Taft 2012 (21 page)

“My good fellow,” Taft said, “I do appreciate your solicitousness, but I am—I am rather thoroughly occupied today! Why don’t you leave me your calling card, and we shall schedule a meeting when I might devote the proper attention.”

“Of course,” said the man in the suit, smiling faintly, and withdrew a card from his breast pocket. Taft took it and had already opened his mouth to bid the man farewell when the name on the card registered in his vision: AUGUSTUS FULSOM. Taft’s mouth hung open as he stared from the card back to the man, who nodded silently.

“Kowalczyk,” Taft said, “this gentleman and I will speak privately for a moment. Do let any other callers know that I’m unavailable until after the speech, yes?” Ignoring the bodyguard’s quizzical look, he gestured for Fulsom to enter the room and closed the door behind them.

“Good to see a brother Bonesman back on his feet, Taft,” Fulsom said, seating himself upon the desk by the window overlooking the river view. “Ah, Cincinnati. Beautiful city. Did you know that Cincinnati has one of the highest per-capita rates of Fulsom Foods products in the Midwest? And for the Midwest, that’s saying something.”

“One of the highest obesity rates, too,” Taft answered. He drifted to the coffee table in front of the sofa and nonchalantly flipped over his open notebook. “Not to mention diabetes, heart disease, and colon cancer,
and
the industrial runoff from the three Fulsom plants in the vicinity.”

“Plants that employ approximately two thousand
Cincinnatians, if I remember correctly,” Fulsom said. “In a recession, no less.”

“I think it might be best, sir, if you explained your visit,” Taft said stiffly. “Surely you are aware from my public comments that I am not a supporter of your company’s work.”

“What, that?” Fulsom waved a hand casually, as if to brush the remark aside. “That’s nothing to worry about, Taft. We all have the game to play. I don’t take it personally.”

“Game? You think I play mere politics, sir? You foist unwholesome foods upon the American people, and I shall continue to say so.”

Fulsom arched an eyebrow. “Everything is politics, and there’s nothing ‘mere’ about it. Take this campaign of yours. It’s a lark. It’s a carnival show. You’re playing the role of the jolly jester who’s allowed to say silly things because you’ve got a silly mustache and a silly belly. And yet you’re winning the hearts of Americans left and right. Crazy as it sounds, Taft, you just might take this election.”

It was a thought Taft had been refusing to think. “And?”

“And whether you do or not, I’m on your side. I’m behind you, William Howard Taft. Because we Bonesmen have got to stick together. Eight years ago—before your time, I know—we had two Bonesmen going at each other for the White House, the Republican and the Democrat both, and it was ugly. Not the race—that’s always ugly—but the rift it caused in Skull and Bones, half the membership taking sides against the other half. Ruined Christ knows how many perfectly good business partnerships just because people took their politics personally. I’m not about that. I want to see the wheels of commerce keep on spinning smooth as ever. And that means never mind what you say about me in public. What matters is, behind closed doors, we all know that we’re lending each other a hand.”

Taft’s lip curled in disgust as he remembered the last two times he’d
done business
with Fulsom Foods behind closed doors: in Rachel’s bathroom after Thanksgiving dinner and in the obscene food factory of Atomizer restaurant. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, Fulsom, but Bonesmen or not, I generally prefer to choose my own intimates, and I specifically prefer to decline this ‘helping hand’ of yours, thank you.”

“Well,” Fulsom murmured, “it’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

The smug confidence of the man’s tone made Taft more nervous than he cared to admit. “Pardon me?”

“Oh, Taft. You big, innocent Taft of a man. Do you really think all these little Taft Party clusters around the country just willed themselves into being on a wing and a prayer? Do you think the poll numbers move themselves? Where do you think Osborne got the money to pull together so many Southern Christians, Eldridge got the money to assemble all those malcontent Republicans and Libertarians, Lommel got the money to convince entire trade unions to consider an alternative to the Democratic Party?”

“From … citizens’ groups,” Taft said, and he could hear the sound of sick revelation in his own voice. There, he supposed, was that other boot dropping at last.

“Sure. One citizen’s groups. Mine. What you had, Taft, was a bunch of fans around the water cooler and on the Internet. I made sure they got enough money and support to turn themselves into a Taft Party. This whole convention? You’re welcome. Consider it a welcome-back bash.”

