Inauguration

"Yes, but lately he seemed to have changed..."

"In what way?"

"For instance, there were no longer empty liquor bottles in his apartment, no women staying the night—only piles of newspapers, books, and a great many personal notes. Perhaps God had blessed him and made him see the light."

"See the light... see the light..."

Roosevelt repeated the phrase several times, then quickly relaxed. "Perhaps. But no matter what, the boy wanted to do something worthwhile now, and he was capable of doing it. That was enough."

Georgetown, N Street.

It was a quiet street, lined on both sides with red-brick homes built at the end of the nineteenth century.

The black sedan stopped before a four-story townhouse.

"Here we are, Mr. Feilan."

"This building belongs to the Morton family, distant relatives of Mrs. Roosevelt. The entire place is currently vacant. The suite on the east side of the third floor has the best light and has already been prepared."

Feilan followed the assistant named Missy LeHand inside.

The suite on the third floor was not large, but its layout was neat and square.

The bedroom was also plain, containing only a bed, a wardrobe, and an armchair.

All in all, it was not luxurious, but it was a place where one could live in peace.

Missy took a card from her handbag and placed it on the desk. "Mr. Feilan, if you need anything, call this number. Someone will handle it."

"Thank you."

Missy nodded and turned to leave.

Her footsteps gradually faded down the corridor, followed by the soft sound of the front door downstairs closing.

Feilan stood alone before the window.

These next few days might be the quietest time of his life.

Three days later, when Roosevelt took the oath of office, he would join the bill-drafting team and find himself in the eye of an unprecedented storm.

Not long afterward, a faint knocking sound came from the iron gate downstairs.

Feilan hurried down and opened it. Standing outside was Helen.

"Is this place all right?"

"It's quite nice."

"That's good. I'm going back to New York."

"It's already dark. Can't you leave tomorrow?"

"Thanks to you, Uncle has now made up his mind to wage a 'war.' I have to get back as soon as possible and make some preparations."

Feilan thought, How was that thanks to him?

Sharpening his blade against capital had always been their uncle's intention, etched into his very bones. Feilan had merely handed him a whetstone at the very moment the blade was about to leave its sheath.

Just then, Helen suddenly stepped forward and carefully straightened Feilan's collar and lapels.

Her movements were gentle, utterly unlike the sister who usually looked at him with open disdain and spoke in a harsh tone.

When she was done, she raised her head and fixed her gaze on Feilan. "Feilan, no matter what you did before, you have now learned to contribute to the family. I believe it won't be long before you receive the family's formal recognition."

Her words flowed into Feilan's heart like a warm current, moving him slightly.

He remembered how, over the years, Helen had appeared dismissive of the original owner, sharp-tongued and cutting, yet had always helped him without conditions.

Feilan nodded and looked past Helen at Beechy, who stood quietly not far behind her. "Beechy, please make sure my sister gets to New York safely."

Beechy gave a slight bow. "Rest assured, Mr. Feilan. I will."

Helen gave him one last look, then turned and got into the car.

The door closed, the engine purred, and the sedan slowly slipped into the night...

March 4, 1933.

Washington's weather that day seemed deliberately matched to the mood of the nation: bleak cold, thick fog, unceasing drizzle, temperatures nearing freezing.

Yet this was an important day for the United States.

The inauguration of the thirty-second president.

It was worth noting that this was the last presidential inauguration in United States history to be held on March 4.

Four years later, the Twentieth Amendment would move Inauguration Day forward to January 20, shortening the awkward term of a lame-duck president.

But for Hoover at this moment, embarrassment no longer mattered.

Seven in the morning.

Roosevelt first went to St. John's Episcopal Church.

The yellow Gothic building known as the President's Church stood opposite the White House and had been a place of prayer for successive presidents since Madison's time.

Roosevelt sat in a wheelchair as an aide pushed him into the church.

He used no braces and made no attempt to stand.

Today, he would face God and the people in his true form.

At ten in the morning, he arrived at the White House to have coffee with the departing Hoover.

In the oval Red Room, the fireplace burned fiercely, but the atmosphere was as cold as the thick fog outside.

Roosevelt sat upright in an armchair, his face carrying his customary calm smile.

Hoover sat opposite him. The face that had won by an overwhelming margin four years earlier, a face countless people had regarded as that of a great engineer and guardian of prosperity, now held only stiffness and ashen defeat.

He knew it was all over.

Four hours from now, the verdict would be sealed: he would become one of the failures of United States history, never to rise again.

Roosevelt took a sip of coffee and spoke gently about the weather and the transportation arrangements.

There was no victor's boastfulness, nor any false comfort. He was simply completing a procedure.

Hoover responded mechanically, his fingers trembling faintly on his knees.

At eleven, the two men rode together in an open car down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the United States Capitol.

In previous years, inaugurations usually drew between five hundred thousand and one million spectators.

But today, there were far fewer.

Ironically, it was not because of the weather.

By this point, banks in twenty-one states across the country had shut down completely.

Chicago's schools had suspended classes because they could not pay teachers' wages.

Auto workers, textile workers, coal miners...

Hundreds of thousands, even millions, of unemployed people could not scrape together enough money for the trip to Washington.

Below the steps of the United States Capitol, the most conspicuous sight was not the crowd, but rows upon rows of armed Army patrols standing at attention.

They were not honor guards, but genuine combat troops.

During his final weeks in office, Hoover had ordered Army Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur to deploy troops comprehensively in case unrest or riots erupted on Inauguration Day.

At this moment, MacArthur himself stood beneath the colonnade on the east side of the United States Capitol, energetically directing the troops into position.

He needed to make a good impression on the new president.

The VIP seats were set up on temporary stands above the eastern steps of the United States Capitol.

Thick rain tarps covered part of the seating, but they could not hide the mink and velvet peeking from the collars of one overcoat after another.

Morgan, Rockefeller, DuPont, Mellon...

Members of all the great financial families had already arrived.

Wrapped in costly furs, they exchanged pleasantries and laughed together as though this were not an inauguration day for a nation on the brink of collapse, but an ordinary social gathering.