by Jason Heller
TWITTER—May 19, 2012
Robbrenner
Who caught the Taft speech in Pittsburgh yesterday? Man was on FIRE. #Taft #2012election
jamesjamesjames
@Robbrenner Yeah, it was incredible. He really doesn’t hold back, does he? #Taft #2012election
tunabubbles
@Robbrenner @jamesjamesjames What was so great?
jamesjamesjames
@tunabubbles “The major part of a president’s work is to keep tourists coming to town.” Ha! Not cynical, just real talk. #Taft #2012election
tunabubbles
@jamesjamesjames LOL! I love those little Taftisms of his.
DarnPatriot
@jamesjamesjames @tunabubbles Jesus, you Tafties are starting to get even more pathetically sycophantic than the Ron Paul nuts. #TaftFail
jamesjamesjames
Suck it, @DarnPatriot. Taft is the most qualified candidate of the whole bunch. #Taft
tunabubbles
@Robbrenner @jamesjamesjames Either of you going to the Taft Convention?
Robbrenner
@tunabubbles We’ll see. My unemployment checks stop next month and I still got nothing. Not the best time to fuss about with politics.
TWENTY-SIX
The sparse pines poked through the lawns of the University of Cincinnati campus like wayward sentries, guardians of the past. Taft strolled along the mostly empty sidewalks; a few summer-semester students and faculty lingered in the humid evening air, and the energy of the recently departed spring semester had not entirely dissipated. But, for the most part, Taft had the place all to himself. Which suited him just fine.
He was recognized by most of the people on campus, of course. These were his hometown comrades, people who, long before he’d reawakened, were already constantly aware of the Taft family’s historical prominence in Cincinnati, thanks to dozens of buildings and streets named for old Alphonso, Taft’s father, as well as for himself. But when confronted by the living and breathing man, Taft’s latter-day neighbors here, graciously, had the good sense and social parsimony to nod their heads respectfully before moving on. He was grateful.
It was that subtle, quiet, hometown affirmation Taft now sought out. Cicadas whispered in anticipation of the cool twilight as he wound his way toward the neoclassical stoicism of Blegen Library and toward the College of Law, a spot he felt both apt and flattering for the placement of the statue in his likeness.
He had to rub his eyes the first time he’d seen it, when he visited the campus with Susan at the start of the campaign as she consulted with a former colleague then tenured at UC. Not wanting to cause a stir, he’d drifted away from their historical discussion, wandering across the campus, the old Ohio sun as warm and friendly as ever on his face. He asked directions to the law school from a passerby, who looked at him with wide eyes before directing him on his way and then hurrying along.
He’d always felt a kinship to UC during his years teaching law here, despite being a Yalie through and through, and a member of Skull and Bones, no less, the covert fraternity his father had cofounded. Taft had never fully cottoned to the sneaky, elitist society, however, any more than he had the high office of the presidency and all its sordid secrets. But a law school, yes: that was the seat of his true brotherhood. That was where people were taught to lay truths and falsehoods out on the scales, to weigh and measure them against a body of precedent, to wield jurisprudence in interpreting the letter of the law.
After that first visit, he’d returned to the campus whenever he was able to take a few days away from campaigning to catch his breath in Cincinnati, as he did now. He snuck away at dusk, when it was easiest to shake off Kowalczyk’s guard, and when it was less embarrassing to consult with the figure that now loomed before him.
His statue stood there, tucked away humbly enough at the rear entrance of the College of Law. At first he’d been angry that Susan hadn’t told him about it, but then he realized she’d probably coaxed him here so that he’d discover it for himself. No matter. It was a weathered yet dignified effigy, one that depicted him—in slimmer days as a federal judge—dressed in his robes and holding a book, which is exactly how he’d always wished the world to picture him. Quiet, studious, fair, yet with a hint of easy geniality. That someone had seen fit to depict him this way, to cast him so in bronze, sent him over the moon. At least at first; as the summer, and the campaign, ground on, he’d begun to visit his statue more as a ritual, as a way of reminding himself of who he was, or at least who he felt he should be.
