Category Archives: Novels

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Sixty-One

Her large, watery blue eyes followed the flight of stairs, so far up, so steep, so forbidding. A deep sigh made its way through Cordie’s pale, wrinkled lips. Too many dying boys, too much moaning, she fretted, as she took her first step to ascend the boardinghouse stairs. The day was not over yet, because Cordie had agreed to join Jessie and Adam at the candlelight parade.
Finally reaching the top floor, Cordie breathed deeply before opening her bedroom door. And those trousers, she thought to herself, they had to be mended. Adam brought her a pair from Gabby, and they had to be fixed so he would have something proper to wear. In the room, the bed beckoned to her, but Cordie resisted; her duty to Gabby came first, so she sat, turned on her kerosene lamp, and proceeded to stitch the crotch of her brother’s worn blue pants.
Downstairs the front door opened, and Cordie heard Mrs. Surratt’s strident voice pierce the silence. After a few harsh words with Mrs. Edwards, the landlady stomped up the stairs. Cordie steeled herself as the steps neared her door.
“I’m here for the rent. It’s past due.” Mrs. Surratt swung open the door after sharply knocking once. She stopped and glared at the trousers on Cordie’s lap. “Those pants. Who do they belong to?”
“Gabby.”
“Gabby? Who’s Gabby?”
“My brother. He lives with me.”
“He lives here?” Mrs. Surratt went to the armoire to open it to see a rack of men’s rough shirts, a jacket, and another pair of slacks. “You mean he’s been living here all this time, and you haven’t paid his rent?”
“He hasn’t been sleeping here for almost a year.”
“Well, does he live here or not?”
“I guess not. But I always think of him and me living together. We help each other get by.”
“Then where is he living?”
“I—I don’t think I’m allowed to say.” Her eyes fluttered.
“When it comes to cheating me out of rent money you have to tell.”
“As long as it doesn’t go any further…”
“Get on with it.”
“The White House,” she whispered. “He—he’s the janitor.”
“Those Republicans make him work day and night?”
“Yes.” Cordie’s eyes went down.
“Those Republicans make everyone’s life miserable.” Mrs. Surratt’s face softened as she sat on the edge of the bed by Cordie’s chair. “Where are you from, dear?”
“New York City.”
“Ah, the gallant Irish. You know, they’re rioting this very moment against the infamous draft.” She smiled. “Were your parents from Ireland?”
“No,” Cordie replied. “They were born here. My parents never talked about where their folks were from.” She looked at Mrs. Surratt with curiosity. “Is Zook an Irish name?”
“I really don’t know what kind of name Zook is. It could be Irish.”
“Why do you care if I was Irish or not?” Cordie did not know why Mrs. Surratt’s questions irritated her. Perhaps it was because climbing all those stairs wore her out.
“Oh, I don’t care, really. It’s just I like the Irish, that’s all.”
“Why?” Cordie told herself not be so impatient with the woman. After all, she was making an attempt to be friendly.
“I suppose it’s their religion,” Mrs. Surratt replied in a flat tone.
“We weren’t much of anything particular.”
“Oh. We in Maryland follow the true faith, Roman Catholic. As do the Irish. The Irish in New York don’t want to be forced to fight against the South. The Pope sees this as a holy war against the Roman Catholic Church. The Northerners have no respect for the Pope.”
“Papa was a lawyer. He defended all kinds of poor people, Irish Catholics, German Jews, Gypsies. He even defended a man who didn’t believe in God at all.”
“But your father did believe in God?”
“Yes.”
“You’re confusing me. What side are you on?”
“We’re for the Union. Papa said slavery was wrong.”
“Oh.”
“My uncle, Samuel Zook, is a Union general.”
“You know, my dear, this war isn’t about slavery, but states’ rights.”
“Papa said states don’t have rights; people have rights.”
“As I was saying, this war’s about freedom, about the right to worship as you please.”
“Catholics get to go to church like anybody else,” Cordie firmly said.
“It’s obvious you’ve led a sheltered life. Religious intolerance surrounds us. You’ve only to open your eyes to see it.” She looked away, noticing the half-finished Gabby quilt on the bed. “What’s this?”
“A Gabby quilt. I used to make pretty ones, wedding ring, starbursts…”
“I loved to make starburst quilts. They sold well at the inn.”
“Good quilts sell for good money. These old things don’t go for much. The boys living here buy them. They don’t know better.”
“When my husband died, I didn’t have time to make quilts anymore.”
“Old age caught up with me. Then I started making these out of any old material I had around. These swatches are the last of Mama’s dresses. Then you sew old socks into the squares and sew the squares together in no particular pattern. I call them Gabby quilts because Gabby likes them.”

Burly Chapter Twenty-Four

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(Previously in the book: For his birthday Herman received a home-made bear, which magically came to life. As Herman grew up, life was happy–but mama died one night. Papa decided sister Callie should go live with relatives. Tad died during World War II. The years have passed, and Herman is now seventeen years old, and Burly is in the trunk.)
