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  But like it or not, that summer Mr. Harding was to find himself in the race for governor. Not even he could resist the will of The People.

  Florence reaches out to him, eyes afire, her jaw set.

  5.

  Charlie Forbes, Harding’s closest chum since high school, could sell you just about anything if he himself believed in it. Since there is little Charlie wasn’t prepared to believe, he made an outstanding living on the road, hawking everything from silk to sandpaper. But every two years for the past eight, he would cheerfully stay close to Marion for as many days as it took to handle details of his friend’s pro forma bids for alderman. And now that Harding had gotten caught up in serious politics, Charlie is the uncertain candidate’s first and only choice for campaign manager.

  He does not disappoint. In short of a week, the energetic salesman has the heretofore drab, somnolent offices of the Marion Star dressed up in American flags — obtained well below cost — and plastered with posters demanding “Harding for Governor.” A few more days and the Star is alive with nubile volunteers, Nan the most industrious of the group, all furiously stenciling signs and stuffing envelopes, hell-bent on marketing their distinctly hometown product to the entire state.

  Charlie’s severe myopia has never compromised his sharp eye for attractive women of any age, and he is quickly captured by Nan’s flawless young face. So it is she whom he chooses to accompany him and the new candidate one evening to the Odd Fellows Lodge in Columbus for a campaign speech. There, while Harding spins out his homilies, Charlie supervises Nan closely as she bustles about a table in back, filling cups with lemonade, and setting out cookies, brochures, lapel pins and buttons.

  Nan attacks her duties with solemn single-mindedness. Grateful for Charlie’s instruction, she is blind to the repeated sidelong glances he shoots her through his thick spectacles. Nor does she appear to weigh the probable meager return on her efforts: for every man, woman and child in the half-empty room Nan has nailed up no fewer than two “Harding for Governor” posters, and has filled at least three cups. This indefatigable dedication, as much as her burgeoning beauty, quickly earns her a permanent place in Harding’s small traveling entourage. Increasingly, she takes over for Florence, for whom sitting on a train or in an automobile over any distance has become ever more difficult.

  I was thrilled to be asked to help in Mr. Harding’s campaign all across the state. I got to go everywhere, my first real experience with life outside little Marion. I watched dear Mr. Harding shake hands with several thousand people from every walk of life. How taken they all were by him! His victory seemed assured.

  But then, what happened was, well, the campaign ran out of money. Can you imagine? It seems a lot of the big contributors, corporations like Sinclair Oil and such, just weren’t all that interested in Mr. Harding and what he stood for. Which is when I first learned that support of The People is of great importance, but in a large state like Ohio, money matters too. And we had nowhere near enough. Come the elections, sadly, incredibly, my darling lost.

  The evening of his defeat, a dejected Harding is alone in his headquarters at the Star as he picks through the detritus of his failed campaign. All at once he has a sense of being observed, spins around, and finds Nan standing in the doorway.

  “Why Nan — come in child. How’re you doin’ this evening?”

  She enters. “In truth, I’m feeling rather badly, Mr. Harding.”

  “Now you shouldn’t, my dear. I was always a long shot, you know. From start to finish. Probably had no business thrusting myself out there like that in the first place. But — everybody gave it their best, didn’t we. That’s all we can do.”

  “You would have been a wonderful governor, sir.”

  “I’m pleased you think so, Nan. Thank you.” Wearily he climbs onto a chair and starts pulling down posters.

  She goes for the broom in the corner and begins sweeping up. Harding acknowledges her efforts with a nod.

  “That’s real sweet of you. Florence was going to come by but she had to take to her bed this evening.”

  “You must be so tired, too. Please, let me get those posters. You have to keep yourself for the important things.”

  He chuckles. “Important things — what important things?”

  Softly, Nan replies. “Your heart’s desire.”

  “Really. My ‘heart’s desire.’” He turns back over his shoulder and looks at her closely. “I don’t think I know what you mean, Nan.”

  “You simply listen to your heart. That’s all you need to do. Your heart tells you what’s most important in life and what’s not. It doesn’t care about momentary success or failure.”

