there, what you just did a second ago—that’s the other thing: that self-deprecation of yours. These Tafties love it. All those times when you were in office and you spoke openly to the press about how reluctant you were to hold the presidency, how you couldn’t wait to leave it and get back to just being a judge again. Back then, all that talk was probably political suicide on the installment plan. Never mind ‘probably’; it was.
“But in hindsight? From the perspective of people today who have to put up with the twenty-four-hour news networks forcing never-ending political campaigns down our throat for three and a half out of every four years? You’re the most refreshing thing any of these bloggers have ever heard of. A president who
doesn’t
lust for power, or covet it once he has it. Grandpa, it may be a hundred years too late to do you the political good you needed, but, here and now, you’ve really connected.”
Taft wondered if, perhaps, he might find that prospect more comforting if he could grasp any of that connection himself. He peered out the van’s tinted window at this teeming, overbuilt, new America that flashed by. For, as things stood, his own space in this gigantically overwhelming new world still felt … small. Laughably, impossibly small.
Dec. 22, 2011
Dear President Taft,
It is an honor, sir, to wish a Merry Christmas—and, indeed, a Joyous Resurrection—to a long-lost fellow Bonesman. Few are the fraternities of men given the opportunity to see one of their own restored to vitality after what must surely be considered a period of true death! Were we not so humble as we are, surely we must now consider Skull and Bones to have entered an august circle of divine institutions that also includes Christianity itself.
Naturally, you are engaged in your own pursuits. Know, regardless, that you are once again considered a treasured elder brother of this proud society, and that the comforts and community of the Skull and Bones Tomb remain at your disposal whenever you may choose to take advantage.
You represent both Yale and the Bonesmen mightily, sir, and from the freshest undergraduates to the most seasoned alumni, we remain—
Yours,
The men of Skull and Bones 322
THIRTEEN
W illiam Howard Taft had been a son, a husband, and a father; he had been a scholarly student and a robust athlete; he had been a horseback rider and an automobile driver and an enthusiastic solver of logic puzzles. But as he spoke on the telephone with Irene Kaye, a woman who had once been fifty years his junior and was now fifty years his senior, he realized just how long it had been since he’d been in a position to just ask a grandma for some kindly advice.
“Something the matter with you?” the old woman’s voice crackled, and, indeed, Taft didn’t know whether the crackling was the telephone connection or her aged vocal cords. “Taft, if you don’t want to be in politics anymore, don’t be in politics anymore.”
“I fear it’s not quite that simple, Irene,” he said. “Were it only a matter of my own interests, I would happily agree. But I now have Rachel’s career to consider as well.”
She snorted. “She’s a big girl. Got into Congress without you. Taft, what do you want to do?”
“I … I don’t know. In March 1913, getting out of politicswas all I could think of. You know, Irene, here’s what I do know: whatever I’m to do with the remainder of my life, I need to get out there and see America. I must understand the nation once again if I’m to be part of it under any terms.”
“Well, now,” said the scratchy voice across the ether, “that wasn’t hard, was it? Get out of there, Taft. Take a vacation.”
Yes. Yes, indeed. He had once been called the motoring president, hadn’t he? It was time to get back in touch with his adventuresome side.
It was time, in short, for a road trip.
CLASSIFIED
Secret Service Incidence Report
BBR2011226.004
Agent Ira Kowalczyk
At
“But in hindsight? From the perspective of people today who have to put up with the twenty-four-hour news networks forcing never-ending political campaigns down our throat for three and a half out of every four years? You’re the most refreshing thing any of these bloggers have ever heard of. A president who
doesn’t
lust for power, or covet it once he has it. Grandpa, it may be a hundred years too late to do you the political good you needed, but, here and now, you’ve really connected.”
Taft wondered if, perhaps, he might find that prospect more comforting if he could grasp any of that connection himself. He peered out the van’s tinted window at this teeming, overbuilt, new America that flashed by. For, as things stood, his own space in this gigantically overwhelming new world still felt … small. Laughably, impossibly small.
Dec. 22, 2011
Dear President Taft,
It is an honor, sir, to wish a Merry Christmas—and, indeed, a Joyous Resurrection—to a long-lost fellow Bonesman. Few are the fraternities of men given the opportunity to see one of their own restored to vitality after what must surely be considered a period of true death! Were we not so humble as we are, surely we must now consider Skull and Bones to have entered an august circle of divine institutions that also includes Christianity itself.
Naturally, you are engaged in your own pursuits. Know, regardless, that you are once again considered a treasured elder brother of this proud society, and that the comforts and community of the Skull and Bones Tomb remain at your disposal whenever you may choose to take advantage.
You represent both Yale and the Bonesmen mightily, sir, and from the freshest undergraduates to the most seasoned alumni, we remain—
Yours,
The men of Skull and Bones 322
THIRTEEN
W illiam Howard Taft had been a son, a husband, and a father; he had been a scholarly student and a robust athlete; he had been a horseback rider and an automobile driver and an enthusiastic solver of logic puzzles. But as he spoke on the telephone with Irene Kaye, a woman who had once been fifty years his junior and was now fifty years his senior, he realized just how long it had been since he’d been in a position to just ask a grandma for some kindly advice.
“Something the matter with you?” the old woman’s voice crackled, and, indeed, Taft didn’t know whether the crackling was the telephone connection or her aged vocal cords. “Taft, if you don’t want to be in politics anymore, don’t be in politics anymore.”
“I fear it’s not quite that simple, Irene,” he said. “Were it only a matter of my own interests, I would happily agree. But I now have Rachel’s career to consider as well.”
She snorted. “She’s a big girl. Got into Congress without you. Taft, what do you want to do?”
“I … I don’t know. In March 1913, getting out of politicswas all I could think of. You know, Irene, here’s what I do know: whatever I’m to do with the remainder of my life, I need to get out there and see America. I must understand the nation once again if I’m to be part of it under any terms.”
“Well, now,” said the scratchy voice across the ether, “that wasn’t hard, was it? Get out of there, Taft. Take a vacation.”
Yes. Yes, indeed. He had once been called the motoring president, hadn’t he? It was time to get back in touch with his adventuresome side.
It was time, in short, for a road trip.
CLASSIFIED
Secret Service Incidence Report
BBR2011226.004
Agent Ira Kowalczyk
At
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