VOLUME | ONC 2023

4. Coffee Coolers

Harriet...

My voice was a mere whisper, "Nana."

I clutched the journal to my chest, overwhelmed and sad for the woman who – to my knowledge – had never uttered a word about this alternate reality.

Had my grandmother really been pally with President Roosevelt pre-presidency? She had never been frivolous – never a grand storyteller; there would have been no reason for Nana to fib in her own diary. Not unless she was attempting to amuse herself.

I trashed the thought as quickly as it had come.

Assuming these were accurate accounts, Nana would've known him well before his reign as Commander in Chief. She would've known him in a time when it wasn't always safe to intermingle, professionally or otherwise.

I recalled the date on the images I found. 1964. How long had they been involved? Had they become friends before evolving into lovers?

My mind was a flurry of questions and answers I could only attempt to deduce or imagine.

Hands gripping the worn leather, I debated skipping ahead, wondering if the other entries were as robust as this one. Glancing down at my watch, I opened the diary again.

Pressing open the bind with impatient fingers, eager eyes, and a rapidly thudding heart, I skimmed through a few entries, hunting for the enticements of Mr. Marshall.

June 12th, 1963

I'm scared. It's not typical that I write while on the people's time, but I've gotta flesh this out somehow.

I'm starting to question my own sanity. Every look, every instruction, and every meeting feels heavy with more than legal banter and critical jurisprudence.

I could ignore it, but somehow I don't want to. I enjoy the way his mind works; I even find his optimism amusing. Like he knew it was coming, he predicted what I had pretended not to be intently listening to on the radio last night.

Lizzie...

He came bustling into the library without a preamble this time, "Did you hear? Tell me you heard it, Elizabeth."

I wedged the pen inside the journal, closing it.

He'd taken to calling me by my first name in private. While it made me most uncomfortable, I didn't loathe it.

I recited one of the charismatic leader's one-liners, "The heart of the question is — whether all Americans are to be afforded equal rights and equal opportunities."

Lowering his voice as if he were orating, Mr. Marshall spoke, "...This is not a sectional issue..."

"Nor is this a partisan issue..., " simultaneously, we recited the line in our own vocal renditions of John F. Kennedy.

"That Ted Sorensen is sharp a mind," he sat across from me as he took to doing in the last week, blowing on a mug filled with bitter-smelling coffee.

My eyebrow arched, "He's Kennedy's speechwriter, right?"

"Oh, yeah. I met him once when he was his chief legislative aid."

"Back when the sparkly JFK was just a mere senator, huh?"

"Mere? Senators become president, Elizabeth," he winked at me.

My fingers fidgeted, "Would you ever run for president?"

Without missing a beat, he responded, "It's probably expected of me to run for something. Lord knows I've been dreaming of ways to change this damned country since I was kneehigh to a grasshopper."