Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [50]
Or maybe I’m drunk. Before 5 p.m., even.
• Location: Penn Quarter
FROM THE DESK OF REP. RACHEL TAFT (Ind.–OH)
Notes—Tues. 3rd—Do I really want to run for vice president?
Cons:
—We won’t win. Third parties don’t. Lot of time and ulcers to put into losing.
—Distraction from legislation, just when it’s time to introduce the International Foods Act.
—Crass exploitation of family name instead of personal achievements.
—Putting Abby and Trevor through the ringer.
—Putting stress on relationship with Grandpa.
—Putting stress on Grandpa, period. How can this be a good idea for him?
Pros:
—We won’t win. Ought to make it easy to stay honest.
—None of the other challengers are much to write home about anyway.
—Populist celebrity means influence means my legislation gets more support. Sometimes. Maybe.
—Crass exploitation of family name has worked very well for Kennedys, Bushes, etc.
—Trevor and Abby think we should do it.
—Well, why DID Wm Howard get zapped into the future, if not for this?
From Taft: A Tremendous Man, by Susan Weschler:
When I went to work for President Taft as his liaison to the twenty-first century, the first order of business was to start him off with a basic primer on the most important events that had happened in America and the world since he’d vanished. He dove right into the big-scale history and ate it right up. But when it came to the personal history, to the question of how his own disappearance had directly affected his own familiar world, it was a different story. He didn’t want to hear about it. He wasn’t ready to process it.
When he returned to Washington, D.C., after his New Year’s road trip, there was a new resolve in his eyes. He asked me if he could look at that folder, the one he’d shied away from two months earlier. I gave it to him, and I will never forget the look in his eyes as he opened it to find, sitting on top, a black and white photograph. I knew what he was seeing: his wife. His beloved Nellie and all his children, along with the rest of his family, his friends, his colleagues. They stood outdoors, in a familiar place: Arlington National Cemetery.
“That’s … that’s my grave, isn’t it? That’s a photograph of my funeral.” It wasn’t a question. It was obvious.
I told him: After he’d gone missing from Wilson’s inauguration, there’d been a citywide search. Then nationwide. Then worldwide. After months, it was clear he wasn’t to be found. Theories abounded. Had he been kidnapped by a foreign power? Did he run away from the pressures of politics to live a quiet life incognito? Was it suicide? But eventually it was clear that the nation needed a funeral. So an empty casket was buried at Arlington. He was the first president to be buried in the national military cemetery, though of course no part of his body actually lay there.
Tears were rolling down President Taft’s cheeks as he saw this picture of his own memorial, this tableau that no man ever sees. Then I saw his face harden as his eyes flickered from the image of his wife and children to the man standing next to them. Teddy Roosevelt. The man who’d been his friend. The man who’d then spent Taft’s last two years relentlessly tearing him down in public, trying to reclaim the office he’d previously seemed glad to hand off to his friend. There stood Roosevelt at Taft’s funeral, a hand of comfort on Nellie’s shoulder. I could only imagine what was going through his mind.
“President Taft,” I said, “Roosevelt delivered a eulogy for you. I think you might be interested to read it.”
“No,” he said. “No, Miss Weschler, I would not be so interested.” He closed the folder and shook his head. “It’s done. It’s the past. It’s gone. Let us look to the future.”
TWENTY-ONE
The Frayed Denim and faded flannel of Allen “the Electrician” Holtz’s clothes—the same ones he always seemed to wear—carried a calming, workaday aura. Taft found himself staring down at the man’s attire, avoiding his eyes, as Allen escorted him, with Susan at his side, into the living room of the modest suburban D.C. home