“No!” Burly shouted as the trunk lid came down on him, covering him in darkness, but it did no good. Herman didn’t open the lid and lift him out. “Please, Herman, please,” the little bear whispered through the night, but Herman didn’t answer him. Finally Burly sat back and began to think about it. Herman will get a good night’s sleep and feel better the next morning, Burly decided. Herman will take him into his arms and beg his forgiveness which, of course, he will give, Burly told himself. So there was nothing left to do but be patient and wait for morning. But when morning came, Herman got up, dressed and went to the kitchen to cook his father’s breakfast, ignoring Burly’s pleas to be let out of the trunk.
“Do you need me after school?” Herman asked his father as they ate the ham, eggs and toast.
Not looking up, his father mumbled, “Could use some help in the barn.”
Herman climbed into the loft to get his books. Burly saw this as his chance to talk him into letting him out.
“Please let me out. I don’t like it in here. It’s scary.”
But Herman acted as though he didn’t hear the little bear and left. Burly began to wonder if Herman could even hear him anymore. Maybe his magical powers went away. Maybe none of his life ever happened. Somewhere in the old rags that filled his head there was a special something that allowed him to pretend he had talked to Herman. Burly was very confused. He tried not to think much about what was happening until that night when Herman came home.
It was very late when Herman finally came to bed; after all, he had to help his father, and then cook, then do is homework. Burly tried to be considerate and not say anything until Herman had slipped in between the covers.
“Herman,” he whispered, “Please let me out.”
There was no reply.
“Herman, I know I can still help you. I just know I can.”
Again no reply. Burly slowly began to believe Herman could no longer hear him until the little bear heard a muffled cry.
“Oh, shut up, Burly. Leave me alone.” And then Herman began to sob.
That made Burly very unhappy. His only reason to be able to talk and think was to be Herman’s friend and to make him happy. This was the first time Burly had made Herman cry. “I’ll never do that again. I’ll listen to what Herman is doing, and whisper advice in the middle of the night. But, I’ll never upset him by asking to be let out again.”
And so the days and months passed with Burly listening in on Herman’s conversations with his friends. And with himself, because for the first time in his life Herman talked to himself. Mostly he said terrible things to himself, like calling himself a dummy because he only made a B in a certain class instead of an A.
“Don’t call yourself names like that,” Burly whispered late at night. “You can’t be perfect in everything. Don’t think bad of yourself or soon you will really believe it and you won’t even make Bs in school.”
Herman didn’t say anything, but Burly noticed Herman stopped calling himself names. The next report card was better. He got all As.
“Hey, genius,” Marvin said one day while visiting Herman in the loft. “With grades like that you ought to go to college.”
“I plan to,” Herman replied with confidence. “I want to be a lawyer.”
“It takes money to be a lawyer,” Marvin said. “Where are you going to get money to go to law school?”
Herman shrugged. “They have scholarships. I’ll get me one of those.”
“Do you think you’re smart enough?” Marvin kidded.
“Yes,” Herman replied, completely serious.
“Yeah, I know you are,” Marvin said in a dark tone. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll get the money.”
”Then I’ll work my way through, even if it takes extra years I’ll get through.”
“And what about the draft?”
“Well, there’s always the G.I. Bill.”
Marvin snickered. “You’ve got all the answers.”
Herman looked at him with wide eyes. “Yes, I do.”
That night Burly whispered, “I don’t want you to call yourself a dummy but don’t go too far the other way. You don’t want to lose your friends.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Thirty-Six

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Previously in the novel: Mercenary Leon fails in a kidnapping because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Also in the spy world is socialite Wallis Spencer, who dumps first husband Winfield, kills Uncle Sol, has an affair with German Joachin Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David and his brother George go to Buenos Aires where George is seduced by sex, drugs and booze.
On Monday morning after the hunting weekend at Thelma Furnace’s estate in Mowbray, the Simpsons rode back to London in the back seat of their limousine. Ernest hopped about like a little boy.
“Imagine, we got to meet two princes at one time!” He nudged his wife. “I think they liked you.”
There were times when Wallis was on the verge of loving her husband. This was not one of those times. She blew smoke in his face.
“You think?” She didn’t disguise her disgust. “My God, Ernest, I thought you were going to sell me to the highest bidder.”
“Wallis, my love,” he protested. “Don’t be crass. I wouldn’t take money for you. All I was doing was expressing my depth of tolerance and discretion, two qualities not to be underestimated in these modern times.”
“You must explain the difference to my panties sometime.”
Ernest laughed. “Oh, you know I’m teasing. I’m all the time teasing.” He paused for a response that was not forthcoming. “Anyway, we’ll probably never hear from either one of them again.”
Wallis knew that was not true. David was going to be in their lives for a long time to come. But she had more important things to consider. The general ordered her to gossip. She loved to gossip, and when MI6 ordered her to gossip, she had to take it seriously. National security depended upon it.
After they unpacked at the Bryanston Court apartment, Ernest ran off to the nearest pub to regale his Grenadier Guard chums with tales about the Prince of Wales. Wallis, on the other hand, settled down at her desk to write her bread and butter note to Thelma. She wrote several drafts, wadding them up and throwing them into her trash basket decorated with tiny pink bows. She had to use precise words to express her sincere appreciation with the right touch of vivacity and insouciance. After all, if she were too nice, Thelma might think she was up to something nefarious, which she was. Wallis had been closer friends with Connie, Thelma’s sister, than she had with her. She still couldn’t decide if she really liked Thelma at all. But duty demanded it.
