin deficiency. If the physician were a healer, then his very presence, his mere laying on of the hands would generate vitality and hope, energizing his patient’s innate, bodily defenses. And so, most of his patients would recover.
Sawyer certainly did what he could to keep pace with medical progress, but the field was becoming ever more technical, the journals written in an increasingly arcane language he could not grasp. Yet his patients continued to do well while those of his younger, more scientific peers, often succumbed. Whatever his limitations — and Sawyer understood that these were legion — he knew that he was, indeed, a healer.
As Sawyer squeezes between beds, searching for a particular patient, he notes with anger the clinical neglect, the paint peeling off the walls and ceilings, the broken windows patched with tape. At last, in a darkened room set aside for those with inoperable cancer, he finds the man he’s come to see.
Zachary Cartwright, friend to both Sawyer and Harding over the course of their long years together in Marion, is now thin, tremulous and frail — almost lost in his bed clothes. His battered, tottering nightstand boasts the only bright spot on the entire ward — a basket of fruit wrapped in yellow cellophane.
Sawyer maneuvers around two veterans in wheelchairs to stand by the head of his old neighbor’s bed. “Hey — Zach. Zach Cartwright,” he calls out, gently.
Cartwright has difficulty focusing, finally recognizes Sawyer, and breaks into the semblance of a smile. “Doc — I never expected . . .”
Sawyer grips Cartwright’s trembling hand. “Now I said I was coming.” He sits down on the bed, absently fingers a torn dirty sheet, but admires the fruit basket. “You seem to have a fan.”
“Actually,” says Cartwright in a hoarse voice, “it’s from the President. From Warren. Can you believe that?”
“I can. That’s Warren for ya, isn’t it. So — how’re ya doin’?”
“Best as can be expected. Not coughing so much this week. Boy, will you look at you! Hey — maybe you shouldn’t sit there. Get your whites all dirty.”
“How often do they change the linen around here?”
“Mm . . . don’t really know, Doc. Lying here, one day blends into another. Not even sure what month it is. I know I’ve been here a spell.”
“A single day would be an awfully long time in this place, Zach.” He makes a fist. “And I mean to do something about it.”
The hospital’s medical director, in a long white coat, scoots out his office door, Sawyer nearly prodding him from behind. Together they stride down a hospital corridor as the director deflects Sawyer’s anger with his own.
“I requisition paint, window glass, bedding, whatever,” he explains. “Every week, asking for something. Months go by. Patients come and go, many needing bandages and medicines we just don’t have. Some die.”
The two men round a corner.
“And then,” he continues, “we’ll get these huge shipments. Buckets of paint, boxes of gauze, pharmaceuticals, new linens and blankets.”
They reach their destination. The director unlocks and opens the storeroom door, swats a light switch. A single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling glows dimly. Save for two broken folding chairs, the cavernous room is empty. The director shakes his head. “Damn thing is, less than a week later, before we can hardly get to use it, most of it’s gone.”
“Gone?” asks Sawyer.
“We get this fool order from the Veterans Administration. Says it’s been declared ‘surplus.’ ‘Out of date.’ ‘Absolutely not to use.’ They’ll be sending us new stuff.” He waves his arm at the barren storeroom. “But first all th
is has to be crated and picked up. They come take it away and we start waiting again. I’ve phoned, written — what’s his name, Forbes, Charlie Forbes — it’s still screwed up.” He flips off the light and slams the door. “Can’t you people in Washington get anything right?”
The following day, Sawyer, now in civilian dress, enters Washington’s largest Army/Navy Surplus Store, located at 300K Street, and starts to walk the aisles, inspecting merchandise, from toothbrushes to teacups. He’s not there more than a minute before coming upon a wall-to-ceiling stack of paint cans, all clearly stenciled “Bethesda V.A.” Turning down an adjacent aisle, he runs across piles of blankets, linens, and towels marked “Veterans’ Hospitals,” all first-quality, all brand-new.
It appears to Sawyer that Charlie Forbes, the consummate peddler, is still very much in sales.
