Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [35]
Dec. 22, 2011
Dear President Taft,
It is an honor, sir, to wish a Merry Christmas—and, indeed, a Joyous Resurrection—to a long-lost fellow Bonesman. Few are the fraternities of men given the opportunity to see one of their own restored to vitality after what must surely be considered a period of true death! Were we not so humble as we are, surely we must now consider Skull and Bones to have entered an august circle of divine institutions that also includes Christianity itself.
Naturally, you are engaged in your own pursuits. Know, regardless, that you are once again considered a treasured elder brother of this proud society, and that the comforts and community of the Skull and Bones Tomb remain at your disposal whenever you may choose to take advantage.
You represent both Yale and the Bonesmen mightily, sir, and from the freshest undergraduates to the most seasoned alumni, we remain—
Yours,
The men of Skull and Bones 322
THIRTEEN
William Howard Taft had been a son, a husband, and a father; he had been a scholarly student and a robust athlete; he had been a horseback rider and an automobile driver and an enthusiastic solver of logic puzzles. But as he spoke on the telephone with Irene Kaye, a woman who had once been fifty years his junior and was now fifty years his senior, he realized just how long it had been since he’d been in a position to just ask a grandma for some kindly advice.
“Something the matter with you?” the old woman’s voice crackled, and, indeed, Taft didn’t know whether the crackling was the telephone connection or her aged vocal cords. “Taft, if you don’t want to be in politics anymore, don’t be in politics anymore.”
“I fear it’s not quite that simple, Irene,” he said. “Were it only a matter of my own interests, I would happily agree. But I now have Rachel’s career to consider as well.”
She snorted. “She’s a big girl. Got into Congress without you. Taft, what do you want to do?”
“I … I don’t know. In March 1913, getting out of politics was all I could think of. You know, Irene, here’s what I do know: whatever I’m to do with the remainder of my life, I need to get out there and see America. I must understand the nation once again if I’m to be part of it under any terms.”
“Well, now,” said the scratchy voice across the ether, “that wasn’t hard, was it? Get out of there, Taft. Take a vacation.”
Yes. Yes, indeed. He had once been called the motoring president, hadn’t he? It was time to get back in touch with his adventuresome side.
It was time, in short, for a road trip.
CLASSIFIED
Secret Service Incidence Report
BBR2011226.004
Agent Ira Kowalczyk
At 0959, handed off the D.C. security detail to Agent Pearsall for the duration of Big Boy’s cross-country road trip—said duration yet to be determined. In order to facilitate Big Boy’s insistence on a mere one-man guard presence while on the road, I have equipped Big Boy with a Mark II panic button and instructed him in its emergency use. Furthermore, I have determined that we will once and for all be addressing the recognition factor.
FOURTEEN
In the room of the cheap, out-of-the-way motel Kowalczyk had carefully scouted and snuck them into that evening, Taft sat on a shabby, cigarette-burned bedspread and watched television as if in a trance. The feature, despairingly enough, was a farcical and at times willfully offensive program called WKRP in Cincinnati. Save for a character known as Johnny Fever—who, Taft couldn’t help but notice with envy, was almost angelically easygoing, as if under the sway of some pharmaceutical relaxant—it was horrible. Was this how Americans viewed his beloved home? Was it no longer a proud boomtown, the City of Seven Hills, but a repository for incompetent clerks and buxom floozies? He nibbled absently on a leg of fried chicken, unable to change the channel or even divert his gaze.
“What the hell are you watching?” Kowalczyk said as he opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the tiny, two-bed sleeping room. He carried a white plastic bag that Taft hadn’t noticed earlier.