by Amy Bloom
It seemed that we were winning the war. It seemed that the end was coming soon, and that it was going our way. We still had blackout curtains on every window, and some of the biggest windows were painted black. Black paint spattered the carpet edges in every big room. At night, the streets were empty and quiet and the streetlights near us stayed dark all night. There were gun crews on the roof and the food was even worse than before, because Eleanor insisted that the White House suffer rationing, like everyone else. One week, we didn’t have eggs. We had oily dabs of yellow and white margarine on whole wheat toast and found it as disgusting as everyone else. Whatever the kitchen was calling hamburger, the President didn’t eat it and neither did I and neither did the dog. White House coffee was always weak and now it was a little worse, and in smaller cups. Eleanor didn’t allow complaining. She pointed out that all the other countries at war were truly suffering from privation. She flashed Franklin’s war rations coupon book whenever she could, fanning the pages out and saying, with real regret, Ours is such a small sacrifice. But the small, constant waves of anxiety had worn us out. People walked into meetings, said what they had to say, and slammed out. I passed old men outside Franklin’s office with their faces to the wall, crying. Jewish men and women came in, in furs or nearly in rags, carrying babies or with their rabbis, with their most important people and they left, in fury and despair. Two men in black hats and long coats prayed in the hall. Every Jewish friend the Roosevelts had begged Franklin to do more, sooner, and got nowhere. Elinor Morgenthau came in her furs and flowers and her Lilly Daché hat to hold hands with Eleanor. She walked out two hours later, ten years older. Negro men in uniform came to the office, three at a time. I heard some laughter and then low voices and the Negro men walked out, standing tall, eyes straight ahead. People smoked everywhere. There were overflowing ashtrays and buckets of sand in case of fire, side by side, in every room.
The war had made the inauguration short and simple and even so it was too much for us. Eleanor corralled all thirteen grandchildren and every dreadful cousin. His address lasted five minutes, which might be the shortest ever. It was bitter cold for Washington and we had snow. Franklin didn’t wear his hat or coat and no one said he should. He looked like hell. A thousand people came to the White House that day and Eleanor received every single person on the line. Franklin ate in the back, with some of his harem, and rested. People came in to praise him, to beg for favors, to mention their own hopes and wishes, and on the way out, every single one of those people informed Eleanor that maybe she didn’t realize this, but she should ask less of him and take better care of him. She knew he was dying of something and he knew he was dying. He chose this, is what they both thought and by God, he was going out as the greatest president this country ever knew and not as some fading invalid who couldn’t remember where Yugoslavia was or why it mattered. Louis Howe was dead. Sara Delano Roosevelt was dead, which was terrible for Franklin. Hall Roosevelt died a few weeks later, grieving and relieving the family. Harry Hopkins was out of the White House and near dead himself. Two old friends had died at the end of February and now there was almost no one for Franklin to lean on.
* * *
—
The light was on in his office and the door was open. I knocked.
“Looking for a pen?” he said.
“People walk off with them. After the inauguration, I saw all kinds of things disappear. You’re lucky the dog’s still here.”
He patted Fala’s ears.
“I hear you’ve still got your place on Long Island.”
“On my way. I’m retiring there,” I said. “It’s my Warm Springs, my Little White House. I’ll be there when the forsythia come out.”
He put his head back and rested it.
“The places we love. The people we love.”
We sat there for a long time.
“You and the missus, the fire’s gone out?”
I exhaled. If we were playing Honesty, I was not going to lose to a man who lied with every breath.
“We love each other. I would do anything for her and I feel lucky, I feel honored, to be her dear friend.”
“That little judge of yours. Marion Harron. Hot ticket.”
Thank you didn’t seem like the right answer.
“Fires go out,” he said. “We know that. All fires go out, goddamnit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Hick.”
“Yes, sir, all fires go out. It doesn’t mean that we don’t still want to sit by the fireplace, I guess.”
