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Toby Chapter Twenty- Four

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West Texas farmboy Harley Sadler traveled the High Plains starring as comic sidekick in melodrama tent shows. He married Billie and made keep on his promise to her family that he would have his own show one day. He made farmers laugh and helped them out during the 1920s and 1930s. His daughter Gloria died, and he retired, only to make one more try with a traveling tent show.

Harley’s brow knitted, his dreams centered on his opening a large Bible and trying to find the Book of Job. No matter how hard he looked he could not find it. He had to find an answer somewhere about why good men had to suffer. He told himself he did not mind the suffering if he only knew why it had to happen. The Book of Job must have the answer somewhere only if he could find the right chapter and verse. Eventually his eyes began to blur, unable to read the words on the pages. He felt a hand on his shoulder, rousing him from the nightmare. He was back at the showgrounds. Harley eased himself from the pickup cab, walked around to shake Mitch’s hand.
“You know, Harley—Mr. Sadler—there’s no rush on paying. Everyone knows you’re good for it.”
Harley grinned. “Don’t worry about it, Mitch. I’ll get a check to you by the end of the week. The show is going great guns. Money’s coming in faster than we can count it.”
“Sure, sure, no problem at all.” Mitch started the engine of his truck and drove off.
Standing there watching the truck disappear on the horizon, Harley felt the last bit of energy drain from his body. He had invested the all of the money he and Billie had put aside for their retirement, and now it was gone. What they would live on for the rest of their lives, he wondered. Harley had no idea.
Joe came up and grabbed his elbow, leading him back to the tent. “Harley, it’s gone too far.”
Sighing, he asked, “Can this wait, Joe?”
“No, it can’t” Joe replied firmly.
Harley stopped. If one more thing went wrong he did not know if he would be able to handle it. “All right. What is it?”
“I looked in the books this morning and found out we’re in the red.”
“What?” He did not have the energy to become angry.
“That was my reaction,” Joe continued grimly. “We’ve been on the road a month and filling the house every night, and we’re losing money.”
“What does Billie say?”
Joe paused a moment. His eyes strayed to the ground. “Harley, Billie’s the problem. When I looked closer, I saw the figures were in all the wrong columns. It’s her drinking. She’s making too many mistakes.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Harley turned to leave.
“No,” Joe announced. “I’m bringing in my own man.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Now I think Billie’s a fine lady,” he continued using a conciliatory tone, “when she’s sober. And—and I don’t care if she stays on with the show playing roles but—“
“I think you’ve made yourself quite clear,” Harley cut him off with an icy stare.
The tour dragged on two more months. Billie seemed relieved when Harley informed her she would not be keeping books any more. Harley was not subtle in his increased supervision of her purses and coat pockets, anywhere she could stash a pint of whiskey.
Little girls in the arms of their parents drew Harley to them. He smiled and waved at them. Mothers and fathers handed their children over to him so they could get a picture of the great Harley Sadler with their little ones. Billie, on the other hand, kept her distance from girls with golden curls. She found her moment of satisfaction when she was decked out in her fanciest dress and sparkling jewelry. Admiring older ladies circled her and giggled in admiration.
Finally the tent came down for the last time. Crew and actors briskly packed trucks and cars. Harley and Billie walked to their sedan carrying their suitcases of costumes and makeup kits. As Billie loaded her bags, Harley shook hands with Joe.
“Well, we had some rough times there,” Joe said, “but I think we made out pretty well. Made some money.”
“I’m glad,” Harley replied. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Joe.”
“We worked out all the kinks this season. Next year will run much smoother.”
“Next?” he questioned as an eyebrow went up.
“Sure. Never stop when you’ve got a winning hand, and, buddy, we’re a winning hand.”
Harley shook his head. “Thanks, but this tour has taught me I’m too old for this.”
“Too old?” Joe questioned amiably. “Why, the people love you. Toby is ageless.”
“Toby may be ageless, but I’m not,” he chuckled.
Joe looked down and kicked at the dirt. “Harley, I hope you’re still not upset about, well, having to replace Billie on the books—“
“Oh no,” he interrupted magnanimously, “we did the right thing. I have no ill feelings toward you. In fact, you can use my name on the tour. I can’t go out for months at a time.” He glanced at Billie. “I can’t take her out for months at a time.”
“Oh.”
“I thought maybe going on tour again might take her mind off Gloria—but Gloria will never leave her—leave us.”
Joe shook his hand. “I enjoyed it.”
“I did too.” Harley looked over at the tents being folded away. “Yep, I enjoyed every minute of it.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Fourteen

