Old Dogs and Children

by Robert Inman

  Bright played on, mixing her selections—a Mozart sonata, an allegro movement from a Beethoven concerto, a Stephen Foster medley, and then the Schumann Träumerei. She played it slowly and lovingly, summoning the heart to listen to its secrets, caressing each note and finally freeing it to take flight in the golden, dazzling light of the room. “Bully!” someone shouted from the rear, and the room erupted into applause. Bright started to rise from the piano, but then she thought, No, that’s not the way to leave them. The Träumerei is a bit sad and wistful. These men have enough sadness to contend with.

  She let the applause die away, and then she said, “And finally, a salute to brave men, and victory!” She raised her hands and went crashing into “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” and the entire assemblage rose with a shout, everybody except Franklin D. Roosevelt, who beamed from his wheelchair. They began to clap in time to the music, a great rhythmic undercurrent to her piano. She played it through again, and the Britishers and some of the Americans who knew the words sang along. And when she came to the end of the piece, she glided smoothly into “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” The room was in an uproar now. From the corner of her eye, Bright could see that Churchill had his cigar clamped firmly in his mouth and was pounding his hands together, eyes flashing with delight. The piece had a mind of its own now, and Bright let it carry her, riding the crest of Sousa’s masterpiece, even adding the piccolo part with her right hand in the upper reaches of the treble notes and then finishing with a crescendo as the room burst forth with a shout and prolonged applause. And then Churchill was at her side, bending to take her hand and kiss it. “By heavens, that was rousing!” he growled, wringing the words with his teeth like a bulldog. “You shall play again, Mrs. Birdsong. In Berlin, after we have slain the wretched German dragon!”

  Bright was quite beyond words. So she simply smiled up at him, and then Fitzhugh was there, bending to kiss her cheek and helping her up from the piano bench. The audience was still on its feet, surrounding her with waves of applause.

  She thought suddenly of Dorsey Bascombe. She could hear ever so faintly the echoes of his golden trombone, feel the soft warmth of a summer night when he played on the front porch of the camp house. Oh, Papa, I wish you could see me now! Perhaps he did.

  Bright was exhausted, drained, a bit weak in the knees. “I want to go home now,” she said to Fitzhugh with a smile. “I’m not used to being famous.”

  >

  She was packing for her afternoon train when the call came. Fitzhugh was at the Capitol for a meeting of the Foreign Affairs Committee, but he would be back for an early lunch before he took her to Union Station.

  “Mrs. Birdsong?”

  Bright recognized the voice instantly. “Mrs. Roosevelt. Good morning.”

  “I had hoped I would catch you. Is it possible you could join me for tea?”

  “Goodness.” Bright looked at her watch. “Well, I suppose …”

  “It’s nine now. Shall we say ten? I’ll tell them downstairs to expect you.”

  She walked the short block to the White House, feeling a little giddy with the unexpectedness of it. Mrs. Roosevelt, from all Bright had read and heard from Fitzhugh, was a human whirlwind, a doggedly determined woman, a personage quite apart from the inescapable fact of her husband. She wrote, she spoke, she did things. Sometimes, Fitzhugh said, she exasperated people. But in all things, she was steadfast in what she saw as her duty. Fitzhugh admired her a great deal. Now, on this January morning when the world was turning upside down, when Eleanor Roosevelt’s notion of her duty must be magnified a thousandfold, why on earth would she want to sip tea with Bright Birdsong?

  Bright paused at the edge of Lafayette Park to let a convoy of Army trucks rumble past, their canvas flaps tied securely at the rear, concealing whatever cargo might be inside. Men? Secret weapons? Toilet paper? It was a brisk, overcast day and people hurried by on the sidewalks, bundled against the cold. In front of the White House, the soldiers looked miserably red-nosed at their guard stations. A young lieutenant and a Secret Service man at the gate were talking about the promise of snow in the forecast. Bright thought it would be good to be heading south before that happened. Both men examined her driver’s license and checked her name on a clipboard, and then she walked up the curving driveway to the front portico where they had entered the night before.

