Mencken and his cub reporter have planted themselves way in back, chairs tilted against the wall, taking notes, as Fall glibly pours a final dollop of oil on troubled waters. “It was my considered judgment that national security required these naval oil bases be transferred to Interior in secrecy. Teapot Dome is of small importance, gentlemen — the safety of this nation is not.”
That satisfies Senator Wheeler for the moment, but owlish Senator Walsh remains suspicious. “One last question, if I may, Mr. Secretary,” says Walsh.
“Of course, Senator.”
“Secretary Fall, did you perchance receive any special — personal — considerations for your efforts to lease this navy oil to private parties?”
“I did not, sir! And I take umbrage at the suggestion!”
Apparently, so do most of the panel, who show Walsh little support. Fall, after all, is a former colleague, and a most convivial one. The vote to excuse him from further inquiry is near unanimous.
But Fall’s charm cuts no ice with Mencken, who turns quietly to his cub reporter. “Hey Bud, let me give you Mencken’s first law of journalism: the more vehemently a politician denies an allegation, the more likely it is to be true.”
30.
Harding beams as he opens his office door for Nan, glimpsing Mrs. Samson behind her, eyebrows raised.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” says Nurse Britton, as she makes a dignified entrance.
Harding closes the door behind her and eagerly helps her off with her coat. Today no starched white uniform: beneath the coat, Nan’s hourglass form is draped in an American flag — and nothing else.
“Nan — good God!”
Nan smiles, pirouettes, unwraps herself, then using the flag as a veil, does a personal impression of Salome. Harding is delighted. “I salute your patriotism, my dear.”
Nan lowers her eyes to the swelling at Harding’s groin. “So I see, Mr. President.” The flag slips from her hands and puddles red, white and blue at her feet.
Harding reaches for her.
With so many unpleasant matters popping up right and left and pressing on my darling’s mind, each time we met I’d always make a special effort to lift his spirits. And increasingly, we’d talk about our possible future together.
Of course, back in those days, divorce for a woman was worse than death. I knew Warren could never be so cruel to Florence, for whom he would always care, however much he loved me. So I was prepared to accept our “arrangement” indefinitely, imperfect though it was. I could not imagine a life entirely without him, for I don’t think I then quite saw myself a whole person. I needed Warren Harding to feel complete. And he in turn seemed unable to do without me.
Harding and Nan sprawl together in each other’s arms on the sofa, under a blanket bearing the presidential seal, enjoying a post-coital glow. On the floor beside them, Nan’s flag is wrapped in an embrace with Harding’s trousers.
Nan kisses his cheek. “I wish . . . I wish we could be . . . a couple, Warren . . . a plain old couple — Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous.”
“God, so do I, dearie. With all my heart. Just unlock my cell door and walk off. Away from this miserable place. Away from it all. Forever. With you.” He sighs. “Perhaps some day.”
“I can wait. I’d wait forever.” She starts to kiss him again, covering his face.
“I’ve something to tell you, Nan.”
“How much you love me.”
“Well . . . yes. Beyond words . . .”
“That the sun rises and falls with my comings and goings.”
“Of course, plum.” Tenderly, he kisses her nose. “That — and also: I’m planning a rather long train trip. Quite an important one.”
Nan sits up. “A trip? Where?”
“Across the country. You’ve been reading the papers, all the complimentary things my old colleague has had to say about me?”
“I try and skip over that rubbish.”
Harding smiles. “But you have read some of it. Now and again.”
“Mr. Lodge is a jealous little man. He’s lost his heart. All he seems good for is tearing things down.”
“Yes indeedy. Hell bent on sabotage. He intends to hog tie me in the Senate. Block each and every bill.”
“Can he do that?”