Her thank you note evidently worked because a week later she and Thelma sat in a sidewalk café in the Mayfair district sipping mint tea and nibbling almond biscuits.
“I must say, Prince George is the most handsome man I have ever met,” Wallis whispered, her eyes sparkling. “I was simply devastated when he dashed off before supper at the hunting weekend.”
Thelma raised a penciled eyebrow. “Blame James Donohue. I didn’t even invite him to the party, for good reason too.”
“Who’s he?” Wallis fluttered her eyes.
“He’s married to the Woolworth fortune. His own family cuts pigs up for a living.”
“You mean cheap jewelry and ice cream Woolworths?” The thought of running dead animals through a machine to turn them into goo was much too dreadful to discuss. She concentrated instead on the family who made billions of dollars selling trinkets. “What was he doing in London? Buying miniature Big Bens wholesale to sell in their stores?”
Thelma took time to sip her mint tea. “I’d rather not talk about Mr. Donohue. He’s exotic in more ways than a respectable woman should acknowledge.”
“I though Prince George was considered quite exotic himself.”
“George has problems. Mr. Donohue is a problem.”
Wallis could tell the conversation was making Thelma uncomfortable. Her normally pleasant smile pinched into a scowl. Her petite nose was curdling as though it smelled barnyard stench.
“Who else is a problem?”
Thelma’s expression did not change. “Kiki Preston.”
“Oh, I think I’ve heard of her,” Wallis quipped. “She’s the girl with the silver syringe, isn’t she?” When Thelma chose to stick an entire almond biscuit in her mouth rather than reply, Wallis decided to move on to another topic. “So. Tell me how you met the Prince of Wales.” She knew this was the right question because Thelma relaxed and slid back in her chair.
“My goodness. That was many years ago. Nineteen eighteen. We were at a county fair handing out rosettes to cows, I think. He took me to this ramshackle structure he called Fort Belvedere. He drove too fast.” She puffed on her cigarette. “David was quite adorable as he described how he was going to turn it into his country home.” She looked at Wallis. “You know his family and closest friends call him David, don’t you?”
She smiled. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
“I decorated Belvedere for him and I acted as hostess for his weekend parties.” Thelma paused to light a fresh cigarette. “We frequently make love. But I’d never marry him.”
“Why not?”
“Like I said, he drives too fast. He disappears for weeks at a time and when he returns it’s like ‘hail the conquering hero’, you know. No explanation. Let’s have a party.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It’s not like he’s interested in marriage. I’m sure you’ve heard of Freda Ward. She thinks she’s a movie star. She’s bedded David many times. Hosted at Belvedere too. And then, of course, there’s Princess Stephanie. Von Ribbentrop introduced them. You know all about Stephanie and Ribbentrop, don’t you?”
Wallis smiled. “I’ve met Joaquin but I haven’t the foggiest about Stephanie.”
“She’s some adventuress from Vienna. Stephanie claims the title of a princess because she married a member of the Austrian royal family for thirty minutes. She’s supposed to be a close friend of Adolph Hitler. And the servants at Belvedere tell me she spent a torrid two weeks with David but then disappeared.”
“Proving there is a God after all,” Wallis murmured before taking a last bite of her almond biscuit.
“I like you,” Thelma announced. “I like your style. We must go shopping.”
Over the next couple of months Wallis and Thelma went shopping several times, hosted each other in their homes and attended lavish events that Wallis had only read about in the newspapers. The only problem was that, try as she might, she could not pry any fresh gossip out of her new sophisticated friends about Prince George and the darker life he lead. She supposed they were practicing extreme discretion out of respect for the Royal Family. To hell with discretion!
Before long the newspapers were extolling the Brothers Royale for enduring their extended tour of South America. After the opening of the British Exposition in Buenos Aires, the brothers insisted on exploring the interior jungles of Argentina and Brazil. It was at this time Prince George came down with a lengthy list of loathsome diseases such as dengue fever, dysentery and infected insect bites.
Bullshit! He was going through drug detoxification. Wallis could not help but snort as she punctured her soft boiled egg one morning at Bryanston Court.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” Ernest‘s head leaned into the financial pages, though there was nothing for him to be worried about—the shipping industry was doing fabulously well.
“The boys are back in town.”
“Who?”
“The clown princes of Mayfair.”
“Very clever.” Ernest lowered the newspaper. “You wouldn’t say that to their faces, would you? It might hurt their feelings.”
“What if it did?” Wallis puffed on her cigarette. Ernest could be so tiresome.
“Well, it’s just that recently we’ve been having a gay time with a better circle of friends. I mean, I didn’t know Thelma’s other sister was the fabulous Gloria Vanderbilt.”
