Monthly Archives: May 2016

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Six

Where you headed for, sir?” Davy asked, catching up with the pious-looking man on the other bank of the Rappahannock River.
“Gerardstown, young man.” He kept his chin high and his eyes straight ahead.
Davy glanced back into the Conestoga wagon and saw large wooden-staved barrels bound with rusty metal, several of them, tied together with rope.
“What do you have in those barrels, sir?”
“Bolts of cloth,” he replied with a serene smile. “Sturdy flannel.”
“Yes sir, nothin’ like it. My ma uses it all the time.” Davy did not know flannel was but still was sure his mother had used in sometime, so that really was not a lie. He stuck out his hand and grinned. “I’m Davy Crockett from Morristown, Tennessee, sir.”
“Adam Meyers,” he said, shaking Davy’s hand. “I’m from Tennessee, too.” Meyers paused. “What are you doing so far away from home?”
“Earnin’ money for my family, sir.” For the next hour he spun a wonderful tale of devotion to a family wracked by disaster and illness. He told of his personal sacrifices to keep a roof over their heads and vittles on the table.
“Very good,” Meyers interjected from time to time, nodding in agreement. “Honor thy father and thy mother.”
Davy had never known a man who quoted the Bible so much. His family did not have much time for God, not that they did not believe in God; they just had other things to do. He decided to keep that information to himself.
“Goin’ to Tennessee anytime soon?”
“After I unload the flannel in Gerardstown I’ll get a new load, God willing, to carry back to Tennessee. I don’t see why you can’t travel with me back to your family.”
Several days passed as they walked north along side of the oxen pulling the Conestoga wagon, with a few moments of silence. Davy told him how he encouraged Thomas Jefferson to run for president. Then he explained in vivid detail how he shot a big mean brown bear. When Davy ran out of stories, Meyers intoned with solemnity on the spiritual vacuum of the nation.
“These are perilous times, Master Crockett. No country has ever survived without faith, and our people, young man, have abandoned God. Churches have empty pews. Jesus is coming again soon, and America will be destroyed for its sinful ways.”
Davy nodded, not knowing what to make of his new boss. Adam Meyers seemed of another world, a better world. Perhaps he could teach Davy to tell the truth. Late one night lit by a full moon, they rounded a hill of tall pine trees and Gerardstown appeared. Davy became aware no one had spoken in some time, and silence made him uncomfortable. He looked up at the stars and sighed deeply.
“God, ain’t they purty?”
A sharp blow crashed into his temple, leaving him with a profound pain encircling his skull. He shook his head and looked in bewilderment at Meyers whose eyes stared straight ahead on the road.
“Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Yes sir,” Davy said, mumbling, his eyes down.
In the distance, a raccoon’s trill broke through the cool air, and Davy’s heart went out to the frightened creature because he knew how it felt.

***

Elizabeth, tall and broad shouldered, walked to David and kissed him on the cheek. He put his hands on her ample hips and returned her kiss by pressing his lips to hers, only to feel no response. David felt awed by his second wife’s presence, her thick, solid arms, large bosom, stocky legs and piercing, soul-searching eyes. She always smelled of soap.
“I’m sorry my sisters have raised such a fuss,” she said with a proper precision.
“Ain’t your fault.” His eyes turned to his children. “Robert, you’ve grown since spring. Why, you’re almost as tall as me.”
His nineteen-year-old son, built sturdy like his moher’s side of the family, nodded with brusqueness. When David realized he was not going to get any more of a response from Robert, he turned to his older daughter.
“Sissy, why are you decked out in black? A gal your age should look pretty,” he said with a smile.
“I’m still mournin’ grandma.” She was slender and frail like most Crockett women. In many ways she looked more like Polly, his first wife who died at age twenty-seven.
“Oh. That’s right.” David’s eyes looked away, ashamed he had already forgotten how hard his sensitive daughter had taken his mother’s death. She cried for days, sitting by the freshly dug grave of her grandmother. Elizabeth did not have the words to console her. The only time Sissy seemed to calm down was when David put his arm around her slender shoulders and told her stories about her grandmother. Then he had to leave for the congressional campaign and he promptly left behind all thoughts about Sissy’s grief.
Before he could say anything else to her, his fifteen-year-old daughter Matilda grabbed him around the waist and hugged with force.
“Oh, pa, it’s so good to see you,” she said, her voice overflowing with flirtatious energy. “And I jest cried for days when I heard you lost the election. Why, how any could any man vote for anybody but David Crockett, I can’t imagine.”
“That’s quite enough, Matilda,” Sissy said. “It ain’t proper for a young woman to be so loud in a public place, let alone talkin’ about a topic best left to the menfolk.”
“I’m David Crockett’s daughter,” she replied with a chirp. “Of course I’m goin’ to be loud. What else would people expect?”
“You’re also Rebecca Crockett’s granddaughter,” Sissy said.
“Now hush, girls,” Elizabeth intervened. She returned her solemn attention to David. “I supposed you’ve been huntin’.”
“Yes, me and Abner went out to the ‘canes with Sam Houston. We didn’t kill much of nothin’. Sam’s only here for a while before goin’ back to Texas. He thinks there’s a chance for a fight.”
“I reckon you’ll be goin’ to Texas too,” Robert said.
David raised his eyebrows with false surprise. ‘Why, I ain’t given it much thought either way.”
“I think that’d be jest wonderful,” Matilda said, her face beaming. “David Crockett always needs some new battle to fight.”
“Battle?” Sissy’s eyes widened.
“I didn’t mean a real battle,” Matilda said with a giggle. “I mean, everythin’ is battle in a way.”
“But there’s hard feelin’s out in Texas,” Robert added.
“We’d like for you to come to the farm if you have time’” Elizabeth said. Her voice intensified, which made Robert take a step back and look down. “We miss you very much, you know.”
David had no fears when he faced wild animals and hostile politicians but none of them made him as uneasy as his own family. He never had the courage to ask Elizabeth why she chose not to move to Rutherford fork with him. Elizabeth broke the silence after looking across the chancery courtroom.
“I had hoped John Wesley would come over to say hello.” She sighed. “I haven’t seen him all week.”
“Why, ma, he’s a busy lawyer now. He can’t be visitin’ family all the time,” Matilda said with a laugh.
“I know that,” Elizabeth replied. “But he’s my window on the world. He’s the one who told us about the election. We wouldn’t know nothin’ about you at all if it wasn’t for John Wesley.”
“He won’t come out of this office,” Davy said. “He don’t want the kin to think he’s partial to our side.”
“He’s a good man.” Elizabeth nodded. “No one can accuse him of not bein’ fair.”
“Always been that way.” David paused to grin. “’Course he’s worse now that he’s found religion. He thinks he’s goin’ to Paradise on a streak of lightnin’.”
Matilda laughed, but stopped when she saw the frown on her mother’s face.
“I don’t think it’s proper to make fun of folks and the Lord,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, ma’am, you’re right about that, Elizabeth. I jest opened my mouth and let the quick and easy joke float out.” Suddenly David felt an urge to go raccoon hunting, even tonight. He wanted to hear the raccoon’s pathetic cry.

