The Anarchist (13 page)

Norris got up and went to the window, which looked out on the backyard, where several of Big Maud’s girls were hanging bed linen on clotheslines. “I thought you said Nieman came alone.”

“He did. But Hyde had been looking for him—in fact, he had made arrangements with me to let him know if Nieman came
here. So I sent one of my girls to get Hyde. He waited down here, but sometime later when I was busy he must have snuck upstairs to her room—it is difficult to keep track late at night. If you would like, I will have Motka come down here and explain this.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Well, I have to say this is most irregular. You understand that I can’t have my girls involved in things that threaten national security.”

“I understand.”

“I have a good mind to bring her down here and tell her to clear out of my house—”

Norris turned to Big Maud, who was trying to strike a balance between indignation and complicity. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that. In fact, it would be best if no one knew of this conversation.”

“But of course.” She watched as he took his wallet from his suit coat. “And please, Mr. Norris, do not feel obliged to offer compensation. This is, after all, a question of national security, is it not?”

“Indeed, madam, indeed. Yours is an act of true patriotism.” He put a twenty on the desk. “And such vigilance will not go unrewarded.”

THAT evening the president’s entourage returned to the exposition to view a fireworks display created by Henry Pain, the acknowledged master of the ancient Chinese art. An enormous crowd again awaited the president. As in the afternoon, the crush of citizens greeted McKinley with screams and shouts and applause; flags waved and arms were raised as though people were hailing a beloved god. McKinley clearly enjoyed every moment, but the doctor was deeply concerned. Despite the fact that lines of police and military personnel constantly surrounded
the president’s open carriage during the ride through the exposition grounds, there were several incidents where someone in the crowd managed to approach the president unimpeded. Women swooned; men did silly things to get McKinley’s attention—one man walked on his hands alongside the carriage until two security men grabbed him by his airborne legs and dragged him away. On another occasion an elderly man stepped forward and the president stood to shake his hand and greeted him by name; they had served together in the Civil War.

Even Cortelyou, usually unflappable, was disconcerted by such outlandish public displays. Rixey could see it in his face as he hovered near the president, his dark eyes constantly scanning the horde around them. Other members of the president’s staff appeared genuinely frightened. No president had ever been exposed to such a large crowd of people. There simply were not enough guards to adequately protect him, and by the end of the evening everyone returned to the Milburn house, weary and exhausted.

The McKinleys occupied adjoining rooms on the second floor, and in the morning Rixey was summoned upstairs by the first lady’s maid, Clara Tharin.

“Is there a problem?” he whispered as they reached the first landing.

“Not that I knows of,” Clara said. She and her husband, Charles, who both resided at the Executive Mansion, were devoted to the McKinleys. “She slept good, far as I can tell. No calls in the middle of the night. It’s the president wants to see you.”

They went down the second-floor hall, boards creaking beneath thick carpeting; Clara knocked on a door and said, “I’ve got Dr. Rixey, sir.”

“Yes, come ahead.”

She turned the knob and held the door open for Dr. Rixey and closed it behind him. The sitting room overlooked the backyard and the windows were rimmed by ivy, giving a green tint to the
early-morning sunlight that filled the room. The president was staring curiously at some objects on top of the bureau. He was dressed as he was most every day—boiled white shirt, starched collar and cuffs, black satin cravat, white piqué vest, and pinstriped trousers. His frock coat was draped across the back of a chair. “God has granted us a splendid morning, Presley.”

“Indeed, sir. Did you sleep well?”

Without looking away from the bureau, McKinley smiled. “You mean did Mrs. McKinley?” He glanced toward the closed door that led to their bedroom. “She did, and in a few minutes it’s going to be Clara’s enviable task to arouse our fair maiden.” The president smiled at his little joke. It had often occurred to Rixey that most of the people who came into contact with William McKinley had no idea who he was—his stern, bland expression was designed to conceal the man within. Rixey always felt a deep sense of privilege when the president shared a few minutes alone with him—something he did often, largely because their joint task was to see to the well-being of the first lady. McKinley picked up a fine silver chain, to which his eyeglasses were attached, and hung it around his thick neck. Somehow Rixey had the feeling that he was witnessing a sacred ritual, as though the president were a priest or minister donning the vestments for a religious ceremony. “Look,” McKinley said, holding out several coins in the palm of his hand. “Our president is going forth on this fine day with a dollar twenty in his pocket.” He tucked the change away in his trousers. “Do you suppose our vice president would be caught dead with a dollar twenty on him?”

“No, sir.”

“Indeed! It might tarnish his office, not to mention his family’s good name. No wonder he thinks of me as having the spine of”—McKinley turned his head toward the window a moment—“what was it? ‘The spine of an éclair’? Only the strong shall inherit their family’s wealth, Doctor.” Looking down at the bureau again, he collected keys clustered on a small heart-shaped ring, and then two that were separate, which he put in his other
pocket. “I carry these around and I don’t remember what half of them are for.”

“People usually open doors for the president,” Rixey said.

“Only if they’re Republicans.” McKinley then picked up three small folding pocket knives and distributed them—one to each front trouser pocket, and the smallest tucked into the pocket of his vest. “National defense,” he murmured. “We’re on a budget, you know.”

“You have a more relaxed schedule today, sir. No speeches to a throng. And according to the morning editions, your speech yesterday was a great success.”

The president was a genuinely modest man and it was not the first time Rixey had seen him respond in silence to a compliment. As McKinley pulled on his frock coat his shirt crackled pleasantly. Returning to the bureau he took two neatly folded handkerchiefs from a stack of linen and then, after a moment’s thought, he gathered up a third. “It will be hot today. And I imagine we’ll do some walking out at Niagara Falls. We mustn’t let anyone see the president perspire.” He stuffed all three handkerchiefs inside his coat, which had satin lapels. “I really think that for a hike to see one of our most splendid natural wonders I might be able to dress …” McKinley hesitated.

