More applause—thunderous applause. Rita said, “I can’t wait for November.”
“Neither can I,” Chester agreed. That was how a good stump speech was supposed to work. It made the faithful eager. Men and women pushed forward, trying to get a word with Flora Blackford now that she’d come down off the platform. “Come on,” Martin told his wife, and did some pushing himself, wondering if the vice president’s wife would remember him.
He didn’t really expect her to, and she didn’t, not when she looked at him. But when he shouted his name at her, she nodded. “You were David’s sergeant,” she said.
“That’s right, ma’am.” Chester grinned and nodded. “And this is my wife, Rita.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Flora clasped Rita’s hand. “Will you vote for my husband on Election Day?”
“I sure will,” Rita answered. “I was going to even before I heard you talk. But even if I’d been thinking about voting for the Democrats before, you would have made me change my mind.”
“Thank you very much,” Flora Blackford said. “He needs all the votes he can get, believe me. We can’t take anything for granted. If we do, we’re liable to lose.”
“We’d better not,” Chester Martin said. Before Vice President Blackford’s wife could answer, a fresh surge of people from behind pushed Rita and him away from her. Again, that was no surprise; he felt lucky to have talked with her at all. Turning to Rita, he asked, “What do you think?”
“She’s honest,” Rita said at once. “If she is, it’s a good bet her husband is, too. And she knew who you were as soon as you told her your name. That was something.” She proudly took his arm. “You know important people.”
He laughed. “Stick with me, kiddo, and I’ll take you to the top.”
Rita laughed, too, but only for a moment. Then she sobered. “You really do know important people, Chester. That might turn out to be important one of these days. You never can tell.”
“Maybe.” But Chester didn’t believe it, not down deep. “I don’t think Flora Blackford’s the sort of person you can use to pull strings. She was in Congress, remember, when her brother got conscripted, and she didn’t pull any for him. He could have had some soft, safe job behind the lines—typist or driver or something like that. He could have, but he didn’t. He went into the fighting, and he got shot. If she didn’t help David Hamburger, she’s not likely to help me.”
“That depends on what you’d need to ask her,” Rita answered. “Like I said a minute ago, you never can tell.”
Somebody stepped on Chester’s foot, hard. “Ow!” he said. In the crowd, he couldn’t even tell who’d done it. He pointed toward the trolley stop. “Let’s get out of here and go home before we get trampled.”
“Suits me,” his wife said. “I’m glad we came, though. She made a good speech—and I found out what a special fellow I married.”
Martin started to tell her he was just an ordinary guy. He started to, but he didn’t. If Rita wanted to think he was a special fellow, he didn’t mind a bit.
Flora Blackford had waited out six elections to the House of Representatives. She’d been nervous every single time, though her New York City district was solidly Socialist and she’d had easy races after the first one. Now, for the first time since 1914, she wasn’t running for Congress—but she was more nervous than ever.
Worrying about her husband’s race proved more wearing than worrying about her own ever had. She hadn’t been this anxious in 1924; she was sure of that. In 1924, Hosea Blackford hadn’t headed the ticket. It probably hadn’t won or lost because of anything he did.
Things were different now. If they went as she hoped, her husband would become president of the United States next March. If they didn’t . . . No, she wouldn’t think about that.
Telegraph sets clicked in their apartments. Phones jangled. Off in one corner, an announcer on a wireless set spewed out results. Flora and Hosea got any news that came in as fast as they would have at Socialist Party headquarters in Philadelphia. But the same longstanding tradition that kept a presidential nominee away from the convention till he’d been declared the candidate bound a presidential hopeful to find out whether he’d won or lost away from the people who’d done the most to help him.
When Flora complained about that, her husband only shrugged. “It’s one of the rules of the game,” he said.
“One of the rules of the game used to be that the Democrats won every four years,” Flora answered. “We’ve changed that. Why not the other?”