***

Taking a deep breath Dave opened the torn screen door and stepped inside. He felt like a raccoon trapped in a cage. He stopped short. If his mother were alive, the sight of her living room, covered with years of dust and its furniture neglected to the point of deterioration, would kill her. A small portable black and white television sat on top of a broken console set and flared out a Texas Rangers baseball game. His father Lonnie laid prone in a worn recliner with its foot rest stuck out. His mouth was wide open as he snored. Dave shook his head when he fingered tattered curtains on windows whose panes were blurred with grime and tobacco smoke. Smell of cigarettes curled up his nostrils.
Next his eyes wandered to the far wall which contained a kitchen alcove framed by formerly white molding, now dirty brown. The natural gas stove was smeared with grease, and the chipped porcelain sink was filled with dirty dishes. He remembered how Vince was convinced Allan had become a homosexual because their mother made him wash dishes.
Dave grimaced when he noticed a mottled spot on one of the kitchen cabinet doors. He remembered the day his mother had painted them and left them open to dry. Dave ran into the alcove after school waving a test paper with “one hundred” on it and smacked into wet paint. She twirled him around and swatted his bottom. He remembered blubbering apologies and offering to repaint the door.
“No, it’s too late,” she replied curtly. “It’s ruined. I guess I’m not meant to have anything nice.”
Dave forgave his mother for her outburst. Cancer cells were already spreading through her body beginning to cause indeterminable aches and pains which shortened her temper and eroded her sense of humor.
Next to the alcove was a dark hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bath. He shuddered and forced himself not to dwell on what happened in the small bedroom with his brothers at night. Their parents were just across the hall, but they might as well have been half a country away because once his father went to sleep no one dared open his bedroom door.
What a dump.
Dave jumped, and his stomach knotted. He recognized that voice, Allan’s flawed imitation of Bette Davis. Turning with dread he saw the image of his older brother as he looked before Dave moved to Waco.
Don’t you just love Bette Davis? No matter what part she plays you can always tell it’s her by the way she darts her eyes up to the left and then up to the right.
“Not anymore. She’s kind of retired. Doesn’t make very many movies anymore.” Allan was dead; and like his mother in his dreams, Allan was still here. It would be rude to tell him he was dead.
How triste. How tres, tres treste.
Dave expected him to say some common phrase in Spanish next. Allan first majored in English because that was what their father told him to do. Someone informed Lonnie if a person had a degree in English he could always get a job teaching. Allan had other ideas. He showed a minor talent for Spanish and French in high school, so when he flunked English courses he switched to Spanish and when he flunked the advanced grammar courses in that language he switched to French, which Allan also failed to comprehend on a complex level. Perhaps if Dave made himself think of something else, Allan would go away, so he looked around the room again, this time his eyes catching a light bulb in its ceramic base dangling from wire to the ceiling.
“This place is a mess,” Dave said muttering.
He tried to get me to clean it up, the old devil.
“Mother must be spinning in her grave,” Dave said, shaking his head, still hoping Allan would leave.
He killed her, you know. Sex, sex, sex, all the time sex.
Wake up dad, Dave told himself, wake up dad, and Allan will evaporate. He touched his father’s shoulder and leaned over to whisper, “Dad?”

Cancer Chronicles Forty-Six

Recently I have run into a few friends who, for whatever reason, didn’t know Janet had died of cancer in January.
Strangely enough, I have not had any trouble telling them the bad news. I did not feel like tears were welling up; I did not feel flushed; I did not have any trouble forming the words in my head I wanted to use.
I did, however, feel terribly sad for the friends I had to tell that Janet was gone. The shock in their eyes made me want to give them a hug. When Janet went away, she left a void in this world. She accepted everyone for the way they were. No one ever shocked her. In her job as a probation officer she met all forms of human life, and they were okay to her.
But I have realized there is something else which makes me more concerned for the person I just had to tell my wife is gone. I can tell they fear they have made me sad when I restate a fact I wish was not true. This simply is not the case. Everyone has life to live, problems to solve and obligations to fulfill. Someone may dear to us even though we don’t see them maybe for months at a time.
This was particularly true for one man who was our first friend in Florida who was not a relative of Janet’s. He was a neighbor who would come by the house and invited me to go on a walk through the neighborhood. We talked about things we were interested and not what the relatives wanted to talk about. Janet and I went to his wedding and became friends with his wife who was as easy going and friendly as he was. He had eleven wonderful years with his wife before she passed away.
I thought I had either called or left a message about Janet or I had e-mailed him. When he was not at the memorial service I didn’t think anything about it because he does travel a lot to visit with his friends and family. It’s only in the last few weeks that I realized I hadn’t heard from him and I felt guilty that I had not contacted him again. I left a phone message for him, and the next day he called to say he had not heard. We set up a time to have dinner out somewhere.
He apologized over and over again, and I told him not to worry about it. For one thing, his computer shut down months ago so he may have missed the e-mail. We had a nice long dinner and caught up on everything. As we left the restaurant he apologized again. I gave him a hug and reassured him that Janet always loved him, and I will always love him as a friend. The definition of friendship is that even if you are separated for a period of time, when you meet again, it’s as though no time had passed at all.
I don’t want anyone to grieve that they were not there at the end of Janet’s life. I want them to celebrate the times they were with her when she was here.

