But the young man shook his head. “No, sir. Mr. Severt requests a meeting with you. I’m to take you to the top floor.”
Uh oh.
Was his everything-is-going-well-in-Boston idea about to be destroyed? Even though he’d served as Mr. Severt’s personal editor for several weeks, he rarely had face-to-face visits with the man. Severt handed Thomas his written drafts, barked his expectations, then left him to work. If Thomas performed to his boss’s satisfaction, he heard nothing; if he failed, he heard plenty. Given his boss’s penchant for withholding positive comments, Thomas had no expectation for a pleasant encounter.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing the fourth floor, and Thomas made his way down the hallway to Mr. Severt’s office. The door stood slightly ajar. He raised his fist to knock, but before his knuckles connected with the wood, a voice ordered, “Come in, Ollenburger. Prompt, as always.”
The gruffly worded approval eased a bit of the tension in Thomas’s shoulders. He entered the room, crossed directly to the desk, and offered his hand. Severt, a pen clenched in his stained fingers, remained hunched over a sheet of paper and didn’t even look up. Papers scattered across the desktop told of feverish writing. Without a word, Thomas sank into the chair opposite the desk.
After a few moments, Severt set the pen aside, stretched his arms over his head, and acknowledged Thomas’s presence with a tired smile. “Had to get my thoughts down before they escaped.”
Thomas understood. If someone interrupted him while he was editing, it took several minutes to bring his focus fully back to the task.
Severt yawned and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “Ollenburger, I am about to open a can of worms the likes of which Boston has never before seen.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows.
Severt released a deep chuckle. “That’s what newspaper editorial writers do—stir things up. Make people look at a situation differently than they have before. Change things. And I intend to stir until I’ve changed the minds of every resident of Boston, of Massachusetts, of the entire United States of America!”
How did one respond to such boldness? Uncertain, Thomas replied with a hesitant, “Th-that’s a worthy aspiration, sir.”
Another blast of laughter chased away Thomas’s words. The man grinned then slapped his palms to his desktop. “But the U.S. of A. doesn’t need to be apprised of my intentions just yet. Sometimes ideas need to come in like a fox approaching a henhouse—without the chickens’ knowledge.”
More confused than ever, Thomas simply nodded.
“But once the fox is in . . . feathers fly! The balance of the coop is upset. And, best of all, the fox always wins. Well, Ollenburger, I am the fox, and I—shall—win!”
Thomas cleared his throat, swallowed, and braved a question. “What, exactly, are you winning?”
The man stared as if Thomas had lost his sense. “Why, the election, of course! The presidency will be given to my candidate.” A cunning look crossed Severt’s face. “And then the changes will come. Things will revert to the way they should have remained. . . .” His voice trailed off, his gaze drifting to the window.
Thomas waited for him to complete the thought, but after several seconds he said, “What is my role in this . . . invasion of the henhouse?”
Severt jerked around, looking startled, and then he burst out laughing. “Your role in the invasion . . .” The man rocked in his chair, still chuckling, while seconds ticked by, and Thomas wondered if his boss had imbibed spirits before coming to work that morning. “Your role is crucial, Thomas. You will be editing my work for errors, of course, but more importantly, for understanding of the message. You’re a farm boy, Ollenburger, raised in a simplistic, rural setting. You have a different way of examining things than those raised in the city. The message I have penned must be understood and absorbed by both educated and common men.”
Despite his efforts to remain poised, Thomas’s brow pinched into a frown. Was Severt trying to insult him?
“Yes, subtlety this first week.” Severt’s tone turned pensive as he stroked his mustache. “A hint of what’s to come without being blatant. Allow the truth to be revealed in small bites, easily digested. . . .”
“Sir?”
Suddenly Severt scowled and pointed at Thomas. “This country was turned upside-down by Lincoln, but upside-down can be turned right side up again. And I intend to do whatever I can to turn it to right. Do you understand?”
In all honesty, Thomas didn’t understand. But rather than appear foolish, Thomas nodded. “I’ll do my part, too.”
