Hoover turns back to her. “Many men, even heroic men, can be blinded by their desires. By their enormous capacity for love.” He pauses. “These next seven weeks may well be the most crucial in the Harding presidency. Nan, you must decide.”
Tears come to her eyes as she shakes her head. Gently, Hoover persists. “I believe Warren Harding can be recorded by history as a great President. Or he can continue to be with you. But not both.”
33.
So accustomed has Mencken become to the buzz and jangle of the Baltimore Sun newsroom that a quiet setting can cut his writing speed in half. But here at his war-scarred desk, he’s in his element. His two-finger attack gracelessly efficient, he types the last of his final pages of the day in record time, jerks it out of the Underwood and crumples the carbon paper, dropping it with the others into the trash. Finished with minutes to spare.
Mencken slides the four-page original into a large manila envelope and scratches on an address. He hesitates for a second, then tosses it on top of his “Out-go” basket, adjacent to a scrawny avocado tree living, none too happily, in a twelve inch clay pot.
Sweeping up the newsroom, the newest janitor to be hired by the Sun watches out of the corner of his eye as the paper’s most celebrated journalist stands and looks over at his protégé, banging away at the desk opposite his. “Well, Bud,” says Mencken, “off to cover my worst nightmare — three flatulent Harding speeches a day. For seven weeks!”
“I thought lately he was starting to sound pretty good,” replies the cub, continuing to type.
Mencken locks the four-page onionskin copy in his desk drawer and covers his typewriter. “He always sounds fine. What he needs to do is track down a few coherent ideas to go with those gaseous high-flying phrases. He’s always had the words, now if he can only find his voice . . .”
“I take it you don’t think our President has all that much upstairs.”
“Strictly single-story. Remember, this is the guy who appointed the hometown mailman postmaster general, and put his wife’s G.P. in charge of public health. Not that Harding’s dumb, particularly. Just that blood intended to supply his brain may have been diverted down to another organ. Hey, water my tree, will you, Bud?”
“You really think you’ll get avocados off that thing?”
“Some day.” Mencken pats the manila envelope. “If you’re patient, all manner of things bear fruit. Meanwhile I’ll bring a couple back for you from California.”
“Yuck. Bring back Clara Bow. I think she’d enjoy touring Washington. With me.”
“Clara Bow, huh?”
The cub stops typing and grins wickedly. “I like ‘em young and loose.”
“Rumor has it, you’re not the only one. You might have to fight off our President.”
“Nah,” says the cub. “They say he already has his own. Home-grown.”
Mencken laughs, winks, and is on his way.
The janitor swings over, his eye on the envelope Mencken’s left behind. But he’s a few seconds slow. The messenger-boy rushes by, scoops up Mencken’s outgoing mail, dumps it into a big sack with all the others — and hurries off. The janitor grimaces in frustration — then studies the wastepaper basket. He glances up furtively — everyone’s focused elsewhere. Quickly, the janitor stoops down and extracts Mencken’s crumpled carbons.
A full-dress motorcycle escort, lights on and sirens wailing, leads Harding and his entourage to the President’s train, The Superb, awaiting them under a blanket of flags at platform eleven of Washington’s Union Station. Technicians are already there, lugging the latest in amplifying equipment, along with radio relay cables and cases of vacuum tubes. Several minutes later, Harding, Florence, Sawyer, Hoover, Samson, and a coterie of Secret Service start to board the train, all blinking at a blizzard of flashbulbs.
Harding pauses at the top step, turns, waves for the reporters and photographers crowding round, and at the same time manages to look up and down the length of the platform, hoping for a glimpse of Nan. No luck.
And then, wait, yes, isn’t that her, heading for the next-to-last car?
For a moment the young woman in his line of sight turns her face toward him as she climbs into the train — no, he was mistaken.
Nan is in fact standing at her living room window, looking off unseeing toward the Jefferson Memorial, eyes red, her tears all but exhausted.