Sins of the Family Chapter Six

The Channel Forty-three news van rolled into the parking lot of the Tribal Council Building on U.S. 440, the main street of Cherokee, North Carolina. Bob and Ernie entered the building where they were greeted by William Guess, chief of the tribal council government, a broad-faced older man with serenity in his eyes. With him was George Bigmeat, a younger, gaunt-faced man.
“Mr. Guess, I’m pleased to meet you.” Bob stuck out his hand and smiled. “I’m Bob Meade from Channel Forty-three and this is our cameraman Ernie.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Meade.” Guess turned to the other man. “This is my assistant, George Bigmeat.”
“Your phone call bothered me.” Bigmeat furrowed his brow. “I know William agreed to the interview, but I must say I have my concerns.”
“Of course. I’m sure I can help you with any questions you may have.”
“George is anxious about image.” Guess put his hand on Bigmeat’s back. “You can’t blame him. He’s head of our tourism bureau.”
“You said you got the idea for a story about Cherokee after this unfortunate incident with the Rosses,” Bigmeat said.
“There’s been quite a bit of attention to the stabbing and John Ross’s subsequent hospitalization,” Bob replied.
“You do understand not all Cherokee run around naked and stab their parents,” Bigmeat said without the sarcasm implied in his words.
“George, there’s no need…”
“If all Cherokee did run around naked and stab their parents then it wouldn’t be news, would it?” Bob paused to smile and added, “You’re absolutely right to be afraid, Mr. Bigmeat. Television news and newspapers sometimes find it easier to latch onto a stereotype, for example, a pitiful drunken Indian who has no purpose in life. The problem is they don’t want to do the research. I know that stereotype is the furthest thing from the truth. From my many visits here I’ve seen friendly, happy people working hard to make an honest living.”
“See, George,” Guess said, “we’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I own a few Cherokee pottery items with the name Bigmeat on the bottom. I don’t have many because they’re rather expensive. Is that potter in your family?”
“It’s my aunt.” Bigmeat smiled. “And I’ve always told her she charges too much.”
“Could we get on with this?” Guess looked at his watch. “I have a tribal council luncheon in an hour.”
“Of course,” Bob said. “Could we tape in front of the Museum of Cherokee History down the street? I like the large chieftain sculpture in front.”
A few minutes late, Guess sat in a chair in front of the statue while Bob faced Ernie with the camera. Bigmeat stood behind with a benign look on his face.
“Good evening,” Bob said in his best on-air voice, “this is Bob Meade reporting from Cherokee, North Carolina, for Channel Forty-three. He stepped aside to show Guess and walked to him. “With us tonight is Chief William Guess of the Cherokee Tribal Council Government to discuss the incident earlier this month when a Cherokee man stabbed his father who was dancing in front of one of the town’s trading posts.” He turned to smile at Guess. “Thank you for joining us.”
“My pleasure.”
“Mr. Guess, I’d surmise that the reaction of many viewers to this incident would be one of generalizing about Cherokee people as a whole, which would not only be unfair but also inaccurate.”
“That is absolutely correct.” Guess nodded but did not smile. “I’ve known the Rosses all my life, and they are good hard-working people. Mrs. Ross is the sweetest person I have ever met. I don’t think there’s a person in Cherokee who has ever heard an unkind word from her mouth. And Mr. Ross is the finest Christian gentleman I have ever known. He lives his religion. Turn the other cheek, and that’s what he did when his son was attacked with a stone tomahawk by the son of tourists. He didn’t file charges or sue anyone. ”
“The family of the boy never made an offer to help with John’s medical expenses?”
“No.”
“Why do you think they didn’t?”
“Not everyone can be as good as Mr. Ross.”
“A good reflection on Cherokee people,” Bob said.
“I hope so.” Guess smiled.
“Effects of head trauma followed John throughout his life, hasn’t it?” he asked, “and has that been a problem for the tribe to fight negative images?”
“Frankly, I’ve come to realize that if some white people want to think the worst of any minority, be they Cherokee, black or Hispanic they will hang on to any bad image, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Thank you for sharing the Rosses’ story.” Bob shook his hand and looked back into the camera. “To learn how childhood head trauma can affect a person’s entire life, let’s go to the North Carolina State Mental Hospital in Morganton.”
A couple of hours later Bob and Ernie were in Harold’s office.
“To give you an idea of what I’m doing, I want to show you my interview with the chief of the Cherokee council,” Bob said.
Ernie turned on a small monitor he had brought with him, and Harold watched the tape with one hand over his mouth and his eyes almost blank, making it hard for Bob to determine if the interview would continue. After the tape, Harold nodded.
“Good, I think we can proceed.”
“Fine.” Bob smiled. “If it’s all right with you we’ll tape our segment this afternoon.”
In a few minutes Ernie had the camera running.
“Tell me, Dr. Lippincott,” Bob said, “what are effects of childhood head trauma?”
“Pediatric head trauma can lead to memory loss and lowered intelligence,” Harold explained. “John Ross certainly suffers from memory loss. From time to time he does not recognize his parents, remember being in the mental hospital or even the incident in which he was injured. His intelligence, other than memory, however has not been apparently affected. Each case, of course, is unique.”
“How about his violent behavior?”
“As a rule, pediatric head trauma in itself would not cause violent behavior.”
“So what causes Mr. Ross’s predisposition to violence?”
“I don’t know. Why does anyone become violent? The stress of modern society.”
“How can we control stress?”
“Rationalization.” Harold held up one finger. “Such as telling yourself you didn’t get chosen for the school team because the coach didn’t like you or some one paid him off or whatever.”
“And this is good?”
“Good or not, that’s what we do, and it does keep us going.”
“Fair enough,” Bob said. “What’s another one?”
“Aggression.” Harold held up a second finger. “Such as picking a fight with someone that’s angered you.” He raised a third finger. “And regression, such as acting childishly and wanting to be pampered when you’ve had a hard day.”
“That last one sounds good,” Bob said with a laugh. “I’d like to be pampered.”
“In moderate amounts. They all work in moderation. Abnormality occurs when a person selects one or more of these traits and takes them to an extreme. When this happens the patient usually has a chemical imbalance in the brain. The medical community is still studying these physical aspects of mental illness, and many are not receptive. They prefer to rely on cognitive awareness therapy, which basically says the individual can by will power stop any mental illness.”
“Like the old joke. ‘Doc, it hurts when I do this.’ ‘Then don’t do that.’”
“Right. I don’t believe that. I think the best way to address them is with medications, which are improving all the time.”
Ernie, on a cue from Bob, turned off the camera.
“Thanks, doctor, that’s great,” he said. “Do you think it’d be possible to talk with John Ross now? I’d be as respectful and non-intrusive as possible.”
Harold pursed his lips, put a finger to them and looked at Bob for a long time before answering. Bob shifted his weight from one side to the other in his seat, sensing apprehension from the doctor.
“He’s one of them with a chemical imbalance and, unfortunately, medication hasn’t helped much yet, perhaps because of the head trauma. It’s a matter of finding right drugs for his body and regulating dosage. I’m confident eventually I’ll find the right match of medications for him.”
“Oh.”
“I’d want to talk to John first to see how he would react.”
“We’ve a release form also,” Bob added. “Although, since he’s at the hospital you might be the one legally to sign it.”
“John’s in the yard now.” Harold stood. “Let me talk to him. If it appears he’s calm and cogent, you can tape today.”
“That’ll be great.”
***
John Ross sat in a lawn chair smoking in the shade of a large tree as he watched two muscular young men pour gasoline into a riding law mower and a lawn edger. If he were to escape his bondage and find Pharaoh he would need followers, young, strong men who would obey his every word.
“John?” Harold walked up.
“Yes?” Looking up and leaving his thoughts of escape, John surveyed Harold with indifferent.
“There’s a young man who wishes to talk to you.”
“A young man?” Perhaps this could be another follower. “Is he strong?”
“I hadn’t really noticed.” Harold’s eyes widened with surprise. “He’s a television reporter who has taken an interest in your case. He’s sympathetic to your situation.”
“He wants to help me leave here?”
“He wants to help people understand your problem.”
“Yes, I will speak with him.” John nodded. This could pave the way for the return of Moses, to have a herald.
***
A few minutes later Bob and Ernie were setting up on the lawn. Bob smiled warmly and stuck out his hand to John who studied it before extending his own. Bob thought his grip was rather limp for someone who fancied himself to be a warrior leader of his people.
“If you wish, we could film you from behind so your identity would be hidden.”
“And why would I be ashamed of being seen?” John looked at him with a smile.
“No reason. It’s just your choice.”
“I choose to be seen.” He raised his chin.
Bob turned to the camera.
