Taft 2012 (4 page)

“President Taft?” A woman’s voice. Taft gripped the guardrail lest he launch himself over the thing.

“Ah, Miss Weschler.” He spoke but didn’t turn to face her. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me so. I had quite forgotten you were on the premises.” He felt a pang of guilt. The woman had been so kind to him, but, heavens, she needed to stop following him around like a little lost puppy.

“I, ah, I apologize. You were just so lost in thought out here, I was wondering if you might want to talk.”

He snorted and wiggled his mustache. “Talk. That seems to be the major preoccupation of you people of the twenty-first century.” He paused to let one of those violently loud mini-aircraft—what had Kowalczyk called it, a hell-copter? Appropriate name, given the infernal racket—shoot past overhead. “Ahem. Speaking of which. I started reading the notes you left me, Miss Weschler. On the twentieth century.” He closed his eyes. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, madam: Scarcely five minutes after I left office, the entire world burst into war. Woodrow Wilson led America to victory. And then it happened again twenty years later, and Teddy Roosevelt’s
cousin
led America to victory.” Taft pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “The atom has been split. Men have traveled to the
Moon
. Only one president has been assassinated since McKinley—not bad, I suppose, statistically speaking. Palestine is a Jewish state and the Arabs would like it back. China is now the United States’ largest debt-holder. China! And a singer named—what was it, Michael Jackman?—was the greatest artist of the twentieth century?”

“Well, that last one is open to debate.”

“Indeed. It seems only yesterday the newspapers were falling over themselves to bestow the title upon that boy Al Jolson.”

“Mr. Taft,” she said quietly. “What do you think of all that? All those changes in the world?”

Finally, he turned to stare at her. “What would you have me say?”

“I don’t mean to be pushy. It’s just that … sometimes it feels better to talk. You know, about your feelings.”

He snorted through his mustache. “I feel quite better shutting up, fine, thank you. In any case, I need to conserve my breath. Have you noticed how dreadful the air tastes? What do you people burn for fuel? Old shoes? In any case, besides an itch to play nine rounds
at Chevy Chase and a tickle in my belly where my dinner isn’t, I’m afraid I don’t have any feelings to report.”

She stepped forward and leaned against the rail next to him. “I mean your emotions.”

He had to laugh at that. “Emotions? If you want emoting, Miss Weschler, I’ll take you to a fine night at the theater.”

It must have been the glare of the city—he could have sworn she blushed. “No, Mr. Taft, that’s not what I meant exactly. I was just thinking you might be feeling scared. Or confused. Or maybe … alone.”

“Oho!” Why hadn’t he seen it coming? “I understand now,
Professor
Weschler. You have an ulterior motive here, don’t you? You are a historian, are you not? Of the presidential persuasion? And picking my brain of its contents is surely a way for you to better your handicap among your peers, perhaps even secure a more auspicious post within the academy? Well, I won’t be the butt of your ambition, Miss Weschler. I assure you, I’m not anybody’s subject to be prodded, poked, and dissected. Since that first day in the White House, your doctors have gotten me medicated to the point that I’m sleepy and out of sorts half the day. I’ve had quite enough of that, I assure you, quite enough!”

He stormed back into the apartment and slammed the sliding glass door behind him.

A moment later, much more gently, he reopened it. “Oh, Miss Weschler, sorry to bother you. Just one more thing. Is there still a golf course nearby?”

A
t this moment, Taft was sure he’d never felt so perfectly full. Not his belly—he wasn’t even thinking about that. But his heart was full to bursting with warmth, even as his arms were full of the best hug he could remember.

He stepped back from the entryway of his apartment and held this woman at arm’s length—this woman whose father’s father had been his son Robert. He couldn’t quite convince himself that he recognized his son in either her solid frame or her sturdy, kind features, but he also couldn’t quite convince himself that he could speak without a lump forming in his throat.

Finally, she chuckled nervously. “I feel silly for asking, but—what should I call you?”

“Why,” he said, wondrously, “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose Grandpa should do nicely.”

At last he let her go and harrumphed deeply. “Would you like to sit down? Or, rather, I should say, I think I need to sit down.” He motioned her toward the couch.

“Sorry, I’m a little overwhelmed, too.” Rachel cleared her own throat, her eyes glittering. “Grandpa.”

“So,” he said. “I hear you’ve taken up the Taft banner and been tilting at windmills here in Washington.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Or maybe you do.” Taft nodded vigorously but said nothing; he’d picked up a bowl of candy from the coffee table and began rummaging through it, absent-mindedly popping pieces into his mouth, as she spoke. “It’s business as usual, I guess. The Republicans won control of the House in the last midterms—that’s when I was elected. The president’s taking his cue from Clinton in ’96 and hedging his agenda so that he can get some basic budget-balancing done. The polls aren’t looking good for him, and the presidential election is only twelve months away. Primaries start soon. And the economy is still more or less a mess.” She sighed. “At least we managed to avoid a second Great Depression.”

“Second Great Depression? I’m assuming that means there was a first?”

“Um, yes. You just missed that back in your day. And the First World War.”

“And the second one of those wasn’t avoided.” He gestured toward the computer on the desk in the corner of the room. “I’ve read a bit about them on this Internet of Susan’s, but I’ve been a bit befuddled of late. And I type as if I have sausages instead of fingers.”

Rachel smiled and suddenly stood. “Grandpa, I hate to reunite and run, but I’m due at the Capitol for a vote.” She reached for her coat. “What are you doing for dinner, say, next Thursday?”

He blinked. “Next Thursday? I must say, I have no idea what I’ll be doing tomorrow, let alone next Thursday.”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” she said, walking to the door. “And I’ll tell you exactly what you’ll be doing: coming to Cincinnati to have Thanksgiving dinner with my family. With
your
family. I’ve
already made the arrangements. You’ll be flown out the day after tomorrow.” She patted his belly. “You think you can save some room in there for turkey?”

Even beneath his mustache, Taft was fairly certain that the quiver in his lip as he pondered a holiday with family was visible. “Thanksgiving. Of course. That had quite slipped my mind. I … I’d like that very much, Rachel. I have a few pieces of correspondence to answer before then, but, yes, I think I’d quite like that.”

“Then it’s a deal, Mr. President.” She hugged him, planted a quick kiss on his cheek, and shut the door behind her.

M
oments after waking, Taft was up and busy. He laid out the only suitable set of outdoor clothes his caretakers had given him. Curious things, they were: the fabrics were softer and flimsier than what he was used to, and, although they fit him passably, their cut was far more accommodating than he’d ever experienced. What really surprised him, though, was how little fashion appeared to have changed since his time—at least when it came to men. What women wore these days, he shuddered, was enough to send a man to a monastery. Or a cathouse.

Then he bathed, dressed, trimmed his mustache, made himself a quick snack of bacon and coffee and buttered toast, and prepared to convince his handlers that it was time to let him venture into the streets of Washington. Future or no, he wasn’t doing anyone any good hiding in this damned apartment.

A knock came at the bedroom door. “Bill! It’s me. I’ve got a little surprise for you. You decent?”

Taft hurried to pull on his pants. “I’ll be right there, Kowalczyk!” He grabbed his coffee and marched out to the living room, where
the agent was carrying a largish box under his arm.