Fala Factor Read Free Page B

it was something millions of people were getting. Maybe I wasn’t going to get a sugar or gas ration book. Maybe a new law was going into effect to draft fifty year olds.”
    She reached into her shopping bag and came out with a small notebook, which she opened after putting on her glasses again. She glanced down at it and returned the notebook to the bag. I wondered what she had bought at the May Company and how they had reacted at the dinnerware counter when Eleanor Roosevelt asked for two hundred juice glasses on sale for the White House.
    â€œYou are,” she said, “forty-seven years old, not fifty, and even if the draft age were raised substantially, I doubt that with your back you would be considered an asset to our war effort.”
    â€œI’m not sure what brought you here,” I said, sipping coffee and stopping myself from straightening my tie, “but you must have the wrong Toby Peters.”
    Her mouth twitched slightly and her right cheek puffed out. A sound of air slipped between her lips as behind us Shelly launched into “Josephine Please Don’t Lean on the Bell,” complete with his famous Eddie Cantor imitation.
    â€œYou want me to try to shut him up?” I said, nodding toward the door.
    â€œHe sounds irrepressible to me,” she said.
    â€œHe is,” I agreed, guessing she meant that nothing short of mayhem would stop Shelly.
    â€œYou had a dog when you were a boy,” she said, looking into my eyes for an answer that suddenly seemed very important. For a moment I speculated that Eleanor Roosevelt had wandered away from her keepers, who were frantically searching the streets for her. I had, perhaps, stumbled onto a great White House mystery: The First Lady was nuts.
    â€œI had a dog,” I agreed, putting down my Juarez cup and adjusting my tie.
    â€œThe one in the picture on the wall behind me?” she said without turning to the photograph.
    â€œRight,” I agreed. “But that was a long time ago. He’s dead now.”
    â€œAlmost everyone is,” she agreed brightly. “Who are the others in the picture?”
    â€œThe younger kid is me before my nose got flattened for the first time,” I explained, looking up at the picture over her shoulder. There was a crack in the glass that I should have fixed at some point, but that had never really bothered me till I knew that Eleanor Roosevelt had been looking at it. “The older kid is my brother Phil—”
    â€œWho is a police officer,” she added.
    â€œRight,” I said. “Do you know how he voted in the last election?”
    â€œDemocrat,” she said without a smile. “He is a registered Democrat and no doubt voted for Franklin. I have no idea of how you voted.”
    â€œI voted for Willkie,” I said, meeting her eyes.
    â€œMay I ask why?” she said.
    â€œIs it important?” I shot back.
    She brought her clasped hands up to her mouth and touched her larger lower lip with her knuckles. “It may be, Mr. Peters. Your political feelings may affect the matter we may soon be discussing.”
    Shelly shouted, “When you neck please no breaka da bell,” and I held back the violent urge to go out and strangle him.
    â€œI thought Roo … your husband looked tired,” I said. “I thought he looked like a man who’d had enough, been through enough, a man who deserved a rest. And besides, I liked Willkie.”
    â€œSo,” she said, “did I and so did Franklin. After the election Mr. Willkie came to the White House to visit. I had an appointment, but I cancelled it just to get a look at the man. I think he would have made a good president, not as good as Franklin, but quite good. And Franklin was quite prepared to lose and take that rest. And what do you think about your choice now?”
    â€œI’m glad your husband is president,” I said. “Mostly because of the war, but I want to get