“To help us with some insight into this problem, Dr. Lippincott has allowed us to…”
Lawn mower and edger engines started and interrupted his introduction. Ernie looked around with disgust.
“This ain’t going to work,” he said.
“Just a minute,” Harold said.
“Sure,” Bob replied as the doctor trotted over to the two boys.
From the shade of the oak tree Bob could just about make out that Harold was explaining to them that they could not run their machines right at that moment. One of the boys, larger and more muscular, whined a bit and kicked at the grass; the other, shorter and leaner, hunched his back, turned away from the doctor and spat on the ground.
“I admire their spirit,” John said.
“What?”
“Spirit,” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. “They won’t take orders from the doctor without protest.”
“Oh.” Bob furrowed his brow in curiosity as he watched John smile with intent at the boys. What an odd observation. Returning his attention to Harold and the boys, Bob saw him take some coins from his pocket and hand them to the boys.
“I like ice cream,” Bob heard the larger boy boom. The other seemed to mumble something before following the first one away.
“Yet they are able to listen to reason,” John added.
“Sure.” Bob did not know what else to say.
“That’s all settled.” Harold came back smiling.
Bob repeated his opening statement and turned to John.
“How are you today, Mr. Ross?”
“Fine.”
“You’re of Cherokee heritage, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That must make you very proud.” Bob became nervous, fearing he was not going to get anything but one-word answers.
“Why?” John cocked his head and smiled, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I couldn’t control what I was born to be.”
“So being Cherokee isn’t important to you?” He sighed, glad John was opening up.
“I didn’t say that.” He shook his head. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He blew smoke through his nostrils and smiled. “Being Cherokee is everything to me.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“My parents had me sent here.”
“Did they do the right thing?”
“They think they did.” John looked over Bob’s shoulder at Harold and squinted before returning his attention to the camera. “The judge who committed me thought it was the right thing to do.”
“But do you think it was the right thing for them to do?”
John only puffed on his cigarette.
“Do you remember receiving a head injury when you were a child?”
“My scar reminds me.” He pointed to a faded mark on the left side of his forehead.
“Have you forgiven the boy who hit you?”
“He did not ask for my forgiveness.”
“If he had, would you have forgiven him?”
Again John just puffed his cigarette.
“Do you remember the day you were taken into custody?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why you were taken into custody?”
“Yes.”
“Do you regret stabbing your father?”
“Do you regret hurts you have inflicted on your father?”
“Why, I suppose.” Startled, Bob paused, not expecting such a question. “We all regret many things in our lives. It’s how we deal with regret that makes a difference.” He blinked his eyes, trying to regain control of the interview. “What do you think?”
John just puffed on his cigarette.
Not wanting to continue the interview, Bob turned to look into the camera.
“John Ross left many questions unanswered perhaps obscured in cigarette smoke that swirls around his head. Pride, injury, forgiveness and acceptance become enigmas. Until smoke and mystery clears, society will continue to seek solutions to problems caused by pediatric head trauma.”
Bob nodded to Ernie who turned off the camera. Harold came up to him and shook hands.
“Very nice. Thank you for coming today. Drop by my office and I’ll sign the release form.”
“I’ve got it right here, doc,” Ernie said.
“Good, come with me.”
After Harold and Ernie left, Bob turned to shake hands with John.
“Thank you, Mr. Ross, for a very informative interview. I’m sure you’ll help many people who watch it on television.”
John’s limp handshake became a vise as Bob tried to pull away. Bob looked down at his hand in surprise mixed with apprehension. John stood and peered into Bob’s eyes.
“What is your name?”
“Bob Meade.”
“When I asked you about your father I perceived pain in your eyes.”
“Not really.” Bob blinked. “I’ve got to go. Perhaps we could talk some other time.”
“I can help you lose your pain.” John pulled him closer.
They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity to Bob before he shook his head and yanked his hand from John’s grip. He could smell John’s breath and body odor, and he shuddered in revulsion.
“I have no pain,” he said forcing a firmness into the tone of his voice.
“You lie.” John smiled.
Bob’s face reddened as he opened his mouth for a reply, but nothing came out. After an awkward moment of being transfixed in John’s gaze, he turned and bolted across the lawn to the hospital door, down the corridor to Harold’s office where he gathered Ernie and headed for the exit and their van.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said in a whisper.
“You look scared to death.” Ernie chuckled. “Did that weirdo pull a knife on you?” When Bob only glanced at him without expression, he sobered and agreed, “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
Bob felt the back of his neck burn as their van sped down the highway toward the interstate which would take them back to Knoxville. Ernie and the driver turned the radio onto a country music station as Bob tried to remember the last time he felt this frightened and embarrassed. Memories little by little came to him. It was also a hospital, Clinton Memorial Hospital where his mother lay dying of cancer.
Bright lights of the hospital corridor blinded Bob’s sleepy eyes. A slender built fourteen year old, he sat in an uncomfortable metal folding chair with his bulky, lumbering father waiting to hear the inevitable bad news. His eyes wandered to a calendar. It was June thirtieth. July fourth was the next week. For the first time in his life, Bob did not care whether it was Independence Day or not. Who could care about firecrackers when his mother was about to die?
A door opened, and a doctor appeared. He approached Bob and his father.
“I’m sorry, but the end is near. You better go in now.”
Bob remembered his father’s standing, his eyes red and his chin rough with stubble.
“Thanks.” He looked down at Bob. “The boy better stay out here. He gets upset real easy.”
“I understand.” The doctor escorted Mr. Meade into his wife’s dark, silent room.
Bob remembered looking around at the nurses’ station and imagining the women were snickering at him. His neck burned red when he heard them giggling, even though as he listened, he discovered they were discussing the quality of meat loaf in the hospital cafeteria. The doctor came back from his mother’s room, paused to pat him on the shoulder and went to the station to write in his notepad. Bob stole glances at the doctor, and their eyes made an embarrassing connection. He wondered what the doctor thought about him. He must have thought Bob was a coward, and the boy wanted to prove him wrong.
A moment later Mr. Meade came from his wife’s room, leaned against a wall, and tried with all his masculine skills not to cry, but he failed as tears trickled down his cheeks. He moaned in misery as his big hand went to his face to cover his mouth. The doctor went to another room, and nurses seemed intent on deciphering a chart. Bob looked with intent at the door to his mother’s room and sucking in his stomach trying to summon courage to prove everyone wrong. He was not a coward. Unobserved, Bob slipped into his mother’s room.
Bob’s nostrils flared, taking in an oppressive smell, a combination of an assortment of medications and minor incontinence from his mother, but he in particular remembered being convinced he was surrounded by the stench of death.
“Hello, baby,” she said, struggling to lift her head and focus her eyes on him. “Come closer.”
He forced his eyes on the bed, lit by a small lamp in an otherwise black room. There lay the remains of his mother after cancer ravaged her body and took all the vibrancy from it. Bob almost did not recognize the woman in the bed even though he knew it was had to be his mother because of the voice, though weak, was hers.
“Come here, Bob baby.” She smiled as she lifted her shriveled arm which was connected to an intravenous needle feeding her morphine.
The familiar smile girded Bob for a moment, and he took a few steps toward her until he looked at the arm extended, beckoning him. Her hospital gown lay open, revealing her withered bosom. Finally her arm slumped from exhaustion, and no more pleas for him to move closer escaped her lips. Fear and shock welled up inside his chest, making Bob feel as though he would burst if he did not escape. Turning for the door, he ran into the intravenous line, tearing the needle from his mother’s arm.
“Oh, Bob.” His mother groaned and whimpered in pain.
He froze, staring at the blood dripping from her arm. Even now, many years later, in the news van, his mind dwelt on his last memory of the pain his mother experienced so close to death, caused by his craven cowardice. All these years Bob avoided his father because he feared his father knew what happened that night even though Mr. Meade was still dissolved in tears when Bob came out of the hospital room. No one else knew he failed his mother in her dying moments, Bob knew what he did was wrong and compounded his sin by punishing his father for it. What a spineless coward he was, Bob repeated to himself. And now John Ross knew. Somehow this mentally ill man peered into his soul and sensed his shame.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirteen

