Fluke: A Novel

by Martin Blinder

Overview

President Harding’s young mistress narrates her life in the shadows of political corruption in this historical novel “of considerable dash and charm” (Publishers Weekly, starred review).

President Warren G. Harding was a strikingly handsome man with little political ambition. But in the United States, anyone can be president—especially during the chicanery of the Roaring Twenties.
 
At the center of his presidency was the young Nan Britton. Although she was only half his age, their passionate affair began in 1917 in a New York hotel room, and continued for six and a half years during his time in the Senate and then in the White House. Harding and Britton kept the affair secret, meeting in closets and private offices, including a small anteroom in the West Wing. Eventually, they conceived a daughter, Elizabeth Ann, born in October 1919.
 
Fluke is a story of corruption, obsessive love, a doomed presidency, and the lengths a woman will go to support the man she loves. Before Lucy Mercer, Kay Summersby, and Monica Lewinsky, there was Nan Britton, whose stories of carnal adventures in the White House coat closet scandalized the nation.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781497633360
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	06/10/2014
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	213
Sales rank:	935,449
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Martin Blinder M.D. serves on the faculty of the University of California in San Francisco, is past professor of law, Hastings College of Law, and former mayor of his hometown, San Anselmo, California. He is the author of five books and three produced plays.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

    Though of course, my birth certificate would maintain otherwise, so far as I am concerned, my life truly began on duly 4th, 1912. Nothing in my then fifteen years on this earth could have prepared me for this crashing coming of age on that brilliant, red, white and blue morning, nor for the remarkable man who was to be its instrument.

    A teenage girl's petite waving hand is but one of many sprouting from a festive, sun-drenched crowd jamming Main Street of a small, mid-American town, gathered to watch Marion, Ohio's Independence Day parade. Like last July and the several before that, the procession is led by the town's robust alderman, forty-six-year-old Warren Gamaliel Harding, astride a white stallion sashaying just ahead of a sparkling brass marching-band of uncertain pitch.

    The musicians are followed by a troop of ancient, bemedaled Civil War veterans in faded Union blue, some dependent upon canes, a few pushed along in wooden wheelchairs. Next come unsmiling militants of the Anti-Saloon League, trailed by no less grim contingents of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and finally, in contrast, ebullient delegations from the Chamber of Commerce, the Ohio Grange, and the Marion Boosters Club, for all of whom next year will always be an even better one. Each troupe flourishes its own particular banners, pennants and flags as they strut along, creating a gleaming, undulating satin river of purple, gold, maroon and green. Dogs dart in and out, barking patriotically.

    Alderman Harding is a boundlessly contented, classicallyhandsome man, easily six feet, with a head you might expect on a Roman coin. He waves broadly at his townsfolk, tipping a Panama hat right and left, reveling in the heartfelt approval and affection that rises up to him all along the way.

    A young man in the crowd gives Harding a mock salute. "Hullo, Alderman. Band just don't sound the same without you tootin' on that old tuba."

    Harding smiles down at him. "Hey there, Greg--you back in Marion?"

    "Just for the holiday. Here to see my mom."

    "You tell your mom Warren Harding sends his best."

    "I sure will, Warren--that'll make her real pleased."

    A ruddy-faced man in overalls and a plaid shirt calls out to him. "How ya doin', Warren?"

    "Doin' well, Petey. Good to see ya. Corn in yet?"

    "First ears just this morning. I'll bring some by while they got all their sugar."

    "Why I sure do appreciate that. Thanks, Petey."

    Two young women costumed as "Miss Liberty" toss bouquets up at him. He snares them both and beams as each girl blows him a kiss. Warren Harding's contentment may be easy, but it runs the length and breadth of his soul.

    The parade draws close to the fluttering teenage hand, belonging to diminutive, delicate Nan Britton, on tiptoes between her parents, bobbing up and down for a better view. Indicia of her later staggering beauty are already evident.

    As a young girl I had wished desperately to grow up to be a great saint--like Joan of Arc. I would pray every night to Jesus, begging him to afflict me with some horrible disease I could suffer ecstatically, until the Pope recognized my beatific selflessness. This piety greatly alarmed my parents, neither of whom were Catholic, and most particularly, my father, who did not even believe in God. Or very much else.

    Harding comes abreast of Nan, horse and rider luminous in the warm sunshine. Through the forest of bonnets, straw hats and waving American flags, she catches Harding's eye. He winks, then blinds her with his smile.

    Suddenly all these aspirations for immortality vanished when, at that fateful moment, an authentic saint, a true knight on a white horse, rode into my life. In a heartbeat I'd found the man who was to forever be the center of my world. Anyone who has not experienced all-consuming devotion may well find it hard to comprehend, but Warren Harding was to touch me so deeply that I would thereafter dedicate myself to melding and blending into him, as he had inexplicably become so much a part of me.

    Nan flushes. She pulls on her mother's arm and points.

    "Mummy, who's that?"

    "Oh--that's Mr. Harding, dear. You know--the Marion Weekly Star? It's his little newspaper."

    Nan's father frowns. "Mindless Republican rag ..."

