Hollywood (54 page)

The Duchess nodded, too overcome for words.

Jess sat with Nan Britton high up in the galleries. Together they shared a brown paper bag of peanuts. The heat was stifling, but neither cared as the tenth ballot began. Apparently, W.G. had seen Nan three times in the past week, and there was even a plan to meet her the next day in the park, where she’d be perambulating the child. Jess wondered what Daugherty would say if he knew; wondered if he should tell Daugherty or not. So far, W.G. had taken the elevated train all by himself to Sixty-first Street three times, un-recognized.
Nan said that he had said he was “crazy to do it,” but he couldn’t help himself. Love.

The great moment came when Pennsylvania was called, and the chairman of its delegation, aware of his historic mission, gravely intoned, “Pennsylvania casts sixty-one votes for Warren G. Harding.” An exhausted cheer from delegates and onlookers acknowledged Harding’s victory.

Lodge announced that the vote was unanimous for
Lowden;
and was roared down. Then he got the name right, but the boos continued. Wisconsin would not support anyone but its own La Follette, while Wood still had more than a hundred votes.

With a sneer, Lodge brought down his gavel hard; and in his hoarse patrician voice shouted, “Warren G. Harding is unanimously nominated by this convention as the Republican candidate for president of the United States!”

“I can’t believe it,” said Nan.

“I can,” said Jess. “Daugherty and me, we always knew we’d pull it off one day and now we have.”

The Democratic nominees for president and vice president sat in Tumulty’s office overlooking the south lawn of the White House. Burden kept them company while Tumulty was organizing the president. The presidential nominee, Governor James Cox of Ohio, was a small, thin-haired, apple-faced man; he wore a three-button suit with all three buttons neatly in their holes; he seemed both self-important and awed. The vice presidential nominee was the thirty-eight-year-old Franklin D. Roosevelt; though incapable of awe for anyone except, perhaps, a fellow Roosevelt, he was very nervous. “Will we see
her
, do you think?” he asked Burden at one point.

“Who knows?” Burden was less than helpful. If ever a political party had selected a pair of exquisitely balanced losers, it was the supercilious Roosevelt, whose imitation of T.R. was rather less convincing than that of most vaudevillians, and the worthy but lifeless Cox, who had only won the nomination after forty-four ballots during which the two leading contenders, Bolshevism’s foe A. Mitchell Palmer and William G. McAdoo, had destroyed each other. Burden had done what he could for McAdoo, but the party’s natural leader had been undercut by his father-in-law, the President, who had let the word seep out that he himself would like a third term to fight for the League. As
Wilson was currently incapable of conducting the office of president, it seemed most unlikely that such an invalid would be granted another four years. In any case, even had Wilson been in excellent health, the country, if not his party, would have rejected him.

When Harding’s tongue had slipped during a recent speech, transforming “a return to normality” to “normalcy,” the nation, as one, heaved a great sigh of relief—no more great men for them!—and Harding’s odd word was greeted with absolute satisfaction as a summing-up of the national mood.

Burden gazed at Roosevelt with only mild dislike. If ever a politician had been born with a set of loaded dice, it was this tall, elegant creature in his white trousers, dark jacket and white shoes, more suitable for a vigorous game of croquet than a race for the vice presidency. Happily, he would soon be defeated and no more heard of on the national scene, as there was now every sign that the Republicans, once back in power, might occupy the White House for as long as they had the first time, from Lincoln to Cleveland.

In a sense, Burden was glad that McAdoo and he had not been nominated. Though they were stronger figures than the two edgy men sitting opposite him in Tumulty’s sun-flooded office, the country was in a mood for normalcy and sleep and money-making. Burden’s own race for the Senate was proving more difficult than usual, and Kitty was already in American City, directing the campaign. On a trip east to raise money in New York, he had found Franklin doing the same thing; at Roosevelt’s request, he had agreed to help him and Cox through a difficult meeting with the President, whose endorsement could do them almost as little good as his enmity, because, in the end, Wilson was the only campaign issue. Was the country for or against the League? for or against larger-than-life presidents? for or against a leading role in a world as mysterious as the Kingdom of Heaven to the simple majority?

