Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [69]
Taft’s lip curled in disgust as he remembered the last two times he’d done business with Fulsom Foods behind closed doors: in Rachel’s bathroom after Thanksgiving dinner and in the obscene food factory of Atomizer restaurant. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, Fulsom, but Bonesmen or not, I generally prefer to choose my own intimates, and I specifically prefer to decline this ‘helping hand’ of yours, thank you.”
“Well,” Fulsom murmured, “it’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”
The smug confidence of the man’s tone made Taft more nervous than he cared to admit. “Pardon me?”
“Oh, Taft. You big, innocent Taft of a man. Do you really think all these little Taft Party clusters around the country just willed themselves into being on a wing and a prayer? Do you think the poll numbers move themselves? Where do you think Osborne got the money to pull together so many Southern Christians, Eldridge got the money to assemble all those malcontent Republicans and Libertarians, Lommel got the money to convince entire trade unions to consider an alternative to the Democratic Party?”
“From … citizens’ groups,” Taft said, and he could hear the sound of sick revelation in his own voice. There, he supposed, was that other boot dropping at last.
“Sure. One citizen’s groups. Mine. What you had, Taft, was a bunch of fans around the water cooler and on the Internet. I made sure they got enough money and support to turn themselves into a Taft Party. This whole convention? You’re welcome. Consider it a welcome-back bash.”
Taft’s mind scrambled furiously to make sense of it. This was madness. If there was one, single thing he’d never do with his reputation, with his good name, it was ally with the forces of an amoral sick-monger like Fulsom, who doubtless saw men and chickens alike as only so much meat to be pureed and reshaped. But the sinking pit in his stomach assured him that, madness though it might be, it was also the truth. He’d encountered many men like Fulsom during his years in government—men who found their own worth only by controlling the fates of others—but he’d always held a sure enough footing to avoid being tripped up by their manipulations. But now he was in an unfamiliar world, and he’d allowed his disorientation to make him a target—a big, fat target, he thought bitterly.
And yet, he thought, it couldn’t be that simple. Something wasn’t right. “Why on earth,” he said, “would you want me, Bonesman or not, back in the White House, using the bully pulpit to denounce your infernal sausage grinder of a company?”
Fulsom slid to his feet. “Think about it, Taft,” he smiled. “For God’s sake. You’re a big boy.” He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, and paused. “Oh, and about that. Congratulations on your diet. But don’t lose too much weight, now. You’re a brand, Taft. A valuable brand. Just like Fulsom.” Then he slipped out the door quietly, leaving Taft to his privacy.
Taft sat perfectly still, unmoving, for fifteen minutes, then twenty, then twenty-five, as the threads of yet another new reality wove themselves into a pattern he could comprehend.
Blast it all, he hadn’t asked to be in this damnable position. Had he? He had. He had felt so lost in this strange new world, so helpless, that he had seized upon the first opportunity to make a grand assertion of potency. His granddaughter, the Tafties—he’d seen a way to help them, he thought, and thus to prove his life still had meaning. And so he’d hurled himself right back into the very campaign trail he’d been so eager to walk away from, just a year and a hundred earlier.
And, if he was to be honest with himself, he hadn’t just done it for them, either.
He looked over at his desk, where several stacks of books and papers were piled three layers high. A particular manila folder sat at the bottom of the tallest stack. All right, he thought violently, it was well nigh time to stop hiding from the past. He jerked himself to his feet before he could change his mind and pulled out the folder where Susan had gathered all the records of his apparent death.