I had wanted desperately to be on that train. I had so wanted to shout at Mr. Hoover, no, I cannot do what you ask — I love Warren Harding for the man he is here in the present moment, not the President of some far off biography. No, Mr. Hoover. I need to be with him. Now and forever.
But at the last minute, my selfishness met its limits. I loved him more than I loved myself.
The President’s pullman, a rolling palace of rose-wood, brass, velvet, and beveled glass, is beginning to slide out of the station when Mrs. Samson appears with a sheaf of papers. “These just caught up with us, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Betsy,” says Harding as he takes them from her. He shuffles through them with minimal interest until he comes to a letter addressed to him in a familiar female hand, green ink, and marked “personal.” He carries it into his sleeping compartment, sits down on the bed, tears it open and begins to read. His face drops.
Harding is but one of several to receive dispiriting news that day.
In his Senate office, Senator Walsh hands his aide a four-page document. “I’ll need a synopsis for the committee, Carl. Keep it under a page, please, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll get read.”
“Yes, Senator.”
“Oh — and best lock up the original. I believe it constitutes legal evidence.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have everything done by tonight.”
Walsh nods and heads out the door. “I know you will, Carl, I know you will.”
Carl takes his assignment into his office, closes the door and scans the document. Then he picks up the phone and dials the private line of the Director of the FBI.
Bobby Burns, a cigarette jammed in his mouth, answers the phone on its first ring. The caller gets right to the point. Burns recognizes Carl’s voice.
“Not looking good, Mr. Burns. Let me read something to you.”
Albert Fall and a ripe young woman in buckskin, side by side on horseback, gallop up to the Three Rivers ranch-house. The old cowboy comes out on the porch to greet them, a telegram in hand, giving it to Fall as he takes the reins of the woman’s horse.
“Came about an hour ago, boss.”
Fall rips it open, his face grim. His riding companion dismounts, saunters over, and leans against his thigh, trying for a little extra attention. Fall finishes the telegram, wads it up into a ball, then looks down at his friend and squeezes out an unconvincing smile.
34.
Though not physically present, I was very much with Mr. Harding in spirit as his train traveled across the land. It was an unprecedented trip. I do not believe any President had ever before gone out and personally met so many of his countrymen. Mr. Harding journeyed to their towns and cities, large and small, to their streets and parks, to their Rotaries, to their county fairs. He shook tens of thousands of hands, and reached many thousands more citizens through the miracle of radio. In the week since his departure I had already accumulated two scrapbooks of news clippings — wonderful photos of my darling addressing the multitude from dozens of different podiums, at train depots, grange halls, sports stadiums, school auditoriums, civic squares, even fire stations. And no matter when or where he spoke, people would reach out to touch him. They understood that though he was President of the United States, he remained just one of them. I must confess, during this time I took to harboring one of his handkerchiefs. On a lark I had snuck one out of his breast pocket shortly before he left, and the linen was still rich with his scent. Now I would listen to his reassuring voice on the airwaves while
holding this cherished piece of cloth to my face, and pretend he was there in my living room, talking just to me.
Harding, standing on The Superb’s rear platform with Florence by his side, winds up an address to a small, lukewarm audience at the Wheeling train station.
“People of West Virginia, help me to remind the Senate — this tiny group of willful old men — that this country still belongs to you. Thank you and God bless.”
A few scattered cheers, some polite applause, but Harding senses that he’s not connecting. Nevertheless he and Florence wave, then retreat back into the train, as technicians swarm out and begin pulling wires.
Harding and Florence make their way to the President’s pullman, where Hoover, Sawyer, Samson, and the butler, Dirkson, await. Harding turns to Hoover. “You and I will be burning the midnight oil again, Herbert. That last speech just didn’t have it.”
“You’re still warming up today, Mr. President,” says Hoover.