“Fair point,” he said. “I’m going to Warm Springs, as a matter of fact, in a couple of weeks. To sit by the fireplace. Get a little rest. Encourage the other polios.”
“Then don’t bring Cousin Polly. Jingle jangle.”
He laughed.
“Well, she’s colorful. And Daisy will come. Don’t bother saying something nice, I know you think she’s an idiot. A couple of friends might stop by. A painter lady. Going to do my portrait.”
“That’ll be handsome.”
I hoped it would be handsome. If she painted him as he was now, he’d look ancient and worried and not long for this world. His full, handsome face was wolfhound thin now and he looked like nothing so much as an aristocratic Jesus, hanging off the cross.
“When the time comes, you’re the one she should be with. You’re the one she should be rocking on the porch with.”
“Like she’ll be rocking on the porch.”
He laughed again, as light as paper turning.
“If she’s rocking on a porch, I think it’ll be with Joe Lash and Trude, and little baby Lash,” I said.
“You’re wrong. That’s their life, that’s not hers. He’ll get plenty out of her, I know, but sitting with the Lashes is not going to be her life. If she runs for office, that’s too bad for you,” he said, coolly. “But, you could write her speeches.”
“She’s very fond of Joe,” I said, poking him a little.
He snorted. “There’ll be others. More sons. That’s not the point. You’re the one. Don’t give up on her,” he said. “Don’t be so proud.”
“Okay,” I said.
We sat together until he fell asleep in the chair and I left the room, telling the new Secret Service man he was resting.
Parting
MONDAY MORNING, APRIL 30, 1945
29 Washington Square West
New York, New York
Someone’s banging on the door. I reach for Eleanor.
“Stay here,” I say.
She reaches for her robe.
“Eleanor, goddamnit, stay here.”
We are both still half-asleep, looking for our glasses, stumbling in the dark room. I kiss her on the forehead and press her to lie down. Just don’t move, I say. She squeezes my hand and says, Dearest.
I pick up the bread knife and move down the hall. A man calls out, Mrs. Roosevelt, and I open the door. A dark-skinned Negro man is cradling a tall white man in his arms, on the floor. He says he is very sorry for troubling us and the man in his arms groans again and I see that the Negro man is beautiful and wearing glasses. There is a bright, narrow slash of blood across his high forehead. His tweed sports jacket is ripped down the back.
The white man’s face is a bloody mask. The blood has mostly come down over his eyes from a gash in his scalp at the crown. His left ear is crumpled and bleeding at the top and his whole face is like a piece of raw beef. He is crying, I think. His mouth opens and closes, showing his bloody teeth. I was a reporter for a long time and I recognize his English shoes.
“Parker,” I say.
“Hick.”
The other man, holding Parker Fiske, like he is the mother and Fiske a fallen soldier, says “Thurman Jones, ma’am.”
Eleanor comes out in her wrapper and both men get to their feet.
I tell them, Come on in. I tell Eleanor to please get some brandy or Scotch and I’ll get the towels. We sit in a heap on the living room floor and while Thurm
an Jones holds Parker’s head, I blot up the blood with a warm washcloth and two of Eleanor’s monogrammed hand towels. Parker’s face emerges. I see the long, sharp nose and his owlish eyes. He puts his hand up to see if the blood has stopped and takes out his spectacles. His white shirt is dark red except at the cuffs.
“Oh my,” he says. “Look where we have found ourselves, Thurman. A love nest. I thought it would just be you, Eleanor.”
Eleanor kneels next to Parker. She does a good job with a couple of butterfly bandages. She always travels with a first aid kit the size of a hatbox and I used to tell her that she would have been happiest as a nurse.
Parker says, “I’m not drunk.”
Thurman Jones shakes his head. “Not now.”
“You know that song,” Parker says. He sits up slowly, leaning on the black man’s shoulder, and he lifts both his hands, with imaginary maracas. “We’ll find a little hideaway, where we can bide away the time. We’ll stay away, with lemon and lime.”
