Taft 2012 (10 page)

“The real me?” He patted his girth and grinned again. “As you can see, I’ve nothing to hide.” They didn’t laugh this time, but he could almost feel a glow from the crowd. Self-deprecation, he was relieved to see, was still the great equalizer. “As for what I plan to do, I haven’t quite decided yet. Coming back wasn’t my choice, as I know has been widely reported already. I wish I had more to add, but sadly I do not. I, however, have always been one to look toward the future.”

“The future? For you, Mr. President, it seems that your descendant, Congresswoman Rachel Taft, may be exactly that. Have you spoken with her about her political plans for 2012?”

He and Susan had planned for this question. Still, he felt unclean—as he always did while telling even the smallest
falsehood—by his prepared and prevaricating answer. “Rachel is her own person, of course. And, as you know, her position as an independent makes things a little trickier for her as she tests the waters.”

“Not to mention a moderate,” said Pauline with a hint of a sneer.

“Moderate to the extreme, let me assure you.” This lady was beginning to try his amiable demeanor, but the crowd registered a few scattered hoots of approval. “If there were more people like her in government, we might have far less use as a people for political rooster yards and henhouses.” His look took in the whole of Craig’s stage and audience. The latter loved it, and a howl rose from the seats.

“Speaking of which, from what I understand, you kept many barnyard animals in the White House. I’m sure that made for a fair amount of dignity in the eyes of the nation.”

Taft laughed along; he didn’t dare let on that he couldn’t quite get the gist of her joke. What domicile the size of the White House
didn’t
have horses, cows, pigs, and chickens? And then he remembered: supermarkets, agribusiness, food subsidies, and surpluses. He’d picked up enough about such matters from Rachel and Susan, and it only made sense that the divide between urban and rural life had become more marked since his day. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember picking up any of the pungent, familiar manure smells during his brief time at the White House, after his awakening. For a moment, he felt a quick pang of nostalgia.

Then, lost in thought and almost absently, he said, “Yes, of course, we kept animals at the White House during my administration. What’s the word you use for it now? Sustainability? But that was just the way life was a hundred years ago. Unlike today, we were on a first-name basis with our food. Why, I had a prized cow pastured at my White House named Pauline! And a fine,
broad-collared, milk-heavy cow she was. Pauline, I miss your rich cream and soothing company!”

Suddenly, all that could be heard throughout the studio was the buzzing hum of the lights.

Then the crowd erupted. The laughter died down quickly enough—Taft wondered if they were being prompted somehow; was there a sign he couldn’t see?—and he realized what he’d just said. Of course, he was no stranger to such faux pas; Teddy had called it a gift, right up there with his long-windedness and lack of discretion. Granted, Taft sometimes loved to play dumb in pretentious company, just so he could levy such barbs, puncture an ego or two, and retreat behind his whiskers and innocence.

In this case, however, he hadn’t meant to deflate Pauline Craig. Or equate her with a cow. But it was too late. Her face reddened and her eyes shot daggers. She called for a sponsor break.

An assistant ran out to touch up their makeup, thankfully if momentarily breaking the tension. After patching up their faces with the speed of a Buster Keaton film, a stagehand began to count down the remaining five seconds of the break. Craig, again composed and in total control, hissed out of the side her mouth, “I hope you like surprises, Taft.”

“
And
we’re back with President William Taft!” The countdown had run out, and in a split second Craig shifted from the sinister whisper to a full-throated broadcast voice. Even her posture and expression changed like an electric light being switched on. What made this woman tick? What was her game? He couldn’t help but wonder, even as a knot of dread gathered in his belly.

“I want to speak more seriously about
you
, Mr. President.” Order seemed to have been restored in the audience, and Taft swore there were even a few empty seats that hadn’t been there before, as if certain less-obedient members had been surreptitiously ushered
out during the break.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite as compelling a character as you might imagine, Pauline.”

“I’d say a president by his very nature is compelling, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah, that’s where you may be misinformed. Compelling people is not leading them. At least not in a great democracy like ours.”

