Fluke Page 2

  “I brought you a poem.”

  “A poem.”

  “Yes sir. For the Marion Star’s ‘Poem of the Week.’”

  “And you wrote it? All by yourself?”

  “Oh yes sir.”

  “Well if it’s good, we just might publish it.” Harding winks at Foraker. “Like to read it to us?”

  Solemnly, Nan nods, slides a piece of paper from her pocket, and unfolds it. “It’s called ‘My True Love.’”

  Harding smiles at her encouragingly. “’My True Love.’ Well, well. Let’s hear it.”

  Nan begins reading to him in a small, clear voice. “My True Love, by Nan Britton.” She takes a deep breath, then plunges in.

  “Upon a white steed there rides into my life

  A man Fate had destined to make me his wife.

  A blink of an eye and I’m under his spell.

  From that moment on, in my soul he doth dwell.”

  “My, my,” says Foraker. ‘”In my soul he doth dwell.’ Please, go on child.”

  Nan draws another breath, then lets fly:

  “Our lips meet in passion, our bodies entwine. My mind is aswim in desire divine. The heat of my heart exceeds that of the sun. Two loins meld together as we become one.” Harding and Foraker exchange a look of astonishment. Nan ventures her first smile. “That’s my poem.” A dense silence.

  Harding clears his throat. “Yes . . . well. That’s quite a — poem, er, Nan. Quite a poem. Yes indeedy.” Foraker nods.

  Nan’s green eyes glow. “Is it good enough, do you think? Good enough to be in the paper?”

  Harding weighs his words. “Well, yes it’s quite good.” He pauses. “Not our usual thing, though. Most of our poems are more — actually, they’re less. . .”

  Nan’s face falls.

  Harding shifts gears. “But, er, sure. I think with — a little editing we could put it in. Is that all right? If we change it just a bit.”

  “Oh yes sir,” replies Nan, brightening again. “Whatever you think best. Thank you.”

  Proudly she hands it over to him. Harding takes it, affectionately pats Nan’s shoulder, and looks the poem over in continuing disbelief.

  Foraker squints at the budding poetess. “How old are you, young lady?”

  “Fifteen, sir. Just this month.”

  “Fifteen, fifteen. Hmmm.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I have to go. My mother asks that I come straight home after school.”

  Harding nods. “That’s good, Nan. Always listen to your mother.” Again he clears his throat. “Your mother — she hasn’t by chance seen this . . . ?”

  “Oh no. You’re the only one.” Meaningfully, she looks up at him, her eyes deep green pools. “I wanted you to be my first.” She gives him a smile that would set a glacier to the boil. “Well — good-bye, Mr. Harding.” The merest glance at Foraker. “Good-bye, sir.”

  The front doorbell jingles as Nan returns to the street.

  Foraker shakes his head. “You see? Teach young ladies to read and write — this is what you get.”

  3.

  There are seven enjoying supper that evening at the Harding home, a three-story Queen Anne on Oak Street, though in fact contrarily set amongst century-old elms. The dining room, like the rest of the house, is redolent of Edwardian overstuffed, Midwestern comfort. Candles supplement the elemental electric lighting, neither yet any match for the setting sun, glowing through the leaded glass windows.

  The host carves one last slice off a gigantic ham, then starts the platter of meat around the table. “Now all of you forget that bird for a moment,” commands Harding. “Start on Doc’s ham. You never in your life had ham like this.”

  He presides at one end of a well-supplied dining room table, his wife Florence, Harding’s “Duchess,” a full half-dozen years his senior, heavyset and sternly maternal, holding down the other. Joining them this warm summer night are Everett Sawyer, a crusty, spry general practitioner in his sixties; the Cartwrights, middle-aged long-time friends from across town; and a monied couple in their thirties, the Phillipses, Harding’s next-door neighbors. And Old Abe lying in his usual place at his master’s feet.

  Jack Phillips eats little but drinks much, and has already settled into a stupor; he is hardly one to discern that his unexpectedly svelte and urbane wife, Carrie, sitting on Harding’s immediate right, has difficulty keeping her eyes off the host. Florence Harding chooses not to notice. For the most part. “Doc Sawyer cured the ham himself,” she boasts, on her guest’s behalf.

