The Willard

by LeAnne Burnett Morse

  “Do you see anything unusual?” he asked.

  Olivia saw the old cars and the pedestrians dressed in their vintage finery but she didn’t want Edward to know what she was seeing. He wouldn’t understand. In fact, he would likely think her crazy.

  “Whatever do you mean, Edward? The fact that traffic is actually moving well this time of day in Washington?” she said jokingly. “I’m sure you’ve seen that a few times at least.”

  “No, Olivia. I mean the Model Ts and the people in vintage clothing.”

  Olivia stepped back from the window like she’d been slapped. Her mind was spinning and she couldn’t figure out what was happening. Chase thought she might faint and stepped toward her as she put her head down. He supported her arm and she looked up into his eyes with fear in her own.

  “You can see those too?” she asked. Then she collapsed on the floor and started to seize.

  CHAPTER 11

  CATHERINE PARKER

  1865

  The doorman offered his hand to the ladies as they stepped down from the rented carriage. Laura kept a steadying hand at Catherine’s elbow just in case the younger woman felt faint. Edward Chase saw the two as they came through the revolving door. He rushed to their side and, in spite of Catherine’s protests, ushered them up the steps to Peacock Alley and seated them in an alcove between two enormous potted palms. He insisted on fetching a carafe of cool water and some salts. When it was clear Catherine was not in danger of collapsing, Laura excused herself to check her messages. She approached the large concierge desk and was handed the slips of paper that continued to arrive in her room’s cubby every day. Granted, a few years ago there would have been too many messages to contain in the small cubby. There would have been calling cards and invitations as well as letters of introduction and outright adoration. At thirty-eight years of age, it was undeniable she wasn’t at her prime anymore. Her long hair was not as lustrous as it once was and her gowns had been let out in recent years to accommodate her more matronly figure. But she was still a beauty by most standards and the years had been fairly kind to her in reputation. At least as kind as they could be for a woman of her profession. She knew that even in her heyday the invitations had not been to the most fashionable addresses. They didn’t come from the grande dames of society. She found herself more the toast of the nouveau riche crowd, those with a tendency toward ostentatiousness and attention. Their drawing rooms were filled with Sheraton and Chippendale reproductions, not the real thing. Their crystal chandeliers came from France, but their provenance was bought, not inherited. But the evenings were lively and gay and the wine and spirits flowed freely. If the hosts thought they were anything less than the crème de la crème they were determined not to show it. Entertaining on a grand scale in their new mansions was derigueur and their guest lists had to glitter with beautiful and interesting women and influential men. Though Laura wouldn’t be welcome in the homes of the old-moneyed set, she was a sought-after guest at these soirees.

  Today’s mail was decidedly short on invitations and completely devoid of letters of adoration. She slipped the messages into her reticule. She could go through them later and decide which ones to accept. She crossed the lobby and was about to rejoin her new charge, but she noticed Catherine was sitting with her head against the rear of the sofa and her eyes closed so she decided to give her some privacy. As she watched her sitting there she began to wonder about the young woman. Who was she and why was she traveling without a chaperone in a part of town known for its boarding houses and theatres? She said she had no husband and seemed very confused almost like she was suffering the effects of strong drink. And Laura was fairly sure the young lady was not wearing a corset although her gown was certainly new and fashionable.

  Surely, it can’t be, Laura thought. She doesn’t seem the type at all.

  All evidence seemed to indicate young Catherine might be plying the streets of the nation’s capital engaging in the world’s oldest profession.

  But how many prostitutes can afford to stay at the Willard on their own? And Mr. Chase seems to know her well. I seriously doubt he would allow such goings on under this roof.

  The more she considered the possibility, the more convinced she became there had to be another explanation. She started up the stairs to find out for herself who this mysterious woman was and why she seemed to need help. At that moment she determined she would lend a helping hand because Laura knew well how it felt to be looked down on for her profession. The society ladies thought the same of her. Too vulgar. Unrefined. Loose. Except she was none of those things. In their eyes she was worse. Because Laura Keene was an actress.