“Less formally?”

“Yes.”

“Like the vice president when he’s off camping and hunting.”

“Precisely, Presley. You know, jodhpurs and one of those hats, with the brim turned up on one side. How do you suppose I would look in such a getup?”

“Sporting, sir,” Rixey said. “Why don’t you wear something lighter?”

“Because if I have occasion to do as Mr. Roosevelt did and pounce on a mountain lion—or was it a bobcat?—I want the beast to know that he’s dealing with the president of the United States.”

“Certainly,” Rixey said.

“Presley, would you know a mountain lion from a bobcat?”

“I doubt it, sir.”

“I see. And you, a man of science.” There was a gold watch on the bureau, which McKinley tucked in his vest pocket. “We do have a good schedule today, though I understand that some members of my staff would prefer it if we would all stay shuttered here in the safety of this house. But it will get warm, and I know at some point Ida will need to rest.” He tilted his head as though he were listening intently. Women’s voices could be heard in the adjacent bedroom.

“We have arranged for a suite for you at the International Hotel in Niagara Falls so that you might relax for a while after luncheon.”

“Excellent. We must keep an eye out for the first sign that she’s tiring.”

“Of course, sir.”

McKinley rotated slowly, aiming his girth at Rixey. There was something officious in his posture, as though only now could he formally address him. “I suppose there are days, Doctor, when you would appreciate more challenging duties.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

McKinley smiled. “Of course you do. And one day you’ll be relieved of the tedium of your current responsibilities, and you’ll be able to continue your brilliant career in medicine.”

“I’m honored to serve,” Rixey said. “Truly.”

McKinley placed a hand on Rixey’s shoulder. He often touched people as he spoke to them, as though he were bestowing a gentle benediction. Rixey had experienced this before, but he still felt a rush of emotion.

“Truly, I’m appreciative, Doctor,” the president said, looking up into Rixey’s eyes. “Ida has never had such fine care. God bless you.”

Rixey was about to speak; there was more to say, but the president’s sincerity and the grip of his hand conspired against
him. He was speechless—and embarrassed. He could feel his face flush.

“Now,” McKinley said, delighted, “I believe that my bride awaits me.”

The president turned slightly to the left, and taking his cue, Rixey went to the bedroom door and opened it for him.

Rixey closed the door behind McKinley, crossed the sitting room, and gazed out the window. As was their custom, the president and first lady would spend a few minutes alone before emerging. While he was dressing, the president had been waiting for his wife to beckon him to the next room. Rixey had witnessed this tacit form of communication before, but he had never determined exactly how the signal was conveyed. He had never seen a man so attuned to a woman’s needs.

When the McKinleys had first retained Rixey’s services, he assumed it would be a temporary arrangement. The president was clearly exhausted, and the first lady was experiencing frequent and severe bouts of depression. They asked Rixey to accompany them on a vacation at Hot Springs, Virginia. During those ten quiet days, Ida McKinley’s health stabilized, and the president looked more rested. By the time they all returned to the Executive Mansion in Washington, it was understood that Rixey would remain in constant consultation with the McKinleys. The president’s official physician, Surgeon General George Sternberg, was seldom seen at the Executive Mansion except on social occasions. Quietly yet increasingly, Rixey came to notice the subtle deference that was paid to him by the president’s staff and cabinet members.

The McKinleys were an extraordinary couple in the way they exhibited their affection for each other with the utmost sincerity and, at times, even a childish abandon. William McKinley was a man torn between two duties, one to his country and the
other to his wife. Rixey knew that few if any beyond the president’s staff and advisers understood just how much influence the first lady had over her husband. It was clear that it had been this way since they had first married. Often while in the private quarters of the Executive Mansion, Rixey had paused to study the McKinley family photographs, and the portraits of the young Ida Saxon were simply stunning. She had bright eyes, a fine jaw, and long dark tresses. Friends in Canton still talked about how high-spirited and even rebellious she had been while growing up. Yet after the loss of their second child, she descended into a state of illness and depression that only deepened with age. Her husband became even more doting and protective, despite his ever increasing responsibilities, first as a lawyer, then as a senator, and now as president. The burden of despair was something that they both shared. Though in his public duties the president was always temperate, and in private he could be truly jovial, it was clear to Rixey that he never strayed far from his wife’s dark, delicate state. There were times indeed when the president’s advisers—and, in truth, Rixey as well—would have liked to see the first lady not even attempt to make public appearances, for they almost invariably turned awkward, and yet not once had the president considered not accommodating her in every way possible.

This placed a great deal of stress upon the president, which was Rixey’s gravest concern. These past few years had been tumultuous. Not five years ago the country had been in deep economic depression; then a new threat emerged in 1898 as war with Spain seemed inevitable. Under McKinley, America was becoming a world power, and he proceeded with his usual caution. As a naval officer, Rixey appreciated how delicate the situation was between the United States and Spain. Cuba and the Philippines were both possessions of Spain, a poor nation desperately dependent upon its colonies. In Cuba, fighting broke out as revolutionary forces sought freedom from Spanish occupation. Americans became appalled at reports from Havana, and
the Hearst and Pulitzer newspapers stoked the fires of patriotic fervor. Increasingly, Americans believed that such political and economic repression should not be allowed in their hemisphere, and war seemed inevitable. McKinley, a veteran of the Civil War, patiently tried to negotiate a peaceful settlement with the Spanish government, one that would improve the situation for Cuban nationals and protect American economic interests throughout the Caribbean.