“Yeah. I need warming up. Dirkson, let me have a small one. How about the rest of you?” They all shake their heads. “God,” Harding continues, “what a relief to be away from Washington and the Anti-Saloon League’s prying eyes. Quite sure you won’t have a snort, Herbert?”
“Quite sure, Mr. President.”
“Goddamn busybodies. Shades of the Inquisition. How ‘bout it, Doc? This is pre-war hooch.”
“Maybe later, Warren.”
Harding turns to Mrs. Samson. “Mm. Dispatches arrive yet, Betsy?”
“While you were speaking, sir.” She hands him a packet.
He thumbs through it. “What in blazes —? Al testified two entire days last month.” He turns to Hoover. “Now what the hell does the Senate want of him?”
“Apparently there have been some — new developments,” replies Hoover, diplomatically.
Harding sits down heavily and starts to read of his Secretary of Interior’s latest misfortunes. His breathing seems labored. Each document appears more distressing than the last. “Jesus Christ!” He passes them on to Hoover. “And Dirkson, let’s make that a double.”
Sawyer and Florence exchange concerned looks.
The following morning finds Albert Fall again in the Senate Committee hearing room fielding questions, this time less confident and less righteous. He’s also brought along a lawyer. The chairman of the committee, Burton Wheeler, is not there today to guide the inquiry; unfortunately for Fall, Francis Walsh is in his place.
Nan watches morosely from the gallery. Herbert Hoover’s admonitions about a dark cloud of scandal rolling inexorably toward the White House have stayed with her, intensifying profoundly her sense of herself as presidential protector and champion.
The Senate hearings are far better attended now than were the opening sessions a few weeks ago, and the atmosphere notably less cordial — Senator Walsh poses questions like the federal prosecutor he once was. “Secretary Fall, would you be so kind as to explain to this committee why you pushed to have all the national parks transferred to your department?”
“Far more cost-effective with them consolidated under one bureau, Senator Walsh. The less government, the better. Efficiency and streamlining — that’s the way government should be going.”
Walsh gives Fall his most owlish squint. “Some of us were just a little concerned the national parks might be going the way of the navy’s oil. Or perhaps the Veterans Hospitals.”
Nan can’t help but overhear the wisecracks of two Washington wags seated just behind her.
“Surprised these guys haven’t sold off the White House furniture,” says one.
“With the President still in the bed,” sniggers the other.
Nan whirls around in her seat. “Oh why don’t the two of you shut up!”
Senator Walsh puts on his reading glasses, a sure sign that he’s getting to the more nettlesome details, and thumbs through four well-underlined sheets of paper. Then he looks down at Fall, fixing him with a cold stare, like a biologist pinning an insect.
“Mr. Secretary, it has come to our attention that your ranch in New Mexico recently tripled in size. Just about the time those oil leases went to Sinclair. Coincidental, you think?”
Fall confers with his attorney, sitting alongside, then grapples with the question. He’d sooner juggle hot coals. “As previously testified, Senator, all my official endeavors, including decisions regarding Teapot Dome, have always been entirely independent of my personal financial interests. I should add, sir, that those oil reserves were all transferred to Mr. Sinclair with the President’s approval. His written approval.”
The press, as if of one mind, begins to scribble furiously.
“Yes,” sighs Walsh, sadly, almost to himself. “I’m keenly aware of that, Mr. Secretary. Keenly aware.”
Late that afternoon, Leland Sinclair gets his turn at the witness table. It does not go well. He’s barely testified ten minutes, when Walsh, seething with exasperation, interrupts. “I put it to you again, sir — have you ever been party to any personal financial transactions with Secretary Fall?”
“I am a private citizen, Senator. I don’t see where my financial affairs are any of this committee’s business.” He pauses. “But, I believe I did make him — a small loan. You understand, Al Fall and I go back a long ways . . .”
“A small loan — how small a loan, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Seems to me it was on the order of . . . two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
Nan winces as a shock-wave ripples through the room. It reaches Walsh. “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars?” he asks.