  “Is that right?” Harding reflects for a moment. “And your heart’s desire, child — what might that be, may I ask?”

  Nan arrests her broom and looks him in the eye. “My heart’s desire is that you be loved. Whatever else happened, wherever you went, I’d have you the most adored and happiest man on earth.”

  I don’t know where on God’s earth I found the cheek to say what I did to Mr. Harding, but there it was. And I was mighty lucky to have been given the chance that evening to speak my mind, for over the next two years I had to make do with seeing my darling from afar. He was, after all, a busy and important man, surely the most important man in Marion. And who was I? Scarcely more than a child. But my heart seemed undaunted by such considerations. He was always in my thoughts. Always, always.

  And not infrequently in her sights.

  One autumn evening, Nan straddles her bike under a canopy of red and gold leaves, spying from across the street as Harding slips out of Carrie Phillips’ kitchen. She observes Harding stop and turn back just as Carrie comes to the door, his Panama in her hand. Carrie returns the hat to him with a furtive kiss, then watches with a loving smile as Harding once more starts toward his house . . . and at that moment, she spots Nan. The women’s eyes connect. Abruptly, Nan pedals off.

  A pair of snowmen sit out a February afternoon of light snow on a park bench directly across from the Marion Star. One has turnips for eyes and a carrot for a nose. Miraculously, the other has the power of locomotion — it’s Nan, now sixteen, bundled up, thoroughly dusted with snow. Through the Star’s storefront window she can see Harding playing poker with Forbes, Foraker, Sawyer and Cartwright. It’s close to dinner time. Nan’s mittened hand pulls out her companion’s nose. She takes a loud bite. Her teeth crunching the carrot ring crisp and clear in the cold air.

  The crack of a bat one bright morning the following spring finds Nan in the bleachers of Marion County’s unprepossessing sports stadium, cheering for the home team as Harding’s bat slams a baseball squarely. Harding, in Marion Maulers uniform, not only gets a home run off the hapless Columbus Cats, but drives in two others. Carrie Phillips, in the stands behind home plate, applauds as loudly as her white gloves will permit. Across the field, a kid in knickers and a cap changes the scoreboard:

  Eighth inning, a total of seven runs for the home team, still zip for the Cats.

  Nan, flanked by two would-be suitors, both smitten, both ignored, focuses intently on the game — or more accurately, on one particular player, though occasionally shooting a glance over at Carrie. One of Nan’s admirers offers her a hot dog, the other some of his popcorn. Politely, she declines both.

  It’s a good twenty minutes before the Cats finally get their chance — their last chance — at bat. Harding, in catcher’s gear, covers home plate.

  The ball’s in play. Columbus Cat Charlie Forbes, clearly no athlete, labors around third and struggles toward home. The throw from center reaches Harding in plenty of time for him to tag the plodding runner. But Harding appears to fumble the ball, and Charlie scores, triumphant, winded — and startled by his success. The kid revises the score board:

  Bottom of the ninth, seven to one.

  Up in the bleachers, Nan smiles at Hard
ing’s little act of charity, and falls yet more deeply in love.

  I will confess, those teenage years of yearning were terribly difficult for me. I had all these feelings inside and no place to put them. I suffered horribly and in silence for, since Mr. Harding’s campaign, we had not the opportunity to exchange a single word. Finally, I could contain myself no longer. Throwing propriety to the winds, I resolved to renew our acquaintance. Right then and there.

  The game’s lopsided conclusion is marked by a roar of approval and caps in the air as the players lope off the field. Mugs of beer make their way to both teams, admirers and hangers-on. Carrie’s eyes twinkle as she watches Harding and several other players congratulate themselves expansively with handshakes and slaps on the back.

  Harding spots a small boy in a sailor suit, baseball and stubby pencil in hand, shyly looking up at him, waiting for an autograph. He steps away from the men, signs the ball, and pats his young fan’s head. As the youngster scoots back to his buddies, flaunting his trophy, Carrie strolls over. “Alderman Harding — don’t think we didn’t see you give that run away.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Phillips. I was certainly all thumbs there, wasn’t I.”