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Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton placed President and Mrs. Lincoln under guard in the White House basement. Stanton replaced Lincoln with a lookalike he had found in prison and groomed him to impersonate the president. Pvt. Adam Christy was placed in charge of the Lincolns.
Dusk fell over Lafayette Square as Private Adam Christy stopped at the Executive Mansion door to tell the Washington policeman, dressed as a doorman in a frock coat and baggy trousers, that he would be right back after meeting someone for a moment in the park. The guard narrowed his eyes.
“And who are you?”
“Didn’t Mr. Stanton tell you? I’m the president’s new adjutant.” Adam cleared his throat. “And who are you?”
“John Parker.”
John Parker…it struck a chord with Adam, who remembered Stanton telling him to be wary of a certain guard at the front door who tended to stay drunk. The metropolitan police had brought him up on charges of going to whorehouses, being drunk, and sleeping on duty.
“The president’s last adjutant was a lieutenant,” the guard said after carefully eyeing the single stripe on Adam’s rumpled blue sleeve.
“Um, I’m from Mr. Stanton’s hometown,” Adam whispered as he looked down.
“Oh. So that’s how it is.” A grunt gurgled from Parker’s lips.
“Yes.” Adam glanced across Pennsylvania Avenue into Lafayette Square to see if Gabby’s sister Cordie was there. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Of course, boss,” Parker said, his voice tinged with irony and his breath reeked of whiskey.
As Adam walked down the steps, across the driveway, and into the street, he felt the back of his neck burn, though he kept telling himself there was no shame in taking advantage of a family acquaintance to get a leg up, as his father would say. How else would a young man from a small town on the banks of the Ohio River find himself in the center of his nation’s government? Steubenville’s only link to political importance was in its name, homage to Baron Von Steuben who had trained General George Washington’s troops at Valley Forge, turning them into a viable fighting force. The Prussian native was well rewarded with land and money, but he spent his remaining years in New York, not in the back country of Ohio. So Steubenville itself was known for its manufacture of plates and cups and bolts of cloth, not its political influence. Therefore, when young Adam Christy announced as a child that he wanted to be a general, his father laughed. To be a general, his father explained as he stroked Adam’s red hair, he would have to go to West Point; and to go to West Point, he needed to be appointed by a congressman. And congressmen only came to Steubenville once every two years before an election. Perhaps one day he could be a sergeant, he had tried to encourage himself. Then his father burst through the door on a bright day in June of 1862, grinning broadly.
“Boy, you might make general after all,” he said, grabbing Adam’s shoulders.
“What do you mean, Pa?” Adam’s heartbeat quickened.
“I saw something in the newspaper back at the first of the year,” the elder Christy began. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He paused, smiling, to catch his breath. “You know how I’ve always said it’s not what you know but who you know, and my problem was that I never knew anybody. Well, what I saw in the newspaper let me realize I finally know somebody.”
“Who, Pa, who?”
“Well, I used to laugh and tell how I caught this fellow at the graveyard digging up your aunt. He’d taken a shine to her and wanted to make sure she was dead. But I caught him. I laughed at him and told everybody in town so they laughed at him until he finally got his back up. He blustered up to me, but dog-tailed it real fast when I said, ‘Yeah, so what? What are you going to do about it?’”
“Pa, what does that have to do with—”
“Just this. That fellow is now secretary of war for Abraham Lincoln.”
“But wouldn’t he hate your guts?” Adam frowned.
“Son, he’s a grown man,” his father said. “Grown men don’t hold grudges. Only boys do that.”
“So you wrote him about me?” Adam smiled.
“Sure did. Took a few months for a reply, but I got it today.” His father squeezed his shoulder. “He said for you to get on the next train headed for Washington. He has a special duty for you, and if you do a good job, he promised a commission.”
The next few weeks went by quickly for Adam, who mounted the train in Steubenville, crossed the Ohio River, passed Pittsburgh and the Pennsylvania countryside, entered Maryland, and stepped off the train into the different world of Washington, D.C. A nameless man in a rumpled blue uniform met him at the station and took him to an induction center where he was sworn in as a member of the Army of the Potomac, but instead of being led away to one of the training camps around the capital, Adam was taken to the War Department, where he met Edwin Stanton and his destiny.
Nothing wrong with using connections to receive a special assignment, he told himself as he looked back at the Executive Mansion from Lafayette Park. The guard at the door was only jealous. Then he looked up at the statues around him. A smile found its way to his lips as his eyes adjusted to the failing light to recognize a monument to General Frederick William Von Steuben, his hometown’s namesake. A portent of good fortune. Now that he had put his personal doubts behind him for the moment, Adam’s attention focused on his promise to Gabby Zook to tell his sister Cordie that he would not be coming home with her for some time. Looking around, Adam could see that few elderly women walked in the park at twilight, so spotting Gabby’s sister would be no problem. After a few minutes of shifting from one foot to another, however, he worried he had been wrong, until two female figures appeared far down Pennsylvania Avenue. One was short and had rounded shoulders. That one must be Cordie Zook. But he did not know who the second person might be, a tall, straight silhouette with a quick gait and lively waving of hands and bobbing of her head during conversation. He smiled, wondering what the young woman was saying. Adam already liked her.