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s secretary, Malvina Thompson, was waiting for her in the foyer, and she took her up in the elevator and down a long hallway through the Roosevelts’ living quarters. It was almost like a hotel corridor, a cluttered and bustling place with all manner of people wandering about, doors slamming, the rattle of carts as the household staff made their morning rounds. As they passed one doorway, she could hear the laughter of children.

  “Gracious,” Bright said, “is it always like this?”

  “Oh, this is calm,” Malvina Thompson laughed. “We had to clear out some of the guests when we heard Mr. Churchill was coming.”

  “He’s staying here?” Bright marveled.

  “Of course.”

  “What’s he like?” Bright found herself asking.

  Mrs. Thompson lowered her voice confidentially. “Actually, he’s quite a character. He stays in bed until late morning, smoking cigars and reading the dispatches and the papers. Then he keeps the president up much too late at night.”

  At the end of the corridor, they arrived at a second-floor sitting room with tall windows and low, comfortable sofas and chairs around the walls, a small table in the middle with two chairs and a tea service. It was a warm and inviting room, safe from the stark-limbed cold outside. Eleanor Roosevelt was seated at the table, writing on a tablet, and she looked up as Bright and Mrs. Thompson appeared in the doorway, flashing a smile. “Oh, I’m so glad you could come,” she said, rising to offer Bright her hand. “I know you have a train to catch, but I did so want to have a moment with you before you go.” She looked out the window toward the South Lawn. “It’s very bracing out this morning.”

  “You’ve been out?” Bright asked.

  “Yes. I went for a ride early this morning in Rock Creek Park. The Army keeps my horse at Fort Myers, and they bring it over for me. It’s a frightfully lot of trouble, I’m afraid, but I do so enjoy it. It helps me get my day organized to start with a little exercise.”

  They sat at the table. “This is a lovely room,” Bright said.

  Mrs. Roosevelt smiled. “It’s where the family gathers. Mrs. Hoover had it looking like a tropical rain forest, with bamboo furniture and palm trees and birds. I rather like it like this.”

  “It feels like home.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Now. Some tea?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She reached for the silver teapot and poured for both of them. “Last night was magnificent, and I’m very deeply in your debt.”

  Bright blushed. “I’m afraid I got quite carried away with myself.”

  “I’m so glad you did!”

  Bright felt suddenly quite at ease. There was an appealing earnestness in Eleanor Roosevelt, almost childlike. A wanting to be liked? Bright found herself fascinated.

  “I did so want things to go well last night,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “I suppose that is the last grand dinner we’ll have here for a while.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, wartime is hardly the time for much entertaining, I think. Actually, I’ve never had much stomach for it.” She handed Bright her cup and offered sugar and milk. “I first came to Washington as the young wife of the assistant naval secretary, and in those days it was the custom of every officer’s lady to call at the secretary’s home. They were all terribly nice, of course, but I began to think, ‘What’s the use of it?’ There were so many other things to do that made more sense.” She took a sip of her tea, placed the cup back in the saucer with a clatter. “At any rate, if last night was to be our last gala for a while, I’m glad it turned out so well.”

  “It was a very distinguished gathering,
” Bright said. “I sat next to Mr. Hopkins. He was very nice.”

  “Ah, Mr. Hopkins,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “What would we do without Mr. Hopkins? He lives here, you know.”

  “Here?”

  “Right down the hall there,” Mrs. Roosevelt nodded.

  Bright detected a bit of an edge. A rivalry? “Is he a bother?” Bright blurted before she could catch herself.

  Mrs. Roosevelt gave her a tiny smile, and when she spoke her words were very carefully chosen. “Every president, I suppose, must have a Mr. Hopkins to get things done for him. And now, with the war upon us, Mr. Hopkins has become fairly indispensable. I don’t suppose we could win the war without Mr. Hopkins.”