“Hello, old boy,” he said aloud as he approached himself, the figure standing straight backed and staring out at the horizon. He sat down on the chipped edge of the dais and looked up at himself, the forced perspective almost comical to him. He patted the cool concrete of his perch. “How’s your week been?”
The statue stared off, lost in bemusement.
“Oh, if only Susan could see me at this moment, talking to myself! The psychological depths she could plumb; she’d have a field day.” He chuckled. “In any case, I may never have told you this, but I appreciate you keeping your guard up while I was, uh, underground for a few decades. It turns out the likeness is more durable than the man.
“Still, there’s something to that, isn’t there? You and I, we were both sculpted in someone else’s image of us. It isn’t a bad image. In many cases, it’s kind of exaggerated for the better, don’t you think? There you are, bold and upright and worthy of tribute, the way the sculptor chose to cast you. And there I was, a president of the United States … only my dear Nellie had to spend much of her life chipping away at the parts of me that were not a president. Maybe we’re not so unlike, you and I. Ha, yes, well, of course we aren’t, are we?”
The statue smiled silently.
“Of course, of course, old boy. Just grin and bear it. At least you get to hide out here at the rear entrance of a school you never attended. But there is one thing about you I don’t envy.” He tapped the dais. “Being tied down to this spot. Where would I be if I hadn’t been able to run when the running was good? Then again, maybe being tied down would be a good thing for me. Not physically, of course.…” His speech trailed off as Rachel and Trevor and Abby and Susan all leapt to mind. He felt a sudden twinge of self-consciousness, but it only amused him further.
With those faces still dancing inside his head, Taft reached into his pocket. “In case I don’t sound quite mad enough just talking at you, I also brought something for you.” He pulled out a small, colorful plastic figure, Abby’s Taft doll, the one she’d smuggled into his luggage before he’d left on his disastrous sabbatical with Kowalczyk. “I know two’s company, but I figured why not make it a crowd?”
Whistling, he stood the little Taft on his tiny legs and began marching him around the base of the statue. Absurd, yes, he knew. But what wasn’t absurd in this strange new life he’d been given?
He realized suddenly that he’d been whistling a song, “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine.” He’d heard it only once since he woke up in this mad world: on the television at Rachel and Trevor’s home, which had been showing a film, a love story, whose scenario was set amid the brief, tragic voyage of the Titanic.
The Titanic! It had been a disaster beyond belief in his time. It had sent the whole nation into mourning. It had taken away Taft’s own best friend. But it was nothing compared to what the American of the twenty-first century dealt with almost daily. True, Americans today enjoyed more prosperity, better medical care, a higher standard of living, and far greater safety in almost every facet of life. But the potential for global catastrophe had increased alongside. What if he, miracle of miracles, ultimately won this election? Odds are, he’d be marching young men and women off to war with as much impunity as he was now marching his own small self around.
And then there was Irene. How long could she possibly hold on? And what would he do once that last link to his own time was severed? Susan probably knew at least as much about 1912 as Ire
ne did, but Susan’s soul was strictly academic. Or was it? Against his best judgment, he allowed himself to remember how she’d been nearly the first thing he thought of after waking up with Samantha on New Year’s Day, and how he nonetheless shied away from acknowledging her presence in his life as not just a colleague but a woman. What was he so afraid of? That if he got too close, he’d once more let someone else dictate the proceedings of his life?
He patted the leg of the greater Taft. “What am I doing, worrying about these things?” he murmured. “No politician is his own man, nor should he be. He should be an implement of the people he represents. That’s the problem, old boy, isn’t it? Who am I potentially serving? Who are these Tafties, and why the hell do they think I can save them from themselves? Is it simply a case of everything old being new again? I guess I’ll be finding out soon enough, at the convention.” He snorted. “Taft Party National Convention, indeed. I’ve been trying to judiciously ration my speaking engagements since I announced my run—me, who was once taken to task regularly by the press for my long-winded speeches! But I can’t face these people for more than a few minutes at a time before growing agitated. And it’s certainly not as though I need to practice for the presidential debates. As a third-party crackpot, I won’t even be asked to participate. Not that I regret no longer being a Republican; there’s little left of the progressive party of mine to even recognize, let alone rally. And if my dealings with the GOP in 1908 and 1912 taught me anything, it’s this: I don’t want to be in any party that would have me as its leader.” His face brightened, and he began rummaging through his pockets, looking for a pen and paper. “Hmm, that was a good one. I must jot that down!”
