Eleanor's Bargain

August 15, 1945.

The photo was chaos in black and white: a soldier, his left arm cradling a shocked woman dressed in white – most likely a nurse; his right arm clinging to her waist and the small of her back. She was dipped into a familiar kiss, but by the strange soldier who the photographer Alfred Eisenstaedt somehow captured in all the madness on that August day in Times Square. The Japanese had surrendered, and when the soldier stumbled out of what must have been a bar, he “grabbed the nurse,” as he would later report. 

–

A four hour drive south of the madness, Harry grabbed the final edits of his speech and huddled with his advisors seated in the Brocade style chairs neatly placed throughout the Oval Office. Noisy construction had taken over the White House – typically a nuisance to his thoughts. But today, distraction was impossible. Today, he maintained a focus akin to the days immediately after FDR.

The advisors took turns hovering over the President’s shoulder, as they tended to do, gently offering notes. 

“Mr. President, could we delve a bit deeper into the evil nature of the Japanese? Get a bit of the gospel in there?”

“Indeed. Could we make it a day of Prayer, sir?”

“Will you want to address all the lives lost?”

Harry scratched his head, reclining in his seat. He looked above the fireplace as George stared back at him. 

“When will my radio address occur?” he asked his advisor.

“Tomorrow. Suppertime,” the advisor replied.

Harry sighed, patted the tops of his thighs, and stood up. He crossed the room, peering between the heavy curtains onto the South Lawn. Dense, dark trees against a soft, ocean blue sky. He thought of Pearl Harbor. 

He walked to his desk. 

“This is the day we have been waiting for since Pearl Harbor!” he jotted on the page. He added an exclamation point for emphasis. 

–

Later that afternoon, as the lightning bugs ventured out, the flashbulbs fought against the sun’s glare, creating purple and blue spots among the lush, green lawn. Harry flashed a light back at them, his famous grin taking up the majority of his weak chin. Another change from the Roosevelts, he thought. Bess and he were anything but strapping. She in particular was neither grandiose in stature nor personality, preferring the quiet Missouri life to the hustle of Washington. The press did not say much about her, and he did not take offense at their apathy. It was what she preferred.

He took hold of the podium.

“This is the day we have been waiting for since Pearl Harbor!”

He walked back inside. An eager clerk from Independence held a note in his hand.

“Bravo, Mr. President. Oh, Sir, there was a telephone call for you. Eleanor.”

It had been four months since FDR, just three months after he was elected President yet again. In his wake, millions looked to Harry for comfort. Eleanor was not one of them. She was nothing if not stoic. Harry thought of Eleanor as a friendly ghost of sorts, haunting his nascent Presidency, especially in the late hours when he would stay up, fretting over a nation left behind. She almost had a sixth sense about her, knowing he needed her guidance. She was a woman, yes, but Harry thought of her as a peer. Privately, he would admit that her intellect matched her height. In both respects, she was a giant among men. He knew this not by reputation but as a primary source. She had begun to write him letters. 

“Thank you, I’ll ring her,” Harry replied. 

He took the note and retired to his private study with a quick shut of its heavy, double doors. Before he sat, he lifted the cream-colored rotary phone and dialed 0.

“Get me Eleanor Roosevelt, please.” 

–

“Eleanor, I’m not quite sure that’s the best course of action at this juncture.”

“Well, Harry, there’s never a good time to take away a treat, now is there? You have children, Harry, and so do I! We know that they never like this sort of thing, but whatever shall we do, Harry? For God’s sake, it’s the booze!”

She had been going on like this for the better part of ten minutes. Eleanor had seen the photo; the one with the handsy sailor manhandling the surprised nurse. All reports of the event had that he was equal parts jubilant and gin-soaked when he made his move. It was enough to turn Eleanor into Frances Willard.

“Eleanor, now please. Prohibition is long dead. Franklin ran on ending the thing! You know as well as I that there is absolutely nobody, save perhaps the fellas over at St. John’s, who would back a law to restore it.”

