CHAPTER 1
December 25, 1918
Sagamore Hill, New York
“The president was received by, well, some estimates say two million Frenchmen turned out, waving flags and whatnot.”
Roosevelt turned away from her, said, “My sister visits me to bolster my spirits, and this is what she brings. On Christmas Day yet. Woodrow Wilson is a hero for the ages, while I lie here as a lump of bacon fat.”
“Dear Teedie, I only tell you what you will read in the papers. And you will read them, despite Christmas, or whatever affliction you have today. I have never known you to ignore any news that might annoy you.”
He turned to Corinne, saw a smile. “Fine. My sister insults me. But I cannot scold you. You’re one of my caretakers, after all.”
He flexed his aching fingers, the pain a sudden shock. He looked at the splint around his hand. “When did this happen?”
Edith was there now, a hand on Corinne’s shoulder. “Last night. The doctor said the splint would help keep your hand and wrist immobile. You complained woefully about the pain in your fingers.” She paused, said softly, “You don’t recall?”
“Of course I recall. I’m no invalid, you know.”
The word hung between them, and he knew his protest had been overblown.
“No, of course you’re not. We’re just pampering you until you’re completely not an invalid. What should we call you in the meantime?”
“Bull Moose will do.”
His sister laughed, but Edith kept a frown.
“They’re still pushing you to come back, you know. More letters this morning. Bull Moose indeed. They want you to run. I do wish you would tell them once and for all to leave you alone. This is not the time for such foolishness. I’m not certain that agreeing to this writer’s request for an interview is a good idea at all. You need your rest.”
He didn’t want this, not now.
“My precious Edie, the 1912 election was my final hurrah, or perhaps my final whimpering farewell. Regardless how many love the term Bull Moose, I do not. I’m not going to run for anything, not president, not local constable.” He paused, fought for a breath. “But it is flattering, yes? They still love me. I rather enjoy holding on to that. If Mr. Hagedorn wishes to write about me yet again, dig into all my wonderful accomplishments, should I complain? I think not. The public does adore me, after all.”
Corinne laughed.
“I see that your gift for sarcasm hasn’t been damaged.” She looked up at Edith. “He’s right, though. Is there harm? They want him to run because he’s beloved, and Mr. Hagedorn can sell books about Teedie because people want to read them. There is no harm, Edie.”
Edith lowered her head.
“Of course. It’s hard to argue against any of that. We’ve all seen the crowds.” Edith clapped her hands, bringing him to attention. “All right, that’s it for politics. You want to wind yourself up, wait for Mr. Hagedorn. This young man has been begging to see you again since you’ve been home. But be prepared for him to press you, and hard. I’m only concerned for my husband. The doctor will be here in about an hour, and I don’t want you holding back anything. Not now. Please, Teddy.”
He looked at them both, saw soft fear, drew more pain from their concern than from the ridiculous agony in his hand. He flexed his fingers again, habit, flinched again from the sharp pains.
“I hurt. But it is not necessary for you both to mother-hen me like this. I am no child.” He paused. “Well, usually. But right now, I just hurt. And I think I’ve got a fever again. You’re a little blurry too. Or perhaps that’s just me.”
Edith bent low, a hand on his forehead. She said nothing, but he knew the look.
“Fever it is, then. My wife can hide nothing from me. I suppose you should hurry that doctor along if you can.”
He rolled slightly away, stared at the brightness of the window, too bright, closed his eyes.
Corinne said, “I’ll leave now, Edie. Maybe he can get some rest. Call me if you need me.”
She was gone in a rustle of her dress, and Edith sat now, her hand on his arm. He wanted to turn, facing her, but there was no strength, no energy at all. He tried to open his eyes, the sun blinding him again, the weight of his fever swirling through his head.
“Thank you, Edie. I’ll sleep now. My hand hurts.”
* * *
HE HEARD A familiar sound outside the window.
“That singing. It’s a cardinal, a male.” He paused, his mind drifting, the sound of the bird filling him with the kind of joy he had always felt when hearing such a variety of songs, identifying every kind of bird, a talent that even master naturalists had found astonishing.
“God, I remember it all. My father did that, opened a marvelous door to everything about nature. Egypt, the entire family absorbing so much, but none enjoyed that trip as much as I did. If I could, I would return right now.”
