Nell might have learned the news a bit later than President Hoover, but also, in a way, a bit earlier. It's hard to say exactly.
At the breakfast table, both the radio and the newspapers were reporting that the Democratic Party had nominated New York Governor Franklin Roosevelt for president. But perhaps because Roosevelt was such a surprising choice, all media outlets only had surface-level information—no one had dug up anything deeper yet.
Besides his previous positions as a New York State Senator and Assistant Secretary of the Navy, there wasn't much readily available. The editors of those papers really needed to step up their game.
"Who is this Roosevelt guy?" Patrick asked curiously, seeing Roosevelt's photo taking up nearly half the front page.
"He's the governor of New York," Nell replied, folding up the newspaper and setting it aside.
"Does he have anything special about him? Enough to run for president?"
"If anything makes him stand out, it's that he contracted polio and became permanently paralyzed," Nell said. Honestly, it was hard to say what was particularly special about Roosevelt otherwise.
"Well, that shows a strong will, right…" chimed in little Debbie, the younger girl at the table, while eating breakfast.
"I suppose so."
Just that one label—strong will despite disability—was enough to earn Roosevelt a great deal of public sympathy. Debbie didn't know anything about Roosevelt personally, but because he was disabled, she assumed he must be hardworking and ambitious. For Roosevelt himself, the disability was a great personal suffering, but in the realm of politics, it was an asset.
And it truly was. When he ran for Governor of New York, his opponent criticized him for being a cripple, suggesting he couldn't serve voters effectively. Roosevelt responded directly:
"A governor doesn't have to be an acrobat. We don't elect him to do somersaults. His job is to think, to figure out how to serve the people."
Boom—he elevated the conversation.
His opponents' insults lost their sting. Roosevelt not only defused the attacks cleverly but turned his paralysis into a symbol of the lifelong struggle he was committed to—a powerful appeal to voter empathy.
What was once considered a disadvantage—his disability—became a major strength. It resonated deeply with the weak and marginalized, who thought: If someone like him can fight on, someone like me can too. I want to support him.
"Can a cripple really run for president?" Patrick wasn't being insensitive—he'd just seen a lot in life.
To be fair, factory accidents were extremely common in those days. The same went for 20 or 30 years prior. Many workers lost limbs—or even lives—in the workplace. Patrick had seen plenty of disabled folks back when he worked in Detroit.
"As long as you're a law-abiding citizen, you can run for president," Nell said, gulping down his milk.
Roosevelt's candidacy had nothing to do with Nell directly for now. What did matter was convincing Aunt Ginny to let him delay college and help Wilkie instead. Who knew if she'd agree?
"So, how's Columbia University in New York? How much is the tuition? Is rent expensive?" Aunt Ginny asked, recalling Nell had mentioned New York before.
"Actually, I was just about to say—I want to defer enrollment this fall and go help Wilkie instead," Nell said carefully, watching Aunt Ginny's face, bracing for disapproval.
"Oh? What does Mr. Wilkie need help with?" she asked, sounding more curious than upset. She had a good impression of Wilkie.
"He's considering running for mayor of New York, and he wants me to help him for a year," Nell lied—though not entirely. Wilkie had his sights set much higher than just mayor.
"Oh wow, mayor of New York?" Aunt Ginny said nothing, but Patrick looked stunned.
Truth be told, people everywhere are much the same. Their understanding of the world is shaped by their environment and daily lives. In old China, the common people thought of local governors or magistrates as godlike figures, "father officials," or little emperors. To American farmers like Patrick, it was no different.
New York was the biggest city in the country—once even the capital. To them, Wilkie becoming its mayor was almost like becoming emperor.
The biggest official they had ever seen in person might've been a county board member—that alone was lofty and unreachable. And now they personally knew someone who could become mayor of New York? Someone who had even stayed at their house?
"Well, he's only considering running. It's not certain yet," Nell said quickly, not wanting to overpromise.
"Oh, he will win," Aunt Ginny said with quiet confidence, setting down her potatoes and even beginning to pray. That was unexpected!
"In any case, he invited me to New York to help out. It would've been rude to decline.""You should help him!" Patrick and Aunt Ginny replied in unison.
Nell hadn't expected them to agree so easily. He let out a deep sigh of relief. The desire to hold power—or at least be near it—is the same everywhere. It's a universal human trait. Ever since social hierarchies emerged, the thirst for power has been deeply rooted in human nature.
With the family's blessing, everything else became easier. Nell took a day to rest, then hopped on his Indian motorcycle for a spin around the nearby counties to check on local Democratic campaign activity—then he set off for New York.
Apart from the hassle of shipping the little motorcycle, the journey went smoothly. Frederick came to see him off and gave him a number for the hotel he ran in Chicago—he had to go manage his business there. They agreed to keep in touch by phone.
In New York, Wilkie would certainly set up a phone line too, so even if they were separated by thousands of miles, they'd still be just one call away.
Of course, there were no phones on the train. The long hours of the journey were quite dull, so Nell bought a couple of newspapers during a transfer to pass the time—even gossip columns or trashy news could be entertaining.
Unfortunately, what first caught Nell's eye wasn't politics or celebrity scandals, but something heartbreakingly tragic:
In Brooklyn, New York, a 13-year-old boy named William Troller had hanged himself from the window beam of his bedroom.
What could drive a child of just 13 to take his own life?