“Very well, just for you and little Gloria I shall behave.” Wallis didn’t realize she would be required to keep that promise so quickly. A messenger appeared at Bryanston Court by late afternoon with an invitation to be presented at St. James Court. Of course, that did require a bit of manipulation. Wallis had to offer to the royal staff her official divorce decree that she had been the injured party in her divorce from Win Warfield. In addition, she was not a British citizen. While Ernest’s dual citizenship was enough to gain admission for himself, it was not sufficient for Wallis. She had to find another British citizen to sponsor her. She wondered why she had to jump through so many hoops. After all, they invited her. Oh well, she decided, who can ever understand the ways of royalty.
Finally, she had to find something decent to wear. Ernest’s Grenadier Guard uniform would serve nicely for him, but Wallis had to scramble for a stunning gown. She borrowed Connie Thaw’s presentation gown, train, feathers and fan.
When the night came, Wallis and Ernest joined the other breathless socialites in a queue which weaved its way through four or five chambers of St. James’s palace before they reached the throne room. Wallis was bored, but Ernest made several new friends winding back and forth, nodding and chatting each time they passed.
The presentation itself only lasted thirty seconds; they backed out of the room and then explored other royal apartments, pausing only to bow and curtsy when the Prince of Wales and his retinue exited.
“Where is Prince George?” Ernest whispered.
“He had a bad case of the runs,” she muttered as she curtsied. She then heard the prince comment to General Trotter.
“Something ought to be done about the lights. They make all the women look ghastly.”
Wallis decided she had had enough pomp and pomposity. She told Ernest she was ready to go to Thelma’s townhouse for some hard liquor and hard laughs. They made a quick exit. She had just deposited her train and feathers with Thelma’s maid when the prince arrived.
He walked over to the Simpsons and extended his left hand to shake with Ernest. Wallis rolled her eyes. She had heard from friends David had this irritating habit of shaking with the wrong hand.
“So, I hope your brother, His Royal Highness Duke of Kent, is recovering sufficiently from his recent discomfort,” Ernest offered.
The prince’s eyes widened in alarm. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dysentery,” Wallis muttered. “It was in all the best newspapers.”
“Oh. Yes. Much. I had a touch of it myself. Damn Amazon. Never drink from it.” He smiled and appraised Wallis in her borrowed dress. “Mrs. Simpson, you looked exceptional in your gown.”
“But sir, I understand that you thought we all looked ghastly.”
“I had no idea my voice carried so far.”
He bowed and crossed the room to chat with a coterie around Thelma. No more than fifteen minutes had passed before the prince began to make his apologies and left.
“Oh my. Between the two of us, I’m afraid we have made the social blunder of the season,” Ernest quipped in a self-mocking tone.
“Shut up, Ernest,” Wallis snapped. “We’ve done no such thing. I’m starving. Get me a martini with two olives.”
After her second martini, Wallis handed the glass to her husband and ordered, “Get my wrap and let’s get the hell out of here. My feet are killing me.”
When they walked out of the building they were met by the Prince of Wales leaning against his long sleek black limousine. He smiled. “Need a ride?”
“How kind of you to wait.” Ernest’s face beamed.
The prince opened the door and Wallis slid in.
“Bryanston Court,” she said. Inside she was not surprised to see General Trotter. All she had to figure out was how to get rid of Ernest.
Ernest, by the way, continued to glow in surprise. “I know you. You’re General something.”
The general extended his hand. “Trotter. We met at Lady Thelma’s country house.”
“Have you been waiting out here the entire time?”
Wallis sighed. Ernest didn’t know when to keep his damn mouth shut.
“My dear General Trotter, you don’t have to explain anything to Ernest Simpson. He just owns a few little boats that carry beans and things across the Big Pond.”
Ernest laughed. “Isn’t she outrageously funny? I just adore her.” He turned to the prince. “Wallis and I would consider it an extreme honor if you and the general would pop up for a quick drink.”
Wallis rolled her eyes. “Ernest, please, don’t be so dreary.”
“No, no,” the prince interceded. “We’d be delighted. Wouldn’t we, general?”
“Of course, your highness.”
The four of them exited at Bryanston Court and the limo driver pulled to the side of the street to await the return of the prince and the general. Ernest carried on about how the fellows from his regiment would react upon hearing the Prince of Wales dropped by for a cocktail. Wallis continued to fret to herself about how they would go about conducting business with Ernest dancing around playing host.
“How about martinis for everybody?” Ernest asked as he opened the liquor cabinet.
The general went to him. “Please, don’t go to that much bother. Why don’t I just pour out a bottle of wine?”
Ernest plopped on the sofa next to the prince. “Imagine? A general serving me? Only in England.”
Wallis watched Trotter pour a powder into her husband’s glass. Completely oblivious, Ernest gulped it down as he continued to grin at the prince.
“I do believe you will be a king who will change the landscape of Europe.”
“I agree.” Trotter smiled and patted Ernest’s shoulder. “Would you like for me to freshen your drink?”
“Yes, please.”
Ernest sipped on the second drug-based glass of wine until he lost his train of thought in mid-sentence. Blinking, he tried to remember the next word he wanted to say, but without success. His hand holding the drink sagged. David reached over to grab it just about as Ernest’s eyes went up in his head and his body went limp.
