THE VANQUISHED

Many years earlier, Fielding Grey stood back from his house with a straight back and smiled. He had bought the impressive house in 1903 when he left the army and began teaching at the local college. He especially loved the appearance of the green, shimmering water of the pond just off the left side of his house. Beyond the pond was a small ravine. A billowing willow tree provided shade farther off to the left as he proudly inspected his manor. He liked the looks of it. No other house could be seen. He and his family had privacy. He was just like an English landowner of the 17^th century, except that it was 1912.

“Father, come and see,” desperately cried a young voice. Each syllable was kicked up for thespian effect. Fielding woke up from his reverie to see a slender girl leaning against the open, large walnut doors of his porch. She was twelve and her yellow hair was long and tied in a purple bow. Her chest was flat still and her legs never seemed to agree on a balanced length, but she was her father’s stable girl nevertheless. He smiled as he swept his hand through his thick, sandy hair, and prodded up the bricked walk that led from the dusty road to the house. As far as he could see, from the house and the pond, to his promising daughter, everything was ideal.

Marian jumped up and hugged her father. She tried to sneak a pinch into the hug but his tweed coat was too thick. She settled for a wide smile and took his hands. She looked at them for a moment as if she had never laid eyes on them before. They were small hands but she didn’t know any different. How big were hands supposed to be?

“What can I do for you, little miss?” Fielding asked his daughter.

“Can I show you something very important?”

“What is it?”

“It is a secret. You can’t show momma. Promise?”

“Promise? I don’t know. That’s a fair task for an old man like me.”

“Poppa, you ain’t old,” Marian said with a stern look. She didn’t like talking about oldness on account of it usually leading to death—something she didn’t want anything to do with since grandma died and her dog Hayes died all in the same week the autumn before.

“I guess you’re right. Forty is not old. So what is this surprise?”

She hopped back inside and grabbed a rolled up piece of newsprint from a cherry-made serving table that was propped in a corner.

“Now I want you to put this up in the study in November,” Marian said, self-conscious for a second. “Cause you can’t show momma until it’s official. It could cause her too much heartache.”

Fielding accepted the rolled gift, tied with a bit of string, and stepped back into better sunlight of August. A large Bull Moose stared back at him. It was an oddly shaped head with massive black antlers. The beast was wearing a prince-nez. In red letters, careening over the moose in a big arch were the words PRESIDENT BULLY!  In the lower left hand corner was a round head with a mat of hair, another pair of glasses on a small nose, and a gigantic smile full of straight teeth. Spouting out its mouth with a torrent of words were four poems, each in a single row, parallel to the next. The poems were titled, Last Stand at Armageddon, Tardy Taft, Woody the Weasel, and Rough Rider Progress. 

“How clever,” Fielding said softly, his pride in his eldest daughter growing. “Let’s see. Last Stand at Armageddon deals with Mr. Roosevelt’s speech, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Marian said with a charming smile. “And President Taft will be late to the election and Woody is Woodrow! He’s a weasel of course.” Marian’s glee was contagious.

“Of course! Wonderful, Marian. Wonderful.” Fielding glanced through the words of the various poems, but he was less interested in what they said in comparison to the author. Marian was the love of this life. In his mind she was the pinnacle of evolution. She had wit and cunning and determination. All quality traits to Fielding. After everything he had seen in life already she was hope. He had to keep nourishing that fragile mind. He had big expectations for her. Little works like these poems would certainly lead to bigger and better things.

“I will hang it with honor. Thank you. It must have taken you hours,” Fielding said.

Marian nodded enthusiastically. “And I had to read all the newspapers.”

“I could tell. But you are right. We shan’t let momma see this.”

“Until after the election,” Marian added. “Then you can put it up in your study for all your friends to see.”

“Of course, after the election.”