Chapter 3
“I need your help.”
“What is it, Mac?” I asked him, concerned by the visible tension on his face.
“It’s the president,” he said, hanging on to the door facing. “I need help getting him out of bed.”
Though I was always willing to help my husband with anything, this just seemed beyond the scope of my job description. “Mac, are you sure?”
“You know I can usually handle him on my own, but this morning I’m . . . struggling. I’m afraid if I keep trying, I’m gonna drop him.”
He appeared distraught by this, and I immediately dropped the pillow I was fluffing and went to him. I hated to see my husband in such distress, but I was also mindful that helping the president in such a private setting as his bedroom may not be welcomed by the man.
“But Mac, won’t he be upset or embarrassed if I showed up to help? Can’t you ask one of the butlers or hallmen?”
“No, he doesn’t want anyone in his bedroom but me. I told him about my trouble this morning and he agreed to let you in the room with me.”
“All right,” I said, as we left Miss LeHand’s room. “But I hope this serves as a lesson for you.”
He knew what I meant. That extra nip of rum or gin may have helped ease the pain of his injured leg, but the consequences were that it left him feeling weak and unsteady on his feet, impaired to the point that he couldn’t perform his duties. Because of his injury, he wasn’t too steady on his feet at the best of times. I didn’t understand why he believed adding spirits into the mix would make things any better.
But I didn’t harp on the matter further, well aware that he was disappointed in himself. I followed him to the president’s bedroom, passing a hallman and two Secret Service men.
For a moment, I expected them to stop me at the door. But they simply nodded as Mac pushed open the door and held it for me. Truth be told, I wasn’t very keen on helping Mac with this task. I was used to working with ill or disabled children, not grown men as thin and tall as Mr. Roosevelt. Not to mention that the president and I had never formally met and now I would be entering his private quarters and helping him with such a delicate task.
But it was plain to see from his slow gait that Mac was in pain this morning. I was certain it pained him even more to not be able to help his boss like he wanted.
When I entered the president’s bedroom, it was well lit, with the heavy curtains drawn back. The room was larger than the entirety of our apartment on the third floor. It was clear to see that the bedroom could also use some tidying up. The president’s finished breakfast lay on a tray on a nearby ornate table in the middle of the room, and there were newspapers sprawled everywhere on the bed and floor. I wondered which maid was in charge of the president’s quarters, because if Mrs. Rogers caught sight of this mess she would not be too pleased.
Mr. Roosevelt sat on the edge of the bed, his back turned to me. His chair was positioned in front of him, but his gaze was focused toward the window as if he was drawn to the early morning light. His dark brown hair was peppered with gray strands and combed neatly back.
I couldn’t help the thudding in my chest as I drew near. Anyone who worked in the White House couldn’t help but have that “Mr. President” feeling rub off on them, even if they knew him before he was president. Though I had never formally met the man, I had Mac’s letters and stories to give me some insight into who he was. I clung to the fact that Mac loved and trusted this man, so there was nothing for me to be intimidated about.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” I said lightly as I came to stand before him. “I’m Mac’s wife, Duffie.”
When Franklin Delano Roosevelt turned to me, I was taken by how intense and expressive his deep-set blue eyes were. A small smile stretched across his thin lips, drawing attention to his strong, prominent nose and high cheekbones.
“Ah, Mac’s better half. I wondered when we would finally get to meet. How are you doing this morning?”
From his welcoming smile, I felt as if we already knew each other, and that helped ease some of my nervousness.
“I can’t complain,” I said, returning his smile.
“Bet you weren’t prepared for such heavy lifting this early in the morning, now, were you?”
“Nonsense,” I said as I stood before him. “You appear as light as a feather.”
It was no exaggeration. Despite his obvious height, the president was lean and slender in build. Dressed in a white shirt with a solid blue tie, dark gray pants, and blue and gray socks, he didn’t look as if he weighed much. I had flipped mattresses that probably weighed more than he did.