  CHAPTER 12

  TOM KELLY

  1962

  The images were familiar in some ways. The U2 high-altitude reconnaissance photos marked with missile sites. The maps showing strategic points and civilian population numbers. Photos of Fidel Castro and Nikita Khrushchev and a host of lesser-known, but clearly Russian military types. These were the kind of images Kelly had seen while studying American history in high school and later in college. He’d been fascinated by the idea that Americans, his own parents included, had sat paralyzed with fear for days as the threat of nuclear war drew closer. Now he was sitting in the Cabinet Room of the White House looking over these documents and others that were marked “Top Secret” in what must be some kind of dream. He had been led to believe he had just caught a glimpse inside the Oval Office of John F. Kennedy, and that Robert Kennedy was in the office as well. But Tom knew this was impossible because both brothers had fallen at the hands of assassins just a few years apart. His own mother had remarked on it one day when he was working on a history paper in high school about the Kennedy years.

  “That poor Rose Kennedy,” his mother had said. “She buried a son and a daughter years earlier and then had two sons shot to death by madmen in the 60s. I don’t know how she endured it,” she said as she pulled then 15-year-old Tom to her for a mama bear hug. “I would have gone out of my mind,” she remarked as she perused the black and white photos of the Kennedy state funeral in Tom’s textbook.

  The memory was bittersweet because Tom’s mother had died his senior year. She had wanted him to go to college and become a lawyer. In her mind that was a steady career with potential. She knew he loved writing stories and talked of making movies, but she would have none of it. Writing and moviemaking weren’t real careers in her mind. She wanted Tom to hang out his shingle and then push paperwork through a crowded legal system all day before coming home to a wife, kids, a dog and a reasonably mortgaged house on a cul-de-sac in a good school zone. It was the life his older brother, Jason, had chosen to pursue and by the time of their mother’s death Jason had received his acceptance letter to the esteemed school of law at Florida Coastal. All these years later Jason, at forty-seven, had the law degree his mother had so wanted. He also had an ex-wife, a minor gambling problem, one kid who cost him a fortune in private violin lessons and one who was costing him a fortune in rehab. The ex-wife got the house and the cul-de-sac, but Jason kept the dog. That bitch could have the McMansion, but there was no way she was getting Jake, his beloved golden retriever. What kind of lawyer was he anyway if he couldn’t hang on to his dog?

  Tom never had to disappoint his mother by letting her know he had chosen to pursue a writing degree. He thought writing sounded better on a resume than filmmaking so that was his one concession to his mother’s practical nature. So now here he was at forty-two, never married, no children, no dog, and one last chance to prove, posthumously, to his mother that he hadn’t made a mistake in choosing this path. She might not be here physically, but Tom was convinced she somehow knew and one day when he finally “made it” he planned to go to her grave and tell her all about it; as if he had been keeping her from resting in peace all these years.

  “Son of a bitch! We missed one, right here! It’s four, maybe five miles from a school! Mother. . .” the excited man was interrupted before he could complete his exp
letive.

  “It’s on the newest grid, Stan. They know about it. Simons found it last night,” the man across the table explained.

  Stan was not to be pacified. “Why am I looking at outdated maps?” He slammed the papers down on the table and grabbed the nearest intern who cowered under his grip. “Go get me the updated maps and then you stand your ass outside the Oval and make sure I have new information the SECOND it comes down! If some Commie bastard breaks wind on this island you’d better be in a dead run down here to tell me about it! Understand?”

  The chastised intern scurried from the room as Stan ripped off the tie that had been loosely hanging from his neck. His bulging veins and red face indicated he might keel over in the chair normally reserved for the Secretary of the Interior, but the outburst seemed to relieve some of the pressure and he settled down and buried his head back in the reports.

