Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (2 page)

Singing helped pass the time and made the loneliness more bearable, too. As the roaches gobbled their feast of crumbs, Wendell wrapped his thin arms around himself. He swayed and sang, in a voice surprisingly deep for a fifteen-year-old:

I have had my fun, if I don't get well no more

My health is failing me, and I'm goin' down slow

Please write my mother, tell her the shape I'm in

Tell her to pray for me, forgive me for my sin…

Sometimes the sunlight touched his face and illuminated his features—large, dark eyes with thick lashes and a dimple in his chin. He had the look of a boy who'd been forced to assume the responsibilities of a man much too early in life.

“Shut the devil up!” came a querulous voice from a cell down the hall.

It was the Row's only other prisoner, Jimmy Walker, an older white man—bent over and gnarled, like a twisted tree. Jimmy was also scheduled to die. In Virginia, although segregation existed everywhere else, it didn't on Death Row.

“We all niggas here, boy,” Walker had called out between the bars when he'd first seen Cotton walked in by four guards, white men in gray uniforms, their key rings jangling with each step. Cotton's callused hands were cuffed and his long bare feet shackled. “We in nowhere-land. Like the Land of Oz. Like ol' Cooter Brown.”

Both men flinched when they heard the gate to the Row being opened. The newcomer was the preacher from Ebenezer Missionary Church, Ezra Johnson. He was a short, stocky man, his black hair touched at the temples by white, his face and hands marked with vitiligo, making his skin a patchwork of pink and colored. Reverend Johnson took a stool and set it down by the iron bars of Cotton's cell. Then he sat, Bible in hand.

“Thank you for comin', Reverend Johnson,” Wendell said from his narrow bed, “but I pray to Jesus my whole life by myself—and I don't need no preacher to pray with me now.”

“It's all right, son. We can just talk if you want.”

Wendell threw another crumb across his cell. The roaches scuttled after it.

The reverend stared at the roaches' feeding frenzy. “What's that you're doing?”

“Races. I reckon they're just as bored as I am, bein' stuck in here. So I thought I'd give them something to do. Somethin' to eat.”

Reverend Johnson nodded and reached through the bars to grasp the boy's bony shoulder. “I'm here for you, son. Whatever you need.”

“You don't need to absolve my sins. Besides, I didn't do nothin'—nothin' that weren't self-defense. And God don't seem fit to care these days.”

“Did you write that letter I asked you to?”

“I did.” Wendell slid a piece of paper, almost transparent from folding and refolding, through the bars.

Reverend Johnson read Wendell's large, childlike handwriting silently:

Like the song says, I been buked and I been scorned. I been talked about, shos yor born.

But even though there be trouble all over this world I believe in God I have asked God to forgive me. Even during these hard times I aint goin to lay my religon down. I don't know if He's heard my prayers, but I reckon maybe because he's God and He knows all. He's my judge, not the judge and jury of Virgina, and not the peeple. The Governor and the Courts don't know all the facts.

Seems to me that some people get to make mistakes and have them forgivan, no problem. Some people get lots of these chances.

And then there's some people that get no chances.

Do one thing wrong and its the electric chair for you.

I always worked hard to provide for my mother But he stol from me. Never work for a pore man or else he'll steel whats yours, I say.

And now it means I die Every second means I am closer to my our of death. I'm getting ready to put on my long white coat and meet my Maker.

But I appreciate every step you good people do toards helping me I am a poor laboring boy All I want is one more chance at life.

“You really think that'll go in a newspaper after I'm dead?” Wendell asked.

“Is that what you want?” Reverend Johnson replied.

“I'd like my side of the story told, sure.” Wendell shook his head. “You church folk be crazy. Why you do it? Visit us dead men walking?”

The Reverend slipped the paper into his jacket pocket. “I want to bring you comfort, Wendell. And there is still hope for you—for a retrial. This time by a jury of your peers, not white sharecroppers who can afford the poll tax.”