General Trotter spread Ernest’s body out and grabbed him under his arm pits. “Which way to his room?”
“The door on the left.” Wallis bumped David out of the way. “I better handle this.”
He bumped her back and grasped Ernest’s legs. “I think not. You get the door.”
As Wallis walked to the bedroom, she called back, “A gentleman would have gotten the door.”
David walked by, bent over carrying Ernest’s weight. “You’d better learn. I’m no gentleman.”
“Children,” Trotter chided. “We’ve work to do.”
After Ernest was properly tucked in bed, the others settled comfortably in the salon.
“We must all agree, after the last debacle in Buenos Aires, James Donohue must be eliminated,” the general announced, his face turning grim.
David lit a cigarette. “How about the other two, Jorge and Kiki?”
“We can’t kill them all off at one time,” Trotter explained with an air of condescension.
“Yes, we can’t have a pandemic of socialite deaths,” Wallis added.
“I suppose it makes sense to go after Donohue first,” David conceded. “He said something curious in South America. He said he was a dead man walking.”
“Well, we can’t wait for it to happen naturally,” Trotter replied, eyeing each of them. “We have to poison him several different ways to ensure he dies.”
“Like Rasputin.” Wallis’s eyes twinkled.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Sixty

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After announcing Gabby’s uncle General Samuel Zook was killed at Gettysburg, Stanton quickly left, locking the door behind him.
A groan escaped Gabby’s lips, and he sank to the floor. Mrs. Lincoln swept around the corner, dropped beside Gabby, and held his head in her arms.
“That wicked, wicked man,” she said. “He did that on purpose to hurt you.”
“Not Uncle Sammy. He was the successful one in the family. He was going to take care of us all. Who’s going to take care of us now?”
“Evil, evil. Why would he treat you like that? You dear, sweet, gentle man. What did you do to him to be treated so shamefully?”
“First, Papa died, then Joe, and now Uncle Sammy. What’s going to happen to me and Cordie? We can hardly take care of ourselves.”
“When this awful war’s over,” Mrs. Lincoln continued, patting his head, “and Mr. Lincoln is in office again, things will change. That Mr. Stanton will pay for his evil ways. He cannot crush people and go unpunished.”
“I wish Cordie was here.” His soulful eyes, glistening with tears, looked up at Mrs. Lincoln. “Her bosom is nice and big and soft. I could sink my head into her bosom and be comforted. The Bible says a rod and staff is supposed to comfort you, but I don’t think anything can comfort you better than a big, soft bosom.”
Her eyes widening and her jaw falling, Mrs. Lincoln stuttered, “I—I think Mr. Lincoln could comfort you better than I. He always knows the right thing to say.”
Standing, she bustled away. Gabby heard them fussing at each other for a few moments. Lincoln ambled around the crates and barrels, taking his time to sink to the floor and managing to cross his ungainly legs. He reached into his pocket and drew out a packet.
“Licorice?”
“Cordie says it makes my teeth look dirty.”
“Mother says the same thing.” Lincoln took a big chaw of it. “That’s why I like to eat it. It gives us something to talk about. If you want to talk about something, we can.” More silence ensued, punctuated by loud smacks and chews. “I don’t have any appointments in my book for tonight.”
“I thought the whole idea of sticking you in this room was to keep you from having appointments.”
“It was a joke.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry you got involved in all this.” Lincoln finished his licorice, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his mouth. “If you had laid your rat traps earlier, you’d have missed getting caught.”
“Do you think the rebels killed Uncle Sammy?” Gabby asked as he looked into Lincoln’s deep-set eyes. “Or did Mr. Stanton kill him because he thought me or Cordie might write him? If he did, then Cordie and me killed Uncle Sammy.” Gabby’s eyes filled to overflowing. “Honest, Mr. Lincoln, I never tried to write Uncle Sammy. I couldn’t kill Uncle Sammy. I needed him to take care of me.”
“Mr. Zook, you could hardly kill rats. You couldn’t kill anybody. No. You didn’t kill your uncle. War killed Samuel Zook. It’s war, not you, nor I, nor Mr. Stanton. It’s war’s fault.”
Gabby could not hold his tears back any longer. He flung his head into Lincoln’s chest. He did not mind that it was bony. It was comforting, and that was all he needed.

Burly Chapter Twenty-Three

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(Previously in the book: For his birthday Herman received a home-made bear, which magically came to life. As Herman grew up, life was happy–but mama died one night. Papa decided sister Callie should go live with relatives. Brother Tad tore up the burlap bear Mama had made for him. Tad died during World War II. The family came together for the memorial service. The years have passed, and Herman is now seventeen years old.)
A few days later Herman brought a couple of his friends home after school. Burly watched them carefully. They didn’t seem as bad as Tad’s friends. Actually, Burly decided, they were quite nice. Gerald was a chubby boy a little shorter than Herman. Marvin was about Herman’s height and weight but was red-haired and covered with freckles.
“Does your father hate us or something?” Gerald asked, his brow knitted. “When I said hello all he did was grunt.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Herman replied. “That’s just the way he is.”