  Tom had been observing everything around him, like being aware that you’re dreaming during the actual dream. Everything felt so real and he wanted to remember it. He almost didn’t recognize his name being called from the doorway. Yet another terrified intern was beckoning him to come to the door. The boy looked like he was afraid he might be in for some of the same kind of wrath Stan had been handing out and he was visibly relieved when Tom picked up his paperwork and came to the door without a fuss.

  “They’re ready for you now,” the intern said. The badge around his neck proclaimed his name to be Ethan York. He looked to be about 18 years old. He turned to walk away and Tom stopped him.

  “Hold on a minute, Ethan,” he said. The young man turned, certain now that he was about to have his head handed to him for some unseen slight. Earlier today he had failed to recognize the rank on a Colonel’s uniform and referred to him simply as “sir.”

  “Sir?” the man had asked condescendingly. “Do I look like a man who would spend years slogging through France getting shot at for pipsqueaks like you so I could be called ‘Sir’? You will address me as ‘Colonel’ if you must speak to me at all young man!”

  Where Ethan came from, “sir” and “ma’am” would open any door and get you a pat on the back for being a polite young man with good manners. But here, “sir” could get you dismissed from the White House intern program and he wasn’t looking forward to telling his mother he’d gotten booted his first week on the job. He vowed to study the symbols of military rank as soon as he got a break, but there had been no breaks for the last forty-eight hours and nobody seemed to know when there might be again. At least they got fed in the White House mess. They were handing out free sandwiches down there, which was good for Ethan’s budget. Speaking of sandwiches, he was getting hungry again. As soon as this guy, whoever he was, was finished yelling at him he thought he’d go down and see if there were any left.

  “Yes. . .um. . .he’s not wearing a uniform. . .sir?”

  “I was wondering where we’re going, Ethan. Where are you taking me?” Tom asked.

  “To the Oval Office, sir.”

  “Do you know why I’m being summoned?”

  “Sir, I don’t know anything about anything. I just learned which wing was the west one two days ago and I’ve been running around ever since. I was just told to get Tom Kelly and bring him to the Oval. One of the guys at the door back there pointed you out,” Ethan said.

  “Are you alright? You look scared, Ethan,” Tom said.

  “To be honest, sir, I am scared. I was supposed to come here for orientation for the intern program and about an hour after I got here all Hades, excuse my language, sir, broke loose. Nobody has gone home and I heard that last night the president went on TV talking about the Russians getting ready to nuke us. They don’t let us watch TV here but that’s what everybody’s saying. I’m nobody important, sir, but I would think if the Russians were wanting to nuke us, the White House would be a bad place to be sitting when it happens. I’m beginning to think I’d rather be back in South Carolina, but my mother worked hard for me to be able to do this and I don’t want to let her down,” Ethan was obviously relieved to be able to talk to someone. It seemed this Tom Kelly wasn’t going to yell at him like the colonel had so he breathed deeply and took a chance.

  “Sir, you’re obviously somebody important here. Do you think you could tell me if it would be a good idea for me to bug out and head south? I know you can’t tell me top secret stuff and all that, but maybe you could just give me a sign if the shit, sorry for my language, sir, is about to hit the fan.”

  Tom wasn’t sure whether to laugh or give the kid a hug. The young man was obviously terrified. He wanted to tell him it was all just a dream, but they had arrived at the outer office and Mrs. Lincoln was saying something to Tom about the president being ready to see him now. Everything happened quickly after that, and the idea of all this being only a dream gave way when John F. Kennedy reached out and shook Tom’s hand and thanked him for coming in that distinctive Boston accent. Tom felt the weight of the world descend on him as an aide went to close the door to the Oval Office.

  The last thing Tom saw was Ethan York standing in the hall, waiting for a sign.