“She’s right, Boss,” Mac said. “Between the two of us, we’ll get you into your chair in no time.”
Mr. Roosevelt looked at Mac as if he was right out of his mind. “Now Mac, you know I’m not a small man. I don’t want to take you and your little wife down.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, I’m stronger than I look,” I said.
He looked me up and down, then asserted, “You appear to be a fine figure of a woman, but I don’t need you sustaining an injury on my account. Mac, why don’t you have Charles come in and help us out today.”
Mac scrunched up his face, letting us know what he thought of that idea. “Now Boss, you know that’s not necessary. The leg is bothering me just a little today. I asked Lizzie to help me get you in your chair just for today. I don’t need it going around that I can’t do my job.”
From the sympathetic glance Mr. Roosevelt threw Mac, I realized he understood his dilemma. I was always amazed by how much Mac did for his boss, despite his own leg injury. Though I had come to form some opinions about Mr. Roosevelt and his total dependency on my husband, I did have to give him credit for considering and respecting Mac’s feelings on this matter. I imagined no one would understand Mac’s need to prove himself capable more than Mr. Roosevelt would. It appeared the president was constantly proving himself in the face of his critics.
Mr. Roosevelt sighed and eventually said, “Just don’t drop me, is all I ask. I need to be in shape for my afternoon meetings.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
Mac and I flanked his sides and draped an arm around our shoulders. With a coordinated effort, we managed to lift him from the bed, but his weight was much heavier than I had anticipated. I gritted my teeth as I tried to maintain my hold, but I could sense that Mac was losing his strength.
Mr. Roosevelt sensed the same thing.
From LET US MARCH ON by Shara Moon. Used with the permission of the publisher, Harper Collins/William Morrow. Copyright © 2025 by Shara Moon.
An Unforgettable Historical Novel with a Timely Social Justice Theme, Perfect for Winter 2025, Be Inspired by Lizzie McDuffie's Courage and Tenacity!
Devoted wife, White House maid, reluctant activist…
A stirring novel inspired by the life of an unsung heroine, and real-life crusader, Lizzie McDuffie, who as a maid in FDR’s White House spearheaded the Civil Rights movement of her time.
I’m just a college-educated Southerner with a passion for books. My husband says I’m too bold, too sharp, too unrelenting. Others say I helped spearhead the Civil Rights movement of our time. President Roosevelt says I’m too spunky and spirited for my own good.
Who am I?
I am Elizabeth “Lizzie” McDuffie.
And this is my story…
When Lizzie McDuffie, maid to Eleanor and Franklin D. Roosevelt, boldly proclaimed herself FDR’s “Secretary-On-Colored-People’s-Affairs,” she became more than just a maid—she became the President’s eyes and ears into the Black community. After joining the White House to work alongside her husband, FDR’s personal valet, Lizzie managed to become completely indispensable to the Roosevelt family. Never shy about pointing out injustices, she advocated for the needs and rights of her fellow African Americans when those in the White House blocked access to the President.
Following the life of Lizzie McDuffie throughout her time in the White House as she championed the rights of everyday Americans and provided access to the most powerful man in the country, Let Us March On looks at the unsung and courageous crusader who is finally getting the recognition she so richly deserves.
Multicultural African-American | Historical [William Morrow Paperbacks, On Sale: February 4, 2025, Paperback / e-Book , ISBN: 9780063213425 / eISBN: 9780063213449]
SHARA MOON is a first-generation Haitian American writer and amateur historian who enjoys exploring black world history then writing about it. An alumna of the University of Central Florida and the City College of New York, she is a former writing instructor who now writes about unsung women and their forgotten stories. Her novel LET US MARCH ON, published by William Morrow/Harper Collins, is her historical fiction debut.
When Shara isn’t busy writing–or chasing after her three littles–she is usually reading, researching, or conferring with her muse.
Check back for more about her next historical fiction novel about two mothers fighting to honor the fallen soldier they both loved and lost.
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