Taft’s mind scrambled furiously to make sense of it. This was madness. If there was one,
single
thing he’d never do with his reputation, with his good name, it was ally with the forces of an amoral sick-monger like Fulsom, who doubtless saw men and chickens alike
as only so much meat to be pureed and reshaped. But the sinking pit in his stomach assured him that, madness though it might be, it was also the truth. He’d encountered many men like Fulsom during his years in government—men who found their own worth only by controlling the fates of others—but he’d always held a sure enough footing to avoid being tripped up by their manipulations. But now he was in an unfamiliar world, and he’d allowed his disorientation to make him a target—a big, fat target, he thought bitterly.

And yet, he thought, it couldn’t be that simple. Something wasn’t right. “Why on earth,” he said, “would you want me, Bonesman or not, back in the White House, using the bully pulpit to denounce your infernal sausage grinder of a company?”

Fulsom slid to his feet. “Think about it, Taft,” he smiled. “For God’s sake. You’re a big boy.” He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, and paused. “Oh, and about that. Congratulations on your diet. But don’t lose too much weight, now. You’re a brand, Taft. A valuable brand. Just like Fulsom.” Then he slipped out the door quietly, leaving Taft to his privacy.

Taft sat perfectly still, unmoving, for fifteen minutes, then twenty, then twenty-five, as the threads of yet another new reality wove themselves into a pattern he could comprehend.

Blast it all, he hadn’t asked to be in this damnable position. Had he? He had. He had felt so lost in this strange new world, so helpless, that he had seized upon the first opportunity to make a grand assertion of potency. His granddaughter, the Tafties—he’d seen a way to help them, he thought, and thus to prove his life still had meaning. And so he’d hurled himself right back into the very campaign trail he’d been so eager to walk away from, just a year and a hundred earlier.

And, if he was to be honest with himself, he hadn’t just done it for them, either.

He looked over at his desk, where several stacks of books and papers were piled three layers high. A particular manila folder sat at the bottom of the tallest stack. All right, he thought violently, it was well nigh time to stop hiding from the past. He jerked himself to his feet before he could change his mind and pulled out the folder where Susan had gathered all the records of his apparent death. He brushed his hand across the photo of Nellie, then shuffled the papers below it and pulled out the eulogy Teddy Roosevelt had delivered at his funeral.

He read it. And then he sat still for five more minutes.

He rose again and went to tell Rachel what had transpired, and to suggest to her what they should do about it. He knew she would agree. But he had to give her the chance to disagree. She was, after all, her own woman.

But he knew she would agree. She was, after all, a Taft.

W
illiam Howard Taft had been a boy playing ball on the streets of Cincinnati; a young man in love with a brilliant, heartbreakingly lovely woman; a judge and a governor charged daily with making decisions that would shape the lives of hardworking people, for better or worse; and, finally, the inhabitant of one of the most powerful offices in the world. And as he walked onto the stage to the relentless, booming wave of applause that struck him in the chest even as the blinding spotlights smote him in the eyes, what he thought was: well, it has all come to this.

He raised his hand and, incredibly, the cheering surged louder. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He waved sharply, once, in the abrupt chopping motion he’d learned through years of necessity, and slowly the crowd quieted. Taft cleared his throat.

“My friends,” he said. “My fellow Americans.”

He paused.

“They say that the cheerful loser is a sort of winner. I am well accustomed to this perspective!” There was widespread laughter.
“Today … today I am a winner, indeed. For today I face the prospect of the greatest loss I could ever experience. And I find that I am possessed of the surest, most certain, and indeed the most cheerful peace of mind any man could possibly have.

“I do not speak of the election. The election—and I will be blunt now, and I dare say you will be startled, but fear not, for this is a simple truth which at heart I know you all understand—the election is a small thing.” Now there was near-total silence. “Men and women win and lose elections every year, and they perform to the best of their abilities, or sometimes to the worst of their corruptions, and the nation goes about its business. It is true that some presidents, some congressmen, some judges are better than others; some are worse. It is true that some face unthinkably great challenges and rise to the occasion, while others manage to bungle affairs that should have been handled by a competent statesman with the simplest of ease. And yet the nation goes on, so long as every new election arrives and we resolve to do it again, and to do it right. To once more choose the finest candidate we can find. It is not any one election that matters. It is
all
the elections, together, in a continuum that ensures we will never rest upon our laurels but will strive anew for constant betterment.