Taft 2012 (6 page)
Authors: Jason Heller
Tags: #Fiction, #Satire, #Alternative History, #Political
“Keep the change, dear fellow.” Taft grinned at his own munificence.
“A whole quarter? Gee, you’re too kind.”
Indeed, Taft had to agree.
Duly equipped with sustenance, Taft found the table toward the back of the small eatery, the one that had been unofficially reserved for him and Butt during the era of their frequent patronage. Remarkably—and, he liked to muse, due to his unassuming nature—he seemed to go mostly unrecognized during their weekly lunches. But at least once a month, a wide-eyed patron would approach him and either ask to shake his hand or make some unceremonious quip about the girth of both his gut and his government.
But that was before. Today, a woman sat at his table, buried in a newspaper, oblivious to his presence.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, approaching from across the table. “I would like to ask you a favor. This table has … a certain sentimental attachment to me. Would you at all mind if I asked you to move?”
The woman peered over the top of her paper at him. She was middle aged and a light-skinned Negro, Taft now noticed—no, he must remember to think
African American
, as Miss Weschler had told him was now proper—but dressed deceptively young for her age. She blew across her cup of coffee, her eyes still on him. “You know, it’s been fifty years since a white man made me give him my seat. I’m not so sure I want to go back to that right now.”
Taft didn’t quite catch the meaning of her words, but he got the cut of her jib.
“My deepest apologies, ma’am. I didn’t mean to put you out.”
“I was joking. No offense taken.” She smiled. “I’ll tell you what. I’m not in the mood to move to another table, but you’re more than welcome to join me.”
Taft grinned and sat down. “My name is Bill,” he offered.
“Well, of course it is, dear. My name is Dee Dee.” She held out her hand.
What a remarkably self-possessed woman! “Delighted,” he said, taking it. Bold and strong—now that’s how one shakes hands,
regardless of one’s gender. His mother had shaken hands that way. Nellie, too.
“Out for a stroll, Bill?”
“Yes, indeed! I’ve always loved a brisk day in D.C. Sometimes it’s the only thing that can lift my spirits.”
She nodded toward the sandwich he’d already begun attacking. “That and some brisket.”
“Too true, too true. You know, Dee Dee,” he said, washing down a mouthful of meat with a swallow of rich, sweet egg cream, “D.C. isn’t my native land, but I do believe that if I’d ever lived here by choice rather than necessity, I’d have come to enjoy it much more than I do.”
“I hear that. I’m no native either. I’m from New Orleans. Katrina made me move up here, to live with my daughter.”
“And who is this interloping Katrina?” he asked, abandoning the egg cream’s inadequate straw and tipping back the glass for a gulp.
She laughed. “Oh, you are too funny. Here.” She picked up a napkin and reached toward his face. “You’ve got that stuff all over your mustache.”
Taft didn’t flinch. What a novel development. Clearly, a white man and a Negro woman sitting together in a restaurant was of no matter in the twenty-first century. He was less surprised than perhaps he should have been. He was, after all, a Republican, a member of the party of progress. In his heart of hearts, he had always believed it an inevitability that racial tensions would somehow ease as America grew and prospered, and that “separate but equal” was but a temporary measure.
Some had thought the president should address the question. But for the executive branch to overstep its boundaries and poke its nose into such social matters was, in Taft’s estimation, unconstitutional. Of course … he hadn’t balked at stretching
executive power to bust trusts or form the Postal Savings System. Was he merely rationalizing his handling of the Negro issue? Had he been a coward? If so, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d shied away—or outright
run
away—from one of the many urgent issues that had pressed like the stone of Sisyphus upon his administration.
“There,” said Dee Dee, wiping the last of the egg cream from his whiskers, “that’s better. Lord, are you always such a mess?”
“Just a hearty eater,” he said with a chuckle. “Some say I’m famous for it.”
“Oh, really?” She leaned across the table, a mischievous look on her face. “Bill, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I know who you are.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. Seen you on TV. You were even in my history books when I was a little girl.”
Taft felt a blush creep up his neck. “History books. I must confess, that’s rather flattering.”
