Fluke

by Blinder, Martin;

  “Mr. President,” Gary persists, “I must tell you we were a little disappointed. After supporting your ticket with nearly a half-million dollars . . .”

  “Well if you boys have that kind of cash to spread around, you ought to be able to afford a few more workers, don’t you think?”

  He smiles at Gary as they turn a corner to face another string of workers, several not more than fourteen years of age. Harding reaches for the hand of one of the youngest. “Good afternoon to you, laddie. I’m Warren Harding. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  That night, a far less ebullient Harding tramps up and down the length of the presidential pullman as The Superb speeds west through the darkness. Hoover, Sawyer, Florence, and White House counsel Travis remain seated around him, resonating with his concern. Newspapers, their front pages all trumpeting the Teapot Dome story, are scattered everywhere.

  Harding turns to Travis. “If Al Fall says it was a loan, it was a goddamn loan.”

  Travis shakes his head. “So far, Sinclair’s not been able to ‘find’ the promissory note. And even if it actually was a loan — which we seriously doubt — the timing . . .”

  “I’ve worked with Al since I came to Washington. He’s a close personal friend. Played poker with the man a hundred times. He doesn’t cheat.”

  Sawyer pipes up. “Not for a ten dollar pot.”

  “Perhaps,” says Travis, “if the President would consider . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear any more!” Harding shouts, then immediately regrets his loss of temper. “Sorry, Mr. Travis. Didn’t mean to snap. Just worn out. What say we all have a pick-me-up? Then Herbert, you and I can go to work on my address for tomorrow . . .”

  “Go to work?” asks Sawyer. “Warren, you gave your word. Now before you do anything else, spare me fifteen minutes.”

  “Doc, I’m fine. All I need is one good night’s sleep. Bouncing all night on this train — I swear it must have square wheels . . .”

  “Please, Wurr’n,” begs Florence. “Your breathing seemed so labored last night. Why not let Doc check you over. Just to be sure.”

  Harding gives a little snort. “C’mon people, do I look ill?”

  They look at him in silence.

  Harding acquiesces with a sigh. “All right, Doctor. That’s what we pay you for, isn’t it.”

  Harding sits on the bed of his sleeping compartment, shirt off, as Sawyer listens to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope. “How the hell can you hear anything over this train?” Harding asks.

  “I can hear fine if you’d just keep your mouth shut. Okay, take a deep breath. Let it out slow.” Harding complies. “Again.”

  Sawyer lifts the stethoscope from his ears. “Thank you, Mr. President. You can put your shirt back on again.”

  “Still ticking?”

  “Barely. Might be a bit of fluid in your right lung. Just a little. Can’t be sure. We’ll go over it again tomorrow. I still think you could drop some of the smaller cities . . .”

  “No. I’ll be all right.” He starts to rise.

  “Uh, don’t get up just yet, Warren. Some news a man takes better sittin’ down.”

  Harding shoots him a puzzled look but obediently settles back on the edge of the bed as Sawyer continues. “I spoke to Nan.”

  Harding jumps up again. “You son of a gun. You did? When? How . . .?”

  “She managed to get a call through to me. Back in Indiana.”

  “God, I wish I could have heard her voice. Why didn’t you —? Christ, I miss her. Maybe at the next stop we could figure a way — what did she say? Is she . . .?”

  “She asked me to tell you” — he pulls a slip of paper from his vest pocket and reads — “’that all her thoughts are with you. Morning, noon and night.’” He clears his throat. “Especially at night.” Harding looks down at his feet. “And that she’s pregnant,” continues Sawyer. “Three, maybe four months.”

  “What?!” The train jerks and bounces over a rough patch of track. Harding slowly sinks back on the bed. “Mother of God. Why didn’t she say any . . .?”

  “It’s her first time too, Warren. She missed — or ignored all the signs.”

  For the greater part of a minute, Harding just sits, fist to his chin, sifting through the feelings flooding through him. “The poor little dear.” He looks at Sawyer. “How is she —? Does she sound . . .?”