  “Have you a cure now for everything, Doctor?” asks Carrie, in a silken voice.

  “Seem to do best with ham,” Doctor Sawyer replies.

  As the ham is passed along, Florence follows with a plate of creamed potatoes, ladling them out with a silver serving spoon, starting with the doctor. “Hardly anybody knows that you’re just about the finest physician in Ohio, Doc, and they never will, less you quit being so modest. How long have you kept my one poor kidney agoin’?”

  Harding’s brows knit. Twenty years of marriage have yet to accustom him to his wife’s directness. “My dear . . . !”

  “Well it’s true, Wurr’n. Weren’t for Doc I’d a been laid out years ago.”

  Sawyer chuckles. “Florence, you and your one poor kidney will outlast us all.”

  “Not if she keeps pushing herself like she does,” says Harding. “Top of everything else, she’s taken to coming down to the paper again.”

  Florence argues her case to the entire table. “Someone has to oversee the accounts. Klein’s hadn’t sent a penny for its advertisements of last Christmas!” She and her creamed potatoes reach Carrie, who declines with the raising of a delicate hand — and nonetheless receives a triple portion, served with some force.

  “Klein’s been having its financial problems,” Harding observes.

  “Though in fairness,” says Florence, resuming her seat, “it’s been last Christmas since my husband’s sent them a bill.”

  “We know they haven’t the money,” Harding persists, gently. “Why rub it in.”

  Florence shakes her head and holds out her palms in exasperation. Carrie looks ever more lovingly at Harding. He hastens to change the subject. “Meanwhile, it’s election time again, isn’t it? Plenty of notices there.” He smiles reassuringly at Florence. “All paid in advance.”

  Just outside the Harding home, Nan comes pedaling her bike down the sidewalk, the last rays of sunlight winking off the spokes of the wheels, turning them to streaks of bronze. She stops at the front gate and gazes across the small lawn to the dining room window.

  At least twice a day I would ride my bike past the Harding home on Oak Street and imagine his moving about in this room or that. I wondered what it might be like to be the lady of the house — preparing Mr. Harding’s supper, ironing his clothes, chatting with him every day, taking in his words of wisdom. And touching him. Whenever I liked.

  Inside, Carrie Phillips toys with similar thoughts as her slender fingers fondle a cigarette, much to Florence’s unspoken disapproval. Few women in Marion have had a kind word for Carrie for the same reason men found her compelling — she possessed a succulent face that looked as if it had just come awake on an adjacent pillow. “Ever consider State office yourself, Warren?” Carrie asks.

  “Absolutely not . . .”

  “Certainly he has,” insists Florence, simultaneously.

  Harding shakes his head. “That’s fine for folks who like stirring things up. I happen to think the world is getting along all right. Just as is.”

  Florence looks steadily at her husband. “Now Wurr’n, as I recall, only last week we talked about your running for governor.”

  “As I recall, one of us did all the talking.”

  Sawyer takes up the cause. “Well why the hell not, Warren? You’ve got so many boosters here and about
. . .”

  “Marion keeps re-electing you alderman year after year,” adds Zach Cartwright.

  Harding smiles modestly. “The more a politician actually does, good people, the more enemies he makes. Fortunately, an alderman doesn’t really do anything. So, I get to keep my friends.”

  “My husband’s driving ambition,” says Florence with a sigh: “To travel from cradle to grave and never once give offense.”

  “Not so, Duchess, not so.” Harding rises, plate in hand. “By God, I mean to have a second outsized helping of Doc’s ham — and I’ll knock over anybody who dares get in my way.”

  The sun has set hours ago but Nan is still at her post when the Hardings’ front door opens. She rolls her bike behind a row of lilac bushes and peers through the leaves as the dinner guests make their farewells.

  Sawyer and the Cartwrights start down the walkway. Carrie Phillips’ hand lingers lightly in Harding’s. Then the two Phillipses, he leaning drunkenly on her arm, cut across the small lawn to their house just next door, a massive stone structure with a slate roof. Old money.

