Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [63]
With those faces still dancing inside his head, Taft reached into his pocket. “In case I don’t sound quite mad enough just talking at you, I also brought something for you.” He pulled out a small, colorful plastic figure, Abby’s Taft doll, the one she’d smuggled into his luggage before he’d left on his disastrous sabbatical with Kowalczyk. “I know two’s company, but I figured why not make it a crowd?”
Whistling, he stood the little Taft on his tiny legs and began marching him around the base of the statue. Absurd, yes, he knew. But what wasn’t absurd in this strange new life he’d been given?
He realized suddenly that he’d been whistling a song, “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine.” He’d heard it only once since he woke up in this mad world: on the television at Rachel and Trevor’s home, which had been showing a film, a love story, whose scenario was set amid the brief, tragic voyage of the Titanic.
The Titanic! It had been a disaster beyond belief in his time. It had sent the whole nation into mourning. It had taken away Taft’s own best friend. But it was nothing compared to what the American of the twenty-first century dealt with almost daily. True, Americans today enjoyed more prosperity, better medical care, a higher standard of living, and far greater safety in almost every facet of life. But the potential for global catastrophe had increased alongside. What if he, miracle of miracles, ultimately won this election? Odds are, he’d be marching young men and women off to war with as much impunity as he was now marching his own small self around.
And then there was Irene. How long could she possibly hold on? And what would he do once that last link to his own time was severed? Susan probably knew at least as much about 1912 as Irene did, but Susan’s soul was strictly academic. Or was it? Against his best judgment, he allowed himself to remember how she’d been nearly the first thing he thought of after waking up with Samantha on New Year’s Day, and how he nonetheless shied away from acknowledging her presence in his life as not just a colleague but a woman. What was he so afraid of? That if he got too close, he’d once more let someone else dictate the proceedings of his life?
He patted the leg of the greater Taft. “What am I doing, worrying about these things?” he murmured. “No politician is his own man, nor should he be. He should be an implement of the people he represents. That’s the problem, old boy, isn’t it? Who am I potentially serving? Who are these Tafties, and why the hell do they think I can save them from themselves? Is it simply a case of everything old being new again? I guess I’ll be finding out soon enough, at the convention.” He snorted. “Taft Party National Convention, indeed. I’ve been trying to judiciously ration my speaking engagements since I announced my run—me, who was once taken to task regularly by the press for my long-winded speeches! But I can’t face these people for more than a few minutes at a time before growing agitated. And it’s certainly not as though I need to practice for the presidential debates. As a third-party crackpot, I won’t even be asked to participate. Not that I regret no longer being a Republican; there’s little left of the progressive party of mine to even recognize, let alone rally. And if my dealings with the GOP in 1908 and 1912 taught me anything, it’s this: I don’t want to be in any party that would have me as its leader.” His face brightened, and he began rummaging through his pockets, looking for a pen and paper. “Hmm, that was a good one. I must jot that down!”
All he could find to write on was a wrapper. Some damned Fulsom confection or another. His stomach