  “Now that she’s gotten past the initial shock, I believe she’s quite pleased. Actually she was worried about how you would take the news. But she’s happy, I think.”

  “She wants the baby.”

  “Oh yes. She wants the baby.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Sawyer observes him closely. “Sure you’re okay?”

  Harding nods. “We’ll certainly have some sorting out to do when we get back to Washington, won’t we.” He rises from the bed, a half-smile gliding across his face. He catches his image in the window glass. “Doc, aren’t I old to be having a child?”

  “If I remember my biology, Warren, it’s the age of the mother that seems to make a difference.”

  37.

  Jess Smith’s new Washington home is a model of what bad taste can achieve when money is no object — a top-of-the-line melange of garish colors and mismatched styles. Jess, in bathrobe and slippers, emerges from the kitchen carrying a gold-plated tray with his breakfast — a mound of jelly donuts, cup of coffee, shot glass of whiskey, pack of cigarettes — the four basic food groups; plus the morning paper. He places the tray on a stand that arches over a velvet purple chaise longue, swats his cat off the cushion, settles in, and begins to eat and read. The Washington Post’s front page is almost entirely taken up by Harding’s “proposals for a better world,” and a large artist’s sketch of Harding delivering a speech. Teapot Dome is relegated to a small corner box. Jess nods cynically.

  The doorbell rings. He ignores it and fires up a cigarette. The bell rings repeatedly. Then stops. Jess sips his coffee and reads.

  The telephone rings. It rings again and keeps on ringing. Jess sighs, stuffs in a last chunk of donut, pushes the breakfast tray aside, rises, pads across the room to the telephone table and picks up the phone.

  “Jess Smith,” he says, mouth full.

  His face falls. “What? They wouldn’t dare.” He listens. “I don’t give a rat’s ass . . .”

  The doorbell starts ringing again and won’t quit.

  “Hold on a second.” He drops the phone, charges over to the front door, opens it, and finds a uniformed delivery man bearing a bouquet of flowers.

  “Smith? Mr. Jess Smith?” asks the delivery man, pleasantly.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I got this delivery.”

  “Yeah okay, I’m Mr. Jess Smith and I’m on the goddamn phone.”

  Puzzled and annoyed, he grabs for the flowers, while simultaneously the delivery man reaches into the bouquet, draws out a folded document, slaps it into Jess’ outstretched right hand, then shoves the flowers in his left.

  “Federal subpoena, Mr. Smith. Er, you oughta put those in water.”

  Two businessmen conferring with Harry Daugherty in the Justice Department’s auxiliary conference room have just taken out their checkbooks when there’s a knock on the door. It opens part way and Daugherty’s secretary sticks her head in. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s Mr. Smith again. It’s the third time he’s called.”

  “Ah. Tell him I’m in a meeting, Matilda. Tell him — tell him I expect to be tied up all day.”

  She nods and withdraws. Daugherty turns back to his visitors. “Just never enough hours in the day.”

  Both businessmen sign, tear out their checks, and hand them over to Daugherty. “We’re appreciative you were able to squeeze us in,” says one.

  “Most appreciative,” says the other.

&nb
sp; “The Attorney General is a public servant, gentlemen. Please, feel free to come to me any time.”

  Another dedicated public servant, FBI Director Bobby Burns, flips the “respond” switch of his office intercom as he nods goodbye to the janitor from the Baltimore Sun, just heading out the door, then growls into his microphone. “Yeah, I’ll see him.” He switches off, eats two aspirin, then stands and looks out the window at the Bureau’s parking lot three stories below.

  Jess flies in, clutching his subpoena. “What the hell’s this?”

  Burns remains at the window, watching unhappily as a small dog relieves itself on the fender of his Stutz. “You’re in good company,” he says. “I got one this morning. So did Roxie Forbes — Charlie’s wife? A few other people. Mind closing the door?”

  Jess slams the door. “What other people?”

