“Oh, yes. He’s quite good at that, actually.”
On the way back to their house, walking much faster in the light of daybreak, Simpson spoke only twice.
“I still don’t like the man.”
“Of course not,” replied Mary, matter-of-factly. “What is there to like? Yes, he’ll keep his word. But, beyond that . . .”
Her breath steamed in the cold morning air. “He’s crude and uncouth—he is, too; his language is vulgar beyond belief—I hate the way he panhandles everybody, shifts his language to suit the crowd—fancy here, as good-ole-boy as you could ask for over there—ruthless as a snake; just as brutal, too, when it comes to infighting. Devious, manipulative, a backroom horse trader and wheeler-dealer with the scruples of a carnival huckster fleecing the crowd—I could go on and on.”
She took a long, slow breath, steaming into Germany’s autumn. “But I won’t, John. Not any more. And the reason I won’t is because I majored in history in college. And there is this little nagging voice in my head that is reminding me how much proper society detested another president the United States once had. And for exactly the same reasons. He was a crude bumpkin from the sticks, with a low sense of humor—and undoubtedly the most capable politician the country ever produced. I think it was the last part they hated the most. Couldn’t forgive, anyway.”
Simpson’s knowledge of history was, in general, not the equal of his wife’s. But there were some exceptions, especially when it came to American history. Given Simpson’s own brown-water experience in Vietnam, he’d read a great deal on the Civil War. He’d been mainly interested in naval history, of course, especially the use of gunboats on the interior rivers. But, obviously, studying the Civil War involved constantly running across a certain famous politician.
“You can’t be serious,” he protested. “How can you possibly compare Mike Stearns to—to—”
She just gave him a sideways stare. He never did finish the sentence.