“Henry? Easily. He knows all the tricks.” Harding shakes his head. “And that business with Charlie Forbes. Now Al and navy oil. It all plays right into the old man’s hands. So, I’ve decided to break out of this prison for a bit.” He kisses her forehead. “I’ve planned a speaking tour. Almost a campaign. My idea is to travel from city to city. Much like you and I did that first time in Ohio. Look folks in the eye. Explain to them what I’ve been trying to do and why we ought to do it. Once The People are with me —”
“That’s a grand idea. Warren.” She bounces on his lap. “Wonderful! As soon as they hear you tell your side . . .”
“And I want you along on that train.”
She stops bouncing. “You do? Really?”
“I can’t possibly be away from you for almost two whole months. Two days is hard enough . . .”
“Oh Warren — ! But won’t Florence . . . ? I mean . . .”
“Florence and I will be traveling together, of course. You, my dear, will be tucked away somewhere in the caboose.” He chuckles and kisses her on the mouth.
“Mixed in with a bunch of White House aides. Now it won’t be easy but I’m sure there’ll be ways we can . . .” She wraps herself around him. “Oh, Mr. President!” A kiss, long and deep, as they stretch out together. Nan, ecstatic and energetic, maneuvers herself atop him, rubbing her lush body up and down his.
“Wow . . . Nan . . . Sweet Nan . . . Nan . . .” In moments he enters her.
She thrusts against him. “Oh yes, my dear, yes — oh please, Warren, please . . .”
Harding rises to the challenge as the two experienced lovers quickly drive the other toward climax. Nan feels life itself within her.
And then — Harding gasps. “Whew, Nan, wait . . .”
“Oh Warren, I can’t . . .”
“Dearie, wait — gotta catch my breath . . .”
“Warren —? Warren, what’s the matter?”
“Whew. Let me . . . sit up.” He does, pressing his fist to the center of his chest. “Have this pressure — right here. Whew.” He can barely breathe.
Nan is frightened. “Are you going to be alright?”
“Sure . . . just . . . a little winded. Jeez, Nan, I’m five times . . . your age. Gotta . . . go a bit easy, sweet.”
Florence Harding, crocheting by the bay window in her White House quarters, puts down her work as the Harding’s personal butler, Dirkson, a dignified and distinguished-looking, elderly black man arrives with the day’s newspapers. She scans the front pages with dismay.
“V.A. HOSPITALS — QUESTIONS RAISED”
“WASHINGTON MYSTERY — WHERE’S CHARLIE?”
“MORE TEAPOT DOME ALLEGATIONS”
“Has the president seen these, Dirkson?”
“No ma’am. He’s still having his treatment. I left copies with Mrs. Samson . . .”
“Treatment? What treatment?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know, ma’am. I just know a nurse attends him every week or so.”
She looks at him open-jawed. “A nurse —.” This is the first she’s heard of any nurse. “All right. Thank you, Dirkson.”
As Dirkson silently withdraws, Florence stares at her crocheting, lying on the sill. Then, brow furrowed, she rises, goes to the telephone and dials four digits.
Downstairs in the Oval Office, Harding is starting to feel somewhat better. The intercom on his desk buzzes twice — Harding picks up the earpiece, and what he hears knocks the wind out of him once again.
“Thank you, Betsy.” Hurriedly he replaces the earpi
ece, his breathing labored. “Nan, Florence is — on her way down.”
“What? Here?” She leaps for her coat.
Harding starts scrambling back into his clothes. “She’s never . . . done this . . . before,” he wheezes.
“Warren, dear God . . .”
“I’m . . . fine, Nan. Just . . . button up,” he gulps a breath, “and let’s try and get you out of here.”
Florence, her jaw set, leaves the private living quarters and chugs down the corridor as fast as her cane will go.
One floor beneath, Harding quickly rolls up and hands Nan the flag, then her shoes, and starts maneuvering her, still barefoot and pinning her hair together, toward the door. “No, wait. Not that way. Come. Over here.”
Florence has made it down the elevator to the ground floor now, her cane biting into a plush hall runner as she takes a sharp turn for the Oval Office.
