Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [62]
It was that subtle, quiet, hometown affirmation Taft now sought out. Cicadas whispered in anticipation of the cool twilight as he wound his way toward the neoclassical stoicism of Blegen Library and toward the College of Law, a spot he felt both apt and flattering for the placement of the statue in his likeness.
He had to rub his eyes the first time he’d seen it, when he visited the campus with Susan at the start of the campaign as she consulted with a former colleague then tenured at UC. Not wanting to cause a stir, he’d drifted away from their historical discussion, wandering across the campus, the old Ohio sun as warm and friendly as ever on his face. He asked directions to the law school from a passerby, who looked at him with wide eyes before directing him on his way and then hurrying along.
He’d always felt a kinship to UC during his years teaching law here, despite being a Yalie through and through, and a member of Skull and Bones, no less, the covert fraternity his father had cofounded. Taft had never fully cottoned to the sneaky, elitist society, however, any more than he had the high office of the presidency and all its sordid secrets. But a law school, yes: that was the seat of his true brotherhood. That was where people were taught to lay truths and falsehoods out on the scales, to weigh and measure them against a body of precedent, to wield jurisprudence in interpreting the letter of the law.
After that first visit, he’d returned to the campus whenever he was able to take a few days away from campaigning to catch his breath in Cincinnati, as he did now. He snuck away at dusk, when it was easiest to shake off Kowalczyk’s guard, and when it was less embarrassing to consult with the figure that now loomed before him.
His statue stood there, tucked away humbly enough at the rear entrance of the College of Law. At first he’d been angry that Susan hadn’t told him about it, but then he realized she’d probably coaxed him here so that he’d discover it for himself. No matter. It was a weathered yet dignified effigy, one that depicted him—in slimmer days as a federal judge—dressed in his robes and holding a book, which is exactly how he’d always wished the world to picture him. Quiet, studious, fair, yet with a hint of easy geniality. That someone had seen fit to depict him this way, to cast him so in bronze, sent him over the moon. At least at first; as the summer, and the campaign, ground on, he’d begun to visit his statue more as a ritual, as a way of reminding himself of who he was, or at least who he felt he should be.
“Hello, old boy,” he said aloud as he approached himself, the figure standing straight backed and staring out at the horizon. He sat down on the chipped edge of the dais and looked up at himself, the forced perspective almost comical to him. He patted the cool concrete of his perch. “How’s your week been?”
The statue stared off, lost in bemusement.
“Oh, if only Susan could see me at this moment, talking to myself! The psychological depths she could plumb; she’d have a field day.” He chuckled. “In any case, I may never have told you this, but I appreciate you keeping your guard up while I was, uh, underground for a few decades. It turns out the likeness is more durable than the man.
“Still, there’s something to that, isn’t there? You and I, we were both sculpted in someone else’s image of us. It isn’t a bad image. In many cases, it’s kind of exaggerated for the better, don’t you think? There you are, bold and upright and worthy of tribute, the way the sculptor chose to cast you. And there I was, a president of the United States … only my dear Nellie had to spend much of her life chipping away at the parts of me that were not a president. Maybe we’re not so unlike, you and I. Ha, yes, well, of course we aren’t, are we?”
The statue smiled silently.
“Of course, of course, old boy. Just grin and bear it. At least you get to hide out here at the rear entrance of a school you never attended. But there is one