Free Taft 2012 by Jason Heller Page A

indignity by the grace of God, or at least the strength of her young and hearty constitution—lay about the living room, drained of fluids and good humor.
    “That,” wheezed Trevor, his arms wrapped around his torso as if they were the only thing keeping his guts together, “is the last time we ever eat Fulsom anything. Let alone TurkEase.”
    Rachel hushed him. “Don’t even
say
that word. You know what this is, right? Poetic injustice. Is there such a thing? Because that’s what this feels like.”
    Taft laughed as audibly as his seemingly bruised insides would allow. “If anything, you’ve certainly convinced me of your cause. Back in my day, we were no strangers to bad food. That’s why Teddy passed his agricultural reforms in the first place. But it was supposed to get better.”
    “Don’t get me wrong, Grandpa. We’ve made great strides in food safety and wholesomeness in the past century. Not all food manufacturers, even the big agribusiness conglomerates, are as bad as Fulsom. But things have taken a turn for the worse. Healthy food is readily available, but companies like Fulsom make it easier for people to get addicted, for lack of a better word, to fat and salt and genetically modified ingredients. Hell, I can’t even claim to be totally immuneto their marketing. I mean, I’ve been eating Fulsom TurkEase and Sausage Saucers and Chick-n-Liks since I was a little girl. With all the research I’ve been doing over the past couple years, I know better than anyone. I’ve never met the man, but my beef with Gus Fulsom is personal. I grew up eating his company’s products, and I still break down every once in a while and buy some of this, this … stuff.” She reached over and took Trevor’s hand. “We try our best to eat better, for our sake and for Abby’s. But every once in a while, we just get busy and wind up on the path of least resistance.”
    Taft couldn’t help but be reminded of himself. There had been no Fulsom Foods in his day. But the way Rachel spoke about the lack of control, the surrender to impulse, the comfort to be found in the flavors of youth … these he knew. All too well. He thought of Nellie, and of the ways she’d tried to guide him away from temptation.
    Suddenly he sat up. Ignoring the wellspring of pressure that ballooned in every direction from somewhere near his tailbone, he drew back his shoulders and raised his voice. “This will not stand. I will help you, Rachel. This cause is as noble and worthy as any Teddy Roosevelt ever undertook. I’ll do whatever I can to help you bring this crusade to the masses. So Pauline Craig wants me to appear on her television program? It is time I pick up her gauntlet and address the nation as a president does his people! It is time to purge this great nation of a great many things—starting with Fulsom’s festering reservoir of corruption!”
    His stomach lurched abruptly. He hoped he wouldn’t be purging too literally.
    Fox News Poll
    What do you think of former president William Howard Taft?
    Respected elder statesman: 35 percent
    Forgettable and irrelevant: 27 percent
    Dangerously out-of-touch loose cannon: 21 percent
    Undecided: 10 percent
    Imposter/hoax/fraud: 7 percent

ELEVEN
    “G ood God, man. Is all this truly necessary? Preposterous! I must look like a cut-rate Manila harlot.”
    Taft sat petrified in the dressing-room chair, his face a frozen flinch, as if he were under the straight razor of a bloodthirsty barber.
    “No talking. You’re smearing.” The makeup artist fastidiously daubed his cheeks with a pigmented brush. Taft felt like a fidgeting child being scolded by a portraitist—only he was the canvas.
    Susan seemed greatly amused by it all. She sat in a folding chair against the wall, her coat lying over her lap and a cup of tea balanced on top of the coat. Surely a woman of such propriety must be able to see the indignity of his current predicament, but, as Taft already knew, she took a perverse delight