  At 10:00 P.M. Florence is still persisting in her mission as she and Harding prepare for bed, he wriggling into a nightshirt, she in a nightgown, combing out her long gray hair. Florence homes in on the image of her husband, captive in her dressing table mirror. “If you just showed them a little interest . . .”

  “My love . . .”

  “You know they’d put you up for governor . . .”

  “Duchess, I’ve just about everything a sensible man could want. Right here. What godly purpose would there be in moving to Columbus and starting over? Assuming I could get elected — which I can’t.”

  She turns to face him directly. “You could, Wurr’n. Heavens sakes . . .”

  He shakes his head. “Truth is, most everyone in public life nowadays has been to college. Many have sat for the law . . .”

  “You’re smarter with words than all them over-educated fellas rolled together. Whenever anyone needs a speaker, who is it that they run to? And has anybody once asked where you’ve gone to school?”

  “They can have me for free. Worth every penny, I might add . . .”

  “People here hang on your every word. They look up to you . . .”

  “All right, my dear. But this is just one small town. Ohio’s a mighty big place.” He folds down the bed covers. An ungainly medical apparatus of rubber and glass tubing—some sort of filtration system — stands at the foot of the bed. “When a man goes in to buy a suit, he gets a much closer fit if he knows his proper size. And the places where he might be a little — irregular.” Tenderly, he kisses his wife’s forehead. “Good night, Duchess. Hope you rest better.”

  And then Harding leaves their bedroom for the hallway and starts up the stairs to his own sleeping quarters, where he can be free of Florence’s tosses and turns — and ambitions. He has not, in fact, slept with his wife for some years, and — the least introspective of men — no longer gives the matter much thought. Florence has yet to broach the subject and so, let sleeping dogs lie.

  Alone in the master bedroom, Florence stares unhappily at her image in the dressing table mirror. Fingertips on her cheekbones, she lifts her cheeks and temples up and back, smoothing out her face. For a few moments she sees something of her younger, less forbidding self.

  Twenty years ago, several things had inspired Florence to maneuver a young, malleable Warren Harding into marrying her, despite their substantial age difference. First, his arresting physical appearance, which to her eyes acquired an almost Olympian aura whenever he stepped out to address a crowd, suggested far more potential than that discernible in any other available man in Marion, irrespective of age; and she believed that her six-year advantage could only be an asset in her efforts to mold Harding’s talents and secure his footing firmly on a steeply upward path — before he got too set in his ways. Beyond that, since childhood, Florence had never been able to abide anyone telling her “no,” and Warren Harding was known for a willingness to travel across town by way of Cincinnati if he could thereby avoid turning someone down. In short, a perfect match.

  During their courtship, Florence had a significant edge over the beehive of far younger women who were sweet on her beau, but who had all been brought up to sit demurely until suitors proposed to them: a woman could wait her entire life for Harding to act so momentously; Florence lacked the patience to wait for anything. Having thus gotten exactly what she sought, Florence now felt she was in no position to complain, two decades later, that in fact she seemed to end up with so little.

  Outside, Nan maintains her vigil, glancing up as the light in a small third-floor bedroom goes on. Harding appears at the window. He raises it, gazes across to the Phillips’ house, then draws the shade.

  Nan’s night watch has ended. She pushes off and pedals down the street.

  As she disappears into the darkness, the front door opens and Harding slips out, a robe over his nightshirt. He pads down the porch steps and hurries across the lawn to the Phillips’ house.

  Their kitchen light blinks on. Harding smiles as he sees Carrie Phillips glide past her kitchen window over to a screen door. She swings it open. Wordlessly, Harding steps inside. They fall into each other’s arms. The light goes out.

  4.

  The following Sunday, beneath a torrid noonday sun, Harding stands bareheaded on the old wooden dais of the Marion Fairgrounds, opening a rally for the re-election of U.S. Senator William B. Foraker with one of his laudatory stemwinders. The seasoned candidate himself holds center stage from a folding chair just behind his fulsom champion, flanked on one side by Leland Sinclair, Chairman of Sinclair Oil, and by Mrs. Foraker on the other, all of them attired in heat-defying elegance. Three perspiring, hugely well-fed Republican bigwigs bring the complement to an even half dozen, greatly testing the tensile strength of the pine flooring beneath.