“I’ve not been forgiven for Christmas.” Roosevelt lit a cigarette. Cox stared glumly at the south lawn of the house that he would never live in. “Poor Lord Grey was at a loose end. The President wouldn’t see him because of—you know, that joke one of the embassy boys made about Mrs. Wilson. So Eleanor and I asked him to join us, and Mrs. Wilson’s been raising hell ever since.”

“I wonder why he fired Lansing?” Cox turned away from the window. “I mean, what was the real reason? It couldn’t have been because he was holding Cabinet meetings while the President was sick.”

“
She
never liked Lansing.” Franklin had, to Burden’s view, an exaggerated view of the role of women in the public lives of their husbands, even a woman
who was generally considered to be the acting president in what had been for over a year a kind of regency.

“It was a number of things,” said Burden. “First, the President never liked him. Second, Lansing did talk to the Vice President about the possibility of removing the President from office …”

“Lansing was in on that?” Cox was intrigued.

Burden was happy to know something that the titular head of his party—until the first Tuesday in November—did not. “Yes. So was Marshall. So was I. So, I’m afraid, was Cabot Lodge. That’s when we sent Senators Hitchcock and Fall over here to see how the President really was.” Wilson had put on a splendid show. As the senators were departing, Fall had said, unctuously, “We’re praying for you, Mr. President”; and Wilson had responded with his vaudevillian timing, “Which way?”

“Finally,” said Burden, “when Lansing’s aide, that ass Bill Bullitt, testified to us that Lansing thought the League was useless, the President decided it was time for Lansing to walk the plank, and so he did.”

“Some months later,” added Franklin.

“The President’s stroke intervened …”

“And the regency began.” Franklin put out his unsmoked cigarette.

“I don’t think there
is
a regency.” Burden startled both men. “I’ve been here a number of times, and I quite like Mrs. Wilson, and no matter what you hear, I don’t think she and Grayson are running the country.”

“So who is?” asked Cox.

“Tell no one,” said Burden; then he whispered dramatically, “Nobody.”

“You mean it’s as if,” Cox frowned, “there was
no
president at all?”

“That’s just the way it is, and I don’t think the Republicans will ever bring up the subject, because there’s a good chance that the folks may like the idea and decide to abolish the office and save us all a lot of money.”

“Heaven,” said Franklin, “forbid.”

The thick and untidy Tumulty appeared. “He’s on his way. He’ll meet you on the south portico. Have you seen this?” He held up a pamphlet with the headline “A Negro President?” Under the headline was a blurred photograph of Harding, looking duskier than life.

“Of course,” said Cox. “Terrible stuff. I’ve said not to use it.”

“Do you think it’s true?” asked Franklin.

“Who knows?” Burden was indifferent. “Anyway, every time Harding runs for office, the same madman appears with all his so-called proofs.”

“This could give us all the South, Southwest, and a lot of Ohio
and
California, which we desperately need.…” Tumulty looked mournful.

“We’ve got the South,” said Cox.

“Nothing is certain in this business,” said Franklin, riffling the pages of the pamphlet.

“Anyway, forget about it. The President’s said no.” Tumulty sighed. “I think it would elect the two of you, but what do I know? And anyway, you’re going to win, but even so …”

“What does that mean, the President said no?” The small, cold, close-set eyes of Roosevelt stared at Tumulty, their sudden full level attention emphasizing the unpleasing asymmetry of the oval face.

“It means, Mr. Roosevelt, that if anyone tries to send one of these through the post office, the postmaster will confiscate it.”

“By what authority?” Franklin was now very much on edge.