Toby Chapter Twenty-Three

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Previously in the novel: West Texas farmboy Harley Sadler toured the High Plains in a traveling melodrama show, married Billie, opened his own show and delighted in his daughter Gloria. The Great Depression stole his successful business, his daughter died in childbirth, his wife sank into alcoholism and he lost the last of his money on wildcat oil drilling.
Mitch Sawyer, the foreman on Harley’s latest foray into wildcat oil drilling, stood in the back of the tent auditorium watching the end of one of the time-worn melodramas. It had been years since he had seen Harley on stage. Mitch thought the actor was too old to be playing the youthful sidekick, but all he could do was shake his head. He had bad news to deliver, and as the curtain went down, he steeled himself as he headed backstage. Actors directed him to the dressing room where Harley sat slumped over his table removing this makeup.
“Harley?” he asked hesitantly.
He looked around and stood. “What’s the problem, Mitch?”
“What makes you think there’s a problem?” He was a terrible liar.
“Well, the oil rig is three hours away from here,” Harley explained. “So when my foreman shows up I figure there’s a problem.”
Mitch did not know how to begin. “We need you there tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“We’re about to hit something,” he began with a sigh. “If it’s oil, fine, but if it’s water, we’re bust. I think you ought to be there to call it quits.”
Harley nodded and finished changing his clothes. They walked through the backstage area when Billie stopped them.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Billie, honey, I’ve got to go out to the rig tonight.”
“But that’s a long way.” She wrinkled her brow.
He shrugged. “I have to go.”
Mitch followed Harley out but looked over his shoulder in time to see Billie pull a small whiskey bottle out for a swig. So the rumors were true, he thought. She really did like her liquor. The ride in his pickup truck down the long straight highway was mesmerizing. Mitch glanced over at Harley who was nodding off. He tried not to think about the situation too much.
In the business circles of wildcatters, Harley Sadler was well known as an easy paycheck. He was so nice to work for because he did not understand seismology. He was in it for the thrill of the risk. All a driller had to be careful about was drinking on the rig. Harley hated drunks, they said. By this time in the late forties most wildcatters made excuses not to work for Harley. It was like taking candy from a baby, they said.
So when Mitch got a phone call from Harley Sadler, he knew he must be the last oilman on the list. Times were hard. Mitch told himself. He had a family to feed. As he stared at the looming white line down the highway, Mitch fought back tears. When they finally arrived at the drill site on the high plains, he nudged Harley.
”We’re here,” he whispered.
Harley stirred, rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Okay, let’s do it.”
They walked to the brightly lit derrick. A worker trudged over to them.
“Any news, Ike?” Mitch asked.
“Struck mud.”
“How long ago?” Harley’s voice was flat and passive.
“About an hour,” Ike replied. “We kept on drillin’, hopin’ to hit somethin’ else but we ain’t.”
Mitch couldn’t think of anything else to say. He stared at Harley as the old man walked closer to the derrick, becoming a hunched-over silhouette against the glaring light. Harley turned and smiled a smile that Mitch found vaguely familiar. Then he remembered. It was the Toby smile.
“Well, boys,” Harley announced, “let’s turn it off before it completely drains me.”
Harley wanted to sit in the truck until the last light had been extinguished and the last crewman had left. Without a word Mitch knew it was time to start the engine. Soon he was making good time getting Harley back to his show. The old man began snoring softly. Mitch did not want to consider how much of his retirement funds would remain after all the drilling bills were paid. Hot tears rolled down his rough cheeks.
Hell of a way to make a living.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Thirteen

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Previously in the book: Edwin Stanton places President and Mrs. Lincoln under guard in the White House Basement with Pvt. Adam Christy at the door. Christy does not know he’s about the meet the love of his life, Jessie Home, a volunteer nurse at an Army hospital.
Jessie’s eyes focused on the long expanse of the Mall. Cordie’s comments on men’s bodies turned her thoughts to the evening after her father’s death. She was in the morgue, saying good-bye and explaining to him why she had signed the indigence form. The burial would have taken all their money, and none would be left to pursue the dreams her father had for her. Gazing at his body after she lifted the white sheet, she thought what a fine-looking Scotsman he was. No one would have ever guessed he had a weak heart. Her mother tried to tell Jessie with her last breath, but, in her sorrow, she had forgotten the admonition.
“Miss, are you done?” a man asked.
Jessie jumped as she looked up to see the man in his thirties, fairly nondescript except for an aloof gaze in his eyes. Blinking she did not know how to respond, still in grief.
“I’ve a family waiting supper on me,” he informed her. “I want to lock up.”
“He was me father,” she replied in a whisper.
“Well, I’m a father too, and my children want to see me.” His face remained a blank.
“Very well.” She looked back at her father’s body. “When will the funeral be?”
“Funeral? What funeral?”
“I know it’s just a potter’s field, but there’s going to be a burial, and I want to be there.”
“There ain’t going to be a funeral, miss. This is an indigence case.”
“Funeral, burial, whatever ye call it, I want to be there.” She was beginning to be impatient.
“I told you,” he repeated harshly, “this is an indigence case, no funeral, no burial, no nothing.”
“No burial? Ye have to put him in the ground somewhere.”
“This is New York City, miss. Land is scarce, and it can’t be wasted on indigence cases.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Her brow furrowed as tried not to lose her temper.
“Didn’t they tell you? We toss indigent bodies into the Hudson River.”
“What?” A moment passed before she could collect her thoughts. “Ye can’t do that.”
“Oh yes we can. You signed the form.”
“But I didn’t know what I was signing!”
“Fine. Have your funeral parlor pick up the body tomorrow morning. We can’t keep it around here.”
“I don’t have a funeral parlor.”
“Then you better get one fast.”
“I certainly will.” Jessie turned to leave as she thought of something. Looking around she asked, “And how much will a funeral parlor being costing me?”
“I don’t know. Now will you leave?”
“Yes, I will, and tomorrow morning I’ll be here with the most proper funeral parlor man ye ever did see.”
Jessie went to several parlors the next day, each more expensive than the last. She visited a couple of cemeteries, finding the cost of a plot even more. She could buy a farm in Scotland, she told them, and they told her to go back to Scotland and buy one. Giving her father a fitting funeral and final resting place would take all the money they had saved and put her in debt for another year. What would her parents do, she fretted, walking down the street, absently in the direction of the morgue. Such questions were foolishness, she told herself, because both of them were dead and could not give her advice.
Turning a corner, she repeated the thought that they were dead and incapable to help her. They would never know that fish would tear at his flesh. They were unable to rebuke her for putting her own future first. Entering the morgue, she went to the office to tell the man her decision.
“Very well,” the man said. “It makes no difference to me.”
“May I see him one last time?”
“Don’t take too long.”
Jessie stared at her father’s face, touching his cold cheek, not knowing whether to apologize or to tell him she made a good deal for herself; instead, she walked away. Soon she arrived at a mansion on Park Avenue to begin a day of cleaning. Within a few minutes she broke down in tears.
“What’s wrong, darling?” the cook asked.
“I can’t stay here,” she replied softly. Without giving details, she told the woman her father had died and she could not stand the thought of living in the horrible city that took his life.
“Go to Washington. There are plenty of jobs there. You can make good money.”
“Good money,” she repeated absently. The idea of money repelled her now. She did not want more money. She had enough on which to live simply for some time. Jessie thought this was the moment to do penance for her awful deeds.
“They have hospitals in Washington, don’t they?”
“Oh, but they don’t pay nothing,” the cook replied. “They only take volunteers.”
“Good, then I’ll work for nothing. The poor wounded boys need me.”
The cook must have thought her a fool, Jessie believed as she walked with Cordie, but her atonement made her feel better, and she hoped her parents, looking down from above, forgave her.
“The fog is thick tonight,” Cordie said as they crossed the iron bridge over the old city canal, now a cesspool.
Her comment brought Jessie gratefully back to the present, not wanting to dwell on the fate to which she had condemned her father’s corpse.
“We’re finally getting there,” Cordie said. “I hope Gabby is waiting for us.”
Jessie smiled and nodded at her, even though she was still recovering from her traumatic memories. As they approached the last block to the Executive Mansion, Jessie saw a slender male figure in the haze. Her heart began to beat faster, for the approaching man looked like her father—the same size, red hair glinting in the street lamp light. As she walked closer, her heart relaxed; this man, though similar in shape, did not have her father’s strength. She sighed. It would be nice to have a beau who almost looked like her father.