The images were in his mind, Egypt and the great river, so many birds, the excitement of the hunting excursions, trophies he never could have imagined. Close by, the cardinal serenaded him again, brought him home. He fought through the blurriness, tried to see Edith.
“No cardinals in Egypt, you know. Saw more birds there than anyone could ever expect, species no one here can possibly imagine. Every day, something old, something new. I perfected my taxidermy skills on that trip. Laid out my laboratory on the deck of the boat, a very tedious process, you know. Arsenic is an essential ingredient, and I had a dickens of a time trying to find someone who would sell it to me.” He smiled. “Apothecary fellow thought I was intending to poison my family. I suppose there’s a good bit of poisoning in those parts. The smells never bothered me, but the rest of the family has a peculiar sensitivity to the odors of nature. It’s their loss.” He smiled, again, tried to ignore the heat in his brain. “Father would hunt with me, and we’d ride these donkeys all through the bogs and swamps along the Nile. And later, I saw mummies, touched one, black, leathery skin. Remarkable. The pyramids too.”
He forced his eyes open, tried to sit up straight. His heart was beating rapidly, an unpleasant surprise.
“I’m talking too much. Too many stories. Sorry.”
She cradled a glass of lemonade, held it out toward him.
“You celebrate the best times in your life. There is no fault in that. You have told me these stories often. You should tell them to the writer, he’ll want to hear all of it.”
He nodded, said quietly, “They had pharaohs, you know. Nobody else can say that. Remarkable.” He focused on her again. “When will that young fellow, Hagedorn, when will he be here?”
“Tomorrow, Teddy. Friday.”
“If I must see him, I suppose I will.”
“Be kind, Teddy. You have already agreed, and he has already done a marvelous job writing about you. His book last year was wonderful. And if I didn’t believe you could trust him, I would say so.” She laughed. “And besides, I’ve never known you to avoid the chance to speak about yourself to a willing audience.”
Edith stood suddenly.
“The front door. Now who…?”
She was gone quickly, a swirl of color, and he stared toward the door, puzzled, had heard no doorbell. But the thoughts were swept away by her sudden return, a paper in her hand.
“A messenger, came out from Oyster Bay, a telegram.”
“Well, what’s it say?”
She opened the envelope, read for a long moment, wide eyes.
“My word. It’s from the French government. There’s to be an official citation from Marshal Pétain. They want to award Quentin the Croix de Guerre.”
He was stunned, reached for the paper.
“They must not do that. He is no different from a thousand others. He should not be singled out. We will not celebrate his death.”
“Teddy, you must accept that he is not like so many others. He is your son.”
“They must not do this!”
His voice had risen to a shout, concern on her face.
“Teddy, we can write them, graciously refuse, if that is your wish.”
“Yes, we will do that. They will not refuse me. This sounds like Woodrow Wilson’s doing, feeling generous, so he asks them to toss my family a bone. I should strangle him when he returns.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt?”
The voice came from outside the room, and Edith moved that way, was gone again. He felt a wave of dread, thought, Hagedorn already? Is it Friday? He kept his focus, thought of what he would say to the young man, what sort of inane questions he might have. But she returned now, her face betraying something dreadful.
“What?”
She took a breath, trying to control her emotions.
“Another messenger, a note from Washington, the War Department. They recovered part of the seat from the wreckage of Quentin’s plane.” She stopped, shook her head. “It’s in a crate downstairs. They thought you’d like to have it.”
He stared at her, deadly silence in the room. There were tears on her cheeks now, the grief rising up yet again. She sat on the edge of the bed now, and he wanted to say something, to comfort, but no words would come, too much pain of his own. He thought of the macabre gift, was furious now, clenched his fists, searing pain in one hand. Some clerk, he thought. A perfectly stupid gesture by someone who simply doesn’t care. Your son is dead. Here’s where he sat when he died. Whoever did this needs a perfect thrashing.
The fury gave way to the creeping weakness, and he glanced at his fists, useless weapons. So much is gone, he thought, and now even the memories are slipping away. I had good fists, could dish out a fair thrashing to anyone who needed it, unless the asthma came. The asthma. Thank God, no more of that. So long ago.
Copyright © 2023 by Jeff Shaara