“Tell me about
your
leadership style, Mr. Taft. Of course you’re a Republican, but would you describe yourself these days as conservative or liberal?”

“If there’s one thing time has taught me, Pauline, it’s that those distinctions are shifting and devious. If, for instance, you’re right-handed, do you denounce your left and leave it to wither, even if the task before you requires both?”

Pauline ignored the murmur that ran through the crowd. “That’s a clever way of putting it, Mr. President, but the fact remains: left and right do indeed have hard-and-fast meanings, ideologically speaking, and those meanings do have tangible influences on policy and the fortunes of this nation.”

“Yes, but this nation has its own direction, and far too many politicians claim to drive the American people forward when all they do is ride shotgun.”

“An interesting choice of words for a former secretary of war.”

He grinned. “At least during Teddy Roosevelt’s time, we didn’t lie by calling it something else. Funny enough, there was no war during my tenure as secretary.”

“And that, Mr. President, is exactly my point.” She glanced down at her desk, then picked up a small piece of paper and hesitated a moment. This was it, Taft thought. Then she took a breath and continued. “I’m sure you’ve had ample opportunity to observe the
state of this nation since you rejoined us. The contrasts must be striking. There is more disenfranchisement among voters than ever before, and our economy is close to a shambles.” What was this speech she was giving? Why the grandstanding? “Even the term ‘progressive’ has become muddled and mostly meaningless. But you were a true Progressive, with a capital P, weren’t you?”

“I still am,” he said proudly. “A Republican and a Progressive. That may seem like a contradiction today, and I certainly have no plans to affiliate myself with any party now or in the future. They don’t speak for me, and I certainly don’t speak for them.” Now how did Craig lead him so easily off the track of talking about Rachel? He must steer back in that direction. “As my great-granddaughter the congresswoman has so bravely done, I must stake my claim as an independent. The Tafts, after all, have always been their own people and gone their own way. Even if we must do so alone.”

Craig broke into a huge smile, the look of a trapper who hears the jaws snap shut. She put her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her hands. “And what if I told you, Mr. President, that you are not alone?”

She nodded almost invisibly toward one of the stagehands. A previously dark monitor, as Susan had called it during their preparation, flared to life. It split suddenly into a square of four images, shifting rapidly from scene to scene.

Each showed a small crowd—in a bar, in a living room, in a church—clad in shirts and baseball caps, holding banners and pennants, chanting loudly. Their refrain matched the single word that adorned all their paraphernalia, and it resounded from the monitor and seemed to be picked up by the in-studio audience. A low rumble began to bubble through the air as if a geyser were about to blow:
Taft. Taft. Taft
.

“What you’re looking at, Mr. President, is breaking news.
A
Raw Talk
exclusive. Our investigators have uncovered these groups—small, grassroots, spontaneous—that have sprung up across this great nation of ours, and they’ve gathered in dozens of spots today to watch this historic broadcast. Your coming out, as it were. They’re just beginning to blog and network, and they seem to come from all walks of life and political viewpoints. But they have one thing in common: They want a new direction. They want a return to values and tradition. They want new leadership, one driven by reasonable common sense rather than ego or ideology.”

Her voice swelled to a crescendo just as the audience broke into a raucous applause.

“In short, they want you.”

Taft slumped in his tight-fitting chair, dumbfounded. This was not what he’d seen coming. Pauline Craig, on his side? He wasn’t even sure
he
was on his side. But he couldn’t deny the wash of emotion and adulation that poured over him, how alive it made him feel, even as a corner of his soul screamed out in panic and protest.

“President Taft,” she announced as the monitor flashed image after image of cheering, fist-pumping Americans, “meet the Taft Party.”

TAFT HAD ENDURED greased fingertips and frigid implements inserted into unmentionable places during the battery of medical examinations that followed his reawakening. It had been less than pleasant. None of those intrusions, however, compared to the anguish and indignity of the cameras.