Wendell sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know Miz Andi been tryin' her best.” Miss Andi was Andrea Martin, assigned to his case by the Workers Defense League to stop the execution.

“Miss Andi's been working day and night, and your momma too, to get you another trial. Miss Andi has some friends, who might help—friends in high places.”

Wendell's face hardened. “Like who? Who gonna listen to some high-yalla Negro girl who dresses like a man and wants to go to law school?”

Reverend Johnson stood. “Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, for one. Miss Andrea's been in almost constant contact with her and her office. She's the First Lady of the United States—that's a heck of a big deal.”

“That and a nickel'll get you a Coca-Cola.” Wendell snorted, tossing another crumb to the roaches to watch them scurry. “She ain't the Governor.”

“No, but the President has pull with the Governor—who still has the power to pardon you. Miss Andi's trying to get Mrs. Roosevelt to ask her husband to intervene on your behalf. To have a word with the Governor, so he'll stay your execution. Maybe even get you a retrial. A
real
trial this time.”

Wendell crossed his arms over his boyish chest. “Miz Andi's wastin' her time. Ain't gonna do me no good.”

“I want to read you part of a letter Miss Andi sent me,” the Reverend Johnson said.
“Tell Mr. Cotton that we want him to feel encouraged and to know he has thousands of friends all over the country. Tell him to keep well and strong because he has a tough job ahead of him. And please tell him that many people are praying for him.”

Wendell looked toward the light struggling to pass through the grimy window. He blinked, hard. “Tell Miz Andi that I'm more than glad to hear from her and to know I have some friends out there.” He turned his face to the preacher, his eyes catching the light. “And please tell her to work fast. I only got one week left.”

Blanche Imogene Balfour was hungover.

It was late afternoon, and fog stalked past her windows as daylight bled out. Her apartment's bedroom windows overlooked Massachusetts Avenue, and in the gauzy mist one car nearly struck another, causing a screech of brakes and then a long, loud battle of horns. As the ten-year-old in the apartment next to hers began to practice scales on the piano with one key out of tune, Blanche winced and clamped a pillow over her head.

Her head hurt, but she didn't mind. The pain helped her forget her real pain, the pain of the fight she'd had with her boyfriend, her “beau,” as she called him. On the nightstand was a bottle of Old Crow bourbon and a Waterford lowball glass—as no lady descended from General Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson, no matter how impoverished, would ever drink straight from the bottle.

Blanche raised her head and peered at the clock in the fading light—almost four. She groaned.

She'd wasted a full day in bed and hadn't even called in to Mrs. Roosevelt. Working for the First Lady was better than her usual job, behind the perfume counter of Lansburgh's department store—and, because it was the Christmas season, the endless gift wrapping.

Blanche pulled the pillow away and sat up. The room spun a bit. Even as tears filled her eyes, she tried to focus by staring at the marble fireplace. The place of honor above it was held by a reproduction of Edward Caledon Bruce's oil painting of Robert E. Lee, framed in dull gilt gesso. Lining the mantel were two silver candlesticks, a bit tarnished, from her great-grandmother. There was her old beaded leather Pocahontas doll and a Bible that had once belonged to Richard Henry Lee.

There was also a collection of silver-framed photographs—from Cotillion, from Apple Day, from Family Weekend. A postcard of Sir John Everett Millais's
Ophelia
that a former sorority sister had sent her from London. And her framed diploma from Mary Baldwin College, with her signed honor code pledge.

But those days were long ago, before her daddy had died. Before the money had run out. Like so many others in the Great Depression, they'd been rich until they weren't.

Blanche rose and staggered to the pledge, which she'd signed in violet ink as a freshman.

Believing in the principles of student government, I pledge myself to uphold the ideals and regulations of the Mary Baldwin College community. I recognize the principles of honor and cooperation as the basis of our life together. I shall endeavor faithfully to order my life accordingly. I will not lie…

But she had lied.

