Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [12]
PAULINE CRAIG: To right the ship of state, you might say.
JO L. JOHNSON: That’s right.
SIX
Moments after waking, Taft was up and busy. He laid out the only suitable set of outdoor clothes his caretakers had given him. Curious things, they were: the fabrics were softer and flimsier than what he was used to, and, although they fit him passably, their cut was far more accommodating than he’d ever experienced. What really surprised him, though, was how little fashion appeared to have changed since his time—at least when it came to men. What women wore these days, he shuddered, was enough to send a man to a monastery. Or a cathouse.
Then he bathed, dressed, trimmed his mustache, made himself a quick snack of bacon and coffee and buttered toast, and prepared to convince his handlers that it was time to let him venture into the streets of Washington. Future or no, he wasn’t doing anyone any good hiding in this damned apartment.
A knock came at the bedroom door. “Bill! It’s me. I’ve got a little surprise for you. You decent?”
Taft hurried to pull on his pants. “I’ll be right there, Kowalczyk!” He grabbed his coffee and marched out to the living room, where the agent was carrying a largish box under his arm.
“Bill, check this out,” Kowalczyk said as he took off his jacket. He opened the box and began scattering its contents across the carpet.
“Wonderful,” said Taft, mug in hand. “That looks like thirsty work. Would you like some coffee?”
“Not right now, thanks.” He was wiring some kind of machine to the television set. Then, with a look of triumph on his face, he pulled out two white sticks from the box. “Look, Bill. You ready for a few holes?”
Taft stared. The white sticks looked like golf clubs. Kowalczyk laid them on the sofa and picked up a device Taft had learned was called a remote control—a miraculous time-saver, even though the loud, maddening chaos of the television gave him a headache if he watched it for more than ten minutes at a sitting.
Kowalczyk punched a couple buttons, and a picture was summoned to the screen. It was far from maddening. Just the opposite.
It was a golf course.
Taft almost dropped his coffee. “Well,” he said under his breath, “what have we here.”
Kowalczyk beamed at him. “Come on! Take a club. Give it a try.” The agent didn’t wait for him. He’d already moved the coffee table aside and readied himself to tee off. On the screen, an animated little man mimicked Kowalczyk’s movements perfectly.
“Agent Kowalczyk,” said Taft, with awe in his voice, “you golf?”
“No, Bill. We golf. Here.”
Taft put down his mug and took the proffered club. It felt odd. Lightweight and crafted of plastic, its grip and heft were a far cry from a solid one-wood or three-iron. Still, the feel of the lance in his hand immediately calmed him. He remembered how much he’d been ridiculed in the press—hell, even by his own staff, party, and family—about his near-daily trips to the links. Golf, after all, was the leisure activity of the aristocrat. But it was his way of exercising, his way of clearing his head. And, most important, it was the line he drew between the demands of being the most powerful man in America and being simply an honest, plain fellow who needed green grass under his feet, fresh air in his lungs, and a blue sky overhead.
He assumed his address, aligned his club and body. Then he took a tentative test swing. The little man on the screen moved accordingly, like some kind of marionette connected to him by invisible strings. Taft couldn’t help but giggle. “This is quite remarkable, Kowalczyk. Quite remarkable.”
He readied himself again and then took a swing. He duffed.
“Damnation!” he howled in frustration. He tried again. This time, he took a deep breath and let his worries drain out of his head, down his spine, out his feet. True, there was no smell of shrubbery or tweeting of birds to lull him into a meditative