Tomb With a View

Oh yeah, by this time I was plenty steamed. It wasn’t even so much her looniness that was driving me up the wall as it was the whole superior attitude thing. Remember what I said about kicking Marjorie in the shins? This was the moment I would have done it if I wasn’t worried that kicking in peep-toe sandals would ruin a perfectly good pedicure. Without the option of physical violence, I decided to get to her where it really hurt.

“I was talking to one of the other volunteers the other day,” I said, as innocent as can be, and careful not to mention any names lest the unsuspecting volunteer incur Marjorie’s wrath. “Your name came up.”

This pleased her so much, she actually simpered. “Well, of course. The other volunteers look up to me. When I can’t be here to make sure things are handled correctly, I can only hope they do their best. Someday they may know enough to take over as volunteers here at the memorial. If they pay attention and learn from me.”

As if I agreed, I nodded. “This volunteer was talking about Garfield’s family. You know, Letitia and the kids.”

“Lucretia.” Marjorie’s lips puckered.

I laughed, but then again, I could afford to. I was about to get even with Marjorie for what she’d done to Doris, and I was feeling righteous. “Anyway, this volunteer told me they had a bunch of kids.”

“Yes. Seven. Eliza was born in 1860, and the poor darling died when she was just three years old. Then there was Harry. He was born in 1863. Harry Augustus, that was his full name. Then James. He was born on October 17, 1865, and then—”

“Whatever!” Maybe Marjorie was right when she said I liked to ignore facts. Hers were boring me to tears. “The volunteer also told me that there are plenty of descendants of those children. I mean bona fide, legitimate descendants. You know, ones who can prove they are directly connected to the president.” Wide-eyed, I traded her look for look. “You’re not one of them.”

She twitched as if she’d been slapped, but Marjorie never backed down. In fact, the smile she beamed at me teetered on the edge of rapturous. “That volunteer apparently hasn’t been paying attention, though I can’t understand how. I’ve told all of them the story. Dozens of times. I’ve told them that, in the 1860s, James Garfield had a relationship with a young woman named Lucia, Lucia Calhoun.”

I thought back to everything she’d said earlier, and wondered if it was as much of a surprise to Marjorie as it was to me to realize I’d actually been paying attention. “But you said he and this Letitia chick—”

“Lucretia.”

“You said they got married in 1858. Wow. You mean the old guy had an affair.” I leaned forward far enough to peer into the rotunda and gave the statue there the thumbs-up. “Who would have thought an old fossil like that would have had the life in him!”

Marjorie clutched her hands at her waist. “He wasn’t old. Not then. As a matter of fact, he was never old. He died before his fiftieth birthday. President Garfield was born in 1831. He was in his thirties when he met Lucia. She was a reporter for the New York Times, certainly an unusual job for a woman at the time, especially considering that she was only eighteen.”

I made a face. “Thirty-year-old guys and teenagers should not be getting it on.”

Marjorie ignored these words of wisdom. “He eventually stopped seeing Lucia,” she pointed out. “But not until after his wife threatened to divorce him. That, of course, would have ruined his reputation and destroyed his political career. In the great scheme of things, I suppose it was all for the better. Otherwise, the country would have been denied one of its truly great presidents.” Her chin came up another fraction of an inch. “My mother, Lucy—named after Lucia herself, of course—is the granddaughter of Rufus Ward Henry, the son of Lucia Calhoun and the president. He, of course, was raised by relatives who took him in and made him one of their family. There really weren’t other options available to women at the time. Not to women who had children out of wedlock.”

Everything Marjorie said fed right into my revenge-for-Doris strategy. Did I gloat? Just a little. “Yeah. I think that volunteer said something about how you think that’s true. Thing is,” I pointed out, “that volunteer said there weren’t any children from that affair. And that you don’t have one shred of proof that says there were.”

All Marjorie did was grin like she knew some big secret. It wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for, and it didn’t give me a whole lot of satisfaction on Doris’s behalf. “Is that what that person said? Well, we’ll see about that!” Humming under her breath, she did a little hop-step toward the desk and sat right down. She set the book she was holding on the desk in front of her. There was a black-and-white photo of a bearded man on the cover of the book, and I’d seen the statue in the rotunda so many times, I recognized him right away.