Less than a fifteen-minute walk away, at 1625 K Street, Jess Smith has set up a shop of his own in a small, two-story wooden Victorian painted bright green. The Stars and Stripes fly from a flagpole on the front lawn as they might outside any government building. A rat darts down the pole and scurries across the grass.
Inside, what had been a family’s parlor has become Jess’ office, its four walls papered with photographs — a large, tinted stock portrait of Harding; several photos of Jess and Daugherty; two of Harding and Daugherty with Jess hovering nearby; and one of Jess alone, feet planted on the steps of the Capitol Building as if they were his personal property.
Jess himself is on the phone, legs up on the desk, while a well-dressed supplicant, Luther Brockmann, sits across, patiently waiting for him to finish. Bobby Burns, his chauffeur’s uniform retired in favor of a three-piece suit, sits off in a corner smoking a cigarette, listening to Jess’ half of the conversation with amusement. Occasionally Burns pops an aspirin out of a small bottle and into his mouth, crunching down on it like candy.
“I’m real sorry,” says Jess into the receiver with persuasive sincerity. “You were never supposed to be raided.” He listens. “Hey, ‘at’s an honest mistake. Whiskey stills look pretty much alike, you know.” He listens. “Yeah, the Attorney General understands you produce sacramental spirits.” He looks at Burns and shrugs. “Uh-huh, the President appreciated the bourbon — yeah, both cases.” He winks at Burns. “You have my solemn promise.” He listens and nods. “Yes. Bye.” He hangs up and addresses Burns. “First I’ve heard of sacramental bourbon.” With relish, he makes a notation in his ledger book as he turns back to Brockmann. “Okay, where were we?”
Brockmann has a German accent. “I believe I was explaining, sir: my factory never made weaponry during the war — we merely supplied Germany with bicycle parts. And we are primarily Swiss owned.”
“Yeah, I see.”
“I myself am Swiss. On my mother’s side.”
Jess nods, scribbles a name and number on a piece of paper and hands it to Brockmann. “Handles all alien property for the Attorney General. Call ‘im — tomorrow. Should have Mr. Daugherty’s final okay by then.”
“Thank you, sir. You’re helping to correct a grave injustice. No one in my family has ever been pro-German or . . .”
“Sure, Luther, I know.” He rises. Brockmann follows suit. They shake hands. “One thing,” says Jess. “Mr. Daugherty wanted me to ask — once we get your company back in your hands, about how much would, say, a thousand shares be worth?”
“A thousand shares — I’d need some time to convert stock prices into post-war currency — .” In the corner of the room, Burns shifts in his chair, somehow imbuing this slight movement with menace. “But I’ll attend to it at once,” Brockmann continues quickly. “And please assure the Attorney General that I would deem their value quite modest when compared to the generous assistance given me today.”
“Hey look,” asserts Jess, “America is the land of opportunity.”
“Ah, indeed,” agrees Brockmann. “Well, good day, sir.” He turns to Burns. “Mr. Director.”
Burns waves magnanimously, Brockmann leaves well-satisfied, and Jess nods with smiling contentment as he makes another hugely profitable notation in his swelling ledger. No longer reconciled to playing second fiddle to Harry Daugherty, he has found his own way of making music. Jess had no idea it would be this easy.
23.
In his second year as President, I saw a definite change in Mr. Harding. He was studying all manner of incredibly difficult books and journals. Sometimes he even invited their authors to the White House to explain things he might not have fully understood. He initiated friendships with other heads of state, men of different color and of greatly varied beliefs, several traveling halfway around the world to meet with him. And instead of always trying to accommodate everyone else, more and more he came up with plans of his own. Often he’d sound them out on me first. I thought they were all wonderful; increasingly, he was learning to trust his heart.
Hoover, with the rest of the cabinet in tow, meanders toward their meeting room. Just as he reaches the door, it opens, and Hoover is startled as a slightly disheveled Nurse Britton hurries out.