Gabby Zook dozed fitfully for several days in a small bedroom at the Armory Square Hospital, his dreams filled with images of the private from the White House basement. The killer was always standing over the dying boy, admiring his handiwork. The red-haired young man’s mouth filled with blood from a gunshot wound. That mean man would find Gabby and kill him because he knew too much.
From time to time, Gabby’s screams brought a woman to his bedside, and she would stroke his sweat-drenched hair and tell him everything was going to be fine. How could everything be fine? Cordie was dead. The young man was dead. The president was dead. And if that mean man found him, Gabby would be dead.
After one particularly loud outburst, Gabby jumped from the bed and ran to the door.
“Cordie! Cordie! Where’s Cordie?”
The short, thin woman with her hair in a tight bun grasped his arms, gently turned him around and guided him back to the bed.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Zook,” she whispered. “You’ve just had one of your nightmares. That’s all. This too shall pass.”
“Thank you, Miss.” He sat on the bed and looked up at her, his pale blue eyes watering. “You’ve told me your name before, but I can’t remember it.”
“I’m Dorothea Dix.”
“That’s right. Cordie told me about you. She said you could be a scary person, but down deep you were really very nice. And that’s true, isn’t it, Miss Dix? You are a nice person, aren’t you?”
“Well, I try to be,” she said with a faint smile. “Are you ready for some soup? You haven’t eaten for a while. I have some nice chicken soup if you are hungry.”
Gabby smacked his lips. “I think I am hungry.” He looked at her, and his eyes crinkled. “When I get scared I can’t eat much of anything, but I don’t feel scared now, so I’m beginning to feel hungry.”
“Then I will get you some.”
As Miss Dix stepped away, Gabby reached for her hand. “When Cordie died, did you take care of her like this?”
“Why, yes I did, but you’re not going to die, Mr. Zook.”
“It was in this room, wasn’t it?” Gabby looked around. “It just seems like a room where people would die.”
“Yes, quite a few people died in this room,” she replied. “But you’re going to live. Keep your mind busy with those thoughts. Life. What you’re going to do. Where you’re going to go. Happy things.”
Gabby felt the sleeve of his shirt and smelled it. “This is clean. How did it get clean? I haven’t worn clean clothes in a long time.”
“Oh, we took your clothes off you the first night you were here, Mr. Zook,” Miss Dix said. “You just don’t remember.”
“Even my long johns?”
“Yes. Everything is clean now.”
“Then—then I didn’t have clothes on?” Gabby’s eyes widened.
“Oh my, Mr. Zook! We see naked men all the time here in the hospital. Don’t think a thing about it. Now enough of your questions. I have to get your soup.”
When Miss Dix returned, she sat in the chair next to the cot as Gabby drank his soup. As drops of the chicken broth dribbled to his chin, she leaned over and wiped them with a napkin.
“Did I tell you I lived at the White House?” Gabby asked. He knew he could not remember things the way he used to.
“Your sister told me you were a janitor at the Executive Mansion. A very important place to work, indeed.”
“I didn’t really work there the last two and a half years as much as I just lived there. I was locked in the basement with the President and his wife. This short mean man with a beard made us live there.”
“That’s hard to believe, Mr. Zook.” She paused, not believing his story. “Slow down. You’re missing your mouth and getting soup all over yourself.”
“I know I’m not normal, Miss Dix.” Gabby put the soup bowl down to talk. “I get confused real easy. That’s why Cordie had to take care of me. One time, while I was in the basement, I even thought I was President of the United States.” He paused and squinted. “Did I tell you that before?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. The important thing is that we find someone to take care of you now that Cordie is gone. Don’t worry about it. I think I’ve found the perfect person.”
The next day, Gabby awoke to soft voices outside his room. He knew one of them was Miss Dix. He did not recognize the man’s voice.
“Mr. Whitman, I am so glad you agreed to help,” Miss Dix said.
“As soon as I read your telegram I knew I had to come for him. Miss Zook was such a dear woman, and I understand their uncle Samuel Zook died at the battle of Gettysburg. This is my way of honoring our war dead.”
Gabby went to the door to peek out. The man standing with Miss Dix was not much taller than he was, but his shoulders inclined in a relaxed manner. Gabby sensed that he was not afraid of anything. But, he looked familiar. His hair. His eyes. He was a much younger man when Gabby met him, but it was the same man. But when? Where?
“Mr. Zook,” Miss Dix said. “I want you to meet the man who is going to take care of you, like your sister Cordie did. This is Walt Whitman, one of the kindest, gentlest men I have ever met in the world.”
“So you are Cordie Zook’s brother? She was a wonderful person. I will consider it an honor, Mr. Zook, if you would come to New York and live with my mother and me, at least for the time being. Mostly mother. I have my job as a clerk at the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington City. I come home on weekends. But don’t worry. You’ll like mother. In many ways, she’s like your sister Cordie. She’s very sympathetic to people with physical ailments but she labors under the delusion she has them all, even your own particular confusions. You don’t have to stay. But you won’t have to leave either. It will be your choice.”
Gabby frowned. He had heard that voice before. His eyes filled with tears.
“No, no, don’t cry.” Whitman reached out and patted his hands. “The time for tears has passed.”
“I know that voice. At the beach. You were watching my friend Joe and me. You said something about ocean waves. Let’s see. You said ocean waves taught you to see beyond the things on hand, as the ocean always points beyond the waves of the moment.”
“How did you know that?” Whitman smiled in surprise.
“You said that to Joe and me on the beach. It was on Long Island. A long time ago when I was young and Joe was alive. I remember stuff like that. I can’t remember what happened yesterday, but I remember what you said.”
Whitman patted him on the shoulder. “I think we shall become very good friends, Mr. Zook. Let’s pack your things, and we can take the afternoon train back to New York.”
“I don’t have things. Just the clothes on my back.”
“You have things now,” Miss Dix interjected. “We’ve scrounged around the hospital here to find you extra clothing and such. We even have a nice straw hamper for you to put them in.”
“By this evening we shall have supper with my mother and family,” Whitman said.
Gabby instantly felt relaxed around this man, who carefully explained everything they were going to do before they did it. First thing out of the hospital, Whitman told him they were going to find an omnibus to take them to the train station. He explained they would have to stand in line to buy tickets but it wouldn’t take very long. Before Gabby could ask, Whitman assured him that he was going to pay for the tickets, their food, anything that Gabby might want.
As they sat on the train going to New York City, Gabby looked out the window at the passing landscape, just evolving into its spring greenery, and remembered the last time he rode a train. Cordie held his hand all the way. Frowning, he also remembered the night President Lincoln died and how that mean man carried Adam Christy’s body from the basement of the Executive Mansion.
“Are you sure that mean man won’t find me in New York?” Gabby whispered.
“What? Oh, don’t worry,” Whitman replied as he leaned over and patted Gabby’s knee. “All the mean men will be caught soon. They have the man who stabbed Secretary of State Seward and the man who tried to shoot Vice-President Johnson and others. Soon they will find John Wilkes Booth. All the mean men will be in jail, and we won’t have to worry about them anymore.”
Gabby realized his new friend did not understand he was talking about another mean man, but he was too tired to explain it to him at the moment. Gabby had been very tired ever since that night he ran in the rain. Maybe when he got home to New York he would be able to relaxed and have a good night’s sleep. His mind wandered again back to the Long Island beach and the day he and his friend Joe were playing in the surf.
“Why were you watching Joe and me on the beach?” Gabby asked absently.
“I’ve watched many people in my lifetime. You might say that’s what I do for a living. I watch people.”
“Does it pay well?”
“None at all.” Whitman paused. “But of all the jobs I’ve held I like it best.”
After they arrived at the New York train station, Gabby and Whitman took an omnibus to the East River where they caught a ferry across to Brooklyn. Gabby began to recognize familiar streets and buildings, feeling more as if he were home. They walked a good distance to North Portland Avenue. He smiled as he looked at the large brownstones.
“You must have money to live in a home as grand as one of these.”
Whitman laughed. “Oh no, we have to rent out most of our house to pay the bills. We live in the basement.”
“The basement.” Gabby stopped. “I don’t want to stay in another basement.”
“Don’t worry.” Whitman put his arm around Gabby’s sloped shoulders. “It’s nice. Mother makes it very homey.”
“Your mother is still alive? You are very fortunate. My mother is dead.”
“Remember I told you about Mother. She only thinks she’s dying. She’s really healthy as a horse. And we have a nice big family sharing our home. There’s my brother Eddy. You’ll like him. He’s a cripple. Sometimes he gets very mad and screams, but don’t let that bother you. And my older brother Jesse can tell you stories about being a sailor. He’s a bit crotchety. He has a disease called syphilis. Do you know what that is?”
“Bad people get that, don’t they?”
“Not bad. Just unlucky. Then there’s George. He’s a carpenter. Nice but rather boring. And my favorite brother Jeff who has a wife and baby. You don’t mind babies, do you?”
“Babies are nice. I just don’t know how to take care of them.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” Whitman stopped in front of some imposing steps. “Here we are, 106. You need to remember that in case we ever get separated when we are out and about. One hundred and six North Portland Avenue.”
“Yes, I’m good at numbers,” Gabby replied. “I’ll say, point me in the direction of 106 North Portland Avenue, please.”
“Very good.” Whitman guided Gabby who clutched his straw hamper close to his chest down steps to the basement door. “Remember, you are among family now. You don’t have to be afraid.”
As soon as Whitman opened the door, Gabby jumped back when he heard the screaming of men and women and a baby crying. A chair, somewhere, went crashing to the floor. Whitman smiled and took Gabby’s arm.
“Well, it is a boisterous family, but they mean well. And no one hardly ever gets hurt. Don’t worry. We’ll spend most of our time with more interesting people. You’ll like the tavern. And the people in Greenwich Village are friendly. Trust me. I will take care of you.”

