Chapter 84: President Roosevelt
George's invitation to tonight's banquet was mostly because of the man in the wheelchair.
President Roosevelt, seated quietly off to the side, had already turned to glance his way.
George, standing out on the open balcony of the banquet hall with a drink in hand, nodded toward him and offered a relaxed greeting.
"Evening, Mr. Franklin. Mr. Roosevelt."
Roosevelt's complexion was pale, the kind that came from too many years confined to a chair. But even so, his smile was easy, and he returned George's nod with casual warmth.
"Good evening, Mr. George Orwell."
At the time, Roosevelt was still the Governor of New York, running again as a Democrat, though he had deep family ties to the Republican side. His cousin, Theodore Roosevelt—the former President—had been a legend of that party. Theodore hadn't taken kindly to Franklin switching sides and had called him a "damn scoundrel" more than once.
That hadn't stopped Roosevelt's ambitions.
He kept going, and with his wife's support, had clawed his way back into politics. He scraped out a narrow victory in the 1928 gubernatorial race and held on for re-election in 1930. New York became his proving ground—politics, policy, people, he handled it all there. A way to get ready for the big stage.
And for all of that, campaign funds were a necessary evil. George was, by far, Roosevelt's biggest financial backer. What puzzled Roosevelt was that, unlike nearly every other donor, George never once asked for favors, inside deals, or even policy preferences.
This was the first time they'd actually met.
Based on what Roosevelt's people had gathered, George Orwell Swent was something of a quiet empire builder. In just a handful of years, he'd built wealth rivaling some of the oldest industrial families in the country.
Roosevelt took his time with the greeting. "Mr. Orwell, I've been meaning to thank you. Your support these past couple of years—it's meant a lot."
George shrugged. "Don't mention it. I support people who get things done."
Roosevelt gave a short laugh and nodded. "That's not something I hear often, especially not from funders."
"I'm guessing I'm not the only one writing checks, but I might be the only one who hasn't followed it up with a letter or a visit," George said, sipping his drink.
"You'd be right about that," Roosevelt replied. "And it makes a man wonder what you actually want."
George looked off toward the crowd for a second, watching the way people moved. "I figure if you do it right, you'll figure out what matters without me spelling it out."
"Hmm," Roosevelt said, curious now.
"The presidential election's coming up soon, right?" George asked, not looking back.
Roosevelt didn't flinch. "Next year. And yeah, things are... complicated. I've got some people at the party who don't think I'm the guy for the job. Some of the papers think I'd tear the whole Democratic side apart if I got the nomination."
He paused for a beat, then added with a dry grin, "That doesn't include your New York Times, though. They've been surprisingly kind."
George gave a small laugh. "Maybe they know something the others don't."
Roosevelt didn't reply but seemed to take the comment seriously.
"If I were you," George said, "I'd start with the Eighteenth Amendment."
That caught Roosevelt's attention. His brow lifted slightly.
"People are drinking poison just to feel something," George continued. "Homemade brews. Bottles filled with who knows what. Plastic solvent mixed with cough syrup. Thousands of people out there are getting sick or going blind. That's not an order. That's desperation."
Roosevelt nodded slowly. "You're not wrong. It's ugly out there. But it's still a risky policy to touch."
"Sure," George said, "but risky doesn't mean wrong. You want people to rally behind something real? Give them their dignity back. You don't have to call it repeal—you just have to call it sane."
Roosevelt leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "A lot of folks hate Prohibition," he admitted. "But a lot still support it, too. Getting stuck in the middle might be worse than doing nothing."
"You'll figure it out," George said, finishing his drink. "You're smarter than the other guy."
And with that, he left Roosevelt to his thoughts.
The Next Morning – New York Villa
Morning sun crept across the hardwood floors. The pair of feet poking out from beneath the silk sheets quickly pulled back under the covers.
George was already up, shirtless, at the window. He stretched once, let the sunlight hit his face, and rubbed the back of his neck.
"George," a sleepy voice mumbled from the bed behind him. "I think I need the whole day to recover. I can't feel my legs."
He smirked. "Then sleep in. I've got to be elsewhere anyway."
As he grabbed his shirt and stepped out the door, the woman groaned and buried her head in the pillow.
He never brought casual guests back to Hogwarts Island.
Back at the Island – Midday
"Fred," George said as he walked through the hall, "call Vito. I need to talk to him."
Fred nodded. "Right away, Master Orwell."
On the line, the familiar voice came through. "Sir, your orders?"
"How's the tobacco agency we talked about?" George asked.
"All set. Signed and handled."