  She moves closer, blinking up at him through her long eyelashes. “You’re never all thumbs, Warren. In fact, I find your hands quite clever . . .”

  “The end was in sight. We could afford to be generous.”

  Carrie purrs. “Might that renowned generosity of yours extend to me, do you think?”

  “Now you know I can refuse you nothing.”

  “Perhaps this evening then?” she asks, conspiratorially. “What say later you and I slip over to . . .”

  Abruptly, a breathless Nan pops up.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Harding. Remember me?” Nan’s chest heaves nervously, her adolescent’s blouse barely equal to her distinctly adult bosom.

  Harding is delighted to see her, Carrie less so. “Well of course I remember you, Nan,” he says. “Hello. Thought that was you jumping up and down there in the bleachers. Mrs. Phillips, you’ve met little Nan Britton, haven’t you?”

  “Oh yes. She’s not so little any more. Good to see you again Miss Britton.”

  Nan and Harding engage, ostensibly reviewing the intricacies of the morning’s plays. Carrie, unwilling to join Nan and Harding’s conspiracy to deny the younger woman’s rampant sexuality, continues to smile and nod agreeably but all at once feels strangely removed from the conversation.

  Understandably, my darling had many admirers. That lovely Mrs. Phillips, for example . . . How often I thought about how very wonderful it must be for her to have Warren Harding actually living right next door. But unexpected events were soon to take him from both of us, and from the neighborly town he loved so dearly.

  6.

  A short walk from the baseball diamond, a gaunt Senator Foraker sits alone and forlorn, drinking steadily at the bar of the Marion Clubhouse, hangout for Marion’s movers and shakers. Men only.

  Members come and go, some exchanging quick greetings with the solitary figure at the bar. Repeatedly, he tries waving them over. No takers.

  A knickered golfer breezes in. Foraker calls out to him. “Hiram — good to see you. How’s the twins?”

  “Eating me out of house and home, Bill, house and home,” says Hiram as he quickly passes on by. A second member hurries along right behind him, nodding at Foraker as he shoots past. “You’re looking well, Senator,” he lies, politely.

  “I’m in the pink, Stu. Got time for a quick one?”

  “Love to, Senator, but, uh, not today. Got this, uh, dental appointment.”

  Foraker returns morosely to his shot glass and empties it in a gulp. “Dental appointment,” he mumbles as he motions to the bartender for a refill. Dusty heads of deer caught unawares and unarmed by sportsmen of decades past stare down at him with eyes as melancholy as his own.

  Moments later, Harding and Charlie stroll in, spirits high, lugging their baseball equipment. Harding spots Foraker slouched over his glass. He sets down his bat and mitt, and joins his old friend at the bar. “Bill, where’ve you been keeping yourself?” Harding asks. “Missed a great game.”

  “Hullo.” Foraker grasps Harding’s hand as if it were a life preserver. “A friendly face at last. Been right here, right here. Quite some time now. Rest of the world’s been hiding. Lemme treat you to one.” Harding settles on an adjacent stool as the bartender approaches. “A double shot of Mr. Harding’s favorite Kentucky mash, Mike,” Foraker says, his speech slurred. “And I wouldn’t mind a refill. Wouldn’t mind at all.”

  “Coming up, Senator.”

  “Sure glad to see ya, Warren,” says Foraker. “You’d think I had the friggin’ plague.”

  “Believe me, Bill, this storm will pass. They all do. The People know you. You’re like family. A man of your stature, the important . . .”

  ‘”Fraid that counts about as much as a quart of monkey snot, Warren, my boy. Thing is, the higher up the pole you climb, the more people can see of your arse, know what I mean?”

  “Now c’mon. Bill, you know there’s a tremendous amount of respect . . .”

  “Thought I had mine covered. Hell, I wrote those goddamn regulations.” He hiccups. “Turns out those reformer bastards are going to strip me naked. Boil me in oil. Sinclair Oil.” Another hiccup. “Forty-two years in elected office.” His eyes fill with tears. “The only life I know . . .”

  Mike approaches with Harding’s drink, gives Foraker another. “Here y’are, Senator.”