Hosea Blackford looked surprised. “I just hadn’t thought about it. I did this in 1920. The two of us did it in ‘24. Maybe we will change things . . . four years from now.”
She gave him a kiss. “I like that. You’re already starting to think about your second term, are you?”
“I’d better worry about the first one, don’t you think?” he said.
The wireless announcer said, “In Massachusetts, Governor Coolidge continues to pull away. He also leads comfortably in Vermont and Tennessee, and early returns from Kentucky show him with a strong lead there.”
“Oy!” Flora said in dismay.
Her husband took the news much more in stride than she did. “Massachusetts is Coolidge’s home state,” he said. “We’ve never done well anywhere in New England. And Kentucky is full of reactionaries. How could it be anything else, when it belonged to the Confederate States till the middle of the war? Wait till we start getting returns from the places where working people live, where they make things.”
She nodded. She knew that as well as he did. Even so . . . “I don’t like losing anywhere,” she said.
Hosea Blackford smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I’m so glad you’re on my side.”
A man at one of the telephones called out, “Your lead in New York City just went up another twenty thousand votes, Mr. Vice President!” Flora smiled too—then. She finally had something to smile about.
“Vice President Blackford’s large lead in New York City looks likely to carry the state for him, in spite of Governor Coolidge’s popularity in the upstate regions,” the commentator on the wireless declared. “Pennsylvania will probably be a closer race. The Socialists are strong in Pittsburgh, but Philadelphia is still a Democratic bastion.”
“We have to have New York,” Flora murmured. “We have to.” The state had the biggest bloc of electoral votes in the USA: one out of every seven. Pennsylvania came next, but far behind. The Democrats could count as well as the Socialists. They’d campaigned hard in New York. Let them fall short. In Flora’s mind, it was more than half a prayer.
“New returns from Ohio,” a telegrapher said. “You’re up in Toledo, up in Cleveland, holding your own in Columbus, not doing so well in Cincinnati.”
“About what we expected,” Blackford said. “What do the overall figures in the state look like?”
“You’re up by . . . let me see . . . seventeen thousand,” the man answered after some quick work with pencil and paper.
“Not bad for this early in the night,” Flora said.
“No, not bad,” Hosea Blackford agreed. “Can’t say much more than that without knowing just where all those votes are coming from. But I’d rather be ahead than behind.” Flora nodded.
Little by little, returns began trickling in from farther west. Indiana had long been a Socialist stronghold; Senator Debs had twice lost to Teddy Roosevelt as the Socialist Party’s standard-bearer. Hosea Blackford was well ahead there. Republicans remained strong in Illinois, Michigan, and Iowa—those three-cornered races wouldn’t be settled till the wee small hours. Like Indiana, Wisconsin was solidly in the Socialist camp.
“We’re doing fine,” Flora said, and tried to make herself believe it.
“Maybe I’m glad I’m here after all,” her husband said. “Looks like it’s going to be a long night. This way, I can just go back into the bedroom and sleep whenever I feel like it. And there aren’t any reporters yelling at me, either. I wouldn’t be
able to hear myself think over at Party headquarters.”
“I wish it didn’t look like a long night,” Flora said. “I wish we were sweeping the country, and we could declare victory as soon as the polls closed.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind that myself.” Hosea laughed. “The Democrats did it for one election after another. Maybe we will, too, somewhere down the line But we haven’t got there yet. This one’s going to be close.”
Flora’s fists tightened till her nails bit into the palms of her hands. It wasn’t just that she wanted the Socialists to win Powel House and as many seats in the House and Senate as they could, though she did. She’d always wanted that, ever since becoming a Party activist before the Great War. But it felt secondary now. With her husband in the race, she wanted his triumph with an intensity that amazed her. A win tonight would cap a lifetime of service to the Socialist cause and to the country. Losing . . .
Again, she refused to think about losing.
Hosea Blackford didn’t. “If I win, we stay in Philadelphia,” he said. “If I lose, we go home. How would you like living way out West for a while?”