“We’re not keeping you from any chores, are we?” Marvin asked. “We can study algebra anytime.”
Herman waved his hand as he plopped on the floor by Tad’s bed. “I’ll do them later. He knows I’ll do them.”
“My father isn’t like that,” Gerald said, joining Herman on the floor. “If I have a chore he expects it done right after school.”
“Mine too,” Marvin added.
Herman turned a little red and opened his book. “Um, let’s get started on this.”
For the next half hour the three tried to figure out the mysteries of algebra, with Herman deciphering the numbers best.
Marvin finally closed his book. “That’s enough for me. I’m just getting confused.”
“I’m with you,” Gerald said with a laugh.
“Okay,” Herman replied.
The two friends looked at each other and then Marvin gently poked Herman in the arm. “Hey, buddy, what’s the matter? You’ve been quiet all day.”
“Aww nothing.” Herman shrugged.
“If this is nothing, I’d hate to see something,” Gerald said.
Herman looked at each of them and sighed. “It’s really nothing. It’s just that this morning I heard Leonard Smith died in a car wreck last night.”
“Oh, that old drunk,” Marvin said. “He was a bum. I couldn’t stand him.”
“Hey, it means something to Herman,” Gerald protested. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Who would want to know him,” Marvin asked, but it was more of a statement and didn’t need a reply.”
“Marvin,” Gerald protested.
“No, that’s okay,” Herman said. “He was a bum. I couldn’t stand him.”
“Then why the long face?” Marvin asked.
“Well, it’s a long story,” Herman began. “He was one of my brother’s friends. He faked his army physical to get out of going to war.”
“Sounds like him,” Marvin interjected.
Gerald punched him in the arm. “Shut up.”
“Anyway, he showed up at the memorial service for Tad. He was drunk. My sister Callie—she lives in Houston with my aunt and uncle—told him off good.”
“And he’s been drinking ever since,” Marvin completed the story. “But why should his finally killing himself in a car accident upset you so much?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because it brings back so many bad memories,” Herman answered.
“Well, let’s talk about something that will make those memories go away,” Marvin said. “Guess who I heard talking about you at lunch today?”
“I don’t know.” Herman wasn’t ready to start playing guessing games.
“May Beth Webster.”
Herman couldn’t help but smile. “Really?”
“Yeah, she thinks you’re the best thing in school,” Marvin replied.
Gerald poked Herman again. “What do you think about that?”
“Yeah, I think she’d say yes if you asked her to the school Thanksgiving party,” Marvin continued.
Herman shook his head but still smiled. “Aww, I can’t date. What would I do? Drive up in papa’s banged-up old pickup?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of a double date, dummy?” Marvin asked happily. “You could come with Betsy and me.”
Herman looked up and grinned at the idea. Burly was happy for Herman even though he didn’t know what a date was. But then Herman’s expression changed. Burly was puzzled because he had never seen it before. It was a combination of shame, fear and anxiety. Suddenly Burly knew what was bothering Herman and what he was looking at. Herman was looking at Burly.
Jumping up, Herman tried to look carefree as he plopped on his bed and slid Burly under the pillow. “Gosh, do you really think we could do it?” Herman asked, with a forced happiness in his voice.
Gerald squinted. “Of course, you goof. Boy you must really be crazy about this girl to start hopping around like that.”
“Have you had a date yet, Gerald?” Marvin asked.
Ducking his head, Gerald admitted, “Well no.”
“Then you don’t know how girls can affect guys, right Herman?”
Herman smiled nervously. “Yeah, right.”
Burly didn’t like what was happening at all. The boys talked quite a few more minutes before Herman suggested that they go outside.
While they were gone Burly was trying to decide what to say to Herman when he came to bed that night. Should he be angry? No. A stuffed bear can’t very well be angry. He has no way to fight back at young humans, as his father found out many years ago with Tad. His father, Burly moaned. Oh, what if he ended his existence the same way his father did? That would be terrible, he thought. Shaking his little burlap head, Burly tried to tell himself that Herman was not like Tad. He was much nicer. But he was a teen-ager now. He was growing up, and maybe there was something inside teen-agers that forced them to break all ties to their childhoods, like cuddling favorite blankets, depending on mothers and fathers and loving little stuffed bears.
Eventually, Herman climbed the ladder to the loft and took his clothes off to get ready to sleep.
“Did you have fun with your friends?” Burly asked, trying to be friendly and forget that Herman hid him.
“Yeah.”
“So you’re going to have a date,” Burly continued. “What’s a date?”
Herman sat on the edge of the bed and picked up Burly. “Burly, you know what happened this afternoon?”
At first Burly thought to lie, but he knew it was no use to lie around Herman. “Yes. You were ashamed I was on your bed.”
“Now I know how Tad felt that day.”
Burly didn’t want to ask this question. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to let my friends tear you up,” Herman said with a strong nod of his head.
“They seem like nice boys,” Burly offered. “I don’t think they would be as mean as Tad’s friends.”
“Could be,” Herman conceded, “but that’s not the point. The point is,” and Herman took a deep breath, “I am too old to have a teddy bear.”