Toby Chapter Twenty-Two

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Previously in the book: Farmboy Harley Sadler had a wonderful career as a West Texas tent showman, making the farmers laugh and helping them financially too. All that did not keep Harley and his wife Billie from having their share of trouble and sorrows. In their old age they try to reclaim the fun with one last tour.
The next morning the actors assembled on stage for a read through of “Spit It Out, Sputters” under Sam’s direction. One of the actresses held up her hand to get his attention.
“I’ve read through this script several times trying to learn my lines,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “and I’m having a hard time with it. I have a brother who stutters, and it doesn’t seem funny to me.”
A couple of others murmured in agreement.
“Margery, this was funny thirty years ago,” Sam said, “and it’s still funny now.”
“But,” she persisted.
“You’ve gotten to know Harley Sadler pretty well in the last few weeks, haven’t you?” Sam asked.
“Yes, but—“
“What do you think of him?”
Her eyes widened. “Why he’s the dearest, sweetest old man I’ve ever met, but—“
“Do you think he’d ever make fun of somebody on the down and out?”
“Of course not—“
“Then wait ‘til you hear Harley say those lines. Sputters may have trouble talking but what he says is true. I know these lines could come out sounding mean but Harley will make people laugh, cry and cheer all at the time. It’s called acting. You should be taking notes instead of taking exception.”
“Yes, sir,” she said softly.
Sam cleared his throat. “Harley and Billie know these plays backwards and forwards so it’s your job to be up to speed when they come in. Billie’s pulling double duty with handling the books and Harley has extra duties too, so just keep your heads on your own business.”
Joe the producer walked down the aisle. “Is David here yet?”
“No, and it’s not fair to these people to show up for rehearsal on time and the hero is AWOL.” Sam pointed at the young actress he had just lectured. “Margery is on time and it’s obvious she’s been studying her script. How can she be the leading lady if her leading man isn’t here?”
Joe heard laughter behind him. David staggered through the tent flap. Joe could not believe what he saw. He rushed to the actor’s side. “Dave, have you been drinking this morning?”
“Why not? Our little Susie leading lady does.”
“Sshh!” Joe hissed.
All the actors on stage began whispering. Sam came down the aisle to confer with Joe. “I think you better keep him out of Harley’s sight. He’s already been complaining to me about David’s performance last night.”
“Well, when Harley shows up, tell him Dave’s got a cold or something. I’ll have him sobered up by this afternoon’s rehearsal.”
“A cold? Harley’s heard that one before.” Sam shook his head and walked back to the stage.
Joe grabbed David by the elbow to shove him outside. “Let’s go.”
Sam shook his head as they disappeared from the tent. “Okay. Let’s take it from the top and go as far as we can. Remember! Let’s troupe!”
Outside, Joe led David to his car. “Here, let me drive you back to the hotel.”
“Never mind about driving me,” David slurred as he bulled his way behind the wheel. “I can drive just fine!” He pretended he was driving, careening in and out of traffic, and then play-acted he was in a head-on collision. David started all over with his drunken performance, thinking he was hilarious–until he saw Harley standing behind Joe.
“This man is fired.” Harley’s voice was soft but harsh. He turned to storm away.
Joe ran after him. “Aww, Harley, the kid’s just—“
“A drunk.”
“But Harley—“
“He’s out.” He quickened his step.
The actors on stage froze in place when Harley marched down the aisle. They all tried to sound cheerful as they greeted him. Burnie called out from the quarter pole.
“Hey, Harley! I can still do the splits!”
His brother-in-law kept going, not acknowledging anyone until he mounted the stage and pointed at Sam. “You’re playing the hero in Sputters.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam replied and then turned to his cast. “You people are very lucky. I’ve played this role about as many times as Harley’s played Sputters.” He forced a laugh. “And no wisecracks about how I’m too old to be Margery’s boyfriend.”
Harley pushed through a curtain into the backstage area where Billie sat at the bookkeeper’s desk. She jumped and smiled nervously.
“Hello, dear.”
Harley ignored the fact her hand nervously went to her purse on the corner of the desk. He knew she had already been drinking that morning. Harley went straightaway to his dressing table and pulled a worn Bible from a drawer. Expertly opening it to the Book of Job, he moved a shaking finger over verses about terrible things happening to good people. He leaned back and soulfully searched the top of the tent.
“Vanity. All is vanity.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Twelve