“It’s beautiful country,” Flora answered, and then said the best thing she could for it: “Joshua would like growing up there.” Having said that, she went on, “It seems so . . . empty, though, to somebody who’s used to New York City or Philadelphia.”
She’d enjoyed spending holidays in Dakota with her husband. The wide open spaces awed her, for a while. But towns and trains and civilization in general seemed a distinct afterthought there. She didn’t like that, not at all. To someone who’d grown up on the preposterously overcrowded Lower East Side, so many empty miles of prairie, relieved—if at all—only by a long line of telegraph poles shrinking toward an unbelievably distant horizon, felt more alarming than inspiring.
Someone slammed down a telephone and let out a string of curses that ignored her presence in the room. “Kansas is going for Coolidge, God damn it,” he said.
That made Flora want to curse, too. Hosea Blackford took it in stride. “Confederate raiders hit Kansas hard during the war,” he said. “They don’t love Socialists there; they’ve been Democrats since the Second Mexican War.”
“Well, they can geh kak afen yam,” Flora said.
Her husband chuckled; he knew what that Yiddish unpleasantry meant. “There’s no yam anywhere close to Kansas for them to geh kak afen,” he pointed out.
“I don’t care,” Flora said. “They can do it anyway.”
The new state of Houston, carved from the conquered piece of Texas, went for Calvin Coolidge. So did Montana, which had been a Democratic stronghold ever since Theodore Roosevelt made a hero of himself there during the Second Mexican War. Flora began to worry in earnest. But a little past midnight, Pennsylvania, which had teetered for a long time, fell into her husband’s camp—and Pennsylvania’s electoral votes made up for a swarm of Montanas. New Jersey had also stayed close till then, and also ended up going Socialist.
“We may make it,” Hosea Blackford said. “We just may.”
By then, returns from the West were coming in. Colorado had a strong union tradition, and looked like going Socialist again. Idaho fell to Coolidge, and so did Nevada, but Blackford swept the West Coast, including populous California: Hiram Johnson had delivered his state.
Flora was yawning when one of the telephones rang a little past three in the morning. “Mr. Vice President,” called the man who answered it, and then, in a different, awed, tone of voice, “Mr. President-elect, it’s Governor Coolidge, calling from Massachusetts.”
That woke Flora better than a big cup of black coffee could have done. She kissed her husband before he could go to the telephone. “Hello, Governor,” he said when he picked up the instrument. “Thank you very much, sir. . . . That’s very generous. . . . Yes, you did give me quite a scare, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. . . . What’s that?” He had been smiling and cordial, but now his expression hardened. “I certainly hope you’re wrong, Governor. I think you are. . . . Yes, time will tell. Thank you again. Good night.” He hung up, perhaps more forcefully than he had to.
“What did he say that made you angry?” Flora asked.
“He said maybe he was lucky not to win,” Hosea Blackford answered. “He said bull markets don’t last forever, and this one’s gone on so long and risen so high, the crash will be all the worse when it comes back to earth.”
“God forbid!” Flora exclaimed.
“I think we’ve given God some help,” Hosea said. “The business cycle’s been rising steadily all through both of President Sinclair’s terms. I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t do the same for me. The Democrats may have enjoyed boom-and-bust capitalism before the war, but we’ve put that behind us now. We’re prosperous, and we’ll stay prosperous.”
“Alevai, omayn!” Whenever Flora fell back into Yiddish these days, she spoke from heart and belly.
Hosea Blackford smiled. He understood that. “I really do think it’ll be all right, Flora,” he said gently. “Oh, there’s more farm debt than I care to see out in the West, and the factories almost seem to be making things faster than people can buy them, but all that’s just a drop in the bucket. We’ll do fine.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, not now—Mr. President.” Flora kissed him again. The telegraphers and men at the phones all cheered.
“Not for another five months,” Hosea reminded her. “Say that to me in front of President Sinclair and he’ll arrest you for treason.”