"Good. Time to do the same with the Water agency. Get a lawyer and make it airtight. I want long-term contracts and clean paperwork."
"Sir... you want that one legit too?"
"Yeah. All above board. Prohibition's still hanging around, so we'll buy in while it's cheap. Let the others worry about hiding bottles. We'll sell Water—clean, packaged, and legal."
"Understood, sir."
Now that George had brought all the old underground families into the High Table Council and pushed them toward legal business, they operated like corporations. George was positioning all of them to go mainstream when the time was right. No more hiding in the shadows.
1933 – The Collapse Begins
By February 14th, Valentine's Day, things were falling apart fast.
The American banking system buckled under the weight. Trust companies hit their limits, banks shuttered overnight, and across the country, people were lining up outside to get what money they could.
There were less than six billion in gold reserves, but more than forty billion in bank deposits. You didn't need a calculator to figure out the panic.
Except, somehow, George's bank—Wells Fargo—stood untouched.
His cash reserves were healthy, and the smart moves he made in earlier years meant his bank had almost no toxic debt.
If there was a safe place to put your savings, the public knew now—it was George Orwell's vault.
The papers ran wild with it. Headlines in every city ran some version of the same thing: "Wells Fargo Untouched," "Orwell's Bank Holds Strong," or "Only One Name Comes Out Clean."
George's calm during the crisis, combined with the fact that he had worked with the Morgan and Rockefeller families to get into the Federal Reserve network, meant he was now one of the most influential private bankers in the world.
Some of his holdings were still stashed overseas—in the Arabian Peninsula, far away from American taxes—but that was just smart bookkeeping.
Even the families behind the Federal Reserve welcomed him. They knew he wasn't going anywhere.
March 4, 1933 – Capitol Hill
Roosevelt's hand rested over the Bible. The wind was cold and dry. A nation in tatters held its breath.
"I, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, do solemnly swear…"
His voice was steady. The words carried more weight than ceremony. He was inheriting a country on its knees. Banks failing. Families starving. The kind of slow, quiet collapse that doesn't make noise until it's everywhere.
He looked out over the crowd. Thousands of faces. Some tense. Some hollow. All waiting.
And then, just beyond the steps, under the shade of a leafless tree, Roosevelt's gaze caught a familiar silhouette — tall, still, and just far enough away to be out of reach. George Orwell Swent stood there with his hands in his pockets, coat undone in the breeze, Ryan a quiet shadow beside him. No photographers near him. No speeches. Just watching.
For a second, Roosevelt lost the thread of the oath in his mind — not the words, but what they meant.
He wouldn't say he trusted easily. Not in this job. He'd seen too many men in suits wear kindness like it was part of a costume. He wasn't naïve. Hell, he didn't think of himself as clean either. But Orwell — that was something else entirely.
George never asked for anything, not even after the support, the funding, the infrastructure. No phone calls asking for policy favors. No schemes behind closed doors. Just work. Silent, impossible work. A man who built an empire in a decade — bigger than old money could dream — and yet still built hospitals that didn't turn people away, soup lines that didn't ask for names, ships that sailed around the world feeding whoever needed food.
Roosevelt turned back to the Bible.
Maybe, he thought, if George were standing up here instead of him, he wouldn't object. Maybe if George were leading, America wouldn't just survive — it might bloom.
But George didn't stand on stages.
He stood in the shade. Always in the shade, where the roots run deep and the soil is patient.
Maybe that's how he worked. Maybe that's where the seeds went. Quiet places, unnoticed until they grew into something people could rest under.
Something that gave shelter.
Roosevelt took a breath. Then he finished the oath. Not with certainty. But with one honest hope:
If anyone could help this country stand again — without crushing the people already on the ground — it was George. And maybe, just maybe, he already was.
___________________________________________________________________________
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
Part I: "The Walk"
1933 — New York City was falling apart, and so was he.
Gardner Senior held the little boy to his chest, wrapped in his old coat, the lining thin as onionskin. The child, barely one year old, coughed softly into the man's neck, then buried his head against the scratchy wool. The man didn't flinch. His own body shook from cold, but he held still for the boy.
They had slept the night before in the side alcove of an alleyway, between a garbage bin and a brick wall tagged up with wet chalk and desperation. Cardboard had lined the floor, and a bent shopping cart had blocked the wind. That had been one of the better nights.
He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning — maybe two days now — but he didn't remember. The blur of hunger and the sting of winter made memory a soft thing, like fog around a dead streetlamp.
The boy stirred again.
"You okay, little man?" Gardner whispered.
The baby opened his mouth for a second, eyes fluttering. Then a sleepy exhale.
That sound kept him going more than food ever did.
