headquarters in a paper mill near the river Somme. During the night, there had been a bombardment. The next day his body was identified only because of a dented gold cigarette-case on which his initials were intertwined with those of a lady as unknown to Caroline as she no doubt was to his grieving widow. Although Plon had not been much younger than Senator Lodge, he had insisted on rejoining a regiment to which he had once been, ornamentally, attached. As Caroline smiled warmly at Cabot Lodge, she most sincerely wished him at the very frozen center of hell.
TWO
1
A smell of frying country sausage delighted Jess’s nostrils as he let himself into the Harding half of 2314 Wyoming Avenue. The Duchess kept her husband well fed and as dry as she could, considering his passion for poker and bourbon and tobacco and the company of those insidious tempters, the politicians.
“That you, Jess?” The voice from upstairs was like a crow’s.
“It’s me, Duchess.”
“You have your breakfast?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, you’re too late. Go and sit down.”
Jess sat in the modern bay window that looked out on a desolate yard. The house, still on the raw side, was not quite finished, unlike the gracious Harding home in Marion with its numerous subtle decorative touches reminiscent not only of all the other opulent Marionite households but of Jess’s mother’s own residence in nearby Washington Court House, not to mentionthe long-planned but never completed nest for Roxy, who preferred apartment living, leaving Jess alone to face the horror of the downstairs closet. Jess felt tears come to his eyes as he thought of Roxy. The doctor had warned him that as a borderline diabetic case, with high blood pressure, he would be given to sudden floods of tears for reasons physical not sentimental. Harry Micajah Daugherty appeared from the study, unlighted cigar in his thick fist. “Jess, boy.”
“Whaddaya know?” This was Jess’s usual greeting to anyone he knew back home and, often, to those he didn’t know but happened to see in the vicinity of the courthouse, original center to his world that was now extended not only to Columbus and the state house, but to imperial Washington and the Capitol.
“I know there’s going to be a hot time in the old town tonight, for sure.” Daugherty whistled tonelessly the song that had come to be associated with the Spanish-American War in general and with the hero of San Juan Hill, Theodore Roosevelt, in particular.
“They say T.R. hit town late last night.”
Daugherty sat himself in a deep armchair whose antimacassar was slightly askew, like Daugherty’s eyes. Jess could never make up his mind whether to look into the brown eye or the blue one. On aesthetic grounds, he preferred the crystalline quality of the blue. On matters of trust, however, he preferred the homely dog-like sincerity of the brown, despite its slight inadvertent twitch and vestigial cast. Otherwise, Harry M. Daugherty was a perfectly ordinary thick-set, fifty-seven-year-old politician with a small quantity of straight gray hair; no facial hair and, save for an occasional odd squint, no facial expression either. Daugherty now began to whistle three notes in ascending scale.
“How’s the Missis?” asked Jess.
The notes were whistled now in a descending scale. Daugherty shook his head, unpursed his lips. “Not good, Jess boy. Not good. A martyr, that girl, to the arthritis.” And as he did so often at the mention of his invalid wife, Lucie, he began to whistle, with a slight tremolo, “Love’s Old Sweet Song.” Even the tough Duchess was obliged to admit that theirs was a true love story, in marked contrast, Jess knew—delighted to know everything about his great friends—to the Harding marriage. But then the Duchess was five years older than the Senator. In fact, she was the same advanced age as Harry Daugherty; and plain women who were older than their husbands were accustomed, when dealing with
TWO
1
A smell of frying country sausage delighted Jess’s nostrils as he let himself into the Harding half of 2314 Wyoming Avenue. The Duchess kept her husband well fed and as dry as she could, considering his passion for poker and bourbon and tobacco and the company of those insidious tempters, the politicians.
“That you, Jess?” The voice from upstairs was like a crow’s.
“It’s me, Duchess.”
“You have your breakfast?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, you’re too late. Go and sit down.”
Jess sat in the modern bay window that looked out on a desolate yard. The house, still on the raw side, was not quite finished, unlike the gracious Harding home in Marion with its numerous subtle decorative touches reminiscent not only of all the other opulent Marionite households but of Jess’s mother’s own residence in nearby Washington Court House, not to mentionthe long-planned but never completed nest for Roxy, who preferred apartment living, leaving Jess alone to face the horror of the downstairs closet. Jess felt tears come to his eyes as he thought of Roxy. The doctor had warned him that as a borderline diabetic case, with high blood pressure, he would be given to sudden floods of tears for reasons physical not sentimental. Harry Micajah Daugherty appeared from the study, unlighted cigar in his thick fist. “Jess, boy.”
“Whaddaya know?” This was Jess’s usual greeting to anyone he knew back home and, often, to those he didn’t know but happened to see in the vicinity of the courthouse, original center to his world that was now extended not only to Columbus and the state house, but to imperial Washington and the Capitol.
“I know there’s going to be a hot time in the old town tonight, for sure.” Daugherty whistled tonelessly the song that had come to be associated with the Spanish-American War in general and with the hero of San Juan Hill, Theodore Roosevelt, in particular.
“They say T.R. hit town late last night.”
Daugherty sat himself in a deep armchair whose antimacassar was slightly askew, like Daugherty’s eyes. Jess could never make up his mind whether to look into the brown eye or the blue one. On aesthetic grounds, he preferred the crystalline quality of the blue. On matters of trust, however, he preferred the homely dog-like sincerity of the brown, despite its slight inadvertent twitch and vestigial cast. Otherwise, Harry M. Daugherty was a perfectly ordinary thick-set, fifty-seven-year-old politician with a small quantity of straight gray hair; no facial hair and, save for an occasional odd squint, no facial expression either. Daugherty now began to whistle three notes in ascending scale.
“How’s the Missis?” asked Jess.
The notes were whistled now in a descending scale. Daugherty shook his head, unpursed his lips. “Not good, Jess boy. Not good. A martyr, that girl, to the arthritis.” And as he did so often at the mention of his invalid wife, Lucie, he began to whistle, with a slight tremolo, “Love’s Old Sweet Song.” Even the tough Duchess was obliged to admit that theirs was a true love story, in marked contrast, Jess knew—delighted to know everything about his great friends—to the Harding marriage. But then the Duchess was five years older than the Senator. In fact, she was the same advanced age as Harry Daugherty; and plain women who were older than their husbands were accustomed, when dealing with
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