Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [16]
But that was before. Today, a woman sat at his table, buried in a newspaper, oblivious to his presence.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, approaching from across the table. “I would like to ask you a favor. This table has … a certain sentimental attachment to me. Would you at all mind if I asked you to move?”
The woman peered over the top of her paper at him. She was middle aged and a light-skinned Negro, Taft now noticed—no, he must remember to think African American, as Miss Weschler had told him was now proper—but dressed deceptively young for her age. She blew across her cup of coffee, her eyes still on him. “You know, it’s been fifty years since a white man made me give him my seat. I’m not so sure I want to go back to that right now.”
Taft didn’t quite catch the meaning of her words, but he got the cut of her jib.
“My deepest apologies, ma’am. I didn’t mean to put you out.”
“I was joking. No offense taken.” She smiled. “I’ll tell you what. I’m not in the mood to move to another table, but you’re more than welcome to join me.”
Taft grinned and sat down. “My name is Bill,” he offered.
“Well, of course it is, dear. My name is Dee Dee.” She held out her hand.
What a remarkably self-possessed woman! “Delighted,” he said, taking it. Bold and strong—now that’s how one shakes hands, regardless of one’s gender. His mother had shaken hands that way. Nellie, too.
“Out for a stroll, Bill?”
“Yes, indeed! I’ve always loved a brisk day in D.C. Sometimes it’s the only thing that can lift my spirits.”
She nodded toward the sandwich he’d already begun attacking. “That and some brisket.”
“Too true, too true. You know, Dee Dee,” he said, washing down a mouthful of meat with a swallow of rich, sweet egg cream, “D.C. isn’t my native land, but I do believe that if I’d ever lived here by choice rather than necessity, I’d have come to enjoy it much more than I do.”
“I hear that. I’m no native either. I’m from New Orleans. Katrina made me move up here, to live with my daughter.”
“And who is this interloping Katrina?” he asked, abandoning the egg cream’s inadequate straw and tipping back the glass for a gulp.
She laughed. “Oh, you are too funny. Here.” She picked up a napkin and reached toward his face. “You’ve got that stuff all over your mustache.”
Taft didn’t flinch. What a novel development. Clearly, a white man and a Negro woman sitting together in a restaurant was of no matter in the twenty-first century. He was less surprised than perhaps he should have been. He was, after all, a Republican, a member of the party of progress. In his heart of hearts, he had always believed it an inevitability that racial tensions would somehow ease as America grew and prospered, and that “separate but equal” was but a temporary measure.
Some had thought the president should address the question. But for the executive branch to overstep its boundaries and poke its nose into such social matters was, in Taft’s estimation, unconstitutional. Of course … he hadn’t balked at stretching executive power to bust trusts or form the Postal Savings System. Was he merely rationalizing his handling of the Negro issue? Had he been a coward? If so, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d shied away—or outright run away—from one of the many urgent issues that had pressed like the stone of Sisyphus upon his administration.
“There,” said Dee Dee, wiping the last of the egg cream from his whiskers, “that’s better. Lord, are you always such a mess?”
“Just a hearty eater,” he said with a chuckle. “Some say I’m famous for it.”
“Oh, really?” She leaned across the table, a mischievous look on her face. “Bill, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I know who you are.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. Seen you on TV. You were even in my history books when I was a little girl.”
Taft felt a blush creep up his neck. “History books. I must confess, that’s rather flattering.”
“Flattering? Bill, you’re legendary! The Great Missing President. The man with the mustache. The bathtub guy.”
Taft