All he could find to write on was a wrapper. Some damned Fulsom confection or another. His stomach growled at the sight of it. He sighed. “Ah, yes, and then there’s that, eh, my fellow Tafts? You two don’t have to worry about it. The stuff you’re each made of isn’t elastic like this.” He patted his belly, almost wistfully missing its insulating heft. “It seems the world today is full of this, this Fulsom-type garbage. We had candy and fatty foods in our day. And for a man of my admittedly secure if unostentatious means, I had access to as much of it as I could cram down my gullet. And cram I did. Oh, how they used to hound me about it! Everyone, from my family to the press to the common Cincinnatian. People, I daresay, are larger on average now than then. And yet, far more people diet and pay attention to nutrition today than in my time. I don’t understand it. It’s as if all these food products are designed specifically to addict folks to them. Why, as soon as I vowed to stop eating anything with the word Fulsom on it, among other things, it’s as if my weight dropped magically. But what of the rest of the nation? Rachel is right. As loath as I am to grind government against commerce, some things just have to be regulated for the common good. It’s not a trust, as we had to contend with back in our day, but it nonetheless needs busting. Or at least curbing.
“But enough about me! What do you think, fellows?” He wiggled the little Taft and then knocked a knuckle on the larger, which rang hollowly. “Speak up! Don’t just go along with what I say. Let’s argue the case like a good panel of judges, shall we? After all, haven’t we aspired to the Supreme Court all our lives? Here we stand, before a school of law, inside of which is taught the history and rulings of that most august judicial body. How did we get so sidetracked, old boys? Weren’t we on the fast track to appointment? Weren’t we promised on more than one occasion that we’d get to that bench someday, if only we’d do just this one little task and that other little duty? The ultimate irony was the day I, as president, had to appoint my first Supreme Court judge. Me! Choosing the nominee and then handing over that honor to someone else. Not that Horace Lurton didn’t wholly deserve it back in 1910. But then there was Hughes. And Van Devanter. And Lamar. And Pitney. Five! All said, I had to put five other men on that court. I would’ve given everything I owned, everything I’d ever accomplished, for the privilege of taking any one of their places. And yet, here is where I wind up. Running once more, for the third time, for an office I never aspired to in the first place. If ever there was proof that the Creator sneaks around behind our backs, hanging over our shoulders, pulling the strings of our fate for his own amusement.…”
Just then, Taft heard the soft fall of footsteps behind him. Then the clearing of a throat. He turned around to find what looked like a professor leaning toward him, as hesitantly as if approaching the last known specimen of a species thought to be extinct. “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but … someone’s been trying to call you on your cell phone.” The woman took out a piece of paper from her pocket and read it. “Your, uh, granddaughter, Rachel. She contacted our office and asked that you call her immediately.” Then she closed the paper and looked at him as directly as she was able. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Taft, but it seems a friend of yours has passed away. Irene Kaye? I’m so sorry.”
With the action figure dangling between his fingers, Taft just stood there, as cold and immobile as the useless metal simulacrum above him.
The Cincinnati Journal
Obituaries
June 1, 2012
Irene Margaret Kaye Lived Through 19 Presidents, But Her Allegiance Belonged To One
Irene Margaret Kaye was a quiet woman with a kind smile. Her fellow residents at Patterson Senior Village will attest to that. She was by far the oldest resident of Patterson, and also one of the oldest residents of Ohio.
Mrs. Kaye died Monday, June 4, at Patterson Senior Village from complications arising from heart disease. She was 106.