  It’s a fine turnout, close to six hundred people. Florence, under her parasol, the Cartwrights, Carrie, and off in a far corner, Nan, all listen attentively from separate places in the moist, enthusiastic assembly.

  I was fortunate to have been present when Mr. Harding took that first, small, unexpected step in his ascent to world acclaim. Perhaps I flatter myself but I think it safe to say that I recognized the portentiousness of the occasion well before that dear, modest man did himself. There were no recording devices in those days, of course, so his exact words have been lost to posterity; but I can still hear many of them ringing in my ears today, as if just spoken.

  Harding’s powerful unctuous voice is its own microphone. He is a fluent, if grandiose orator, never using two adjectives where four might do. Waves of verbiage wash through the crowd, inundating boaters, bonnets and parasols, soaking the patriotic bunting, the signs, posters and flags, till finally swamping the brass band awaiting its cue at the other end of the field. Harding concludes with the requisite flourish:

  “And so, dear friends, I can aspire to no greater privilege than to be able to reintroduce this stalwart paragon, already so well known, universally respected, admired, yea loved in this great state that he has served so long and with such extraordinary distinction; an intrepid steward, who eats, drinks and breathes Ohio; a gallant champion of Ohio’s interests, a tireless and incisive leader deeply committed to the needs of its people; a peerless and nationally esteemed statesman — who brings home the bacon. Ladies and gentlemen, your senator, my senator, a senator’s senator: U.S. Senator, William B. Foraker.”

  Few of Harding’s listeners are there for a close examination of the issues. His final hyperbole is met with unreserved cheers, applause, and shouts of “Foraker, Foraker.” The band springs to life with a short burst of a Sousa march.

  As Harding takes his seat, mopping his brow with a red handkerchief, the candidate rises, steps forward and nods at the crowd. All smiles, he basks for several moments in the acclaim, then holds up hi
s hands. The music dies away.

  Foraker is relaxed. Confident. After eighteen years in the Senate, one thing he knows is how to make a good speech. It has always been the same speech. Until today.

  “Thank you, friends. Thank you.” The crowd quiets down. Another “Thank you.” Then Foraker readies his little surprise. “A politician has to exercise care when choosing the man to introduce him. Certainly don’t want someone putting folks to sleep.”

  Laughter in the crowd. One citizen waves his straw boater. “Starting to feel kinda drowsy now, Bill.” More laughs and scattered shouts of “We want Harding.”

  “On the other hand, have Alderman Harding make the introductions and you risk of finding yourself something of an anticlimax.” Florence gazes up at the dais, her usually pale face flushed with excitement. Harding can only look sheepishly at his shoes. “Well,” continues Foraker, “I predict you’ll soon be hearing our alderman friend speak for himself.” He pauses. “When we all persuade Warren Harding — to make the run for governor. And today we will, won’t we!”

  Harding nearly falls off his chair. Florence’s head bobs up and down decisively as Foraker is swept away by his own rhetoric. “Two Republicans in the U.S. Senate, and a new Republican office-holder, Warren G. Harding, in Columbus. Now wouldn’t that be God’s divine plan here on earth?” The crowd applauds, whistles and begins chanting “Harding, Harding.” Harding smiles uncomfortably and shakes his head slowly from side to side. Helplessly, he looks out over his admirers and at two of the three women who love him — Carrie, joining in the cheers, and Florence, her eyes closed, nodding as she bathes in the sweet sound of her husband’s name.

  Off almost by herself is the third, standing at the edge of this sea of galvanized Harding supporters, her pulse quick with exhilaration.

  Isn’t it strange how the least able are often the most ambitious, always tooting their own horns, while a truly exceptional man like my dear Mr. Harding could never perceive his own greatness.

  It is almost 3:00 P.M. when, with all the speeches finally concluded, Harding steps down from the dais and slowly makes his way through the well-wishers and back slappers toward his wife.