Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [27]
“You do?”
“Absolutely. It really brings out your feminine side.”
Taft let the comment slide. In truth, he was glad for the chance to banter. The previous week’s worth of preparation had left his head stuffed with facts, figures, strategies, counterstrategies, and even a scorched-earth endgame should Craig blindside him with some kind of cheap stunt, as she’d done before. Her response when Susan had accepted the invitation on his behalf was cordial and professional, and even Susan had to admit she’d never been able to figure out exactly where Craig was coming from. Unlike other hosts of popular political-discussion programs, Craig tended to attract the rabidly independent, those viewers so exactly in the middle—or so far to either extreme—of the political spectrum that party affiliation had little meaning. Accordingly, her ideology was slippery. Susan admitted that she admired Craig on a strictly technical level, mostly for her almost magical ability to couch complex issues in blunt catchphrases that nonetheless managed to be vague enough to resonate with a relatively wide variety of audiences. She was envied and feared … and reviled by more mainstream journalists, who felt her methods and mode of delivery sounded the death knell of journalism.
Taft, for his part, felt the same about Craig as he did any journalist. She stank. Granted, he’d been cozy enough with the press during his tenures as Teddy’s governor of the Philippines and secretary of war. Then again, during the latter appointment there had been no actual war. It wasn’t until the first few months of Taft’s presidency that he began to see journalists for what they really were: vipers, Visigoths, vandals hell-bent on poisoning a man’s confidence before destroying him altogether. As a public servant sworn to uphold the Constitution, he fully realized the importance—indeed, the vital necessity—of a free press to the function of democracy. That said, in his heart of hearts, he’d have had every last one of them rounded up and pilloried if he’d been able.
As if sensing the tide of bitterness welling in his breast, Susan laid a hand on his shoulder. “Remember the first rule: don’t let your emotions get the best of you. When you’re out there, smile. Be polite. Take every question, no matter how negative, as a fair and welcome one. Stick to your talking points; this is about Rachel more than anything else. Steer the conversation toward her whenever possible. Oh, and I almost forgot to pass along this little method: if you start to get nervous, look over at Pauline Craig and imagine her naked.”
Taft felt his heart kick like the horses in his old White House stables.
“Excuse me?”
Susan’s face was pregnant with some unreadable emotion as she opened her mouth to answer. But before she could say anything, a woman knocked on the door and cracked it open without waiting for a reply. “Mr. Taft,” she said, sticking her smiling face and a beckoning finger into the room. “It’s time. You’re on. Let me get this mic on you. Then, please, follow me.”
TAFT HAD NEVER BEEN ONE to rely on the conceit of the metaphor, but as he stepped, or rather was thrust, onto the stage of Raw Talk with Pauline Craig, he couldn’t help but compare himself, not without chagrin, to a baby bird. His nest behind him, he felt lighter than air as he floated—as much as a man well past 300 pounds was able to float—across the carpet of Craig’s set. It was far smaller than he’d imagined, and electric lights exploded in his eyes like a dozen suns. He could hear Susan’s voice behind him, a harsh whisper, something about staying on course to Craig’s guest chair alongside her desk. His ears roared as if a tornado tore past them, but it may have only been applause. Vertigo nearly overtook him, but just as his stomach felt ready to fly along ahead of him, his hand came to rest on the arm of the chair.
Then, silence.
A drop of sweat trickled along his temple, hung there, and then ran down his cheek and into his mustache. It felt, he estimated, as if