Born Irene Margaret O’Malley to Irish immigrants and raised in the Hyde Park area, she was among the first 1,300 students enrolled at Withrow University High School in 1913, graduating in 1917. She married World War I veteran Joseph Kaye in 1920. They settled in Hyde Park and lived there their entire lives.
Mr. Kaye died in 1972 of diabetes, soon after the couple had sold their modest sewing shop and retired. Mrs. Kaye moved into Patterson Senior Village in 1981. Due to medical complications, the couple had no children. She is survived by various distant cousins.
Theodore Roosevelt was president of the United States when Mrs. Kaye was born, but her neighbors say she had always held a place in her heart for Roosevelt’s successor, William Howard Taft.
“She loved to talk about the postcard she’d sent [Taft] when she was a little girl, back when he was still in office, before he disappeared and came back and all that,” says Patterson head nurse Becky Shalom. “And, of course, Taft himself came to pay her a visit last fall, which delighted her to no end. She also collected teddy bears and made the most beautiful quilts you ever saw, but mostly she listened to other residents rather than talk about herself all the time. She was an angel.”
Service will be held Friday, June 8, at Orlowitz Funeral Home. Burial will be in Walnut Hills Cemetery. —Tracy Sullivan
CLASSIFIED
Secret Service Incidence Report
BBR20120612.19
Agent Ira Kowalczyk
Attached find perimeter plan documents for 6/14, 6/15, and 6/16, the Taft Party National Convention at Great American Ball Park. Agents Pearsall, Horton, and myself assigned to Big Boy’s personal detail; agents Mietus, Kerr, and St. John assigned to Grand Girl’s. Have cleared all of Taft Party’s hired security forces for general crowd-control duties.
At this point, my main concern is not any external threat to Big Boy’s physical safety, but rather his psychological safety. He has been distracted and unfocused for the past two weeks. Must make sure he doesn’t put himself in harm’s way through sheer bloody Taftishness.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Great American Ball Park squatted at the south end of downtown Cincinnati, an overthrown pitch away from the Ohio River. Not that anyone was thinking about baseball today or, indeed, about anything other than the crowds. Taft had to hand it to the party leaders; they might not be—well, definitely were not—the campaign lieuten
ants he would have chosen had any of this been his own idea, but they nonetheless were capable organizers. As soon as the venue for the convention had been set in stone, they’d miraculously mobilized their various factions. Some anonymous benefactor had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars reserving every spare hotel room in the city and surrounding area. A fleet of private shuttles had shown up earlier in the week, ready to ferry battalions of Tafties from one event to the other. Umbrella-shaded food carts had popped up around the city like mushrooms, though Taft had noticed with a passing frown that the lunch vendors all seemed to carry a robust selection of Fulsom snacks among their wares. Wasn’t anyone listening to him?
As ravenous as he was this morning, Taft sat in his makeshift office suite in the Millennium Hotel and ate as slowly as he could. Sharing breakfast helped; it was easier for him to avoid wolfing down an entire plate of food that way. Of course, the cardboard-like taste and texture of these newfangled whole-grain bagels slowed the process considerably. For the better, though; his diet hadn’t been easy to institute and adhere to over the past few months. But what had been? Despite that he still needed to lose a good fifty pounds, he was on the mend; he let his momentary lapses—nights where he broke down and indulged in calories, carbohydrates, maudlin thoughts of Teddy and Nellie—pass behind closed doors, only to be forced to the back of his mind by morning.
He swallowed the last bite of his meager breakfast and pushed away the plate. He knew he should feel something. Anything. Here he was, arriving at a convention attended by thousands of people, all of them there to see and hear and support him. But today, like every day since Irene’s funeral, he felt cold and hollow. Was he dead all over again? He thought he’d genuinely embraced his new life by joining this Taft Party campaign. But the knowledge that the last person he’d known from the past, however tenuous a link she may have been, was now gone, had left him irrevocably adrift in this century. He may as well have tossed his own soul into the grave with her, along with the Taft action figure he’d impulsively placed by her side in the casket while saying his final goodbyes.