“Oh no. A person is never too old to have a friend. And that’s what I am. Your friend. Not just a teddy bear,” Burly said with desperation.
Herman shook his head and carried Burly to the old trunk at the end of the room. “No, Burly. It’s time I began to grow up. And part of growing up is giving up you.”
“No, Herman, please,” Burly pleaded.
“I guess I’ve known this moment would come ever since Tad tore up Burly Senior,” Herman continued, his voice strangely calm. “I didn’t want it to come, but I knew it had to come.”
“No, please,” Burly said, near to tears, if he had any tears. “I’ll never embarrass you again. I love you too much to hurt you.”
“I can’t take that chance.” Herman lifted the lid to the trunk.
“Please, don’t hurt me. I can still give you advice. I’ve always told you the right thing to do, haven’t I?”
“Good bye, Burly.”
And the trunk lid closed, leaving Burly in the dark and Herman alone for the first time in many, many years.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Thirty-Five

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Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Fifty-Nine

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Gabby finished his supper with one ear tuned to hear a knock at the door waiting for news–something mighty wonderful must have happened at Gettysburg. The first day’s news brought by Stanton was not good. The rebels had gained ground outside of town. The second day went well, thanks to the boys from Maine. Gabby tried to remember if any of his West Point friends were from Maine, but his mind was clouded, and the only friend he could remember was Joe, and he was from New York, and he was dead. Gabby could not do anything about it, just as he could not do anything about the soldiers dying at Gettysburg. His eyes strayed to his shirt front, and now he cared more about the stray drops of gravy there; that way, his heart did not hurt so much.
The door opened, and Gabby hoped it was Adam. Maybe today would be the day he would think of the right things to say to make Adam stop being so gloomy all the time. Instead it was Stanton.
“I’ve the latest news from Gettysburg,” the war secretary announced.
Gabby sagged and stared at his plate; he did not want to see Stanton. He did not like the man; more than that, he was scared of him.
“What is it?” Lincoln asked, scooting a chair from the billiards table and plopping down.
“Please say it’s a victory,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Total victory,” Stanton replied. “The rebels attempted a foolhardy charge up a hill strongly manned by our forces, and they were decimated.”
“Yes! Yes!” Lincoln said.
“Oh,” Mrs. Lincoln murmured.
Gabby detected compassion in her voice. Perhaps some of her Kentucky relatives were in the charge, but you cannot worry about relatives at war, he told himself. Uncle Sammy was fighting, but Gabby could not think about losing someone else close to him—first had been his kind father and second his friend Joe. Losing Uncle Sammy was too painful to comprehend.
“Bobby Lee’s slipping,” Lincoln said. “In his prime he would’ve never made such a strategic blunder.”
“I know the Lees very well,” Mrs. Lincoln added. “They’re fine and genteel folk.”
“Now, Mother, we’re not talking about hosting a party, at which I’m sure they excel. We’re talking about military tactics.”
“Still, I can’t glory in the death of any young man, be he from north or south.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mother,” Lincoln replied. “War’s terrible, but terrible battles end a war fast so no more men die.”
Adam unlocked the door and entered.
“What are you doing here?” Stanton said in a huff.
“I—I came to get the dishes.”
“Oh,” Stanton said. “Get on with it.”
Gabby heard the clattering of china against the wooden tray. Adam turned the corner into his little safe haven.
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring my plate out to you, but that man scares me,” Gabby whispered.
“He scares me too.”
“Don’t be scared,” Gabby said. “Don’t be sad. Keep yourself cleaned up. You don’t want to end up like me.”
Adam patted Gabby’s shoulder and then turned to leave. He shut the door quietly and locked it.
“So,” Lincoln said. “Do we have General Lee in custody?”
“Um, no. They retreated across the border. General Meade said his men were tired, and so he felt it was enough to force the enemy from our soil.”
A giant slap against the felt covering of the billiards table made Gabby jump.
“Father,” Mrs. Lincoln said with a gentle gasp.
“Excuse me, Mother, but my patience is at an end. He has the audacity to hold us in the White House basement because I’m incompetent, but he lets Bobby Lee escape!”
“Sir, I share your anger that General Meade didn’t pursue Lee, but it was his mistake and not mine.”
“If I were still in control, this would have never happened!”
Lincoln’s outburst was not very presidential, Gabby told himself. Squinting, once again he wrestled with the question of whether he was the president or not.
“On another front,” Stanton continued, “General Grant will successfully conclude his siege of Vicksburg tomorrow.”
“And who will Grant let slip through his fingers?” Lincoln sighed.
“No one, sir,” Stanton replied.
“So. We do have a general who knows how to win battles the right way.”
Stanton grunted.
“I want…” Lincoln paused. “I recommend you send for General Grant as soon as possible. He should take on Bobby Lee.”
“He drinks too much,” Stanton said.
“And you think too much of yourself, but that hasn’t stopped you from attempting to lead this country.”
“Father.”
Gabby heard the fear in Mrs. Lincoln’s voice. She was right. Lincoln was out of control, but Gabby could not be harsh with him. Melancholia made people act queerly. Gabby should know. He had been acting queerly for years.