“Phooey,” Flora said, which wasn’t English or Yiddish, but was exactly what she meant.
Another telephone rang. “Mr. President-elect, it’s the president.”
This time, Flora didn’t try to delay her husband when he went to the telephone. “Hello, Upton,” he said. “Thank you so very much. . . . Yes, Cal threw in the towel a little while ago. He gave me some sour grapes, too, babbling about a crash. . . . Yes, of course it’s idiocy. When in all the history of the country have things gone so well? And we have you to thank for it. I’ll do my best to follow your footsteps. . . . Thanks again. Good-bye.”
Flora went in and woke up Joshua. “Your father’s going to be president,” she told him.
“I want to go back to sleep,” he said irritably—he wasn’t quite three, and didn’t care whether his father was president or a garbageman. Flora wanted to go to sleep, too. Now I won’t have to live in Dakota, she thought. And if that wasn’t reason enough, all by itself, to be glad Hosea had won, she couldn’t imagine what would be.
The year had turned eight days before. Lucien Galtier didn’t want to be standing out in the open, not with the weather down around zero and a raw wind blowing out of the northwest. Under his overcoat, his tight collar and black cravat felt as if they were choking him.
Charles and Georges stood beside him in the graveyard. His sons’ faces were blank and bitter with grief. So, he suspected, was his own. His daughters—Nicole, Denise, Susanne, and Jeanne—could show their grief more openly, though that wind threatened to freeze the tears on their faces.
It also whipped at Father Guillaume’s wool cassock. “Is everyone here?” he asked. Galtier nodded. Himself, his children, their spouses, his two grandchildren—and Charles’ wife big with child, due almost any day—Marie’s brother and sister and their spouses and children and grandchildren, some cousins, some friends. The priest raised his voice a little: “Let us pray.”
Lucien bowed his head as Father Guillaume offered up sonorous Latin to the Lord. Absurdly, Galtier chose that moment to remember how strange the American priest who’d married Nicole and Leonard O’Doull had sounded while speaking Latin—he’d pronounced it differently from the way Quebecois clergymen did. But even they’d assured him it wasn’t wrong, merely not the same.
After the Latin was done, Father Guillaume dropped back into French: “Marie Galtier no longer gives us the boon of her company on this earth. But she is at the right hand of the Father even as I spe
ak these words, as she died in our true and holy Catholic faith. And she will live forever, for she was a good woman, as you show by coming here today to honor and commemorate her passing.”
Nicole began to sob. Leonard O’Doull put his arm around her. Lucien wished someone would do the same for him. But he was a man. He had to bear this as a man did, as stoically as he could. His eyes slid to the black-draped coffin. He’d thought burying his parents was hard. And it had been. This, though, this felt ten times worse. That was his life going into the hole the gravediggers had hacked from the frozen ground. How can I go on without Marie? he wondered. He couldn’t imagine finding an answer.
“In a real way, too, Marie Galtier does still live here among us,” the priest said. Lucien almost called him a liar and a fool, there in front of everyone. Before he could say the words, Father Guillaume went on, “She lives in our hearts, in our memories. Whenever we recall her kindness and her love, she lives again. And because she gave us so many reasons to do just that, she will live on for a very long time indeed, even if her years among us were fewer than we would have wished. Think of her often, and she will live for you again.”
He turned toward the coffin, making the sign of the cross and praying once more in Latin. All the people standing there shivering as they listened to him crossed themselves, too. As Lucien did so, he felt a certain dull amazement. Father Guillaume had been right after all. Lucien could hear his wife’s voice inside himself, could see her smile whenever he closed his eyes. A marvel, yes, but a painful marvel. Seeing her and hearing her that way only reminded him he wouldn’t see her or hear her in the flesh any more. Helplessly, he began to cry.
“Here, Papa.” Of all people, his foolish son Georges was the one who held him and gave him a handkerchief: Georges, whose always-smiling face was as twisted with sorrow as Lucien’s had to be.
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