  “Thanks, pal,” says Foraker. He starts to lift his glass. Then slowly he puts it back down and places one hand over his forehead. “I don’t feel very well, Warren.”

  “Yah — why don’t we get you home. Mike — give us a hand here?”

  Mike comes from around the bar and helps Harding get Foraker up and moving shakily toward the door. Foraker squeezes Harding’s arm. “You’ve always known the meaning of loyally, Warren. They don’t make many like you. One in a million you are, one in a million . . .”

  In the Star’s front office the following day, Harding, news copy and blue pencil in hand, confers with his editor, Walt Harris, while on the other side of a frosted glass door, Florence despairs over the ledgers. Harding taps Walt’s draft with his pencil. “Of course we have to report the facts.” He frowns. “But the wording! ‘. . . William Foraker to stand trial on charges of malfeasance, accepting bribes . . . ‘ Good Lord!”

  Tentatively, Walt defends integrity in journalism. “Those are the charges, boss.”

  Harding shakes his head. “How ‘bout: ‘It’s alleged that certain of the Senator’s acts were questionable, and entirely inconsistent with his usual high standards of legislative conduct.’ And while you’re at it, let’s throw in something about the roads and bridges he’s brought in for us last year, so on and so forth.”

  Walt gets on board. When first beginning work for the Star, he was troubled by Harding’s blithe indifference to “the facts”; this was a newspaper, after all. But Walt quickly learned on which side the Star’s — and his — bread was buttered. “We never hit a man when he’s down.”

  “That’s the spirit, Walt, that’s the spirit.” Harding hands him back the copy. “But more than that, Walt. If a man can’t count on his friends . . .”

  Walt nods and returns to the press room, just as the bell on the front door jingles, announcing the arrival of four men — Harry Daugherty and his adoring aide, Jess Smith, flanked by Leland Sinclair and Ralph McPherson, Ohio’s Republican National Committeeman. McPherson, dripping, as always, with good cheer, sprints over to press Harding’s hand between both of his own. “Alderman!”

  “Ralph, Leland . . . gentlemen,” exclaims Harding. “This is a surprise.”

  McPherson releases Harding’s hand. “I believe you’ve met the distinguished barrister from Columbus, Harry Daugherty
. . .”

  “Uh — yes, wasn’t it at Bill’s last swearing-in . . . ?”

  “His indispensable assistant, Jess Smith . . .”

  “How d’ya do,” squeaks Jess in a high, lisping tenor.

  More handshakes.

  Florence, hunched over her accounts, sits up straight as unfamiliar voices leak through the wall. Quietly, she rolls her chair closer to the door, cupping an ear, as the Star’s prestigious visitors settle in. Harry Daugherty and Jess Smith arrange themselves together on the old loveseat, the only visible hint of their longstanding, clandestine coupling. Harding remains on his feet, half leaning against, half sitting on the desk “So — what may I do for you folks, today?”

  McPherson takes charge. He is more oppressively genial than usual. “Warren — don’t know how you manage to put out a newspaper week after week, year after year, and never get anyone mad at you. But you do.”

  For Harding, the supreme compliment. “Why, thank you, Ralph. No point stepping on a man’s toes when there’s so many other spots to place your feet . . .”

  “You mind your own business, sir,” McPherson continues, “that’s what it is. Rare in a journalist these days.”

  “Well, just seems to me, with so much good news to report, I hardly have time to go around trying to scare up . . .”

  Leland Sinclair stirs. “And the Star’s fidelity to the senator during his current — difficulty is particularly appreciated. I speak for my entire board.”

  “Bill Foraker is a fine man,” says Harding. “No doubt about that.”

  “Yes,” says McPherson. “A fine man.”

  McPherson appears to have run down. A long moment of silence. The air hangs heavy.

  Daugherty, his large, spherical, nearly hairless head perched on his high-winged collar like a casaba melon, has been sitting quietly, studying Harding with heavy-lidded eyes that miss little. Ever so lightly, he drops the first shoe. “Regrettably, under the circumstances, the senator has felt obliged to withdraw his candidacy.”