Jonathan and Mina in Romantic Transylvania Chapter 2

The double doors flung open, and out walked Jonathan Harker, a young handsome blond-haired man with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel and wearing no trousers. Three sets of female hands, all wearing matching blackish-purple fingernail polish, reaching around his body and digging in tightly.
“Yesssss?” Jonathan hissed.
Mina glanced about the room as though looking for something. “My, my. Steam’s escaping from your pipes, count.”
“Castle Dracula has no pipes,” he informed her.
“I’m afraid that hissing sound is coming from Mr. Harker, Miss Mina,” Van Helsing added.
Jonathan slinked over to Mina. The three beautiful vampire wives, all dressed in revealing shrouds, followed closely trying to keep their hands on his body.
“How about a kisssss, Meeeeena?” he whispered in her ear, which he promptly began to lick.
Mina took a quick step back, wiping the saliva dripping from her lobe. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, Jonathan, but you’ve changed.”
Her fiancé threw back his head and laughed maniacally. Each wife took turns circling him, her tongue flicking out in an attempt to taste him like a melting ice cream cone. The first, Salacia, moved about with the confidence of being acknowledged as leader of the pack. Her long black hair floated in the night air as though it didn’t care.
“I don’t know what gave you that idea,” Salacia said to Mina with a sneer.
The second wife, Susie Belle, had flaming red hair and lips to match. Upon closer inspection, one could notice she also had red panties, although the grayness of her shroud toned down the color a bit.
“If he’s changed,” Susie spoke in a surprisingly thick Southern accent, “it’s a change for the better.”
The third wife, Claustrophobia, had dishwater blonde hair, and her shroud closed tightly around her neck in frilly ruffles, not uncommon at that time for coffin couture.
“Yessss, we love Jonny just the way he issss.” Her delivery left room to doubt how sincere she was in her debauchery.
Mina squinted to take a better look at Jonathan’s exposed neck which was marked by two distinct, slightly swollen pin pricks in blood red.
“Count Dracula, do you have a problem with mosquitoes in the castle?” she asked.
He shook his head. “This word mosquito, I—“
Van Helsing stood abruptly and charged toward Jonathan. “What do you mean, Miss Mina?”
“I noticed Jonathan has a rather nasty bite on his neck. It it’s a mosquito, it’s of a humongous size.”
“Out of my way, bimbos!” The professor elbowed the wives with such intensity that Salacia fell down.
Mina instinctually rushed to help Salacia to her feet. “Dr. Van Helsing!” she said indignantly. “What an ungracious thing to say! Here, my dear, let me help you up.”
“I’ll see you burn in hell first!” Salacia jeered at Mina and stood quickly on her own accord.
“She’s always had a way with words,” Dracula observed with a chuckle.
Claustrophobia, the one with the shroud color up to her chin, hesitantly stepped forward and spoke in a German accent, “But Salacia shouldn’t be discourteous either. These people are our guests and appear to be nice.” She began to blush, even though vampires tend not to be able to blush because they are, in fact, dead. “Especially the older gentleman with the beard—“
“Claustrophobia!” Salacia snapped. “Shut up and go back to feeling up Jonny!”
“Yes, Salacia,” she whispered, her eyes dutifully turned down to the floor and her hands rubbing Jonathan’s abdomen.
“Don’t you dare interfere with us again, girl,” Salacia warned Mina. She pouted. “I’m not in the mood for fun and games anymore. Come on, girls.” She headed for the game room. Claustrophobia and Susie Belle fell in line behind her.
After they slammed the double doors behind them, Mina’s mouth went agape. “I think I will have a glass of wine. Don’t bother, Count Dracula. I’ll fix it myself.”
A predatory glint entered the vampire’s eyes, and he followed her to the cabinet. “No, Miss Mina, allow me.”
Van Helsing returned his attention to Jonathan, who at this moment was enthralled with the sensation of breathing in and out. However, when the professor pulled back the collar of his loosened shirt, Jonathan pulled away like a wounded animal.
“Keep your filthy hands off me, Van Helssssing!”
“Come, come, Mr. Harker,” the professor spoke in soothing tones. “There is no reason for such unbecoming behavior.”
Jonathan nipped at him and hissed.
“There go the pipes again,” Mina observed while sipping her wine.”
“I told you,” Dracula reminded her, “Castle Dracula has no pipes.”
“Oh yes. Then it must be Jonathan.” She handed the glass to her host. “Thanks so much.” She joined her friends. “Jonathan, dearest, you must see your dentist when we return home. That whistling sound between your teeth makes you sound like a serpent.”
Van Helsing nodded. “An astute observation, Miss Mina.”
“Thank you, doctor.” She smiled at him. “What observation was that?”
“That Mr. Harker here is behaving like a serpent.”
Jonathan slinked past the old man to take his fiancée seductively into his arms. “It’ssss been ssso long ssssince I held you, Meeena. I long for the touch of your body.”
The professor grabbed Jonathan by the mouth, tugging it away so Mina could see the bite marks on Jonathan’s neck, his veins bulging and throbbing. “Tell Miss Mina how you received that bite, Mr. Harker.”
Of course, Jonathan could not reply because Van Helsing’s fingers were stuck in his mouth. He slurred something which was totally unintelligible.
“Don’t mumble!” the German ordered. “Tell Miss Mina those marks are no mosquito bite!”
“Dr. Van Helsing, I believe Jonathan is mumbling because your fingers are in his mouth,” Mina tactfully explained.
“Oh.” He pulled his hand away and wiped the excess saliva on his pants leg. “Now tell her about your bite.”
“I’ll tell you nothing, you worm!”
Mina laughed lightly. “Jonathan, you goose! Dr. Van Helsing isn’t from Worms. He’s from Berlin.”
“Dresden,” he corrected. “But that’s neither here nor there.”
“If it isn’t here or there, then where is it?” Mina was irreparably confused.
Dracula stepped forward to intercede. “What the doctor means, Miss Seward, is that it isn’t important. And I agree. This entire conversation is not important.”
Van Helsing pointed dramatically at the count. “You stay out of this!”
“You must excuse Dr. Van Helsing,” Mina explained. “The long trip has made him irritable.”
“I am irritable,” the professor replied in a huff, “when I see a fine young man like Mr. Harker faced with almost certain death!”