They sit down on the couch, knees touching. I ask Thurman Jones what he’d like to drink and he says he would really like a cup of tea, if it’s not too much trouble. You know that line from Pinero’s play, he adds, “While there is tea, there is hope.” Eleanor smiles and hops up. She already likes him so much more than Cousin Parker.
It would be all right with Eleanor if Parker doesn’t tell us a thing. It would be ideal if he could maintain a Rooseveltian silence about the details and leave after a light lunch, patched up and on his way with his charming Negro friend. Parker tells us everything: a downtown club, with a private party in the back, an oil-slicked boy curled up in a giant martini glass, and two girls, in red silk teddies, doing the Carolina Shag. Bricktop was giving the performance of a lifetime, he says. Bricktop. I will never forget it. You’d have lost your mind, Hick.
It sounds wonderful, Eleanor says. Thurman nods.
Cole Porter adores Bricktop, Parker adds. She’s opening a club in Mexico City. Speaking of which, that’s where we were headed, which is why we have had to come to you in this dreadful condition. I am sorry for the intrusion.
Thurman says, in the most careful, hopeful, worried way, “Cuernavaca. We would go to Paris, but they’re all trying to come here. Cuernavaca would be a great place for us. Parker’s emptied his accounts. I got an advance on my novel. We have our suitcases in Parker’s car.”
“A novel,” I say. “Well, you’re getting plenty of material.”
Thurman smiles and I think, Oh my, what is going to happen to you, with my man Parker as your guide.
I mention that Cuernavaca might be pretty rowdy and I happen to have a little place on Long Island, which could be perfect for a novelist. Peace and quiet might be just the ticket, I say.
“It’s his second novel,” Parker says. “Thurman is a great novelist. He is extraordinary. Countee Cullen said that Thurman’s first book was brilliant. Luminous. It was reviewed in The New York Times. Mrs. Roosevelt is a wonderful reader, Thurman.”
“That’s wonderful,” Eleanor says. “I must get a copy.”
“I’ll send you one,” Thurman Jones says. “I’ll inscribe it.”
Eleanor beams.
“We’ll buy a bunch,” I say. “We’ll hand them out like candy canes at Christmastime.”
Parker clears his throat.
“The evening didn’t end well. Obviously. There were arrests. Thurman and I were arrested for disorderly behavior and other things. We’re being arraigned. They have our passports.”
“Sons of bitches,” I say, and Eleanor purses her lips.
Parker says, like he is explaining to a child how to do arithmetic, “Eleanor, if they have our passports, we can’t go to Mexico. If we don’t get out of here, we will both be serving time, in prison, for unnatural acts. It’s not just disturbing the peace.”
“I am so terribly sorry,” Eleanor says.
“Eleanor, my dear, we need your help. All you have to do is call La Guardia, he loves you. You were the Assistant Crumbcake of Civil Hoo-Ha, whatever it was. You were magnificent, everyone says so.”
“Assistant director for civil defense” I say, and I give him the eye.
“Exactly,” Parker says. “Yes. Please. Call the Little Flower, tell him we are not the scum of the earth. We are decent men who got a little carried away and would like nothing more than to leave his fair city immediately, passports in hand, never to return and without corrupting a single moral, anywhere.”
Eleanor pours more tea for Thurman. She sighs and stands up.
“Give me a moment, please,” she says.
We watch her go. Parker squeezes my hand.
“For Jesus’s sake, please, one more time. Speak up for me.”
I follow Eleanor into the bedroom. She’s in her slip, putting on her plainest dress. I sit on the bed and watch her dress, which I always love to do, knowing each covered part so well, and the look on her face makes me cry.
“I cannot call Fiorello La Guardia and tell him not to clean up his city,” she whispers. “There are laws. It is his city. You said to me, there’s more life coming. I believe you. You said I can be of use. I believe I can be of use. Perhaps I can make a difference. And I cannot squander the little influence I have. Not for this.”
