Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (28 page)

When the press conference was over, Maggie distracted herself by going through the morning newspapers. She was glad to see the Red Sox's Ted Williams had been voted baseball's Man of the Year—making up for the fact that he'd lost Most Valuable Player to Joe DiMaggio. She sipped her coffee as she read how the New York Film Critics Circle had voted
Citizen Kane
picture of the year, and that Wallis Simpson, now the Duchess of Windsor, had been voted number one on the annual list of the ten best-dressed women in the world.
Hah,
Maggie thought. She hoped that awful woman was enjoying her exile in the Bahamas.

There, in the
Los Angeles Times,
was yet another photograph of John with the same brunette, soon-to-be-divorced socialite.
Horsey,
Maggie decided.
Too many teeth.

She rolled her eyes and flipped the pages to the real news. Mohandas Gandhi had stepped down as the head of the All-India Nationalist Congress because of his commitment to nonviolence. India, where opposition to British colonial rule was brewing, conditionally supported England. Some there wanted to leverage support for England in exchange for independence, but Gandhi would have none of it.
“I could not identify myself with opposition to war efforts on the ground of ill will against Britain
.
If such were my view and I believed in the use of violence for gaining independence…I would consider myself guilty of unpatriotic conduct
.
”

Maggie started when the First Lady rapped at the open door. “Miss Hope, I'm glad to see you. Come into my office, won't you?”

Maggie followed her into the now-familiar room and sat on the fringed sofa.

“I just heard from Miss Martin,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in her tweed skirt. She was wearing a matching jacket, sky-blue silk blouse, and her usual triple strand of pearls. “It seems as if there were technical problems last night at the Thomas Jefferson Prison.”

“Yes,” Maggie replied, folding her hands in her lap. “The storm knocked out the power.”

The First Lady raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like it was quite an evening. I also heard from Frank Cole. He…well, he explained everything to me.”

“Excellent,” Maggie responded. “But have you heard anything on Wendell's condition? How's he doing?”

“Andi told me the prison doctor says he's recovering and he'll be just fine.”

Maggie lifted an eyebrow. “And are they going to try to kill him again—after they patch him up?”

Mrs. Roosevelt shook her head. “No. Or, at least, not soon in any case. In fact, that attorney has them tied in Eighth Amendment knots so tight that I have the feeling Governor King might ship Mr. Cotton off to Japan or Germany just to be rid of him. It seems that the Governor's associate, Mr. Byrd Prentiss, was found dead in the basement of the prison.”

“Oh?” said Maggie.

“So the Governor's in a weak position to bargain. It looks as though Prentiss himself was trying to stop the execution—then was caught himself in a horrible accident. We'll never know the real story, most likely.” She gave Maggie a sharp look. “And that's fine with me.”

Maggie gave an involuntary shudder, remembering.

“Miss Martin told me, ‘It was God's will.' Although she added that she also believes ‘God works in mysterious ways.' ” The First Lady looked directly into Maggie's eyes. “And personally, I believe He helps those who help themselves.”

Maggie kept her face blank. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You know,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, almost to herself, “you're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't. So you might as well try to help others and hope God joins in. And, no matter what you do—or how you live your life—people are going to say the most horrible things about you, Miss Hope.”

Her eyes went to Lorena Hickok's open door. “So you might as well do what you want. No one can take away your self-respect unless you give it to them.” Mrs. Roosevelt smiled at Maggie. “I think, I hope, that in your life you'll remember that, dear. Because I have the feeling you're going to do quite a bit in this war and not everyone will like it. By the way, I have something for you.”

The First Lady handed Maggie a page of what looked like code.

“Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“More notes from Franklin's calendar,” she explained. “You said you hadn't taken enough of the code to be able to break it. So here's some additional material.” She colored slightly. “Oh, I know it's terrible that I went through his papers, but ever since I found those letters from…that woman…in his suitcase—”

Maggie didn't know what the First Lady was referring to, but remembering the way the President had bestowed his grin on Princess Martha, she could imagine.