“Good!” The man’s expression cleared. He tamped several handwritten pages together and thrust them across the desk at Thomas. “There are three editorials there, intended for the next three Saturday editions, marked clearly by sequence. Read them in order, mark your reactions, and then return them to me at the end of the day. Take the entire day.” His thick brows came down, an almost ominous tone creeping into his voice. “It is of the utmost importance that the meaning be grasped by the readers. Three editorials . . . any more would be excessive. These three must suit the intended purpose.”
Thomas nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“The articles will be wired to every major newspaper from coast to coast, Ollenburger. Do you understand the importance of careful editing?”
Thomas rose, holding the stack of pages in front of him like a shield. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Instead of using the elevator, he took the enclosed stairway to the third floor. Curious, he glanced at the scribbled text. A quote opened the first editorial:
“Men and women are what they are largely because of the stock from which they sprang.”
The statement instantly grabbed Thomas’s attention, and he plodded slowly through the pages, reading each word with care. By the time he reached his office, he’d finished the first of the three drafts.
In his office, he removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair before sitting. He leaned his elbows on either side of the second draft and carefully read each word for clarity.
So-called “equality” leads to societal chaos. Our standing as a world leader is threatened by the acceptance of inferior races as “equal” to those who founded this country. . . .
A sick feeling flooded his stomach. Even a
farm boy
like himself caught the meaning. His hands shook. He dropped the sheets, rose, and paced the office. Severt’s face—stern and intense—appeared in Thomas’s memory. The man trusted him. He must complete the task.
Swiping sweat from his forehead, Thomas sank into his chair and reread each draft in turn. At the final sentence in the third draft—
Only one candidate will return this nation to its proper balance: Thomas Watson!
—Thomas slumped against the back of his chair.
No, there had to be some mistake! Whispering a silent, hopeful plea that he would discover he’d misinterpreted Severt’s intention, he leaned over the drafts once more. His reading complete, he put his head in his hands. Never in all of his conversations with his boss had he guessed such ugly ideas lurked in the man’s heart. Never at the campaign headquarters had he picked up any inkling of Watson’s intention to lord one race over another.
He pushed away from the desk and snatched up his jacket. A celluloid button with an attached red, white, and blue ribbon was pinned to the left lapel. He read aloud the simple message arched above the black-and-white drawing of Watson’s profile on the button. “Watson—Candidate of Choice.” He’d believed that by campaigning for Watson he was benefiting his father and all other common men in the agricultural business. But now?
He unpinned the button, dropped it in a desk drawer, and then slipped his arms into his jacket. Severt expected a response by the end of the day concerning the comprehension of his drafts. Before Thomas could address his boss, he needed to speak to someone at headquarters about Watson. And about Severt.
D
APHNE
PRESSED THE SIX-INCH LENGTH
of ribbon to the bottom edge of a
Watson for President
celluloid button and held it while she counted silently to ten. The glue soaked through the porous ribbon, dampening her fingertips, and she released a small whimper of irritation. After setting aside the finished button, she wiped her fingers on a rag lying next to the pile of cut ribbon on the table, then reached for another button from the small box at her elbow.
When Harry had asked her to come in and construct buttons for the final round of distribution, Daphne had eagerly agreed. Being in town meant being in closer proximity to Thomas. Sometimes Thomas dropped by the campaign headquarters on his noon break, and although he exercised great restraint when in public places, she always recognized the pleasure that lit his eyes when he spotted her. It wouldn’t be long, she was certain, and Thomas would ask Father for her hand in marriage.
Her fingers trembled at her bold thought, and she attached the ribbon at an angle rather than straight down. Harry, the perfectionist, would surely scold. Well, she decided with a shrug, maybe his dissatisfaction would lead to assigning her a less monotonous task. Yawning, she plopped the imperfect button in the completed stack while glancing toward the double doors leading to the sidewalk.
Her mouth still wide in the yawn, she nearly swallowed her tongue when the left door swung open and Thomas stepped through. Snapping her jaw shut, she leaped from her chair and placed her back to him, frantically fluffing her wrinkled skirt. She scowled at the glue splotches dotting the pale green, but there was no cure for it now. Perhaps if she smiled brightly enough, he wouldn’t notice.