    "How come he leads the parade, Mummy?"

    "He's also everyone's favorite alderman. A very kind fellow ..."

    Mr. Britton grumbles loudly. "Political hack. Fawning Republican toady ..."

    Nan routinely ignores her father, having learned that however bright the sun, it has yet to shine on him. "What's an alderman, Mummy?"

    "Another two-bit grafter ..." mumbles her father.

    His wife overrides him. "An alderman is--someone townsfolk vote in to sort of preside over things. Help keep Marion running along."

    Mr. Britton has thoroughly warmed to the subject. "Help himself to the public trough ..."

    Nan persists. "Like they vote for the President."

    "That's right, dear," affirms her mother. "'Cept that an alderman is strictly a local official. And just part-time, I believe. Quite different from a President."

    Nan's gaze remains fixed on Harding's receding figure as the parade tramps on by. "Mr. Harding looks exactly like I imagine a President would look."

    Her father's had enough. He hits his sibilants hard, sending spittle into space. "For your information, Miss Nan, the President--William Howard Taft--is said to weigh three hundred and seventy-six pounds. The White House had to build special chairs just for him."

    Nan stands her ground. "Well, Mr. Harding certainly looks much more like a President than that. If ladies could vote, I'd vote for Mr. Harding."

    Nan's mother nods in vigorous agreement.

    Her father shakes his head in disgust. "That's precisely why, praise heaven, ladies will never get the vote."

Chapter Two

    The editorial policy of the Marion Weekly Star is well tailored to Harding's particular combination of strengths--a florid way with words, limited curiosity, aversion to change, and indefatigability as town booster and patriot. And reporting, as it did, only those stories which put Marion and its citizens in the best possible light, the paper is everywhere welcome, if not widely read.

    Certainly one would not easily mistake the Star for the Cleveland Post Dispatch, or for that matter, the Marion Morning Tribune. The walls of the one-story wood frame storefront that had been its home since birth fourteen years ago were no longer plumb, if ever they were. The roof sags with fatigue. "Modest" was how Harding himself characterized his newspaper empire, always a bit behind financially and in subscribers, notwithstanding its gold letter bravado on the window:

The Marion Weekly Star Warren G. Harding Editor and Publisher Paid circulation 8,750

    Yet Harding tremendously enjoyed putting out his little paper, and would never consider anything else. All his life the grass always looked greener right under his feet.

    Nan, in pigtails, a white pinafore and white patent leather shoes, approaches the newspaper's offices from a park across the street. She reaches the front door, then pauses to gather up her courage.

    Just within, Harding and long-time United States Senator William Foraker chat politics in the front office as they savor leisurely cigars. Soft blue smoke hangs drowsily around them in the still air. The two old friends, Harding tilted back in his well-seasoned wood and leather desk chair, Foraker reclining on a battered loveseat, share in the prestigious company of Presidents McKinley, Taft, and Theodore Roosevelt, whose framed sepia photographs eye each other from opposite walls. Harding's Airedale, Old Abe, sprawls on a frayed rug by Harding's chair, tail thumping as Harding scratches him behind the ears.

    As always, Harding is reassuring. "Wouldn't think you'd have to campaign all that much this time 'round, would you, Bill? You've been down this road so many times ..."

    "Ya never know what voters will do," counters Foraker. He jabs his cigar towards Harding. "You remember that when ya make the run for Governor, Warren, my boy."

    Harding laughs. "Me? I'd sooner throw myself in front of a horse. Invite all that grief ..."

    "Beware complacency," Foraker continues, "that's my motto. Look at old Blaine. Re-elected four times, figures he can rest on his laurels--and a Democrat squeaks right past him. No sir, I'm gonna be out there shaking hands every ..."

    A bell over the front door jingles as Nan enters. The sunlight streaming through the plate glass behind her ignites the alabaster sheen of her dress, creating a halo around her.

    Harding smiles at his young visitor. "Well, hello there, miss."

    "Good afternoon, Mr. Harding," she replies, shyly.

    Old Abe rises, sniffs Nan's shoes. No one he knows. He waddles back to his rug.

    "What can we do for you today?" asks Harding.

    "I brought you a poem."

    "A poem."

    "Yes sir. For the Marion Star's 'Poem of the Week.'"

    "And you wrote it? All by yourself?"

    "Oh yes sir."

    "Well if it's good, we just might publish it." Harding winks at Foraker. "Like to read it to us?"

    Solemnly, Nan nods, slides a piece of paper from her pocket, and unfolds it. "It's called 'My True Love.'"

    Harding smiles at her encouragingly. "'My True Love.' Well, well. Let's hear it."

    Nan begins reading to him in a small, clear voice. "My True Love, by Nan Britton." She takes a deep breath, then plunges in.

"Upon a white steed there rides into my life A man Fate had destined to make me his wife. A blink of an eye and I'm under his spell. From that moment on, in my soul he doth dwell."

    "My, my," says Foraker. "'In my soul he doth dwell.' Please, go on child."

    Nan draws another breath, then lets fly:

"Our lips meet in passion, our bodies entwine. My mind is aswim in desire divine. The heat of my heart exceeds that of the sun. Two loins meld together as we become one."