“You must forgive me.” Lincoln sighed again. “Cabin fever, that’s what it is. Did you ever have cabin fever, Mr. Stanton?”
“No, sir, I don’t think I have.”
“How about you, Mother, have you ever had cabin fever?”
“I’m having it right now.”
After a pause, Lincoln spoke, now more composed.
“Do as you like, but I believe General Grant would head the Army of the Potomac effectively.”
“Gideon Welles agrees with you.”
“He told you that?”
“Not me. The man upstairs.”
“God? When did you find time to speak to God?”
“The man upstairs, meaning your replacement.” Stanton paused a moment. “You know what I meant.”
“Of course, but I need a good laugh to get through the day, and if it can be at your expense, so much the better.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Stanton replied, hardly containing his temper. “I’ll take under consideration your opinion.”
He walked to the door, stopped, taking a few steps to the side so he could see inside Gabby’s little nook behind the crates and barrels. Gabby shuddered when he saw Stanton’s beady eyes trained on him.
“By the way,” he said to the Lincolns, “I regret to report we lost several generals at Gettysburg. Among them was General Samuel Zook.”

Burly Chapter Twenty-Two

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David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Thirty-Four

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Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Fifty-Eight

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Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns captive under guard in the White House basement. Stanton selects Duff, an AWOL convict,to impersonate Lincoln. Duff learns how to conduct cabinet meetings. Alethia, the woman playing Mrs. Lincoln, has had a carriage accident. He goes to see her at the hospital in Maryland.
As Duff rode back from Anderson Cottage, he thought about Alethia and Tad. His heart raced as he remembered the touch of her soft skin. The tenderness in her eyes raised hopes that she loved him as much as he loved her. But there were secrets, secrets, secrets—even the clanging of the carriage wheels pounded out the secrets, secrets, secrets. Duff smiled as he thought of how much Tad had matured in the last year. He had been inconsiderate, brash, and irresponsible, never thinking of others’ feelings; now, he put aside his enjoyment of the street parade to comfort a woman he knew was not his mother.
Back at the Executive Mansion, with the sun already setting beyond the Potomac River, Duff listened for the impending march, pounding of drums, and crackling of torches down Pennsylvania Avenue. He looked forward to the parade, an event yet to be experienced, even though those around him thought he had experienced it before.
“The parade’s turning the corner,” Tom Pendel said. “The window’s all prepared, sir. All the candles are lit.”
Smiling at the white-haired doorman, he tried to find a stance that Lincoln would take. Duff breathed in deeply as Pendel pulled open the curtains and breathed out in relief as he heard the roar of the crowd on the street. Pendel held the tall candle just out of view at window’s edge. Feeling the warmth of the flame, Duff briefly felt imbued with confidence, until he realized the candlelight lit his neck and chin, not his full face. Glancing down, he saw Pendel looking at the floor, his arm raised routinely high enough to illuminate Lincoln’s face. Evidently, Duff was slightly taller than the president. An awful moment of revelation passed slowly when Pendel’s eyes moved up and he became aware the candlelight was in the wrong place. Quickly he raised the candle, but his eyes stayed fixed on Duff’s face. Duff was flushed with humiliation. What would Pendel say? Several minutes passed as Duff waved to the crowd before it went down the street and turned toward the Mall, where a stack of old wood and trash waited to become a bonfire. As the lights dimmed from sight and the bonfire lit the evening sky, Duff turned to Pendel and forced a smile.
“Too bad Tad decided to stay at Anderson Cottage. He always liked the candlelight parades and bonfires.”
“Yes, sir.” Pendel kept his head down as he blew out the long candle.
Duff excused him and fled to his bedroom, where he threw off his clothes and put on his nightshirt. He did something he had not done in years. He fell on his knees, clasped his fingers together, and emitted moans from his heart only God could hear.
“Forgive me,” Duff said in guttural tones from the bottom of his belly. “Forgive me for my sin, my secrets, and my many offenses.”
“Father?”
Recognizing Robert Lincoln’s voice, Duff stood, buttoned the top of his nightshirt, and turned, hoping Robert had not heard him.
“I heard what you were praying.” Robert sounded uncertain.
“Robert, I thought you weren’t coming home.” Duff stood, grabbed the bedpost, and smiled. “Your mother’s fine.”
“No, she’s worse. The train stopped at Anderson Cottage long enough for me to see her. She got worse after you left. Tad’s there.” He paused. “I know I haven’t been as cooperative as I should.” Robert’s eyes went to the floor. “When I saw those bandages on Mother’s head, I realized parents don’t live forever.”
“It’s not all your fault, son. Sometimes, I’m sure, you feel I don’t trust you enough to tell you the truth.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Father,” Robert said. “I know you have to keep secrets from me, and I know you feel responsible for all the deaths in the war. God forgives you.” He scrunched his face in pain. “But I need you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” He stumbled toward Duff with his arms outstretched, pleading. As Duff hugged him, he burst into tears.
“I forgive you,” Duff whispered, even though his mind wandered to Alethia and if she would forgive him if she knew his secrets, his deep, horrible secrets.