Cancer Chronicles Forty-Five

This will my first Mother’s Day since Janet died. My own mother died of pancreatic cancer when I was fourteen. I spent more Mother’s Days with Janet than I did with mom, so when I think of this Sunday in May being for a special mother I think of Janet.
I had spent 44 Mother’s Days with her while I only had 14 with mom so I hope no one will think I am being unfaithful to mom’s memory. To be honest, as a child I thought of the store-bought cake with the frosting flowers on top as the main attraction of the day. I had the impression that my mom considered it as just another day. It was more than half a century ago but I don’t remember her being very happy about anything.
Janet, on the other hand, enjoyed every holiday, every special occasion. The children and I planned more elaborate celebrations because we knew Janet would appreciate it. My mother-in-law, however, expected the day to be all about her, and Janet did everything she could to make her mother believe it really was. But the children and I understood it was actually was about Janet because that how we felt about the entire day.
Forty-five years ago I read a couple of books about marriage. Yes, I was that kind of nerd who wasn’t satisfied to be swept along by all the wonderful emotions of being in love. I wanted to be educated on the proper way to be a good husband. One chapter was about how the new couple should be parents to each other. Somedays, the wife needed her husband to give her the support that a father could supply; other days the husband needed to be mothered. If the marriage worked well, the husband and wife instinctively knew when it was their turn to be the child and when to be the parent and without deliberate effort to make it come out evenly. If you loved each other, it just worked out that way.
For forty-four years it just worked out that way for Janet and me. I think that’s why Mother’s Day will always be, for me, Janet’s day.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twelve