    Harding and Foraker exchange a look of astonishment. Nan ventures her first smile. "That's my poem."

    A dense silence.

    Harding clears his throat. "Yes ... well. That's quite a--poem, er, Nan. Quite a poem. Yes indeedy."

    Foraker nods.

    Nan's green eyes glow. "Is it good enough, do you think? Good enough to be in the paper?"

    Harding weighs his words. "Well, yes it's quite good." He pauses. "Not our usual thing, though. Most of our poems are more--actually, they're less ..."

    Nan's face falls.

    Harding shifts gears. "But, er, sure. I think with--a little editing we could put it in. Is that all right? If we change it just a bit."

    "Oh yes sir," replies Nan, brightening again. "Whatever you think best. Thank you."

    Proudly she hands it over to him. Harding takes it, affectionately pats Nan's shoulder, and looks the poem over in continuing disbelief.

    Foraker squints at the budding poetess. "How old are you, young lady?"

    "Fifteen, sir. Just this month."

    "Fifteen, fifteen. Hmmm."

    "Yes, sir. Well, I have to go. My mother asks that I come straight home after school."

    Harding nods. "That's good, Nan. Always listen to your mother." Again he clears his throat. "Your mother--she hasn't by chance seen this ... ?"

    "Oh no. You're the only one." Meaningfully, she looks up at him, her eyes deep green pools. "I wanted you to be my first." She gives him a smile that would set a glacier to the boil. "Well--good-bye, Mr. Harding." The merest glance at Foraker. "Good-bye, sir."

    The front doorbell jingles as Nan returns to the street.

    Foraker shakes his head. "You see? Teach young ladies to read and write--this is what you get."

Editorial Reviews

With almost eerie timeliness, debut novelist Blinder skillfully recreates the long-running romance of President Warren G. Harding with a woman half his age, simultaneously depicting an era that became notorious for financial chicanery at high levels of government. In the eyes of narrator Nan Britton, who bore Harding's illegitimate child, Harding was a great man brought down by his enemies and his need to be liked. When teenage Nan first encounters Harding, he is a modest Ohio publisher propelled to office by his flinty, ambitious wife, "the Duchess," and political associates who appreciate his malleability. After a reluctant Harding is elected to the Senate, Nan follows the easygoing Republican to Washington, where he can't resist her nubile charms. A series of wily maneuvers (of which he is unaware) propel Harding to the top of the 1920 Republican ticket and thence to the White House. From that point, the narrative bristles with suspense as a modest man grows into his potential as a statesman. Meanwhile, his trusted cronies indulge in a rampage of ruthless greed, culminating in the Teapot Dome scandal. Harding's sudden death, just after the scandals come to light but before he can declare his innocence, freezes history's judgment, making the man synonymous with the sins of his subordinates. Writing with economy and insight, Blinder is at his best in short, vividly cinematic takes as when, after the inauguration, a tactful Harding rides with his predecessor, a disillusioned and disapproving Woodrow Wilson. Although Blinder fails to convey the electricity of passion between Nan and Harding, he does do well in depicting how a woman obsessed by passion behaves. This is a book of considerable dash and charm, richly nuanced with character and shaded with political realities. Agent, Barbara Braun. (Jan.) FYI: Blinder is a forensic psychiatrist, a former mayor of San Anselmo, Calif., and has written nonfiction (Lovers; Husbands and Wives) and screenplays.

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

Psychiatrist and law professor Blinder debuts with the tale of Warren Harding's last decade or so—-often in the voice of Nan Britton, a young, devoted, beloved mistress. Handsome, generous, empty-headed, and well-liked, Harding is a 46-year-old newspaper publisher and city politician in Marion, Ohio, when local 15-year-old Nan Britton first falls in love with him and worships him from afar. The year is 1912, and it isn't long before the modest Harding is reluctantly drawn into a successful race for the Senate, urged on by the clique of "friends" who will later (as in the Tea Pot Dome scandal) taint his administration hopelessly with corruption. The adoring Nan follows him to Washington, where he takes her under his wing, finds her an apartment, watches out for her: only with a rather touching gradualness (the First Lady, suffering eternally from unspecified maladies, is ambitious but profoundly sexless) do the two become lovers. Once Harding is in the White House (having been nominated by a "fluke" during a deadlocked Republican convention) and finds how lonely life is, he turns even more passionately to Nan, who in turn supports him all she can as he tries to grow with the job, educating himself ruthlessly and evolving, surprise of surprises, into more and more of a liberal. His self-serving advisors and cabinet, however, eat away from within at all he tries to accomplish, and the rigor and disappointment of the presidency exacerbate the heart disease (first noticed during lovemaking with the pregnant-to-be Nan) that will bring his death during a nation-wide tour to rally support—-with wild success—-for his causes, among them world peace and racial equality. Blinderis no towering lyricist, but he's a spellbinding novel-writer whose timing, it must be said in this National Moment of Monica, is remarkable—-as are his efforts to catch every bit of period speech and detail that happens by. An easy, pleasurable debut crying out movie, movie, movie.

Kirkus Reviews