  There is something very odd here, Bright thought. This is a very complex woman, and not an entirely happy one. But quite remarkably in control of herself, despite everything.

  “Well,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, shaking her head vigorously as if to rid herself of Mr. Hopkins, “have you had a good visit to Washington? I’m told it’s your first.”

  “Yes. It’s sort of overwhelming, especially now. All these people, all from somewhere else. At Union Station, when we got here, I just stood and gawked. Everyone looked so foreign.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt was pensive. “It’s a big country,” she said, “and sometimes we seem like we have no kinship to each other except geography. But I hope the past few years have taught us how interdependent we are. No region of the nation has been immune from misery. Perhaps the result will be that we all realize that we’re responsible for each other.”

  “I imagine the war will help,” Bright said.

  “In what way?” She cocked her head, attentive. Bright could see the bright snap of her eyes, a quick mind at work, waiting for some new morsel.

  “All those young men. They come from all over, but they’ll be going off to war together. I imagine that when a boy from Georgia shares a foxhole with a boy from Montana, they’ll learn a lot about each other.”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Roosevelt burst out, taking hold of the idea. “Just Americans! My goodness, I must write that down.” And she pulled the writing tablet toward her, picked up her pen, and scribbled a few words.

  “My father used to say,” Bright said, “that you can’t stay mad at a fellow when you have to look him in the eye every day.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt jerked her head up. “Say that again,” she commanded, and Bright repeated it while she wrote it down. “Splendid! I’m giving a speech tomorrow to the USO volunteers, and I shall quote your father. With your permission, of course.”

  “Of course,” Bright laughed.

  “He must be a very wise man.”

  “Was,” Bright said, and looked away quickly out the window. She felt herself suddenly very close to tears. She fought them back, wanting desperately not to embarrass herself, not here in this grand house in the presence of this remarkable woman she hardly knew. But Dorsey Bascombe seemed to be very close now, perhaps just outside in the cold morning, listening. There was a sudden pain, the ancient agony of giving up. Why now?

  “Our fathers are a very great influence on us,” Mrs. Roosevelt said gently. “My father died when I was very young, but he shapes my life, even today. We honor our fathers by keeping alive the good things they did and were.”

  Bright looked back at her. “Mrs. Roosevelt, you’re a very kind person.”

  “Ah, nothing of the sort.” She blushed self-consciously. And then she said, “Mrs. Birdsong, I want you to come back to Washington.”

  “Well, perhaps someday …”

  “No, right away.” She paused for a moment, musing over something, then rushed on. “What this town, this country needs more than anything else right now is some uncommon young women. Like yourself.” Bright started to protest, but Mrs. Roosevelt raised her hand. “The men alone won’t win the war. The whole country has to do it, and more important, the whole country has to believe that it has a stake in the winning of it. I’m very involved now with Mayor La-Guardia in the Office of Civilian Defense. It has enormous possibilities, Mrs. Birdsong, for mobilizing the home front—women, children, the elderly, all those who can’t bear arms. We must do things together. And not just rolling bandages and collecting scrap metal. We must play and sing and dance together.”

  “Dance?” Bright thought Mrs. Roosevelt sounded just a tad cockeyed, but she was so utterly earnest you wanted very much to agree with her.

  “Yes! Of course!” She leaned forward in her chair, the words coming in a torrent now. “Mayris Chaney, the dancer, has joined us in the physical fitness division. Mayris and I believe that when people dance together, they’re more likely to work together. It’s like your father said, Mrs. Birdsong. Looking another person in the eye. And there’s the exercise. Don’t you feel better when you exercise?”

  “I feel better when I’ve had a good night’s sleep,” Bright said.