  Burns turns to face him. “Harry, for one. The Committee’s had the gall to subpoena the Attorney General of the United States.”

  “They subpoenaed Harry? Can they do that?”

  “They just did. Have a seat, Jess.” Burns returns to his desk and begins clipping his nails.

  “I don’t feel like sitting,” says Jess. “You’re mighty calm.” He sits anyway. “You knew those subpoenas were coming.”

  Burns nods. “It’s my business to know.”

  “All right, what the hell am I supposed to do . . .?”

  “Now don’t get your knickers in a bunch. I’ll handle things.”

  “Yeah? You gonna handle my appearance before the Senate?”

  “Just tell the distinguished members of the committee that you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Whatever the hell they ask. You got no idea what they’re talking about. If they start getting too nosey, take the Fifth. Why do you think this great nation has a goddamn Constitution?” He pops a couple more aspirin into his mouth and bites down. “It was practically written for you, Jess.”

  38.

  Jess gets his audience before the Wheeler Committee on Tuesday, August 3rd. He could have mailed in his testimony. “I decline to answer on grounds that it may tend to incriminate me,” he says for the twelfth consecutive time.

  Senator Walsh presses him. “Mr. Turino further testified that shortly before his bootlegging conviction he gave you large cash payments in return for promises of immunity? Is that true?”

  “I decline to answer on grounds that it may tend to incriminate me.”

  Walsh shakes his head in disgust and passes the microphone back to Chairman Wheeler. “Mr. Smith,” asks Wheeler, “please tell this committee what you know about the German munitions manufactory, Brockmann and Schmidt.”

  “I — I decline to answer on grounds . . .”

  Wheeler cuts him off. “Sir, do you realize you’ve yet to respond to a single one of our questions?”

  “Guess you can’t please all of the people all of the time,” Jess replies, feebly. “Abraham Lincoln said that, I think.”

  The Senators look at each other. Walsh motions to Wheeler for the microphone’s return, then tries a different tack. “Mr. Smith — have you ever had an arrangement, any sort of arrangement, with the Attorney General?”

  Jess blanches. “I — I decline to answer . . .”

  “You and Harry Daugherty were quite close, weren’t you? Personally, I mean.”

  There’s a long pause. Then Jess answers in a soft voice. “Yes. We were.”

  “And the President — you’ve been on a first name basis since his Ohio days, isn’t that so? Quite a long time.” No response from Jess. Walsh pressures him. “Mr. Smith?” A murmur bubbles up and begins rippling through the room.

  “Yes, sir,” replies Jess, finally, his usual high tenor pushing up into the castrato range. “Quite a long time.”

  Languidly, Nan tilts back and forth in her living room rocker, surrounded by books on childrearing, but reading one entitled Preparatory Schools of America.

  It was getting harder for me to keep focused on the shenanigans in Washington. I found myself thinking all the time about our baby to-be. And of course, the child’s dear father. I lived for the day of his return. Meanwhile, I cherished his letters. How beautifully he expressed himself.

  Several envelopes slither through the mail slot of Nan’s front door. She jumps up, collects, thumbs through the letters, finds and tears open the one she’s been waiting for.

  Harding, seated at the little desk of his sleeping compartment, defies the train’s motion as he again puts his feelings for Nan down on paper in what has become their daily correspondence.

  You have given me a future, dearest. How very different my world would have been had you not ventured into it. How much of life I would have missed. But not a day passes, dear one, that I don’t think of all the pleasures of youth you’ve sacrificed just to be with me now and again. I will not have you weighed down with worry, as well. I’ve made certain arrangements . . .

  He glances out the window, sees that they’re pulling into a station jammed with people, then resumes writing.

  You will want for nothing, my love. That, I promise. You and the child. Yes, Nan, I know, I too wish we could simply be . . .

  A knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Denver, Mr. President,” replies Dirkson through the door. “The crowd is huge.”