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Previously in the book, Edwin Stanton has put the Lincolns and Gabby the janitor in the White House basement, as look-alikes take the president and first lady’s place upstairs. Their guard Adam Christy must tell Gabby’s sister Cordie, who works at a military hospital, that her brother won’t be coming home.
“Thank you, Miss Jessie,” a wounded soldier murmured as he looked up from his cot in the main ward of Armory Square Hospital, several blocks south of the Executive Mansion.
A tall, red-haired young woman with a beautiful smile mopped his brow with a cloth.
“You’re quite welcome, Sergeant, darlin’,” she replied in a thick Scottish brogue.
“You come early in the morning and stay late at night, all without pay. You must be blessed with a good family who supports you.”
“Aye, a good family they were.” A cloud passed over her face. “Both me mother and father have passed away, but—” she paused, searching for a word, and then continued, “me dear pa left a wee inheritance.” Her eyes wandered. “I’m sorry, darlin’; I have to walk Miss Cordie home. She’s so nervous about the dark.”
“She’s a sweet soul,” the sergeant said. He grabbed Jessie’s arm. “And you’re a sweet soul.”
Jessie smiled and walked toward Cordie, who was putting away her mop and pail. She hoped the sergeant was unaware she was rushing away from him—actually not him, but painful memories of her parents. Her mother died before the family was to set sail for America. While visiting neighbors along the rugged, barren Scottish coast, she had caught a chill which developed into pneumonia. Her father’s plan to go to New York City, where all three of them could find jobs, had gone awry, but he did not mourn the ruined plans as he knelt by his dying wife’s bed, sobbing. Jessie’s mother had gathered the last of her strength to reach for her daughter.
“Ye have to take care of the lad now, Jessie.” Her eyes were moist with tears. “I robbed the cradle when I married your pa, but I couldn’t help it—his bright red hair, his smooth handsome face—so I forgot he was ten years younger than me.” She gasped for air. “Take care of him. His strong body deceives the eye. He’s had more than his share of ills.” A wracking cough shuddered through her. “Please, take care of him.”
Shaking her head, Jessie did not want to dwell on that day. The pain of losing her mother paled against the sight of her father’s heaving and moaning while clinging to his wife’s corpse. When she reached Cordie, Jessie put on her biggest smile.
“Time to go, Miss Cordie,” she said.
“Dear me, it’s getting dark,” Cordie replied, her watery blue eyes lit up. “Thank you, Miss Jessie, for walking with me. I’m from New York; I know how dangerous a big city can be.”
Again Jessie’s brow wrinkled as she unsuccessfully fought the memories of her traumatic past. On the streets of New York, only six months before, a lunch basket on her arm, walking to the construction site where her father worked, making good money. With her salary cleaning fancy homes on Park Avenue, the family actually was building a nest egg. Every night after work, she and her father sat at their kitchen table, discussing where they wanted to live when they could afford to move, because New York City was too big and loud for their country background.
Jessie focused on a crowd gathering in front of her father’s construction site. Instinct or intuition caused her to run toward the mass of people, pushing her way through. Stopping short when she reached the center, Jessie saw her father, lying on the ground, a vacant gaze in his eyes and bit of foam on his blue lips.
“My God!” She knelt beside him and then looked up frantically at the crowd. “Someone, please, call for help!”
Finally, an ambulance rattled up behind a team of clopping horses. The medics knelt by Jessie in front of her father’s dead body. After a routine check of vital signs, they shook their heads.
“Are you family?” one of them asked.
“He’s me father.”
“I’m sorry. We’re too late.”
“I know.” Jessie looked down at her father. “I’ve seen people die before.”
“We can take him straight to the morgue where the coroner will fill out the death certificate; you sign an indigence form, and it will cost you nothing.”
“What’s an indigence form?”
“It says you’re out of money and releases the city to dispose of your father’s body as it sees fit.”
Jessie paused to comprehend his meaning. Usually she had no problem understanding exactly what a person said. Being from a village in the isolated highlands of Scotland, Jessie was even adept at reading between the lines of slyly phrased gossip from wrinkled old women who had nothing better to do with their time. The cold, official language the medic used belied the awful reality behind it. She blinked her eyes.
“You mean a potter’s field?”
“So to speak.” He looked down. “Don’t dwell on it, miss. You have enough sorrow to deal with as it is.”
A touch on the shoulder from Cordie brought her back to the ward, where several wounded soldiers were calling out good evening to her.
“All the men love you, you know,” Cordie whispered.
“God bless you, miss; and you too, ma’am.” And older man, stripped to the waist exposing bandages over flabby skin, reached out to touch Jessie.
“That’s why they love you.” As they reached the door, Cordie leaned into Jessie to say, “You treat the old, ugly men the same as you treat the young ones.” She paused. “Gabby was handsome when he was young.”