Or almost lied. Suddenly, her breakup with Byrd paled in comparison to what they'd planned to do.

Even though she was a Southerner to her core, she was no liar. She was no stool pigeon. And she wouldn't do anything to harm someone like Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt. Even if the woman was an ugly Northerner with buckteeth and an overfondness for Negroes and Jews.

Holding on to the wall, Blanche made her way to the bathroom. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked terrible—ashen, with deep purple shadows under her eyes, tears trickling down her cheeks. She opened her medicine cabinet, took out a bottle of doctor-prescribed sleeping pills, and poured them all into her palm.
I just—I just can't do what Byrd asked me to do. And I don't want to go on living without him.

Blanche looked at her reflection as she raised the pills in her hand to her mouth, as if watching a film. Then,
I can't,
she thought, racked by sobs. She flung the pills into the toilet and flushed, then turned back to the mirror. “Would Scarlett O'Hara ever give up?” she asked her reflected face. “Certainly not. No—this will
not
do. I'll tell Byrd I've changed my mind. If he loves me, truly loves me—and I know he does—he'll understand why I just can't do it.”

Blanche drank a glass of water from the tap, then washed her face and patted it dry.

She went to her telephone and dialed. She knew he'd still be at work. “Mr. Byrd Prentiss, please. Yes, his fiancée.”

“Why, hello there, darlin',” Prentiss said when he picked up.

Blanche didn't mince words. “I can't do this.”

“Now, we talked about this, sweetheart,” he said in a voice one might use to gentle a wild horse. “You know exactly what the plan is. Just follow the plan.”

“I'm not going to lie, Byrd,” she hissed. “And I'm not going to have my good name associated with that…balderdash. My reputation would be ruined.”

There was a pause and a crackle over the telephone line. “Darlin', I'll come over when I get through here. You just sit tight. We'll get this all fixed up in a jiffy.”

Blanche knew Prentiss's wheedling tones all too well and hung up the receiver. She turned her clawfoot bathtub's hot-water faucet, plugged the drain, and let the water rise, throwing in a generous handful of honeysuckle-scented bath salts. The air filled with steam and fragrance. As the tub filled, she poured herself another glass of bourbon, taking it into the bathroom with her.

She dropped her peach silk bathrobe on the tiled floor and stepped into the hot water, leaning back and letting it wash over her. She closed her eyes, then reached for her bourbon on the small rattan table with the potted fern.

Blanche didn't know how long she was in the tub, sipping bourbon and replenishing the hot bathwater using her foot on the brass cross handles.

By the time the man wearing leather gloves entered, she was drunk and relaxed and didn't even have the wherewithal to scream as he put his hands over her mouth, muffling her cries for help. He shoved her head under the scented water and didn't let go. She struggled, frantically trying to claw at him, but he was too strong.

When at last Blanche's slender body was still, the man took her straight razor from the side of the tub and slit her wrists.

The water turned red.

The man placed the razor in her hand and closed her fingers over it, then released it, letting it splash into the bloodied water.

He moved to her bed, taking off his gloves and shoving them into the pocket of his coat, then picking up the telephone on the bedside table. He turned the dial with one finger, spoke to the operator, and was put through. “It's done.”

There was static on the line and a few clicks.

“I'm back!” announced Maggie Hope.

Her cheeks were pink and eyes bright as the Prime Minister's jump flight from Boston approached the airport in Virginia. Her heart filled with joy as she saw Washington, D.C., glowing below through the fog. All those in the plane were transfixed with delight to look and see the amazing spectacle of a city lit up. For all of them who had endured over two years of blackouts, the sight of lights at night was precious, symbolizing freedom, strength, and hope.

“So, how does it feel?” asked David.

As the wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac she cried, “Tops!” over the noise, her heart racing. And it
was
great—fantastic even—to be back. And not just in the United States after three years away, but her old self again—or at least a new version of herself.