  It also proves hugely responsive as Harding, speaking vigorously from the rear platform of The Superb, hits his stride, as usual dispensing with the microphone. Mencken, listening along with a dozen or so other reporters sprinkled throughout the crowd, discerns that Harding has begun to develop deeper, edgier, more complex themes, all the while his language has grown simpler.

  “How can we permit a group of Americans,” asks Harding, “Americans as numerous as the entire population of some European nations — to remain walled off in their own land, simply because of the color of their skin? Not only does this isolate and demean them, it denies this country their rich contribution. It is short-sighted. It is grievously un-American. It is wrong.”

  Back in Washington, Lodge, flanked by Paxton and Guthrie, has launched a round-robin counter-offensive, matching Harding, speech for speech, point for point. Two hours after Harding’s attack on segregation reaches Washington, his three former colleagues are holding a press conference on the Senate steps, facing reporters from within the bosom of a small, carefully chosen audience of true believers.

  “God Almighty has fixed boundaries between the races,” insists Lodge, “and not even a President of the United States can improve upon the Creator’s work.”

  As The Superb makes its way further west, Harding finds himself addressing ever larger and more demonstrative crowds, indoors or out, and in every kind of weather. The pace is exhausting, but bonding with increasing numbers of “The People” serves to revitalize his delivery.

  In Salt Lake City:

  “All the great naval powers are now inspired by America’s selfless example . . .”

  From Washington, Lodge fires back:

  “In five months this profligate, naive president has sent more worthy ships to the bottom than all the admirals of the world have sunk in five centuries.”

  Harding in Casper:

  “We need to build more schools and fewer jails, produce more books and fewer bullets . . .”

  “Bake more pie in the sky,” counters Lodge, sarcastically.

  Harding in Pocatello:

  “More jobs means less crime . . .”

  “Utterly unworkable,” maintains Paxton.

  Harding in Helena:

  “America can never be a nation of hermits, thinking it can safely prosper in utter isolation from the rest of the world . . .”

  “America first,” insists Guthrie.

  In Boise, Harding finds his largest audience yet, but perhaps
for the first time, his magnificent voice is showing signs of wear. “National security lies not in the capacity to make war,” he rasps, “but in international justice.”

  At almost the same moment, a rested and relaxed Lodge stands before a sizeable group of Washington reporters, a battery of microphones, and a Movietone News camera. “The Senate will never agree.”

  The Sun’s cub reporter raises his hand. “Senator Lodge, you’ve made clear what you’re against. What do you stand for?”

  “The opposite.”

  There’s barely standing room at the Portland armory. In the first four rows, a contingent of Oregon’s crippled veterans of the late war lean forward to catch Harding’s every word. His voice is now just above a hoarse whisper, forcing him to rely upon the microphone, but deep feelings still barrel through:

  “You men are not forgotten. Not by this President. Daily, the great losses you have suffered are in my thoughts, your injuries and pain still haunt my dreams.” He looks out at the hushed assembly. “This vast killing and maiming of thousands upon thousands — it must not come again.”

  39.

  Throughout the President’s far-flung tour, I continued astonished and delighted that radio could carry to my living room words spoken at that very moment, several thousand miles distant. Some of his speeches could bring me to tears. And then, of course, there was that other scientific marvel with which I could follow my darling’s progress — the moving pictures.

  Each afternoon I went to the theatre. Every show began with a newsreel, and I was fortunate that in Washington they changed it daily because there was always something new on the President’s trip. More than once I’d sit through the same movie two, even three times, just to glimpse Mr. Harding in between. Glad to say, on only one occasion did we in the audience also have to look upon the face of that evil gnome, Henry Cabot Lodge.

  But it was those pictures of my Warren waving at the camera from the presidential yacht as it set sail for Alaska that first got me to worrying. Despite that wonderful big smile of his, it seemed to me his eyes appeared troubled. He looked noticeably thinner. I wrote to him as soon as I got home, asking if he was taking proper care of himself. I have no idea if he ever received my letter.