Inside, Harding is pulling the drawstring on a curtain that conceals a narrow side door. “One of the . . . Secret Service boys will . . . get you out.” He struggles to breathe. “Christ, I’m — so sorry Nan . . .”
He unlocks and guides her into the slim passageway. She can scarcely bear to leave him.
“Warren, I’m very, very worried . . .”
“I’ll be fine, dearie.” He manages a winded kiss. “Please . . .”
Nan forces herself down the little corridor. Harding redraws the curtain, then hastily finishes dressing, all the while breathing shallowly, perspiration on his brow. He’s just buttoning up his fly when there’s a familiar knock. He cinches his belt and dabs his forehead with his handkerchief.
A louder knock. Harding puts the best possible face on his intense physical discomfort — and guilt. “Come on in!” The door opens and Mrs. Samson and Florence appear. Florence enters, Samson withdraws. “Florence, whatever are you . . .?”
“I’m sorry if I interrupted anything, Wurr’n. But I — I was concerned. Dirkson just told me you’ve been receiving some sort of treatments . . .”
“Treatments? What —? Uh . . . oh, that. It’s nothing, Duchess.” He forces out a small laugh. “Vitamin injections, that’s all. Doc Sawyer — prescribed them. You know how tired I was for a while.” He flops down heavily on the sofa, trying, with little success, to conceal his breathlessness. “Come, sit by me.”
She looks at him with alarm, then slowly settles down next to him. “Wurr’n you don’t — look that well. You’ve just had a treatment?” He nods and works on his breathing. She is finding it painful to watch. “I think we should call Doc Sawyer . . .”
“Really, Duchess. Just need to sit. For a moment.”
She studies him closely. “The . . . er, nurse . . . is she . . .?”
“She had other — calls.” He manages a deep breath, even a wan smile. “Please. Don’t worry. Going to be fine . . .”
The intercom buzzes. Harding hauls himself back up, steps to his desk and flips the device on. Mrs. Samson is at the other end.
“Ask him to wait,” says Harding, into the receiver. “Just a few more minutes.”
He clicks off and turns to Florence. “Duchess, Herbert Hoover is here. He’s helping with my new speeches. Going to need a lot of them.” Harding is able to take a solid breath now; he exhales slowly. “Good ones.”
“Wurr’n, if there’s something wrong, please, you must . . .”
“There’s plenty wrong, my dear — it’s called the United States Senate.”
“All right.” Reluctantly, she rises. “Promise you’ll make it an early evening?”
“If I possibly can.” He embraces her, then guides her to the door.
Hoover is waiting in the foyer. Accustomed to Nurse Britton emerging at about this time, he blinks twice when Florence comes out instead, Harding just behind her. “Mrs. Harding —!”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary. A pleasure to see you again.”
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s always . . .”
“Mr. Secretary, Wurrn’s been feeling a bit peaked. I trust you won’t keep him a moment longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Ma’am, just yesterday Mrs. Hoover gave me an ultimatum — either the President of the United States, or her. I assured her: no contest.”
Florence nods, partially appeased. Harding, his breathing easier, reaches for her hand and squeezes it tenderly.
31.
It is long past midnight, and the Lincoln Memorial is deserted, save for Jess Smith, Harry Daugherty, and the great marble figure of Abraham Lincoln, seated on his throne, surveying the Capitol Mall.
Jess hands Daugherty a fat, currency-sized envelope. “That reporter — Mencken,” says Jess. “Keeps nosing around. Been trying to locate Charlie.”
Daugherty slips the envelope into a breast pocket. “Will he find him?”
Jess shakes his head. “Charlie sails in two hours. Calais.”
“Calais should be lovely this time of year. How’s Charlie holding up?”
“Actually, he’s not. He’s saying that when he comes back, we’re supposed to ‘protect’ him.”