“Back to being our plucky ingenue, I see,” David said, reading her mind.

Maggie glared. “Pluck you.”

He laughed. “Jumping Jupiter, it's good to have you with us again, Mags. Don't you agree, John? The three musketeers from the summer of 'forty reunited! We few, we happy few…”

John, slim with broad shoulders, impeccable in his blue RAF uniform, glanced up from his side of the aisle. “We band of blasted…”

“John—” Maggie warned.

He had been busily sketching in a leather-bound notebook on his lap. As the plane taxied down the runway, he looked out the window.

“No,
no
Shakespeare tonight—I must have American poetry!” David cried, ignoring their dour companion. “We're in America now! And the good old U.S. of A. has finally deigned to join us in our fight against the Nazi war machine.” He smirked as he straightened his tie. “You Yanks—always late to a good war…”

Maggie put a gloved finger to her lips. “Not exactly the most politic way to begin our stay, now, is it?”

David sighed. “All right then, back to poetry—Emily Dickinson! Ralph Waldo Emerson! Walt Whitman!
‘I sing the body electric…I celebrate the me yet to come…' ”

Maggie beamed, for she, too, felt joy. Even though war continued to rage, there was reason to hope. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, just over two weeks ago, the United States had finally joined in the fight alongside the British. And as for her own personal battle, against the Black Dog of depression, as Winston Churchill called it, she had won, if only for the moment. And living in the moment was what counted now.

She slipped a silver powder compact from her purse and peered into its mirror, applying red lipstick. It was the lipstick that contained a hidden cyanide pill in the base, which she'd carried on her mission to Berlin as an SOE agent the previous winter. But even those memories were easier to deal with now. From habit, her hand went to her side, where the bullet used to be. But the bullet was gone, surgically removed by a vet in Scotland.
You've come far, Hope,
she thought.

Maggie Hope was assigned to Winston Churchill's trip to visit the United States and meet with President Roosevelt as, ostensibly, the P.M.'s typist. It was a job she'd once held, during the Battle of Britain, in the summer of 1940. But the reality was that she was now a Special Operations Executive, responsible for spying and sabotage behind enemy lines. At twenty-six, she was one of the most senior agents.

She, with the Prime Minister, his private secretaries David Greene and John Sterling; Lord Beaverbrook; his personal detective, Walter H. Thompson; and his beleaguered valet, Inces, had all left from Scotland on December 8. As part of Mr. Churchill's entourage, she'd boarded a blacked-out train in London and traveled to Scotland, then crossed the Atlantic Ocean on the HMS
Duke of York,
dodging Nazi ships and submarines, and finally arriving in Boston.

It was just past sundown, and the lights were obscured by fleecy fog. Overhead, clouds wrapped the moon in gauze. As they all looked out the small windows, she could see the P.M. approach President Roosevelt on the tarmac.

“The President is in a wheelchair!” she whispered to David and John, shocked. “President Roosevelt is in a
wheelchair
!”

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was indeed in a wheelchair. An aide in naval uniform stood behind him. The President wore a dark coat over a gray double-breasted business suit, the cuffed legs of which exposed iron leg braces. The snap-brim of his fedora was turned up at a jaunty angle, matching that of his jaw and the cigarette holder clenched between his teeth.

She watched as the Prime Minister bent to shake the President's hand. The P.M., his face flushed with excitement and cold, had arrived in a navy-blue pea jacket from the Trinity House Lighthouse Service and a yachting cap, variations of which he'd worn on the ship during the journey over. He carried a cane equipped with a flashlight for blackouts.

“Oh, that's right—you didn't come to the Atlantic Conference with us. Polio,” John said bluntly, as he put a few finishing touches on what he was drawing.

Maggie blinked, then nodded. She'd known FDR had contracted polio but had no idea the extent of his paralysis. She rose and craned her neck past David to see what John was drawing, but he closed his notebook with a snap. “What are you working on? Why won't you let us see?” she asked.