I stand behind her, my arms around her waist, her hand over mine. My chin rests on her shoulder. We see each other in the mirror. She is a little broader now. I am a little less broad. Our eyes meet and she looks away, toward the window. When she came in the door Friday night, she wore grief upon fatigue upon disappointment at what the future would not bring and beneath that, a stab of relief at knowing. I look like that now.
“Not for this?” I say. “Should we be in jail? We like to hold hands when the lights are low. Even now. You can make the call, darling. This is exactly your kind of call. Parker was a great servant to this country. Thurman is a great novelist. I think they love each other.”
“I’m sure they do,” she says. She shakes her head and goes back into the living room. I make myself follow her.
She tells Parker that she is very sorry but she cannot do anything for him, that she is nothing more than a great man’s widow, that she has no influence at all, in this kind of thing.
Parker and Thurman stand up.
I tell them that they should leave town anyway. There’s a war on, I say. Even Fiorello La Guardia is not going to send New York City police officers all the way to the West Coast to track down a couple of deviants. I smile when I say deviants and Thurman gives me the thumbs-up. Parker and Eleanor are like stone. You hide out in Los Angeles for a while, I say, and sooner than you can say Cary Grant, you’ll get a few fancy friends to pull some strings and you can just slip into Cuernavaca. It can’t be that hard. You got people running back and forth with cocaine and whores and blue movies every day. You’ll get there.
He kisses my hand.
“Helped by Hick, once more,” Parker says. “Good advice. Your advice was good last time too.”
“Go,” I say. I hand Thurman my navy-blue sports jacket. “It’s not your size but it’s not torn.”
Thurman tries it on and it billows out behind him but it’s respectable. I put my hand out for Thurman’s and he kisses me on the cheek. He smells like honey. I hand Parker a black turtleneck.
“I don’t have a necktie for you,” I say, and I am almost crying.
“This is better than what I’m wearing. They’ll think I’m bohemian,” he says.
“Won’t they just.”
“I hope our paths cross again,” Thurman says.
“In Cuernavaca,” I say.
“In Cuernavaca.”
He bows to Eleanor. Parker does the same and they’re gone. Eleanor and I pick up the teacups and Parker’s tumbler of Scotch and the bloody towels. She soaks the towels in the bathtub, with the last of our lemons, and I pack my things.
* * *
—
It’s just brightening when I go down to the street. I put my hand up for a c
ab and one drives right up. I open the door and close it.
“Sorry,” I say. “I forgot something.”
I ring the doorbell and Eleanor opens it, expecting Tommie.
“I’m back.”
She’s still in her robe. She takes my hand, which is enough to make me cry, and she brings me into the bedroom, as if this is our dear and private place, where we must be, and that does make me cry. She’s already made the bed. Her hat is on top of her closed suitcase. She sits down next to the suitcase and I sit in the old armchair.
“I packed last night,” she says. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Here’s what I think,” I say.
Eleanor says, “Do you want some tea? I can make tea.”
“Here’s what I think,” I say. “You have such a big life ahead of you. I know you think it’ll be mostly family, down to the great-grands and some ribbon-cutting and maybe there’ll be some public school spelling bees, if you want to go out on a limb. Maybe you’ll do some teaching, again.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” she says.
She looks out the window.
“What a beautiful day,” she says.
“Listen. I told you, you could write, and you wrote. Magazines, newspapers, books. You’re Babe Ruth. You’re a bestselling author, for Christ’s sake. I told you you could turn the world upside down with those press conferences and you hit those out of the park. And I am telling you, people are going to turn to you. Everywhere. You’re Franklin’s legacy and one better and don’t think Harry Truman doesn’t know it. The man has his eye on you.”
She sits back down on the bed.
“The story’s over,” she says.
I sit down beside her. “I heard. I heard you gave that line to the reporter. Humble. Very touching.”
She smiles.
“You might be right,” she says. “I might do a few good things, in the time I have left.”