“Flattering? Bill, you’re legendary! The Great Missing President. The man with the mustache. The bathtub guy.”
Taft’s face drooped. “Bathtub? People still talk about that?” He pushed away his plate, which he realized he’d emptied without knowing it. “What else do you know about me? What else do the history books say?”
“Oh, don’t fret. People don’t pay much attention to history anymore.” She glanced past Taft, and her eyes narrowed. “Except for Waldemann over there. Bill … is that your fan club?”
Taft looked over his shoulder. Waldemann had approached the Secret Service agents and appeared to be suspiciously interrogating them. In his hand, the deli owner held the framed photo of Taft and Butt that had been on the wall, presumably undisturbed, for over a hundred years. A rectangle of brighter paint marked the spot where it had hung.
With his other hand, Waldemann was pointing at him.
Dee Dee nudged Taft’s glass of egg cream. “I think you’ve been made, Bill. Better drink up.” She stood up and gathered her coat and purse. He could have sworn she winked at him. “Sorry our little chat had to get cut short. Maybe I’ll run into you for lunch some day. If they ever let you out again.”
KCMO Talk Radio 710
The following message is paid for by Kansas City Leaders for Responsible Development
.
Three years into the worst American economy since the Great Depression, we don’t need government inventing more and more taxes to weigh down hardworking small-business owners. But the elitists on the Kansas City Council just don’t understand.
They
think you can afford to pay higher taxes every year, even though you’re making less. The small-business tax rate this year is already as high as
39 percent
. It’s enough to make you wish for the days of William Howard Taft. After all, when Taft was president, businesses paid only
1
percent. Tell you what, City Council—next year, why don’t you try thinking a little more like Taft?
From
Taft
:
A Tremendous Man
,
by Susan Weschler:
During the course of America’s existence every type of man has been president: schemers, brutes, drunkards, braggarts—even a few good men. But there was one thing they all shared: the burning ambition to be president.
But not Taft. Of all the U.S. presidents who followed George Washington, only Taft never aspired to the office. He’d always felt his true calling was on the Supreme Court, an honor he was painfully forced to bestow on others while he served as president. Afterward, he’d retreat to his own office and count the minutes until his four-year term was up. Some historians wondered: Was it selfish to be a reluctant president? Shouldn’t he have resigned if he’d hated it so much? In a word: no. Because Taft had people depending on him, and no matter what he might wish for himself, he would never let them down. People like his wife, Nellie, and his friend Roosevelt, both of whom did have selfish motives for pushing and pulling Taft into office. Nellie had always dreamed of being first lady, and Roosevelt wanted a successor who’d honor him, who’d continue his policies without ever outshining him.
Power corrupts, goes the aphorism. But Taft tasted power—tremendous power—and instead of being seduced by it, he was repulsed by it.
What kind of character does such a man possess? This question consumed me when I began studying history in earnest. And the more I learned about him, the more I wished I’d had the chance to meet this man. Just once. Just to say,
The country may not have appreciated you. History may not have vindicated you. And since you disappeared on your first day as a free man, you never had the chance to prove them wrong, to find your true calling, to find happiness. But I understand you. I admire you. I know how you feel
—
because I feel the same way
.
And then, of course, the impossible happened, and I did meet
him. His portraits didn’t do him justice. Sturdy, solid, protective without being patronizing, manly without being boorish. And with that distinguished mustache—the last mustache a U.S. president would ever wear. I sometimes suspect Taft was the reason later presidents stopped wearing facial hair. Anything to set themselves apart from the president who had become a cipher at best, a punch line at worst.
If they only knew.
FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT
(Ind.–OH)
To-do list—Tues. 22nd
—
Things to discuss with Grandpa
—Won’t do any political appearances while we’re home. But maybe we can take just one picture with the Cincinnati Little League?
—Thanksgiving dinner. Please invite Agent Kowalczyk to join us at the table.
—Please remember next time someone recognizes you that we all have cameras in our phones now. Phone waving is not a ritual greeting.
—Gay people. General catching up about all that.