“I'll let you see it when it's ready to be seen.” John slipped the book into his attaché case.

“Cryptic as ever,” Maggie said, but smiled. As they stood and moved into the aisle, she stopped and reached up to fix his tie, brushing some imaginary lint off his lapels. They'd almost been engaged to be married when John's plane was shot down over Germany in the autumn of 1940 and the RAF had pronounced him “missing, presumed dead.” Miraculously, he'd made it back to England alive. But due to his extensive injuries, he wasn't allowed to fly again and had resumed his former job as one of Churchill's private secretaries.

David was already halfway down the aisle. “Come on, you two!” he called. He was bundled into his tweed coat, a striped Magdalen scarf wrapped tightly around his throat. Where John was tall and dark and somewhat dour when he wasn't smiling, David was shorter and fair-haired, with respectable round silver spectacles not quite hiding his often outrageous facial expressions.

Maggie adored David and was honored when he let her know his secret—that he was “like that.” He lived with his lover, Freddie, in London, while the two men posed for the world as roommates, driven together by London's wartime housing shortage. “It's your homeland after all, Mags. Aren't you going to drop to your knees and kiss the hallowed Yankee ground?”

Maggie stuck another pearl-tipped pin in her hat to affix it to her thick red hair. “I think it's a wee bit cold for any ground kissing, thank you. And we're in the Commonwealth of Virginia, by the way—the land of Dixie, not Yankee territory.”

“But it's all the good ol' U.S. of A., yes?”

If only it were that simple….Even though she was giddy to be back, the homecoming was difficult for Maggie. The United States had been attacked. And now she was back home, but certainly not the same person who'd left. Or was London home? Where did she belong?

Aunt Edith was the only real parent she had. She didn't really know her father, Edmund, much less her Nazi mother, Clara. And her sister—half sister, Elise—was convinced she was a monster. Were John and David and her best friend, Sarah, her family now?

As Maggie picked her way down the steep steps from the plane to the tarmac, a cold, wet wind blew, and she clapped a hand to her hat to keep it in place. She shivered in her blue wool coat. Surreptitiously, she glanced in all directions, checking the perimeter for any threats.
All clear
.

“Ah, so this is our largest colony,” John deadpanned, glancing around. He looked over to Maggie, his face lighting up—and she felt as though her heart skipped a few beats.

In the cold haze, the Prime Minister continued to speak with the President and Lord Beaverbrook, eager and happy as a child. Then President Roosevelt was lifted like a child by his aide and placed into a large black limousine. The other men got in, and it pulled away. A second sedan waited for them in the misty air, engine running.

“Miss Hope?” John said, gesturing for her to get into their car first. He and Maggie exchanged a secret look.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Sterling.”

But David pushed ahead. “I want the window seat!”

Maggie and John climbed in beside him, Maggie in the middle. The driver closed the door with a resounding
bang
. Inside, it was almost too hot, but as they headed to Washington through the hazy darkness, the three weary travelers luxuriated in the warmth. The radio blared the Andrews Sisters' “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and David poked at Maggie. “So, is there ‘no place like home'?”

“If only I could have clicked my heels three times to bring us here. Would have saved endless bouts of seasickness.” She peered out the window. There were a few lights from houses, even Christmas tree lights. Not to mention the traffic signals, their garish glow piercing the velvety fog. The United States was also at war, but it looked nothing like London's complete blackout.

“We're so close to the shore—aren't they worried about sneak attacks by German submarines?” Maggie said. She gave a low laugh. “The ARP wardens in London would have heart attacks if they saw all this light! Goodness, I'd forgotten what headlights look like lit up, without those slotted covers.”

“Are they daft?” John asked. “Aren't they worried about bombs?”

“There's not really anywhere close enough to launch an airstrike here on the East Coast,” David mused.

