Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [22]
The warmth of Irene’s room and words and presence carried him out the door and through the cold and back to the car where Rachel and Kowalczyk waited. His brain swirled with nebulous questions and memories he couldn’t capture long enough to name.
Fox News Poll
Do you think America is stronger today than it was 100 years ago?
Yes: 28 percent
No: 72 percent
Channel 12 Cincinnati News Poll
Do you approve of the job Rep. Rachel Taft (Ind.) is doing in Congress?
(October 23)
Yes: 41 percent
No: 47 percent
Undecided: 12 percent
(November 23)
Yes: 54 percent
No: 43 percent
Undecided: 3 percent
TEN
The Snow was falling at full speed—a great, fat, wet Cincinnati snow—by the time the car arrived at Rachel’s house. For some reason, this sudden onset of winter energized him. As Taft stomped his shoes on Rachel’s front step, he almost regretted having to enter the bright warmth that radiated from her open door.
That same warmth, however, wasn’t coming from Rachel. She’d grown increasingly terse and withdrawn as the blocks melted away and the car drew closer to her home. Taft didn’t know why and didn’t dare ask. He was the last person to pass judgment on the tempest of another’s soul, so long as that tempest harmed no one. But he swore, as she led him through the door of her house, that Rachel would rather she were inviting the Abominable Snowman to eat Thanksgiving dinner with her family. Or to eat her family.
“Um, please take off your shoes, Grandpa,” she mumbled absently as she closed the door behind them. “You can leave them here.”
Take off his shoes? Was this some religious observance? He shrugged and followed her lead, then hung his coat and hat on a hook on the wall nearby. Meanwhile Rachel seemed to be steadying herself for something—like, say, an oncoming train.
“Are you all right? You seem a little … out of sorts.”
She smiled a weak smile. “Sorry. It’s just that … Oh, never mind. Let’s just get this over with. Trevor! Trevor, honey, we’re home.”
“Coming!” Taft had to admit he liked his great-grandson-in-law already, from his voice alone. Strong, deep of timbre, full of character. Rachel had told him briefly that her husband was a lawyer, but she didn’t dwell on it, and she’d shown him no photos. No matter. Here he came around the corner, tall and broad shouldered and beaming and …
And black.
Taft stared. He could almost feel the air curdle around Rachel, who stood next to him, wound as tightly as a spring. This was why she’d been vague about her husband. She’d married a … an African American. Things had changed since 1913, and for the better. The sitting president was black. But this … He didn’t know what to think. Mixed marriages had not been unknown in his own time, of course. And he was in favor of them, though polite conversation would rarely edge toward such a subject. But his own family. He knew what he should feel: nothing but happiness for Rachel. But as this emotion flashed through his mind in that split second, so did another, less charitable one. Taft wasn’t proud of it. But there it was, as bitter and nasty as a clove of garlic dropped in a sauce.
Trevor must have seen the apprehension in Taft’s eyes, and in Rachel’s. Just as he rounded the corner, he halted, a smile frozen on his face. It began to harden. The air was thick with a tension that made Taft’s arm hair stand on end.
A second passed. Then another excruciating, interminable second. A bead of sweat trickled down Taft’s face.
Someone say something, his mind screamed.
“Grandpa!”
All of a sudden, a child’s voice broke the silence like a hammer through museum glass. From behind Trevor’s legs came a little girl, her skin almost as dark as his, her hair in beaded rows and a doll in her hand.
Not just any doll. As the girl ran to him, Taft saw it was a miniature, stuffed-toy version of him, complete with a puffy belly and a fuzzy mustache.
He looked at Trevor. He looked at Rachel.