  CHAPTER 13

  CALVIN WALKER

  1963

  All over the city, the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom was the main topic of conversation. Public opinion was divided between those who predicted an important event with the potential to bring about real change for those being persecuted on the basis of race and those who believed the event was likely to bring trouble. They thought the trouble could come during the actual march or as a result of the changes the advocates wanted to see. There were plenty of people in Washington that week who believed the status quo was just fine and that people should know their place. In lesser hands the planned march could have been a powder keg, but the top civil rights organizers in the country, those who advocated nonviolence and peaceful demonstration, had worked hard to ensure a positive and safe event.

  The program read like a Who’s Who of leaders in the black community. They had chosen to use the march to mark the anniversary of the enactment of President Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. One hundred years earlier the document had given their ancestors freedom from their slave masters, but today they still fought for equal rights and protections. A. Philip Randolph, James Farmer, John Lewis, Roy Wilkins, Whitney Young and Martin Luther King, Jr. all had a hand in the planning. They represented an alphabet soup of the most noted organizations including SNCC, SCLS, National Urban League and the NAACP. Marian Anderson was scheduled to sing the national anthem. She had gained fame after the Daughters of the American Revolution organization refused to allow her to perform at their venue in the late 1930s. Eleanor Roosevelt had been so incensed by the action she arranged for Anderson to sing at a special Easter concert on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. March participants were already talking excitedly about hearing the famous singer along with another favorite, Mahalia Jackson. Christian and Jewish leaders would be on hand to help bring the group together along religious, as well as racial lines.

  Everything was falling into place for a once-in-a-lifetime event. There would be no fire hoses or attack dogs. No grandstanding sheriff or local politician would be permitted to interfere with the program. Though they may have had different ideas about the specific call to action, all the organizers had worked hand in hand to make this march a showpiece for civil action. The emphasis was on the word “civil.”

  It wouldn’t be just black marchers on the mall. White citizens in large numbers were also planning to attend to stand shoulder to shoulder with their fellow Americans. The march would reach across the lines of race, religion, and class and for one extraordinary day the voices of the masses could not be ignored.

  From all indications it looked like a glorious day was set to dawn. Would the promise the organizers imagined echo the promise felt by those who first heard about the Emancipation Proclamation one hundred years ago? Or were they setting themselves up to be equally disappointed by the reality?


  CHAPTER 14

  OLIVIA FORDHAM

  1913

  Dr. Mabry Mitchell was a frequent guest of the Willard and happened to be in residence when Olivia had her seizure. Chase sent for him at once and by the time he arrived at the suite Olivia was sitting on the floor against the wall of the dining room. She looked dazed, but was breathing normally. Chase and the doctor helped get her to her feet and tried to usher her to her bedroom, but she wouldn’t hear of it. The doctor settled for seating her in the first parlor and insisted on a cursory exam. Chase gave them privacy and waited in the hallway for the doctor to finish.

  You can see it too? Chase mulled over what Olivia had said to him. He noticed she had not seemed at all surprised to see a different world outside her window than the one she was used to seeing. She did seem surprised that he could see it. In all the years since his own traveling experience he had never known anyone to react that way. Most were uncertain of what they were seeing at first, believing it to be a dream. Once he talked with them some accepted it more readily than others, but all of them, without exception, had required extensive explanations. Olivia had not. She had simply looked upon her present reality without any discernable concern. Chase didn’t know what to make of it, but before he could dwell too long on it the suite door opened and Dr. Mitchell came out.

  “How is she?” Chase asked.

  “She’s weak, but completely coherent. She has some muscle stiffness and a slight bump on the head from the fall, but overall she seems fine. I couldn’t get much medical history from her. She tried to pass it off like she’d had a case of the vapors.”

  “Trust me, Dr. Mitchell. Olivia Fordham has never had a case of the vapors. She probably just didn’t want to be a bother. What should we do?”

  “I’d like to check in on her this evening. I’ve given her a sleeping draught for later, but I doubt if she’ll use it. She seems quite headstrong. Do you know if she’s had episodes like this before?”