Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [32]
TAFT.
Kowalczyk shouted into his headset, but it was no use. Bodies were jostled and epithets hurled, and seconds later the reporters were in a pitched, rabid melee with the Taft supporters. Kowalczyk and his agents pushed through, and, after many nudges to his posterior and elbows to his midsection, Taft was shoved into the open door of the sedan.
“Where’s Susan?” he yelled at Kowalczyk, who was fighting to clear the are of flailing limbs so that he could close the door.
“Susan?” A flash of alarm crossed his face. “I thought she was in front of you.”
“Kowalczyk! She must still be out there!” Taft grunted and strained to haul himself back out of the car.
“What do you think you’re doing? I’ll find her. Stay put.”
“The hell I will.” Exhaling deeply as if emptying his lungs would help him fit through the door, Taft lunged past Kowalczyk, who was nearly bowled over by the swift mass flying past. He could hear the agent hollering in outrage behind him as he ducked his head and plowed forward into the writhing, shouting riot.
Any number of grievances had ignited riots in Taft’s time: labor, temperance, the threat of war. But as far as he’d known, no one had ever rioted over him. He tried to bury the pangs of guilt within his breast as he crashed into the crowd, letting his weight and inertia do most of the work.
As he did, he shouted for Susan.
His voice was swallowed by the mad crush. He couldn’t tell how much fighting was going on; it seemed there were more arguments and pandemonium than actual fisticuffs, although he did notice a fair share of those as well. Occasionally, a startled face, wide with recognition, would catch sight of him, but he paid them no heed and moved forward as boldly as a locomotive.
Then, through the parted legs of a rioter whacking a cameraman with his sign—TAFT 2012!!! it screamed in huge hand-painted letters—he saw her.
Susan lay limp on the grass, her head rolling from side to side. He often forgot how petite she was, and she had never seemed as tiny and fragile as she did now. She was trying to avoid the stamp of feet that hammered all around, but he could see traces of blood on her arms and forehead.
Taft had always been big boned, even as a boy. When he’d grown to adulthood and assumed public office, much was made of his size. But he’d been an athletic youth, and the strength he’d cultivated in his adolescence had never left. That strength came surging back into his limbs as he knifed through the crowd now, throwing aside reporters, protesters, and agents like rag dolls. Nothing stood in his way. He didn’t take his eyes off Susan until he’d reached her and picked her up effortlessly in his arms.
“Bill?” It was the first time, Taft realized, that she’d called him by his first name. Her eyes fluttered. She was clearly dazed, although Taft noted with a heave of relief that she had only one small cut on her face that accounted for the blood he’d seen. “Bill, did you see them? Their signs? I have to get this down. I have to …”
Her body lost what little tension remained. She slipped into unconsciousness.
William Howard Taft raised his great, jowled, whiskered face to the heavens and howled.
“Enough!” His voice thundered across the lot and echoed off the walls of the studio and nearby buildings, amplified by years of making speeches to large assemblies without the aid of electricity or microphones. “I said: ENOUGH!”
Taft was shocked by his own booming authority. His was the voice of a man righteously outraged, a human being in full possession of his faculties—in short, a president.
It took only a second for the mob to cease and still, stricken by awe. The few remaining pockets of conflict were squelched by those standing nearby. They all turned to look for the source of that voice.
There stood Taft, the prostrate form of Susan Weschler gathered