“Don’t think we can do that.” He looks at Jess meaningfully. “Everyone’s got to stand on his own feet. This little Mencken problem — has Burns come up with anything yet?”
“Oh, sure. The guy’s a teetotaler. Drives a twelve-year-old Ford. Has an ex-wife in Baltimore . . .”
Daugherty brightens. “Ex-wife?”
“— Who’s still in love. And according to Burns, Mencken pays his alimony and child support like clock-work. In advance. The guy’s a goddamn saint.”
“Yeah, well, Burns will find something — even if he has to invent it.” He makes a fist and feints a tap to Jess’ chin. “You know, Jess, you don’t always arrange things with me before making promises. Some mighty big promises.”
“I — I didn’t want to be bothering you all the time . . .”
“You’re never a bother, Jess. You oughta know that by now.” He embraces him, then stands back and fixes him in his gaze. “Please — always check with me first. You don’t want to find yourself stuck out there all by yourself. Dangerous place.”
Jess nods. Daugherty smiles, reaches out, and tussles Jess’ hair.
Lincoln looks down at the loving conspirators with a heavy heart.
Part Six
32.
Whenever preparing for a trip, however brief, Nan’s usual remedy for her intractable difficulty sorting out clothing she might actually use from that better left behind was simply to take along almost everything she owned. Today, however, the suitcase open on her bed and a giant steamer trunk on the floor are both nearly full, and she has yet to address the overriding question of evening wear.
Nan glances at her night-table clock — barely an hour to complete her packing. She hurries to her walk-in closet and fingers three dresses. Should she take the red, the green, or the beige? She holds the red one against her and looks down at her waistline — seems to have gained a little weight. Best to be safe — bring all three.
She lifts the hangers off the bar and is just carrying them over to the bed when her doorbell rings. She drapes the dresses over the headboard, goes to the front door and checks through the peephole. Then, very nearly dumbstruck, she slowly opens up to the Secretary of Commerce.
“Good morning, Miss Britton,” says Herbert Hoover. “Forgive me for intruding on you like this. But we have — a problem.”
“A — a problem?”
“I was hoping you’d be able to help.”
Nan remains rooted to the ground.
“Might I come in?”
“Oh — of course, Mr. Hoover.” She recovers a portion of her wits and leads him into the living room. “Please — won’t you sit down. Er, may I offer you anything?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.” He settles uneasily into her easy chair. “Pleasantly cool
for July, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir. I was thinking the very same thing. Just this morning.”
Hoover takes a long moment to gather his thoughts. “This is difficult for me, Miss Britton . . .”
Nan turns pale and drops down on the edge of an adjacent chair. “Warren —! Has something happened to . . .?”
“The President’s feeling very well. Quite eager about this big trip of his. ‘Raring to go,” he told me.”
Nan is relieved — somewhat.
“Miss Britton — Nan — may I call you Nan?”
She nods — cautiously.
“I’ve come to speak with you in confidence, Nan. Entirely on my own initiative. But I believe — I’m quite certain — our interests coincide.” Delicately, Hoover ventures into the mine field. “The President’s speaking tour — it’s of supreme importance — for him, for the nation, for everything he’s tried to do these past two and a half years. I think he will succeed — you know how he is, once you get him in front of a crowd.” She does, and can’t help but smile. “And you know, as do I,” Hoover continues, “that Warren Harding is a man of simple, great integrity. But . . .”
He massages his knuckles earnestly as he struggles to find the words. There were probably any number of ways to say what he knew had to be said, none of them good. “There have been those around the President who . . .” He pauses, then starts again. “There’s the stench of scandal in Washington, Nan, terrible scandal, and it’s drifting toward the White House. In time, it’s almost certain to raise questions, even questions about the President himself. Be assured, the press will be crawling all over that train, every one of them looking for . . . God knows what.” Tactfully, he looks away. “I’ve long known how — close you are to the President. Others must at least suspect.”
Nan bites her lip — sensing what’s coming.
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