Calvin Coolidge Asleep

barrasi 123 Dorothy Barresi Calvin Coolidge Asleep Even now he has nothing to say. No snoring, no muttered confession of flappers named Pearl or Daisy. Aides tiptoe around the greatdesk where his head bobs on crossed arms, a dull bubble of saliva ticking on his lips. In the corner, his mechanical horse waits, silent on its springs. Let the world wait, too. Eugene Debs, Sacco and Vanzetti, knives that splash in bloodfields of Nicaragua and Mexico: like a fountain turned suddenly off, the President has receded into himself, then rises. This time not in the Vermont of his childhood where he hid alone for hours beneath tall hollyhock, and where everyone is equally dull and understands hasty words ignite like barns full of green hay. Not thank heaven, in bluestockinged Amherst, where frat boys in raccoon coats speak their secret dialect of ease. No. This time it is in a saloon in Abilene, Texas in the small unlikely country of his imagination before the last century turned. He pounds the bar and a table of gamblers slinks out. A shot of amber bourbon, rare flower, blooms in his fist. Outside, there are no constituents or speeches, just a thousand head of cattle waiting for him, dumb behind their blunt brown faces. 124 the minnesota review What wakes him finally he can't say. Sheer happiness or the runaway carriage of prosperity ringing down Pennsylvania Avenue. Or maybe it is the Great Depression, hunched and breathing at the edge of his life — its yellow eyes. More likely it is one of his aides signaling that it is time to plant a tree in the rose garden with Grace. The reporters are waiting. Coolidge scowls. Runs a hand through thin hair. "There are Reds in our women's colleges." This he writes in a notebook kept always with him. ...