Toby Chapter Twenty-One

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West Texas farm boy Harley Sadler had a great career in a traveling tent show, playing the comic sidekick Toby. Even though his lost his money during the Great Depression and suffered the loss of his daughter Gloria, Harley and his wife Billie decided to give going on the road with a show one last try.
Billie relented, and in a few weeks they were back on the road with a show. It was that not bad, actually. They did not have to be responsible for the bookings, billings and paychecks. All they had to do was show up for promotional appearances and the plays. Billie handled the books for the nightly ticket sales. Harley had time to try wildcatting again. He just couldn’t stay away from the gambling.
Not surprisingly, crowds gathered to see Harley Sadler as Toby again. It was the only happy memory from those difficult times. Even if Toby were years older than the villain. Some audience members were too young to appreciate what Harley represented. They found the situation on stage funny, but for the wrong reasons.
“Gosh, he sure is gettin’ old,” a young man whispered to his date.
“Yeah, he looks kinda silly dressed up like that and tryin’ to act young,” she agreed derisively.
The loyal farmer, who first came to Harley’s show when he was courting his wife, turned to glare at the young couple. Yes, Harley was old. The farmer was old. And one day that young couple would be old too. It was what happened if you did not die young.
Harley amazed at least most of the audience with his agility and exuberance on stage, but as soon as he cleared the curtain line he collapsed in a chair placed there for him. He gasped for air. Sam Bright walked up in work clothes with a clipboard under his arm. He was the director now. A little thick around the middle, he no longer played heroes or villains. He handed Harley a glass of water.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
Harley drank the water and panted. “Fine.” He peered through the curtain at the actor playing the hero, David Bodie. “He’s not trouping.” Harley shook his head. “Let’s troupe! Let’s troupe!”
By the time Toby and Susie Belle were due on stage, Harley had sufficiently recovered to pretend to be an energetic young man courting his young lady. Billie looked over his shoulder.
“Here comes the Goodhearts’ little girl Mollie.”
A child with blonde curls ran up to them, fell to her knees and clasped her hands, pleading, “Please, Toby and Susie! You’ve to help my mama and papa!”
Billie froze, as though she had seen a ghost. Harley frowned at her before looking down at the little actress.
“Aww, Mollie, what can I do?”
The child started her line, “Oh Please, Toby and Susie…”
Harley realized what Billie saw. She did not see the child in front of them. She saw Gloria when she played that role many years ago. This girl had brown eyes, but Billie saw Gloria’s sky blue eyes. This girl wore an ill-fitting wig, but Gloria had her own, naturally curly flaxen-golden strands of hair. Soon Billie saw nothing at all. Her eyes filled with tears. She heard her own daughter say, “You’ve got to help my mama and papa.”
The little actress began to panic. “Um, please, Toby and Susie.”
His years of experience kicked in, and Harley knew he had to save the scene. He picked up Susie Belle’s line. “Don’t worry, Mollie. We’re going to help you.”
He put one arm firmly around Billie’s shoulders and with the other lifted the girl to her feet and guided them off stage. He hugged his wife, giving little baby kisses over her face to comfort her. Eventually she wiped away her tears and managed a smile.
Harley whispered sweetly into her ear, “Let’s troupe.”
With her husband close by her side, Billie made it through the rest of the play. She put on a brave smile for the curtain call and bowed in appreciation of solid applause. When the curtain dropped Billie lowered her head into Harley’s shoulder and bawled. They tried to move to the dressing room, but Joe McKinnon strode up, his had extended.
“Great opening night, Harley!” He shook the showman’s hand vigorously. “Sold out house and reservations are coming in like crazy!”
Harley dropped Joe’s hand and guided Billie away. “We’re not doing that play again.”
“Why not?” Joe tried to keep up with him. “The audience loved it.”
“I said we’re not doing that play again.” His voice had a bitter edge to it. “Tomorrow night we’ll open ‘Spit It Out, Sputters’.”
Before Joe could object, Harley huffed off holding his wife close to him. Joe grimaced as Sam walked up.”
“I hope I can make it through the tour with those two.”
“Gloria used to play Mollie,” Sam informed him.
“Oh.” Reality dawned on Joe. “So. Sputters it is.”

Toby Chapter Twenty

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Previously in the novel: West Texas farmboy Harley Sadler had a long career on the tent show circuit through the High Plains, marrying the love of his life Billie, helping farmers during the Great Depression, losing his fortune and regaining much of it. His daughter Gloria died. He and his wife decided their hearts just weren’t in it any more and retire.
When the Sadlers returned to Sweetwater, the town threw a big banquet for them called “Flowers for the Living.” All their friends from the shows stood and testified how wonderful Harley and Billie had been to work with. Representatives of many of the small towns recounted how Harley had rescued farmers down on their luck. If their lives had been a play, that evening would have been the grand finale. But real people don’t go away at the curtain fall like fictional characters. They continue to live, struggling along as best they can.
Soon the highlight of Harley’s day—when the Legislature was not in session—was his morning walk through the neighborhood. Billie sat on the living room sofa looking out the window, waiting for him to appear along the sidewalk. She slipped out a pint of whiskey and took a nip. Suddenly she sat up and hid the bottle under a cushion.
Harley turned from the sidewalk into his yard. His girth was wide, and his thinning hair almost white, but his gait was still lively and his grin boyish. A group of boys, waiting at the corner school bus stop, saw him and ran his way. They were respectful and earnestly eager.
“Hi, Harry!” one said.
“Hi, boys!” Harley turned and smiled.
Another boy nudged the first one. “That’s Harley, not Harry!”
“I’ll answer to most anything.” He paused the proper amount of time before delivering the punchline. “Now President Truman, he might be insulted!”
The boys laughed.
“Like some gum?” He reached into his pocket.
“Yeah!” the boys shouted in unison.
He opened the pack and distributed the sticks.
A boy who previously remained silent, grabbed his stick and stuck it into his mouth. “Thanks!”
Walking up to his front door, Harley overheard them whispering to each other.
“Boy, he’s a nice old man.”
“I’m glad he lives in our neighborhood.”
“You know what he used to do?”
“My dad said he traveled in something.”
Harley turned and asked, “You boys ever hear of Toby?”
“No, who’s he?”
“Oh, an old friend of mine,” he replied.
Harley saw the bus pull up, so he went into the house and joined Billie on the couch. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
“Hi, honey,” Billie said. “What did those boys want?”
“Some gum.”
She stared into his face. “I noticed you turned back to say something to them. They weren’t being rude, were they?”
“Oh no. They’re nice boys.” He opened his eyes and wanted to smile but could not quite muster one. “I just asked them if they knew who Toby was.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
Billie patted his leg. “I guess they would have just been babies the last time you were Toby.”
“You know the man Burnie works for?” he asked tentatively.
“The one with the tent show?”
“Yeah, Joe McKinnon. “He gathered his thoughts. “He’s been after me to go back on the road.”
“Oh, Harley,” she moaned. “I don’t want to do without you all summer.”
He turned to face her. “I told him you could handle the books. You could play Susie again.”
“I thought you said your heart just wasn’t in it anymore,” Billie pressed her objections.
“People want comedy, Billie. They’ve got enough sorrow in their lives already.” He paused and pinched his lips together. “I’ve had enough sorrow in my life.” He reached down under the cushion and pulled out the bottle. “And you’ve had enough too.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eleven