“There's code for the entire month of December—that should give you enough to work with.” She gave a wan smile. “I couldn't solve it.” Then, “You're going to the ball, yes?”

“The ball?”

“The New Year's Eve Ball—day after tomorrow. We're having it here, in the East Room. Oh, it's one of those things to raise money for the war effort. We're going to need a lot of money, I fear, before this is over. I'm on the committee, so I must go. I don't like these social events, but they
are
necessary.” She grinned. “I'd love it if you'd come, too.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Roosevelt. I'd be honored. I'll just see if Mr. Churchill can spare me.”

That evening, Mr. Churchill, David, and the rest of the entourage returned from Ottawa, triumphant. As they congregated in the map room, the P.M. called for drinks all around, which Mr. Fields procured—to accompany oysters on the half shell, pâté de foie gras in aspic and crisp toast points, and a silver bowl of smoked, salted almonds. When everyone had a glass of champagne or the equivalent, the Prime Minister raised his own tumbler of Johnnie Walker and soda. “To the Americans!” he intoned.

They all toasted, “To the Americans!”

“What's all this?” It was Harry Hopkins, with Mrs. Roosevelt right behind him.

“We're toasting the citizens of your wonderful country,” Churchill declared, beckoning them in.

“Well, then I must also make a toast,” the First Lady said in her quavering soprano as Churchill poured and handed her a glass and the First Lady raised it to Maggie. “To the British!”

“What's going on here?” It was the President, wheeling himself in.

“We're toasting, Franklin!” Churchill replied. “Get the man a glass!” he bellowed, waving a hand.

“Oh, how grand!” The President gave one of his electrifying grins, and when he had a glass, he raised it high. “To the Allies!” he said. “The U.S. and Britain together at last!”

“To the Allies!”

As the toasting continued, Maggie edged toward David. “Are you all right? You don't look well at all.”

“I was up all night with
him
.” He gestured to Churchill with his chin. “The Boss had some health problems up north, I'm afraid. But we brought his doctor with us, thank goodness.”

“He looks wonderful now,” Maggie said. And so he did, smiling and clapping people on the back.

“He's been through a lot,” David murmured. “And looks can sometimes be deceiving.”

Maggie regarded the President, in his wheelchair, something hidden from most Americans and the rest of the world.
They're men,
she realized.
Mortal men.
She thought of Churchill's Victorian ideas of imperialism.
And flawed.
“Did you read about Mr. Gandhi this morning?”

David nodded. “I did.”

“I adore Mr. Churchill,” Maggie said. “I really do. But I don't always love what he does as Prime Minister.”

“But other people need to believe men like him and FDR are heroes. Especially if we're going to get through this war.”

“The men behind the curtain,” Maggie mused. “To the public, they're the Wizards of Oz. Or that's the story, at least. But they're really just flawed men, when you pull away the curtain, aren't they?”

The smile returned to David's face. “Does that mean I'm the little man who guards the gates of the Emerald City? With that horrible green fur hat? And the enormous mustache?
Who rang that bell!
” he mimicked.
“Well, bust my buttons, that's a horse of a different color!”

“Oh, David,” Maggie said. “What would I ever do without you?”

“Oh, I almost forgot, Mags. I'm terribly angry with you.”

Maggie was taken aback. “Why?”

Behind his glasses, David's eyes were wide. “Beth is sick,” he whispered.

“Beth?”

“Beth March?
Little Women
? She has scarlet fever, you know.”

Maggie realized what part of the book he was up to. “I know,” Maggie said, in soothing tones.

“They didn't have antibiotics back then.”

“No.”

“Maggie, you have to tell me—what's going to happen? Is Beth going to get better?”

“David, you know I can't say. You're going to have to keep reading.”

At Barnet Hospital, Edmund Hope was admitted for second- and third-degree burns. “Take his clothes off,” the doctor instructed. His blond hair was turning gray, and large liver spots marked his face and hands. “We need to treat all his burns.”