Minutes later a rejuvenated, assertive Harding is on his feet, pitching ideas at his cabinet with newfound enthusiasm. “Say the White House invites all the great powers to Washington. Have them sit down together. Once we get everybody in the same room, we work out a way for each to disarm. Seriously disarm. First off, we formally renounce war . . .”
“Renounce war?” exclaims Admiral Denby.
“Then find some formula whereby we all slash our navies. What purpose do these enormous fleets serve now? Let’s cut ‘em back. I’m talking real disarmament here, not just another dead scrap of paper. Have you any idea, Admiral, how much it costs the taxpayers to keep just one of your battleships afloat? And for what!”
Hughes puts down his pipe. “I take it, sir, you’re proposing that each country scuttle some ships.”
“Exactly, Mr. Secretary. Stop building all these new ones, and sink the excess we already have.”
Denby is astounded. “Sink our own ships?!”
“Admiral, this is 1922 — no country’s about to start some overseas adventure without a huge navy to back it up.”
Fall’s eyes narrow with interest, but he says nothing. Coolidge slumbers on. Harding has struck a responsive chord in Hoover, however, who nods enthusiastically. “The President makes a persuasive argument. Standing armies always melt away once a war concludes. But battleships and the like go on forever. Along with their capacity for mischief. I’m certainly with you on this, sir.”
Hoover’s support ensures Mellon’s opposition. “So,” he says in acid tones, “we send half our navy to the bottom, then get everyone to shake hands and promise to be peaceful and live happily ever after . . .”
“The point,” insists Harding, “is that we’ll be doing away with some of the means to fight. No big navies, no big foreign wars.”
“Sink our own ships?!” repeats Denby, several beats behind.
“Obviously,” continues Harding, “we’ll have to work out country by country how many . . .”
“You know,” cautions Hughes, “when Lodge gets wind of this idea of yours, he’ll blow the dome right off the Capitol Building. And he won’t need any dreadnoughts to do it, either. He keeps a lot of those very ships you want to do away with anchored in Boston Harbor. I believe he built his home on a hill overlooking the bay just so he could keep an eye on them.”
“I’ll speak to Henry,” says Harding.
This is all too much for Denby. “Excuse me, Mr. President, but do you really believe you can persuade France and Britain and Japan or whoever to scrap huge chunks of their own navies?”
“Why not?” asks Hoover. “If the United States sets an example, and everybody does it at the same time . . .”
“Right,” says Harding. “And should some country break its pledge, we haul ‘em into World Court.”
; “World Court?” asks Hughes. “What World Court?”
“Well, that’s my next proposal, gentlemen . . .”
1922 saw Mr. Harding make another significant innovation — he began taking regular trips out of the White House, sometimes even sneaking me along with him. Previous Presidents had rarely traveled far from Washington, but this President wanted to carry his new ideas right to the source of the problem, whether or not they liked what he had to say. So, for instance, he spoke to the Chamber of Commerce about shortening the twelve-hour day for children. I must say, not much enthusiasm there for that proposal.
He went to Atlanta and talked about equal rights for Negroes. This time he got lots of applause. At least from about half the assembly — that half confined to the back.
But his most heartfelt — and certainly his most ambitious goal, was to find ways to help all the peoples of the world live together in peace. He was absolutely determined to talk the great powers into getting rid of a big chunk of their navies. He spent days and days working on his plan. He said it would be the centerpiece of his administration.
Harding huddles over a War Department table with Hughes, Admiral Denby and several naval attaches. Albert Fall wanders in and stands inconspicuously off to the side, saying nothing, but for a man charged with stewardship of the country’s interior, seems uncommonly interested in naval affairs.
Every square inch of wall is papered with diagrams, each that of a country’s capital ships — one chart for the United States, another for Britain, for France, Japan, Italy, and so on, down to Togoland’s navy of a single cruiser last reliably sighted afloat in 1914.
Harding is increasingly exasperated. “Can someone explain to me what in hell the British and French want with all those battleships anyway? Damn war’s been over for four years.”
“Primarily to help govern their far-flung colonies,” Hughes explains. “As you know, Mr. President, they control possessions in Africa, South America, Asia . . .”
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