“Yes, well, no one thought the Japanese could launch an airstrike on U.S. territory, either, and now look at Pearl Harbor,” Maggie countered.

“True, true,” David admitted.

“And all the light—not to mention the radio signal—is making it awfully easy for Nazi U-boats to find things in the dark. And don't tell me they're not out there, lurking.” Maggie shivered into her coat, staring out at the veils of fog.

“Jumping Jupiter, it's Paris on the Potomac!” David exclaimed as they entered the city of Washington, referring to the wide boulevards and neoclassical architecture of the capital along the river, magically lit by the hazy glow of streetlamps. “It's just like the opening montage from
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
!”

John nodded, dark eyes taking in everything. “Part French, part Federalist, part Daniel Boone.”

The radio station segued into Billie Holiday's “God Bless the Child.” As they passed the darkened Capitol dome, they also saw posters pasted on walls:
REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR! ENLIST NOW!
and
BUY WAR BONDS!

Stopped at a traffic light, Maggie read a humble flyer affixed to a streetlamp:
STOP WENDELL COTTON'S EXECUTION!
it read.
ONLY 8 DAYS LEFT! PRAYER MEETING WITH MOTHER COTTON AND ANDREA MARTIN!
The flyer was illustrated with a photograph of a young colored man in a striped prison uniform.

On a bridge near the Lincoln Memorial, machine guns had been mounted, and soldiers patrolled. Outside the Jefferson Memorial, helmeted guards carried rifles with bayonets. Temporary wooden housing had sprung up on the Mall for the sudden influx of war workers.

In the city, flags flew everywhere, while brightly lit shop windows were juxtaposed against darkened government buildings. Billboards importuned:
WAR WORKERS NEED ROOMS, APARTMENTS, HOMES—REGISTER YOUR VACANCIES NOW.
The sidewalks seemed crowded with soldiers and sailors in uniform. Posters proclaimed,
VICTORY GARDENS WILL HELP US WIN,
and
THE U.S.A. PICKS CHEVROLET.
As their car passed a newsstand, the
Washington Post
's headline screamed:
HONG KONG DOOMED.
Next door, letters on a marquee spelled out
KATHLEEN, STARRING SHIRLEY TEMPLE.

David whistled between his teeth, taking in a brilliantly illuminated department-store window. “Washington used to be a hardship post, you know,” he told them. “Terribly hot and humid in the summer. Now it's like coming to Oz, isn't it? You know, England is all black-and-white and now we've arrived in the land of Technicolor. Oh! And what do you most want to eat while we're here?” he asked Maggie and John.

They'd all been living on rations for ages. “Hamburger, cooked medium-rare, extra-crispy French fries with lots of ketchup, and a Coca-Cola with ice—
lots
of ice—from a diner. And chocolate ice cream,” Maggie proclaimed.

“No New England clam chowder? Boston baked beans? Lobster roll?”

“We're in Washington, not New England, silly. This is the border between the North and South. Think Maryland crab cakes, biscuits and gravy, and shrimp and grits.”

John raised an eyebrow. “What's a grit?”

Maggie gave a sly look. “Ah,
haute cuisine américaine
.”

David wasn't listening. “I want to try this ‘moonshine' I've been hearing about. And peanut butter and jam on toast. And apple pie.” A panicked look crossed his face. “You don't think they're rationing at the White House yet, do you?”

“Apple pie.” Maggie sighed. “With cinnamon and nutmeg. And coffee with cream
and
sugar. And a steaming hot bath, more than five inches deep—bliss!”

“What do you want from Father Christmas—er, Santa Claus?” John asked as they passed yet another gaily decorated department store. “Fruitcake?”

Fruitcake, right,
Maggie thought.
Surely he's joking—and thinking of something just a bit more romantic?
“I'm picking up a new toothbrush while we're here,” Maggie declared. “Mine's completely worn down. And an enormous fresh cake of soap. Silk stockings—I hear they're having a run on them now—no pun intended.”