The nurse did as the doctor asked, removing the rest of Edmund's clothes. Naked, he seemed small, his body covered in wisps of gray and ginger hair, his skin sagging and his stomach bulbous. The burns on his torso were raw and oozing.

But when she took off Edmund's socks, the nurse gave an involuntary scream. She jumped back, her hands clapped over her mouth.

“Control yourself, Nurse!” the doctor admonished. But even he winced at the stench emanating from Edmund's feet. They were rotting.

“Diabetes. Left untreated for God knows how long. Goodness knows how he was even able to function, with his body disintegrating away on him like that.” The doctor shook his head. “We'll have to amputate.”

At this, Edmund opened his eyes. “Wha-what?”

“Sir,” the doctor said, in a gentle voice, “you've sustained major burns to almost a third of your body. We're going to treat you with antibiotics.”

Edmund blinked.

“Sir, you were in a fire. You've been badly burned. We're going to treat you for the burns—and we're going to amputate your feet.”

The injured man groaned.

“Sir, your feet are severely infected. The infection has spread to the bone. If we don't remove your feet and part of your legs, the infection will enter into your bloodstream and cause sepsis—probably death.”

“No!” Edmund tried to struggle, but the pain was too great. “No,” he moaned. “You're not cutting off my feet!”

“Sir,” the doctor insisted. “You have diabetes. You must have had diabetes for quite some time now. If you'd seen a doctor earlier, perhaps we could have prevented the infection, or at least stopped it, early on. But when it's allowed to fester…”

“Please save my feet,” Edmund whispered. “I'll do anything. I have money. I can pay you,” he begged.

“I'm afraid it's too late now, sir,” the doctor said. “There are some things even money can't buy.”

Edmund turned his face to the wall. “It's hate.”

The doctor looked to the nurse, confused.

“I've let my hate fester. I've lived on it, consumed it—and now it's consumed me.” He moaned. “I tried to burn her out of my life and only ended up burning myself. All the hate—years and years of hate—has poisoned me, rotted me from the inside out…” His eyes rolled back in his head as he lost consciousness.

“Prepare him for surgery,” the doctor told his nurse.

John Sterling had resigned himself to not getting back to Washington in time for the new year. Walt Disney had invited him to a party that was being held at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He dressed, then realized he was early, so decided to have a drink first at the famed Polo Lounge.

“Macallan, neat,” John said at the bar, with a mural of Persian polo players. A buxom cigarette girl with a tray full of cellophane-wrapped packs made her way around the tables.

“Yes, sir,” the colored man behind the bar replied. He returned with the whiskey.

“Thank you,” John said. He waited, then took a sip. It was perfect. He gazed around the bar. There were genial conversations going on—he caught snippets of them, on topics such as film, books, and horses. At a nearby table, the unmistakable Marlene Dietrich was complaining to her manager about how tedious it was to be known as the woman with the world's best legs. “Then wear pants,” the man snapped.

“I might just do that,” she retorted.

A tiny man known as Buddy the Page—all of four feet tall, with frizzy orange hair, a brass-buttoned green jacket, and striped pants, marched through the lounge yelling, “Ca-ll fo-ooh Loo-ten-ant Stur-ling! Ca-ll fo-ooh Loo-ten-ant Stur-ling!”

John, embarrassed, raised a hand. “I'm Sterling.”

Buddy winked at him as he plugged in a pink telephone, then handed over the receiver. “Then this call is fo-ooh you.”

“Thank you.” John put the phone's receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

“Stalky, is that you?”

“Hello, Mr. Dis—er, Walt.”

Disney's voice boomed. “Couldn't wait until the party to tell you—I've been talking to your boys at the Air Ministry. They're a tough bunch—even demanding final script approval—but in the end, I decided to go for it. I've bought the rights to the Gremlins, Stalky. We're going to make a movie! So, what do you say, Stalky? We have a deal? I'll need you to stay here, work with us for a while. We can keep you at the Beverly, if you'd like.”