“Under the President’s war-time powers, which have still not been rescinded. Specifically the Espionage Act of 1917.”

“We must,” said Burden, with a friendly smile at Franklin, “do something about all those dictatorial powers we gave to Caesar …”

“
After
Mr. Cox’s administration.” Franklin laughed; blew his nose; said, “Why does the Potomac affect my sinuses worse than the Hudson?”

“Home’s best, I suppose.” Burden beamed.

Tumulty was at the window. “Here he comes. Let’s go outside.”

On the south portico, Woodrow Wilson was arranged in an odd-looking wheelchair. Despite the warmth of the day, a shawl covered his paralyzed left side. Except for a Secret Service man, he was alone. Plainly, Mrs. Wilson did not wish to appear as either regent or interpreter. The President’s neck was wasted, face haggard, mouth’s left side fallen. Cox murmured to Roosevelt, “I didn’t know he was still so sick.”

As they stepped into the portico, Wilson extended his hand. “Thank you for coming. I’ve very glad you came.”

“Mr. President.” Cox appeared overwhelmed by the extent of the ruin before his eyes. “I have always admired the fight you made for the League.”

Burden thought this singularly infelicitous. Had it not been for the fatal fight, Wilson not Cox would be the nominee and in rude health, as the English put it. Wilson’s blind zealotry had wrecked the League, the party and himself. When it came to practical politics, Burden’s level of human compassion was never high.

“The fight can still be won,” said Wilson, passing on the suicide weapon, like a Japanese warrior surrendering to the next generation, a sword suitable only for disembowelling oneself. Burden noted that although Franklin floated about, as it were, exuding euphoria, he only made amiable noises, saying
nothing about the League or anything else. Perhaps he was more intelligent than Burden suspected.

“You will enjoy the White House,” said Wilson. Without the left side of the mouth and tongue to help form words, the voice was indistinct; also, after he spoke, there was a tendency for the mouth to remain open. “We have done so much of the time, though now, of course …”

Cox was plainly not up to the requirements of so essential and painful a scene. “Mr. President,” he orated, “we are going to be a million percent with you and your Administration, and that means the League of Nations!”

Again, the President murmured, “I am grateful. I am very grateful.” Franklin flashed the hereditary Roosevelt teeth like talismans, and set off a string of meaningless happy syllables; then Cox and he shook hands with the President and Tumulty led them back to the executive offices. Burden would have followed had Wilson not grasped him firmly by the wrist. “Stay,” he said.

Once the candidates were out of sight, Edith came onto the portico. She greeted Burden warmly if wearily; then she and Burden sat on either side of the wheelchair. “We had trouble finding the right sort of chair until I remembered those wonderful ones at Atlantic City, you know? Where the boys push you up and down the boardwalk. So we bought one. Only five dollars.” Edith looked pleased with herself.

“I can walk now,” said Wilson.

“You can stand up and walk with help,” amended Edith.

“I can’t raise my left leg yet. But that will come soon. Too late.” Wilson struck the arm of his chair. “I should’ve fought for it. But there was Mac …” The voice trailed off.

Burden thanked whatever deity presided over the fortunes of politicians that Edith and Grayson and everyone else close to the President had managed, with the greatest difficulty, to keep him from running for a third term. He seemed as completely unaware of the extent of his unpopularity as he was of the extent of his physical debility. He had even sent the new secretary of state, Bainbridge Colby, to the Democratic convention in San Francisco to drum up support for a third term. Burden, as a delegate from his own state, had done his best to explain the political situation to Colby. But the President had given his instructions, and Colby was obliged to obey his master.

McAdoo had led on the first ballot. One word from Wilson and his son-in-law would have been the candidate and probable winner. When Postmaster
General Burleson had wired the President urging him to support McAdoo, Wilson had turned into King Lear upon the heath. He threatened to fire Burleson; then he ordered Colby to present his name. In the end, not even Colby dared to present Wilson’s name to the convention.