Three months earlier, Gardner had a home. Not a palace — just two rooms in a third-floor walk-up in Harlem. But there was heat. There was running water. Maria cooked beans and cornbread on the stove while singing Spanish lullabies.
And then one week, the landlord knocked.
He didn't say it angrily — in fact, he looked really sorry when he spoke. "Mr. Gardner, I like you. But the building's going under. Foreclosure. The bank took it yesterday. Ain't nothing I can do."
Then it was out.
The furniture sold. The boxes were stored with a friend, then lost when that friend got evicted, too. The job — small accounting work at a distribution office — dried up when the company folded.
Maria got sick.
Pneumonia, the doctor said, though it might've been tuberculosis. The hospitals were full. The private ones were the rich man's territory. He tried to get her help, but it cost money just to get past the receptionist.
Two weeks later, Maria was gone. Just like that.
The boy was all he had.
And so he walked.
Every morning, he'd get up with the boy strapped against his chest, shoulders aching, and hit the streets in search of whatever came next. He worked odd jobs where he could — moving crates, washing windows, watching carts for grocers too tired to guard them.
People liked him, but they didn't pay much. They never had enough themselves.
The shelters were full most nights. The city was jammed with men like him. Some angry. Some half-mad. Some were walking around barefoot with blankets tied to their backs like capes.
Gardner didn't want to be like them.
He tried to keep clean. He shaved every three days with rainwater and a straight razor he kept wrapped in cloth. He wore the same trousers and jacket, brushing them daily to keep the grime off. When he begged — and he did beg — he bowed his head and thanked people twice.
Still, it wasn't enough.
One night, a man at the soup line told him something.
"There's a place. Uptown. Far. Really far. All the way toward the edge of the city, where the air doesn't stink like fire. Some say it's run by that Orwell fella."
Gardner looked up.
"Who?"
"You know... Orwell. The one with the ships. The big floating palace. The one building schools and hospitals. They say his name's on it. Don't know if it's him, but... they say if you need real help, not just a cot and some beans, you go there."
The man scratched his nose. "They don't advertise much, So You just gotta find it."
Gardner said nothing. He kept spooning watery lentils into his son's mouth with a piece of bread torn in half and dipped to soften it.
The boy coughed once, then looked up and smiled.
That was enough.
He didn't sleep that night.
At dawn, Gardner tucked the baby inside the coat again, took the half-loaf of bread he had left, and started walking north.
No subway. No cab. No fare. Just legs and will.
The boy whimpered for the first hour, then quieted. Gardner whispered to him the whole time. Told him stories about where they'd go. Said they'd find the warm beds and the food and the nurse who'd rub his little feet and sing to him like his mama used to.
The sidewalks thinned as the buildings got taller. Fewer people. Less garbage. More space between things.
He asked a grocer. She hadn't heard of it. Asked a mailman — he'd only shrugged. Asked a man at a gas station near the river. The guy narrowed his eyes and said, "Maybe a mile east. Look for the brick wall with the ivy. That's what I heard."
So he kept walking.
By afternoon, he was limping. His right shoe had a crack in the sole, and the cold soaked through. His legs screamed. The boy had cried for milk an hour ago and now lay quiet again. That scared him more than anything.
The sun was fading behind clouds. It was going to rain.
At dusk, Gardner stumbled.
His knee hit the pavement hard.
The baby shifted in his arms and started to cry.
Gardner didn't move. He stayed on his knees for a moment, head down, both hands holding the boy close. His breath came short, and his shoulders shook — not from pain this time, but something deeper.
He whispered under his breath.
"Maria... I can't do it."
Then he looked at the sky.
"God, please. Just... just show me a sign. Let me make it ten more steps. Let me give him something better."
He got up. One foot. Then the other.
He kept walking.
An hour later, just before the sky turned black, he saw it.
At the end of a long stretch of quiet road, behind an iron fence, sat an old red-brick building. Lanterns lined the pathway, casting a soft gold glow. A figure stood near the gate, not armed, not shouting — just watching calmly, a clipboard under one arm.
The stone arch above the entrance read:
ORWELL SHELTER – NEW YORK CHAPTER
His legs stopped moving.
He stared at the sign like it might vanish if he blinked.
The rain started. Soft at first. Then steady.
Gardner stood there, soaked to the bone, baby clutched tight. The boy didn't cry. He was warm and quiet in his chest.
The man's throat caught. He didn't know if he was laughing or sobbing.
He stepped forward.
The gate guard looked up, nodded once, and said simply:
"You've come a long way. Let's get you inside."
End of Part I
(Next Part: "Part II: The Waiting Days")