Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [18]
If they only knew.
FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT (Ind.–OH)
To-do list—Tues. 22nd—Things to discuss with Grandpa
—Won’t do any political appearances while we’re home. But maybe we can take just one picture with the Cincinnati Little League?
—Thanksgiving dinner. Please invite Agent Kowalczyk to join us at the table.
—Please remember next time someone recognizes you that we all have cameras in our phones now. Phone waving is not a ritual greeting.
—Gay people. General catching up about all that.
—Your great-great-granddaughter is biracial. Please please oh god please don’t be weird about it. If you are, we’ll all deal. But please don’t. Oh hell.
EIGHT
First it had been the young man behind the bar at the airport restaurant. Now a whole crowd, albeit a small one, had gathered around Taft. Some were old. Some were young. Some were black. Some were white. Some had accents. Others didn’t. But they all had one thing in common: they wanted his autograph.
Apparently his twenty-first-century informal look only went so far.
“Yes, you there, my good fellow. Pass that newspaper over, and I’ll give it a good endorsing.” Rachel, bless her heart, had tried to keep them away at first, ordering Kowalczyk and his six-man Secret Service detail to form a barrier around Taft and walk him straight to the gate where his airplane was boarding. At first, that seemed sensible. But as the trickle of hangers-on became a small but swift current, he remembered his promise to Rachel. No more hiding out. No more running away.
He wished Susan hadn’t chosen to stay behind. The thought of her alone for Thanksgiving made his stomach somersault. As did the thought of the holiday itself. He had no idea what Thanksgiving dinners were like in this day and age, but he hoped that a big, fresh, juicy turkey remained the tradition. Hell, he’d eat Twinkies in place of pumpkin pie if he could just have a sizeable platter of gravy-drenched turkey.
“There you go, little girl. And you, ma’am, what would you like me to sign?” An alarmingly comely young woman pulled down the collar of her blouse—exceedingly thin and skimpy, as seemed to be the fashion in this shameless new century—as if to indicate her bosom.
“Ah, thank you, no. Might you have a piece of paper?” He signed an envelope she was holding and moved on to the next person, walking slowly along as he did.
The next person—a young man with a particularly puckish look on his face—offered Taft a small, flat, shiny box to sign. Upon it were the words President Kane. Before he could get a good look at it, Kowlaczyk snatched it out of the man’s hand and had one of the other agents hustle him away.
“What was that?”
Kowalczyk traded glances with Rachel. Was that a grimace of conspiracy on their faces? No, it couldn’t be. He was being, as Nellie used to say, far too sensitive.
“Just a DVD, sir. A movie. Nothing you need to be bothered with.”
“A moving picture? In a little box? Why, that sounds exactly like something I need to be bothered with.”
Rachel put her face near his ear. “Are you doing okay?” she whispered. If Taft didn’t know better, he’d say she was changing the subject. “Really, I’d have no problem with Kowalczyk moving these people back. They’re like vultures.”
He laughed. “And when has the public ever not? Besides, I’m honestly a bit terrified about this traveling through the air business.”
“It’ll be fine. We just need to get to the damn plane already. At least it’s a private jet. If we were flying commercial, we’d be screwed right about now.”
Taft moved on to the next outstretched piece of paper in his path. “All I know is this: if Teddy Roosevelt could go up in an airplane, so can I.” He remembered that day in October 1910 when he was sitting in the Oval Office and got the telephone call from Teddy. “Bill! You’ll never believe what I did today. The Wright Brothers themselves gave me a ride in one of their biplanes! Glorious! You should see what the earth looks like from such a height. The reporters are on