  “Well, that too, naturally. But exercise gets the blood racing. This country has got to get the blood racing! And it’s about time!” She punched the air with a triumphant fist and Bright smiled. She was infectious. “And you, Mrs. Birdsong. You can bring us music. We need someone like yourself who is an accomplished musician, and not afraid to get up before a crowd and be an advocate for music. America must sing and play!” She ended abruptly, sank back in the chair, folded her hands on the table, and looked at Bright expectantly.

  Bright sat staring for a moment, then realized that her mouth was open. She closed it. She felt giddy. Things were happening too fast.

  “Well, what do you say? We can pay you, of course. Say, perhaps four thousand a year? And your expenses when you travel.”

  “Travel?”

  “Goodness, yes. I foresee programs all over the country, all run by volunteers, but set up initially by the staff of our Washington office. You and Mayris will be a positive inspiration to the local people.”

  Bright looked at her hands, knotted tightly in her lap, the fingers that so deftly played the music she heard in the secret places of her mind and heart. To be given such a gift … But then there was all the other. It came upon her in a great rush and suddenly she felt homesick. She wanted to be gone from here, from this great vibrant house and this bustling city, to wake up in her own bed with the early light filtering through the branches of the pecan tree outside her window, to smell Hosanna’s cooking, to sit on the porch of the camp house and hear the murmur of the river behind her and the soughing of the trees at the edge of the clearing, to marvel at a heron taking flight. She wanted Washington and the war and Eleanor Roosevelt, dear woman that she was, to be far away. She just wanted to be Bright Bascombe again. She wanted her father back.

  Bright gathered her wits, brought herself forcibly back to this warm cluttered room. Mrs. Roosevelt waited. She took a deep breath. “I have a small son,” she said quietly, “and a home and a hometown. I have a life there and work to do that I find very compelling. And comfortable, I admit. So even though you do me an incomparable honor, Mrs. Roosevelt, I can’t. I have to go home.” She could barely hear her own voice, it was so very small.

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had hoped … how silly of me …” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away.

  She is angry with me, Bright thought. No, not angry. Disappointed. But there is something else here. A woman who has been disappointed often before, but who goes on despite that. A woman who has conquered a thousand disappointments and hurts and made her own way. She is the strong one in this house.

  Mrs. Roosevelt seemed lost in her thoughts for a moment; then she composed herself and shook her head and looked back at Bright. “Home. It must be very special to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I never really had a home of my own,” Eleanor Roosevelt said. “I grew up with relatives after my parents died, and then after I married, my mother-in-law always seemed to … well, direct things. And now”—she looked about her, gave a wistful wave of her hand—“I am still living in someone el
se’s house. I’m living in everybody’s house.”

  “I should think that would be very hard,” Bright said. “But I should think you are very much up to it.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Roosevelt, truly I am. But I have to be honest with you.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I appreciate that. The country needs strong young women, wherever they are.” She rose, dismissing Bright. She had important things to do, other projects and persuasions. Bright stood, and Mrs. Roosevelt offered her hand. “I just ask one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Make a difference, Mrs. Birdsong. Wherever you are, do something that matters.”

  “Yes,” Bright said softly. “I can see that. I will.”

  >

  She was waiting for Fitzhugh in the lobby of the Hay-Adams, her bags all packed and waiting upstairs. He bustled in from the cold, red-cheeked and smiling. He had a thin square package under his arm, plain brown wrapping tied with string. He crossed to her, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together. “By George, that’ll get the blood up. I had to run half a block to chase down a taxi with one seat vacant. I have a feeling this is about to become a town of walkers.” He bent and kissed her cheek, then put the package down on the settee, took off his overcoat and folded it across his lap as he sat next to her.

  “Well …,” she said.

  “Well, what?”

  “What’s in the package?”

  “Oh,” he said airily, “a little something I picked up on the way back from the Hill.” He drummed his fingers together and looked about the room. “A little something for the most famous pianist in Washington.” He smiled. “You’ve got the whole darn town talking this morning. I could have booked you into the best club in Washington in an instant.”