“I am sure, Harry, that those hypocrites at the church imbibe as much, if not more, than the Old Ebbitt crowd. Now listen to me, Harry. Men like that drunken sailor up in New York might be heroes in our minds, yes. Indeed, they are. I will not take that away from them. And yet, Harry, we can agree, they are also men, warts and all! Harry … Franklin told you about my father, didn’t he?”

Harry didn’t know if he should respond, so he didn’t. Eleanor took a loud breath into the receiver and continued.

“I made a speech about the Japanese surrendering. If you would like to read it, I’ll provide you with a copy. But the gist is this, Harry. Women were left behind to grieve during this war. And now, they are our greatest hope of stopping it from happening again. I say this because I know that you understand, Harry, that a woman can only advocate from a place of strength. She cannot play both the victim and the victor. She cannot have a drunken sailor grabbing her and waving her around like the flag. She must have respect, and, above all, safety.”

“And she shall,” Harry said, knowing that his answer was unsatisfactory and vulnerable to whatever came next.

“No, Harry. There is no shall at this point. Not yet. The best we have today is a hope that she is treated as well as I have been with all my privilege and status. But we know very well that a drinking man is a threat to her. Prohibition is the path forward. In fact, I think it shall be the path forward, if you would only make it so. You, after all, are the President now. Plus, with war behind you, you have some spare time for … other initiatives.” 

Harry could feel her winking through the telephone.

“Eleanor, I’ll think about it.”

“I set up a meeting with you and Rayburn. He’ll be in the Oval Office at 9 am tomorrow.”

“You what?” Harry asked.

“Harry, men do great things when they are sober. As just one example, my friends and I got the right to vote.”

And with that, he laughed and said goodbye to Eleanor, until the next time. She really was a bit of a mad woman, he thought.

~~~~~~~

March 21, 1947.

The banging of the gavel echoed throughout the chamber. The 22nd and 23rd Amendments, shopped around and then marketed by Eleanor as “The Final Tribute to FDR,” passed in a close vote. Eleanor had made it to the chambers. There she sat, smiling, thinking of Dewey’s allegation that Franklin’s fourth was a “threat to democracy.” As she told close friends, as well as anyone who would bother with her public appearances, The Final Tribute simply recognized that time in history for what it was: a unique moment for a unique leader. The ultimate promise of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness would undoubtedly be aided by term limits for the ordinary man … or woman, God willing. 

And then there was the 23rd Amendment, Eleanor’s prize. Fearing the consequences of dwindling tax revenue, she had struck a bargain with Harry. The Amendment read: “The eighteenth article of amendment to the Constitution of the United States is hereby restored for men only, and the twenty-first repealed in its entirety.”

She took to the podium, standing taller than ever. She wore her most absurd hat for the occasion – a peacock visiting a chicken coop. 

She began.

Today, I am proud to witness the passing of the 23rd Amendment. It is an acknowledgment of our society’s shared values. I stand on the shoulders of Frances Willard and others, who knew that the pleasures of gin and sherry, champagne and ale, could not compete with those of peace and prosperity. Women will prioritize peace. With this Amendment, the hard headed acts of men will be replaced by the compassionate concerns of women.

Never before have I been so optimistic about our nation’s future. One where gentlemen will support their mothers, sisters, wives and daughters in their calling as caretakers of the earth. There are some here who would say that women belong in the home, but I would submit to you that our home is the entire world. Once this Amendment is ratified, my friends and I shall have a drink in your honor, and then we’ll get to work.”

Eleanor left the podium, shook a few hands, and walked to the car waiting behind the Capitol. 

~~~~~~~

March 21, 1997.

President Clinton stepped to the podium. On the 50th Anniversary of the 23rd Amendment, the Roosevelt Institute had invited her to speak about the legacy of the law. As she concluded her speech, a gentleman scuttled across the lawn, holding a sign about bodily autonomy and shouting about male rights being human rights. The Secret Service encircled him, lifted and flipped him horizontally, and carried him away. 

 “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent!” Hillary shouted into the microphone, drawing laughs. Mostly, sopranos.