—Your great-great-granddaughter is biracial. Please please oh god please don’t be weird about it. If you are, we’ll all deal. But please don’t. Oh hell.
F
irst it had been the young man behind the bar at the airport restaurant. Now a whole crowd, albeit a small one, had gathered around Taft. Some were old. Some were young. Some were black. Some were white. Some had accents. Others didn’t. But they all had one thing in common: they wanted his autograph.
Apparently his twenty-first-century informal look only went so far.
“Yes, you there, my good fellow. Pass that newspaper over, and I’ll give it a good endorsing.” Rachel, bless her heart, had tried to keep them away at first, ordering Kowalczyk and his six-man Secret Service detail to form a barrier around Taft and walk him straight to the gate where his airplane was boarding. At first, that seemed sensible. But as the trickle of hangers-on became a small but swift current, he remembered his promise to Rachel. No more hiding out. No more running away.
He wished Susan hadn’t chosen to stay behind. The thought of her alone for Thanksgiving made his stomach somersault. As did the thought of the holiday itself. He had no idea what Thanksgiving
dinners were like in this day and age, but he hoped that a big, fresh, juicy turkey remained the tradition. Hell, he’d eat Twinkies in place of pumpkin pie if he could just have a sizeable platter of gravy-drenched turkey.
“There you go, little girl. And you, ma’am, what would you like me to sign?” An alarmingly comely young woman pulled down the collar of her blouse—exceedingly thin and skimpy, as seemed to be the fashion in this shameless new century—as if to indicate her bosom.
“Ah, thank you, no. Might you have a piece of paper?” He signed an envelope she was holding and moved on to the next person, walking slowly along as he did.
The next person—a young man with a particularly puckish look on his face—offered Taft a small, flat, shiny box to sign. Upon it were the words
President Kane
. Before he could get a good look at it, Kowlaczyk snatched it out of the man’s hand and had one of the other agents hustle him away.
“What was that?”
Kowalczyk traded glances with Rachel. Was that a grimace of conspiracy on their faces? No, it couldn’t be. He was being, as Nellie used to say, far too sensitive.
“Just a DVD, sir. A movie. Nothing you need to be bothered with.”
“A moving picture? In a little box? Why, that sounds exactly like something I need to be bothered with.”
Rachel put her face near his ear. “Are you doing okay?” she whispered. If Taft didn’t know better, he’d say she was changing the subject. “Really, I’d have no problem with Kowalczyk moving these people back. They’re like vultures.”
He laughed. “And when has the public ever not? Besides, I’m honestly a bit terrified about this traveling through the air business.”
“It’ll be fine. We just need to get to the damn plane already. At least it’s a private jet. If we were flying commercial, we’d be screwed right about now.”
Taft moved on to the next outstretched piece of paper in his path. “All I know is this: if Teddy Roosevelt could go up in an airplane, so can I.” He remembered that day in October 1910 when he was sitting in the Oval Office and got the telephone call from Teddy. “Bill! You’ll never believe what I did today. The Wright Brothers themselves gave me a ride in one of their biplanes! Glorious! You should see what the earth looks like from such a height. The reporters are on their way now. I just wanted to share this magnificent moment with you.”
That was Teddy. He always had to look down on you. It had become obvious to Taft, mere weeks after his election in 1908, that Roosevelt already chafed at seeing someone else in
his
White House. Even as a civilian, he had to blow his horn louder and make a bigger spectacle than the president himself. It was a petulant way to draw attention, but hadn’t that always been Teddy’s way? Taft was steady, deliberate, grounded. Teddy climbed into winged contraptions and laughed as they hurtled through the sky. It was hard for Taft to believe that it wasn’t all part of Teddy’s plan—to undermine Taft’s presidency, to constantly remind the American people that, mere months earlier, they’d had a virile and heroic commander-in-chief. Oh, and trim, too.
Was he still dwelling on the election? Curse it all. A hundred years had slipped by. He’d have to learn to get over it.
Suddenly Taft realized his procession had slowed from a crawl to a halt. What was it now? Blast it. Thinking of Teddy always had a way of stirring up his nerves.