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Previously in the book: Secretary of War Stanton has placed Lincoln under guard in the White House basement and has charged Private Adam Christy with taking care of their needs. He’s gone upstairs to retrieve items for Mrs. Lincoln.
“Yes, ma’am.” Adam smiled as Alethia padded from the room to retrieve Mrs. Lincoln’s unmentionables. He liked this Mrs. Lincoln very much. Not that he disliked the other Mrs. Lincoln; mostly, she scared him. Perhaps under the best of circumstances the real Mrs. Lincoln could be as sweet and charming as the lady returning with a bundle of clothing wrapped in a sheet.
“Looking in the drawers, I found this paregoric,” Alethia said with a smile, holding up the bottle.
“Yes,” Adam said, “she asked for it.” He took it from her, and then smiled sheepishly. “You know, I don’t think I know exactly what paregoric is.”
“Oh, just a little bit of opium in a liquid that’s touched with alcohol.” Alethia shrugged, and her eyes twinkled. “It keeps the nerves calm, so I’m told. I’ve never really been the nervous type.” She turned to Duff. “How about you, Mr. Lincoln? Are you the nervous type?”
“No, not at all,” Duff said, “until—well, you know.” He glanced at Adam. “They’ll need chamber pots.”
“Three,” Adam said.
“Three?” Alethia repeated.
“There’s been a complication. I don’t know if I should tell you.” Adam looked apprehensive.
“Then don’t tell,” Duff said. “The less we know, the better.” He shook his head. “Remember, our main goal here is survival. Don’t forget that.”
“I thought our goal was to end the war.” Adam furrowed his brow.
“No, that’s Mr. Stanton’s goal.” Duff wagged a finger. “And he would strike us down to reach his goal.” He nervously grinned. “I talk too much.” Taking the bundle from Alethia, Duff added, “I’ll help you carry this stuff down.”
“Mrs. Lincoln also wants the lace curtains from the bedroom windows.”
“The lace curtains?” Alethia said.
“For a drape across the room,” Adam explained. “For privacy.”
“Anything she wants,” Duff said, putting down the bundle and walking to the window to take down the curtains. “Get the ones in your room, Molly.”
“Will you help me, Private?” Alethia asked as she left the room.
As they took the last curtain down, Tad bounded through the door yelling, “Oh, Mama, Papa, I had the best dinner I ever had. Pie, ice cream, cake, three ciders—” He stopped abruptly when he saw Adam. “Oh. You’re still here.”
Alethia dropped the curtains on the floor and walked swiftly toward the boy. “Yes, Taddie, my dear. Private Adam Christy is our new adjutant.”
Adam observed the gleam in her eyes as she patted Tad’s shoulders and ran her fingers through his unkempt locks.
“Our last aide was a lieutenant, Lieutenant Elmer Ellsworth,” Tad said in a huff. “Don’t we deserve a lieutenant?”
“We deserve the best man for the job,” Duff said, entering with the clothing bundle under one arm and the curtains in the other. “And right now Private Christy is the best man for the job.”
“Yes, Papa.” Tad cocked his head. “Why are you taking down the curtains? I thought mama liked them.”
“Well, you know your mother.” Duff smiled as he picked up the curtains from the floor. “She always wants new curtains and such.”
“Father, that isn’t fair,” Alethia said, trying to play her role. “The Executive Mansion must always have the best.”
“Oh, Mama never changes.” Tad laughed.
“No, I never change,” Alethia said in a whisper.
Adam and Duff left and went down the service stairs. As their feet crunched on the straw mats, Adam cleared his throat, again feeling uneasy by the stifling silence engulfing them.
“All this is for the best. Don’t you think so, sir?”
“What?” Duff looked around, aroused from deep thought.
“All this,” Adam repeated earnestly. “All this is for the best. To end the war. Mr. Lincoln was going—”
“I am Mr. Lincoln, Private Christy,” Duff interrupted sternly, stopping to look deeply into Adam’s eyes. “Don’t ever say otherwise. Don’t think otherwise.” A fatherly smile danced across his lips before they started walking again, the straw crunching once more underfoot.
After a few moments of silence, Adam said softly, “Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Private Christy,” Duff said evenly, with a sad glance at him. “Take some advice. Be careful. Watch what you say. This is a dangerous time for all of us.”
“Dangerous?” Adam shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try to understand.” Duff smiled sagely. “Just be careful.”
When they reached the bottom and entered the hallway, Duff nodded to the door to the left. “That’s the kitchen, right?”
“Yes.”
“I think I should put in an appearance,” Duff said, stopping in front of the door. “Please open it, Private Christy.”
Pushing the door aside, Adam smiled when he saw Phebe sitting at the rough table, one shoe off, massaging her toes.
“Oh.” Phebe quickly slipped her shoe back on her foot and stood awkwardly. “Excuse me, Mr. President. I was just resting my feet.”
“Phebe,” Duff continued uneasily, looking down and shuffling his feet, “we’re staying in town tonight, so you’ll have to cook for us.”
“Yes, sir; I know. Mr. Stanton told me.”
“Also, I have to confide something in you.”
Adam’s eyes widened, not believing this man chosen to replace President Lincoln might confide his deepest secret to the kitchen help.
“I’ve asked three very important, very intelligent persons to help me conjure up some winning strategies for this war,” Duff said, finding more assurance as he spoke, his eyes rising to meet hers. “Now, I’m not saying they’re from England, but if the folks out there thought the president was being told what to do by some foreigners—well, you can see…”
“Yes, sir,” Phebe murmured, nodding in agreement.
“We’ve already snuck them into the billiards room.” Duff nodded down the hall. “If you’d be so kind, I’d appreciate it if you’d fix three of your best meals three times a day for these friends of mine.”
“Of course, Mr. Lincoln.” Phebe paused, and then looked at Adam. “That’s why you needed the cots.”
“Yes.” Adam smiled. “Of course. I didn’t think I should tell.”
“I’ll leave you to your work, Miss Phebe.” Duff looked away, and then added, “Oh. You might want to have a pot of coffee brewing. We’re having a Cabinet meeting later tonight.”
“It’ll be ready, Mr. President.”
Adam shut the door, and they walked across the hall to the billiards room. Duff hesitated, then handed the bundles to Adam.
“It might be best if you go in alone.”
“I think you’re right.” Nodding, Adam loaded his arms with the bundles and smiled. “You’re going to do just fine, Mr. President. All of us will do just fine.”
Duff shook his head sadly, stared at him, and said, “Don’t forget the chamber pots.”