“Petty cash, Senator. A man with my net worth . . .”
“I’m sure, Mr. Sinclair. And you made a loan of this ‘petty cash’ in expectation of what?”
“In expectation of what?”
“Secretary Fall gets the money. What, sir, did you expect of him?”
“I expected that he’d pay the goddamn money back.”
There’s a bit of relieved laughter from the spectators. But Walsh isn’t laughing. “I see. And has he paid it back?”
Sinclair thinks for several long moments and then replies, “I don’t believe he has. No, sir. Not as yet.”
Reporters start to crowd noisily toward the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” says Walsh. “You’re excused. For now.” He turns to his colleagues. “Time for our evening recess, gentlemen?”
The room reverberates with ever louder chatter and the sound of chairs scraping, as most in attendance start filing out. But Sinclair isn’t done. “I want to add, Senator: Secretary Fall is a great public servant. If ever he left government service, I’d be honored to take him into my employ.”
Walsh replies over the sharply increasing din. “Seems to me, Mr. Sinclair, you’ve already done precisely that.”
The room gradually empties, save for Nan. She remains in her seat, immobilized by despair.
35.
Needless to say, Mr. Sinclair’s testimony didn’t exactly help matters. It was in the papers for days. Even more distressing was Mr. Fall’s shameless suggestion that my Warren was somehow mixed up in all this monkey business. I was so mad, I do believe I could have strangled the man. But vexing though all this was, I now had to turn my attention to a personal problem of my very own.
Nan push-pulls a carpet sweeper across her living room rug with religious zeal. Suddenly she’s hit with a wave of nausea. She swallows hard, sits down, and waits for the feeling to pass.
It doesn’t.
She rises and hurries to the bathroom, gags, but doesn’t quite upchuck. She takes a deep breath, then a glass of water. Feels better.
Just as she’s heading out of the bathroom, she catches her profile in the full-length mirror fastened to the towel cabinet door. She stops, looks down at her breasts, then back again at their image in the mirror. Placing her hands under her
bosom, she lifts up gently.
Medical confirmation of Nan’s pregnancy is seismic in its impact. Finishing up with the obstetrician’s nurse, Nan still wears a dazed smile.
“Then,” says the nurse, “during your last trimester, doctor will probably want to check weekly.” She places a card bearing next month’s appointment in Nan’s hand. Nan stares at it. “Any guesses, Mrs. English?” asks the nurse.
“Guesses?”
“Boy or girl?”
“Yes. Boy or girl.”
“What?”
“I mean, I’m sure my husband would be equally delighted. With either.”
36.
By mid-July Harding has pressed the flesh in nearly half the forty-eight states, delivered some three dozen speeches explaining his programs and roasting his Senate opposition, given impetus to an epidemic of German measles by kissing several hundred babies, and publicly consumed an entire poultry farm’s worth of chicken dinners.
Today, making a last stop in Indiana before beginning the western leg of his trip, he is taken on a tour of a state-of-the-art steel mill by its owner, industrialist Jordan Gary. Steel workers stop and gape as Harding shakes every hand within reach. Gary, straining to hold Harding’s attention, points to freshly milled sheets of steel, stacked twenty feet high. “Our new stainless process, Mr. President. Never rusts.”
“Is that right.”
“Once we mill a sheet of Gary steel, it’s part of this planet forever.”
Two coalers amble by and are startled to find themselves vigorously shaking hands with the President of the United States. “Hello, how are you? I’m Warren Harding. Good to see you.” Harding seems untroubled that his right hand is now black with coal dust.
Gary pursues his agenda. “But as you see, sir, it’s all very labor intensive. You go ahead with this legislation of yours to eliminate the twelve-hour day, my industry would have to hire on another sixty thousand men.”
“Glad to hear it, Mr. Gary. I’ve always stood for full employment.” He extends his hand to another worker. “How do you do, sir.”
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