With a deep breath, she fixed her face into a welcoming smile and spun around. But her shoulders deflated. Rather than approaching her table, Thomas had joined two men at a desk in the far corner of the room. With a small stomp of one slippered foot against the polished wood floor, she plunked her hands on her hips. For several seconds she stewed, waiting for Thomas to turn and notice her. When he didn’t, she huffed in frustration and charged across the room to his side.
She arrived in time to hear him say, “ . . . makes no sense to me. Before I continue with this campaign, I need to understand Watson’s position.”
“Position on what?” Daphne tugged at Thomas’s arm.
Thomas removed her hands with a slight frown. “Daphne, go sit down, please. I’ll talk to you when I’m finished here.”
Had he ever spoken to her so abruptly? Rebuffed, she took two backward steps, her face filling with heat. “A-all right. Fine.” She hurried back to the table. With each step, her indignation grew. Why, he had just treated her as Father always did—as if she didn’t have enough sense to engage in meaningful conversation!
She sat, staring across the room at Thomas. He ran his hand over his hair, leaning close to the other two men, his arms flying out in gestures of agitation. Something certainly had him in a dither. Observing his uncharacteristic display, her heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm. She would overlook his rude treatment given his obvious state of anxiety, but she intended to make sure this dismissal of her presence was a one-time occurrence.
It seemed hours passed as she watched, waiting, before the other two campaigners returned to their posts, leaving Thomas alone. He stood for long moments, his head down, hands thrust deep into his pockets—the perfect pose of dejection. Daphne considered going to him, but his previous command held her squirming in her seat.
At last he lifted his head, his shoulders heaving in a mighty sigh, and then he turned and crossed the room to her table. He sat heavily across from her and lifted one of the beribboned buttons from the stack. “Watson, indeed . . .”
Despite herself, Daphne giggled. At his scowl, she mimicked, “Watson, indeed . . . For a moment, I felt as though I were in Mrs. Steadman’s parlor, listening to her harangue you about the campaign.”
A knowing grin twitched at Thomas’s cheeks. “Yes. Well. It seems Nadine was right all along.”
Daphne tipped her head. “Oh? About what?”
“About Watson.” Thomas propped his elbows on the table edge, his head slung low. He looked so sad, Daphne reached across the table to take his hand. He glanced at her with surprise in his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. “She told me to look beneath the surface to the truth of who Watson was, and I thought I had. But I see now I was wrong. Very wrong.”
“About what were you wrong?” To her delight, Thomas curled his fingers around her hand. The warmth of his palm pressed to hers made her heart flutter.
“Watson’s character. And—” Suddenly his neck blotched with color and he jerked his hand free.
Daphne’s heart sank. “Thomas?”
For long moments he stared at her. An intense fire burned in his eyes, deepening the color to a stormy blue. Alarm created an unpleasant taste on the back of Daphne’s tongue. What thoughts lurked behind his dark gaze?
When he spoke, the words were uttered in a hoarse whisper that told clearly of inner torment. “Daphne, Watson believes in separation of the races.”
Daphne stared at him, unblinking, for a few startled seconds, waiting for him to add to the simple comment. When no other concerns were voiced, she nearly laughed with relief. “Why, Thomas, is that what has you upset? To think I feared something dreadful had occurred!”
He shook his head, frowning. “Something dreadful
has
occurred. I’ve been campaigning for a man whose values I—” His face twisted into an expression of loathing. “To consider one man of more value than another just because of his skin color . . .”
Daphne placed her hand over Thomas’s wrist and squeezed gently. His pulse pounded beneath her fingers. He had worked himself into a fine state. She slipped her hand beneath his, gratified when he responded by clasping her fingers. In a soothing tone, she said, “Well,
someone
has to be in control, Thomas. Surely you see the sensibility of retaining a hierarchy of social levels.”
Thomas seemed to freeze, his hand within hers stiffening. The color in his neck rose higher, and his nostrils flared with a great intake of breath. “Are you suggesting a return to slavery?”