Toby Chapter Nineteen

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Previously in the novel: Farmboy Harley Sadler became a hit with his traveling melodrama tent show during the 1920s and 30s on the Texas plains. The Great Depression slowed the parade down for Harley and his wife Billie. It became a dirge when their daughter Gloria died.

The ensuing days passed in a blur. Harley was aware of standing there at the funeral home selecting the casket and flowers. He did not know how much anything cost. Everything looked very nice. Billie had good taste. Local neighbors filled the Sweetwater Baptist Church. He remembered smiling and nodding as hundreds of people offered their condolences. In the back of his mind Harley felt a vague guilt because he could not remember how John reacted or how he dressed or what he said during the funeral service. The only thing he remembered for certain was that Billie was devastated. He remembered her tears. He remembered he could not think of any words of comfort for her.
Once the flowers had faded away, and all the mourners had gone back to their normal lives, John announced he had to return to his job at the base. Harley helped him pack and drove him to the train station. As John mounted the steps, he turned to smile.
“Thank you for coming to the station.”
“Billie would have come but she still can’t seem to make it out of bed. She really is very fond of you….” His voice trailed off.
“I understand.”
“You’re my son,” Harley said urgently. “Don’t ever forget that.”
Then the train pulled out of the station, and Harley realized his life would never be the same. Not only not just the same, but he grimly accepted the reality that he would never be s happy again. Hope, that cornerstone giving the spark of reason to exist, began to erode.
Harley threw himself into his old activities trying to ignore the truth. He thought the adrenaline rush of wildcat oil drilling would be the answer. It might have helped if he had actually hit a gusher, but he still only struck water. He ran for re-election and won yet another term in the Texas Legislature. Pushing through legislation over the objections of the North Texas crowd gave him satisfaction but it did not last.
Harley Sadler’s Own Show began another season bringing entertainment across the plains to farmers. In the years following World War II the farm population declined because more families gave up the struggle against the hostile environment to move to the city where jobs were now plentiful. Still Harley and Billie continued the shows because they knew their most loyal fans needed them.
Gloria’s grave drew her parents for regular visits. Billie insisted on keeping the flowers fresh. She watered them faithfully with her tears.
“Billie, honey,” Harley whispered, trying to pull her away from the tombstone. “It’s time to go.”
“Oh, Harley. She was so young.”
“I know.” His voice pleaded with her. “We’ve got to go. We’ve got a show tonight in Spur.”
“I can’t—I just can’t put on that makeup and act like nothing’s happened–like Gloria never lived.”
“Because we continue to live doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten her.”
Billie looked up to shake her head. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
“I guess my heart isn’t in it, either.” Harley hugged her.
He agreed that as soon as their current schedule had ended, they would not commit to any other shows for now. Maybe never, but that decision was left to sometime in the future. Harley could sense the relief flowing through Billie’s weary body. Even he did not mind the prospect of a quiet time of reflection, to reconsider his lifetime belief that if you do good things to other people, good things will happen to you.
Holding hands tightly, Harley and Billie stared into the glaring spotlight, not seeing anything but nevertheless smiling as they bowed to thunderous applause. The banner over the proscenium said it all:
“Harley Sadler’s Last Performance.”