On Monday, Lafayette Baker stood in front of Stanton in his War Department office, trying to concentrate on what the small man was saying. All he could think about were the dead eyes of Adam Christy.
“This investigation is taking too long,” Stanton said, slamming his hand down on the desk. “Booth has disappeared. The man who was supposed to kill Johnson, no one knows where he is. And the madman who stabbed Seward, he has escaped.” He stopped to stare at Baker. “You know what these men look like,” Stanton continued in a soft voice. “You met them Thursday night.”
“It was dark under the bridge,” Baker replied. “The man who was to shoot Johnson had long straggly hair and spoke with a German accent. The man who stabbed Seward was young, tall, beardless, strong. That’s all I know.”
“I know they met at a boardinghouse somewhere. That private told me. Did they say which boardinghouse?”
“No.”
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“Yes, yes, what is it?” Stanton snapped.
Col. Henry Wells entered the office. Baker kept his head down trying to hide his guilt. Men like Wells who went about doing their duty honorably must know when they were in the presence of immorality, he feared.
“I think we have valuable information, sir,” Wells said. “A colored woman came to the War Department this morning. She said her niece, who works for a Mrs. Surratt, told her she saw some suspicious men at the boardinghouse on Friday night.”
“Boardinghouse? What boardinghouse?” Stanton turned to stare at Wells.
“The boardinghouse of Mrs. Surratt, sir, at 542 H Street.”
Glancing back at Baker and nodding, Stanton replied, “I think we need to follow up on this immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Wells said. “I was planning on sending Major Smith and his men to talk to the woman.”
“Not Smith.” Stanton shook his head. “Col. Baker here will take troops to the boardinghouse.”
“Are you sure, sir? Major Smith is a capable officer—“
“No, I want Baker,” he interrupted him. “He knows exactly how to draw up the search warrant. I want this Mrs. Surratt arrested, along with everyone else in the house. Place a guard. If anyone comes near the house I want them arrested.”
“Yes, sir.” Wells left the office.
“I want you to tear the house apart, if necessary.” Stanton pointed a finger at Baker. “Every scrap of paper, every photograph. Look for weapons.” He smiled, his eyes blazing. “This is it. We’re going to capture them all.”
Baker and the soldiers surrounded the Surratt boardinghouse late that night. After he knocked at the door, a woman peeked out of a window.
“Who’s there?”
“Col. Lafayette Baker from the War Department.”
“What do you want?”
“Open this door immediately if this is Mrs. Surratt’s house.”
After she opened the door, Baker stepped forward. “Are you the widow of John H. Surratt and the mother of John H. Surratt Jr.?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ve come to arrest you in connection with the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.”
“How did you know…?” Mrs. Surratt stopped abruptly. “What makes you think I know anything about that?”
Mrs. Surratt’s teen-aged daughter, tall, slender and as pale as her mother, clung to her side weeping.
“Don’t behave so, baby,” Mrs. Surratt said. “You’re already worn out with anxiety. You’ll make yourself sick, Anna dear.”
“Oh, mother! To be taken for such a thing!”
Baker turned to one of the soldiers. “Go get a carriage.”
“Make them walk,” the soldier replied.
“No, they will be treated kindly as long as they are in my charge.” After the soldier left, Baker smiled at Mrs. Surratt. “Shall we sit in your parlor until he returns?” He felt raw emotion welling in the pit of his belly and rising to his throat.
“Sir, may I pray first?” Mrs. Surratt asked.
“Why, yes.” The request caught Baker off guard.
She fell to her knees, held her hands to her breast and murmured. After a few moments, she stood and sat on the sofa next to her daughter, clutching her hands.
“I’m sorry to have startled you with such brusque language,” Baker said as gently as he could. “I should have not used the word arrest. We merely want to take you into custody to ask a few questions about Mr. Booth. You do know John Wilkes Booth, don’t you?”
“He was a friend of my son’s.”
“And where is your son?”
“He left last week.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
Anna breathed in deeply as though to add a comment, but her mother squeezed her hand.
“I said we don’t know where he is.”
“Were there any other boarders who were friends with your son and Mr. Booth?” Baker asked.
“Louis Weichmann,” Anna replied.
“Everyone who lives here knows my son and Mr. Booth,” Mrs. Surratt added. “Mr. Weichmann actually is an employee of the Department of War. We offer rooms to people of all backgrounds, sir.”
“I would like to speak to him,” he said.
“Louis is out of town also,” Mrs. Surratt whispered.
“My, the house must feel empty.” Baker smiled, glancing at both women. “Do you ever seeing a young federal soldier with red hair visiting the boarding house?”
Mrs. Surratt and her daughter Anna looked down and shook their heads.
“Did Mr. Booth visit here often with your son?”
She lowered her eyelids briefly. “We—my daughter and I–have spoken to Booth a few times. He is a very famous actor, you know. Teen-aged girls like to talk to famous actors.”
Baker looked at Anna. “So you could tell me what Mr. Booth looked like, couldn’t you, Anna?”
Mrs. Surratt put her arm around her daughter’s shivering shoulder. “She is much too upset to answer your questions.” She paused. “Everyone knows what Mr. Booth looks like. As I said, he’s a very famous actor.”
“I don’t go to the theater,” Baker said without emotion. After a moment of silence, he continued, “I know he is of medium height, slender build with fair skin and dark eyes. Many men in Washington City share those same characteristics. Could you help me with anything that would be peculiar to Mr. Booth?”
Sighing and looking away, Mrs. Surratt replied, “He has his initials J.W.B. tattooed on his right hand.”
“Left hand,” Anna whispered, sniffing away her tears. “And he has a black scar, here.” She pointed to the right side of her neck. “He had a boil of some sort he cut out himself right before he went on stage. He’s very brave.”
A banging at the kitchen door drew their attention. Baker stood and with a couple of his soldiers strode to the door and opened it. A tall young man with a pickaxe on his shoulder stood at the door. Baker recognized him as the stupid one under the bridge from Thursday night. He was the one who was supposed to kill Seward.
“What do you want here?” Baker asked.
“Oh. I’m supposed to dig a gutter for Mrs. Surratt.”
“At midnight?”
“I happened to see the lights on. I dropped by to get directions. I’m supposed to do the job tomorrow. I didn’t even know her until last week. We met on Pennsylvania Avenue. She looked like a nice lady who needed help and…”
Baker turned to one of the soldiers. “Bring Mrs. Surratt here.”
“What’s wrong? Is she in trouble?” The man with the pickaxe shifted from one foot to the other. “She’s too nice a lady to be in trouble.”
“If you barely know her, how do you know she’s a nice lady?”
“She looks like a nice lady.”
The soldier brought Mrs. Surratt and Anna into the kitchen.
Baker pushed the young man under the gaslight lamp on the wall. “Do you know him?”
Mrs. Surratt raised her right hand as though she were swearing an oath in a courtroom. “I have never seen this man before in my life.”
Baker tapped his foot. He knew both of them were lying, but he could not explain to authorities how he knew.
Mrs. Surratt gasped. She pointed at his foot. “You’re the one under the bridge,” she whispered. “Wilkes told me how you tapped your foot in the river’s tide–”
“Mother, don’t say anymore,” Anna grabbed her mother by the arm.
Baker turned when he heard the front door open. The soldier had returned with the carriage. “It’s time to go.”
After Mrs. Surratt and Anna sat in the carriage, Baker pulled the group of soldiers around him. “I think it best for the record if you say Major Smith was here tonight instead of me.” The soldiers frown. “Col. Henry Wells wanted Major Smith to be here. It’s a sign of respect to the colonel.”
The men shook their heads but mumbled assent as they stepped back and Baker sat in the carriage next to Mrs. Surratt. As the carriage went down the street, Baker leaned over and said, “I want only the best for your defense. Truly. If you make wild allegations about my meeting with Mr. Booth under a bridge, well, you will lose your credibility. Understand?”
She slowly nodded. Mrs. Surratt looked around and frowned.
“Where are we going? The city jail is down the street we just passed.”
“Old Capitol Prison.”
“Why, that’s a federal prison. Why are we going there?”
“Mr. Stanton decided this was a federal offense until military jurisdiction.”
“Military? But I’m not a member of the military!” Mrs. Surratt’s voice cracked with fear.
“As I said, you must remain calm. You don’t want to jeopardize your credibility.”
The rest of the carriage ride was in silence, broken only by muffled tears from Anna Surratt and quick shushes from her mother. After Baker delivered them to their cells at Old Capitol Prison, he told the driver to take him to the office of Dr. Thomas Holmes, the mortician who was embalming the remains of Adam Christy. He wanted to see how the preservation process was coming along.
Baker wanted to make sure Holmes kept his promise to make Christy look like nothing had happened, as if he were just asleep.
“You see,” Holmes said, showing Baker the body, “Just as I promised.” He paused a moment. “When will the funeral be? If it will be longer than a week away, I must inject more of my formula, and that will be more money, of course.”
Baker cocked his head, the germ of an idea taking seed in his brain. He was realizing Christy might not have died if vain if his body could be used as a substitute for John Wilkes Booth. Eventually Booth would be found. Baker wanted to spare his life. Too many people have already died. Baker did not know the circumstances under which he would find Booth but he wanted to be prepared.
“So you could extend the preservation of the body for weeks?”
“Of course.” Holmes beamed with pride. “Why, I am leaving soon on the train with President Lincoln’s body. It will need constant injections, to keep him looking fit for all the people who will be viewing the body, from Baltimore to New York to Buffalo, Cleveland, Chicago and finally Springfield.”
“Will someone be supervising the office while you are away? I mean, who will be taking care of my son?” Baker asked.
“Jeffrey will be here,” Holmes replied. “I have trained him. You have no worries.”
“You’re a professional man, are you not, Dr. Holmes?” His words barely rose above a whisper.
“Of course, I am. I pride myself on my professionalism.” Holmes looked about the room before looking directly at Baker. “I think what you are saying is that this young man is not your son.”
“That’s correct.”
Holmes took a step closer. “I assure you no one values life more than I, Mr. Lafayette Baker. Oh yes, I remembered who you were after you left last night. You are not Abraham Christy. You work for Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. You brought the body of a Republican senator’s son here a couple of years ago. That young man had died under mysterious circumstances, just like this boy.”
“Sir, I am not intimidated easily.” Baker felt his face flush.
“Oh, I am not trying to intimidate you, sir. I only wish to inform you that lies are not necessary with me. By the way, I surmise his real last name is Christy. You took the first name of Abraham from our late president.”
“Are you attempting to blackmail me, sir? If so, you are playing a dangerous game—“
“Oh, don’t be alarmed.” Dr. Holmes smiled. “I am not judgmental. Nor am I in the least bit interested in blackmail.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“So what do you want to have done to the body?”
Baker hesitated.
“You’ll have to excuse my bluntness. I deal in death. I have neither the time nor the inclination to follow common protocols.”
“I want the initials JWF tattooed on his left hand and another tattoo on the right side of his neck to look like a scar, as though he had cut a boil out of his skin and it left a scar.”
“Anything else?”
“I want his hair dyed black. Try to make his freckles go away.”
“Of course. I know an excellent tattoo artist. He does have a fee to match his talent.”
Baker’s stomach began to turn, but he tried to control it. “Anything it costs.”
He decided to walk back to his hotel after leaving Dr. Holmes’ office. His mind was racing with a million details. Baker knew his cousin Lt. Luther Baker was a military detective. Baker was confident he could suggest that his cousin be part of the hunt for Booth. Luther had as few scruples as Lafayette, but he did have a strong family loyalty. Anything Baker asked of him he would do and keep it a secret. Baker wanted to be at the exact location of Booth’s capture when it occurred. What exactly he would do then was still a blur, but the longer he walked the streets of Washington City at midnight the more his plans came into focus.