Outside the exit of the television studio had assembled reporters in multitude, a babbling gaggle of ravenous interrogators with a battalion of cameras in tow. They yelled. They cajoled. They pleaded and promised and persisted. Some even threatened. As they did so, the inhuman lenses bore down on him like the sinister,
waving eyestalks of some invader conjured by H. G. Wells. The evening air was cold, and a light snow had begun to whirl through the Manhattan twilight. In simpler times, Taft might have been swept up in poetic reverie, just watching it fall, his mind whisked far away from his worries. Tonight, though, his worries were being distorted, reflected back at him, and shoved into his face.

“Mr. Taft, did you know about the Taft Party? Is this all a stunt?”

“Are you announcing your candidacy?”

“What will you tell the GOP?”

“Have you looked into the legality of the situation?”

“Do you really think your politics are pertinent to America today?”

“How big is this Taft Party, and who’s running it?”

“How does the congresswoman factor into your plans?”

“How is your health holding up? Are you on any diets?”

“What about your sex life?”

Taft wanted to roar, to somehow clear this rabble before him like rubbish in the face of a hurricane. But all he could think about was Susan standing behind him, taking shelter from the onslaught of light and heat and questions.

Before he could collect his wits, Kowalczyk was there. Within moments, a contingent of dark-suited Secret Service agents had cleared a path through the reporters. Four of them, led by Kowalczyk, flanked Taft and Susan and hustled them through the throng toward their nondescript sedan. “Everything’s under control,” he yelled, although his voice bore the slightest edge of distress.

They were halfway through the mob of reporters—all of them now baying in protest at being held back from their prey—when a raucous sound like a crashing surf pounded against them.

Those on Taft’s left turned to look behind them. Placards and
sandwich boards could be glimpsed among a new, rowdy mass of people descending on the reporters from the nearby parking lot. In the movement and confusion, it was hard to read the signs, but one word, writ large on all, was easy to discern:

TAFT.

Kowalczyk shouted into his headset, but it was no use. Bodies were jostled and epithets hurled, and seconds later the reporters were in a pitched, rabid melee with the Taft supporters. Kowalczyk and his agents pushed through, and, after many nudges to his posterior and elbows to his midsection, Taft was shoved into the open door of the sedan.

“Where’s Susan?” he yelled at Kowalczyk, who was fighting to clear the are of flailing limbs so that he could close the door.

“Susan?” A flash of alarm crossed his face. “I thought she was in front of you.”

“Kowalczyk! She must still be out there!” Taft grunted and strained to haul himself back out of the car.

“What do you think you’re doing? I’ll find her. Stay put.”

“The hell I will.” Exhaling deeply as if emptying his lungs would help him fit through the door, Taft lunged past Kowalczyk, who was nearly bowled over by the swift mass flying past. He could hear the agent hollering in outrage behind him as he ducked his head and plowed forward into the writhing, shouting riot.

Any number of grievances had ignited riots in Taft’s time: labor, temperance, the threat of war. But as far as he’d known, no one had ever rioted over
him
. He tried to bury the pangs of guilt within his breast as he crashed into the crowd, letting his weight and inertia do most of the work.

As he did, he shouted for Susan.

His voice was swallowed by the mad crush. He couldn’t tell how much fighting was going on; it seemed there were more
arguments and pandemonium than actual fisticuffs, although he did notice a fair share of those as well. Occasionally, a startled face, wide with recognition, would catch sight of him, but he paid them no heed and moved forward as boldly as a locomotive.

Then, through the parted legs of a rioter whacking a cameraman with his sign—TAFT 2012!!! it screamed in huge hand-painted letters—he saw her.

Susan lay limp on the grass, her head rolling from side to side. He often forgot how petite she was, and she had never seemed as tiny and fragile as she did now. She was trying to avoid the stamp of feet that hammered all around, but he could see traces of blood on her arms and forehead.

Taft had always been big boned, even as a boy. When he’d grown to adulthood and assumed public office, much was made of his size. But he’d been an athletic youth, and the strength he’d cultivated in his adolescence had never left. That strength came surging back into his limbs as he knifed through the crowd now, throwing aside reporters, protesters, and agents like rag dolls. Nothing stood in his way. He didn’t take his eyes off Susan until he’d reached her and picked her up effortlessly in his arms.