Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [29]
“Indeed, Pauline, indeed. For instance, I was born in Cincinnati, and I am an Ohioan through and through.” He drummed his chest with his fingers. “And where, my dear, are you from?”
Craig was clearly blindsided by the sudden reversal. “Me? New Jersey.”
Taft threw an expansive expression toward the audience. “New Jersey! A splendid state. A shame about that disgraceful television show, though. You’re not from the Jersey shore, are you?”
A wave of tittering swept the crowd. “Well, yes. Mr. President, let’s talk about you. America wants to know all about you. The real you. Why you’ve come back, and what you plan to do now that you’re here.”
“The real me?” He patted his girth and grinned again. “As you can see, I’ve nothing to hide.” They didn’t laugh this time, but he could almost feel a glow from the crowd. Self-deprecation, he was relieved to see, was still the great equalizer. “As for what I plan to do, I haven’t quite decided yet. Coming back wasn’t my choice, as I know has been widely reported already. I wish I had more to add, but sadly I do not. I, however, have always been one to look toward the future.”
“The future? For you, Mr. President, it seems that your descendant, Congresswoman Rachel Taft, may be exactly that. Have you spoken with her about her political plans for 2012?”
He and Susan had planned for this question. Still, he felt unclean—as he always did while telling even the smallest falsehood—by his prepared and prevaricating answer. “Rachel is her own person, of course. And, as you know, her position as an independent makes things a little trickier for her as she tests the waters.”
“Not to mention a moderate,” said Pauline with a hint of a sneer.
“Moderate to the extreme, let me assure you.” This lady was beginning to try his amiable demeanor, but the crowd registered a few scattered hoots of approval. “If there were more people like her in government, we might have far less use as a people for political rooster yards and henhouses.” His look took in the whole of Craig’s stage and audience. The latter loved it, and a howl rose from the seats.
“Speaking of which, from what I understand, you kept many barnyard animals in the White House. I’m sure that made for a fair amount of dignity in the eyes of the nation.”
Taft laughed along; he didn’t dare let on that he couldn’t quite get the gist of her joke. What domicile the size of the White House didn’t have horses, cows, pigs, and chickens? And then he remembered: supermarkets, agribusiness, food subsidies, and surpluses. He’d picked up enough about such matters from Rachel and Susan, and it only made sense that the divide between urban and rural life had become more marked since his day. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember picking up any of the pungent, familiar manure smells during his brief time at the White House, after his awakening. For a moment, he felt a quick pang of nostalgia.
Then, lost in thought and almost absently, he said, “Yes, of course, we kept animals at the White House during my administration. What’s the word you use for it now? Sustainability? But that was just the way life was a hundred years ago. Unlike today, we were on a first-name basis with our food. Why, I had a prized cow pastured at my White House named Pauline! And a fine, broad-collared, milk-heavy cow she was. Pauline, I miss your rich cream and soothing company!”
Suddenly, all that could be heard throughout the studio was the buzzing hum of the lights.
Then the crowd erupted. The laughter died down quickly enough—Taft wondered if they were being prompted somehow; was there a sign he couldn’t see?—and he realized what he’d just said. Of course, he was no stranger to such faux pas; Teddy had called it a gift, right up there with his long-windedness and lack of discretion. Granted, Taft sometimes loved to play dumb in pretentious company, just so he could levy such barbs, puncture an ego or two, and retreat