Monthly Archives: November 2017

My Dim Memory

Since I was only five years old, my memory of that day is dim and rather muddled.
Happiness, I suppose, crowds out the bad feelings. Mom and Dad both worked. She sold dresses at a big store downtown. She always looked pretty when she left me at the nursery school each morning where I sat on the floor playing with trucks and building blocks. Mom wore bright red lipstick and rouge on her cheeks. When she hugged me good-bye she smelled of roses. I didn’t know what Daddy did at work, mostly sat in an office and talked on the telephone. Later I figured out he sold insurance.
Anyway, on this cloudless, briskly cool day in late November—it was a Friday, I remember now—I didn’t go to the nursery school. Mommy dressed me in clothes I usually wore to Sunday School. Instead, all three of us climbed into the car and drove downtown, left the car in a big lot and walked several blocks to a park where all these streets came together.
About halfway there, I tugged on Daddy’s sleeve and told him I was getting tired walking all that way. He smiled and lifted me to his shoulders, and the rest of the way I was taller than anyone else on the street, and there were a lot of people on the street that day. Daddy always carried me on his shoulders the very first time I would say I was tired. To the day he died many years later I never admitted to him that I wasn’t really that tired. I just liked being so high above everyone around me. Like I said, happiness.
When we arrived at the park, we saw it was filled with all kinds of people—young, old, white, black, some were dressed nice like us and others had some pretty raggedy shirts and pants. I don’t remember ever going there before. Daddy told me we had driven through the park to get on the big highway many times but I was usually busy playing in the back seat. Looking around I saw one tall brick building with people leaning out of all the windows. There was a big sign on the roof.
“What does that sign say, Daddy?”
“Hertz.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“It’s the name of a car rental company,” Mommy said.
“I don’t know what rental means,” I replied.
Before Daddy or Mommy could explain what rental meant, the crowd started yelling and jumping up and down. I saw a lot of people with cameras. By the time the police on motorcycles began riding by, the noise was so loud I couldn’t hear anything Mommy and Daddy were saying. Even Daddy jumped a little when this one big car with no top slowly turned the corner and to drive towards us.
Shots rang out. They sounded like firecrackers. Before I knew it, we were on the ground, and Daddy was on top of me. My first thought was that Mommy was going to be mad because my Sunday School clothes got dirty. Then I started crying. I didn’t know why; maybe because everyone else was crying. I even saw tears on Daddy’s cheeks.
I am now an old man. People always ask me what I remember about being in Dallas’ Dealey Plaza on the day President Kennedy was shot. The only thing I really remember is the happiness I felt being on Daddy’s shoulders. I know they wouldn’t be interested in that. Instead, I tell them, “I saw the nice lady in the car with the pink hat.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Thirty-Two


Tad Lincoln
Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting. Then he told Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything. Janitor Gabby Zook, caught in the basement room with the Lincolns, begins to think he is president. Stanton rips Gabby’s quilt from his sister Cordie and then proceeds with a strategy meeting with the President.

“You haven’t told us how Taddie is doing,” Mrs. Lincoln said impulsively, her hand reaching for Stanton’s sleeve but pulling back quickly.
“He’s fine.”
“Are his lessons going well? Is Mr. Williamson still his tutor? Has Tad learned to understand his Scottish accent better?”
“I really don’t have time.”
“Take time.” Lincoln stepped forward. “This is our son. We’ve a right to know about him. Even you have to concede that.”
“As far as I’ve observed, Master Tad’s lessons are proceeding as usual in the oval family room with Alexander Williamson. Whether he understands Mr. Williamson’s brogue is beyond my interest.”
“Why don’t you make it your interest?” Lincoln leaned forward, his hollowed eyes narrowing with contained anger.
He said that well, Gabby observed from his seat by the billiards table. If he ever returned to the president’s office, he must remember to use that tone when giving orders to whomever the president gives orders. Under his breath he tried to sound imposing in an unthreatening way. It would take practice.
“Very well.”
“Is he happy?” Mrs. Lincoln tried to smile. “Is Tom Pen keeping him amused?”
“Tom Pen?” Stanton asked.
“Thomas Pendel,” Lincoln explained. “He’s the doorman, and kind enough to play with Taddie.”
“Oh yes, Pendel. I seem to remember seeing them running in the garden together. He’s a bit old to be participating in such games.”
“Some people put the feelings for others ahead of their own interests,” Mrs. Lincoln said, with a hint of reproof in her voice. “Also Mr. Forbes. He’s been Taddie’s companion around town.”
“The coachman,” Lincoln offered.
“Between Mr. Williamson’s Scottish and Mr. Forbes’s Irish accent, it’s no wonder the poor boy can’t speak properly.” Mrs. Lincoln giggled.
“Well, Molly, I think we should allow Mr. Stanton to go.” Lincoln turned her shoulders away. “I’m sure he’ll make a greater effort to keep us informed about Tad.”
As the Lincolns walked away, Gabby noticed Stanton’s gaze fixed on him, which caused his legs to twitch. That man made him nervous, and he wanted to escape to his little corner behind the crates and barrels. He stood, and was almost to his Promised Land when Stanton called out. Gabby clutched Cordie’s quilt tightly.
“Mr. Zook. Come over here.”
“Yes, sir?” Slowly Gabby turned and shuffled to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Will you swear your sister didn’t sew a secret message into one of the squares?” Stanton tapped the quilt with his index finger.
“If she did, I haven’t found it.”
“Very well.” Stanton sniffed in derision.
Gabby heard keys jangling at the door which opened suddenly, hitting Stanton in the back.
“Be careful when you open that door,” Stanton said in a huff. “I always knock first.”
Walking away, Gabby heard Stanton mutter to Adam, “Be sure to tell me everything—and I mean everything—that the sister wants you to tell her brother.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Stanton left, shutting the door with more force than was necessary.
“Mr. Zook?” Adam asked.
Being called Mr. Zook was still unusual for Gabby. Mr. Zook was his father. General Zook was his uncle. It was good he had not finished West Point, or else he might be a general too.
“Call me Mr. Gabby, like the Lincolns do.” He smiled at Adam, trying to make the troubled-looking soldier feel better.
“Um, your chamber pot. Does it need cleaning?”
“Not that I know of. Let me go look.”
Going through the curtain, Gabby heard Adam walk across the room.
“Mr. Lincoln? Mrs. Lincoln?” he said.
“Yes?” Mrs. Lincoln replied.
“Chamber pots, ma’am?”
“Here they are,” Lincoln said. “I’ll carry them to the door for you.”
“Oh. I don’t think Mr. Stanton locked it,” Adam said with a stammer.
“Young man, I don’t think I’m going to bolt out the door after two months,” Lincoln said. “It’d be too disconcerting for Mr. Stanton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Private Christy,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I want to apologize for my attitude,” she said. “Mr. Gabby pointed out to me you’re good at heart.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gabby looked in his chamber pot to find it empty. He came around the curtain just as Adam opened the door and was scooting the pots out into the hall.
“Private, it’s clean as a whistle. Sorry. Maybe I’ll have something for you by lunchtime.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gabby.” Adam smiled.
Gabby was glad his presidential skills were working and lifting the young man’s spirits. Adam was about to close the door when Gabby stuck his hand out.
“Will you tell Cordie to make another quilt? It’s for Mrs. Lincoln. You know, a Gabby quilt is good for the soul.”

Why Are You Late?

“Why are you late?
My mother said that almost every time I walked in the door. Sometimes I was down the street at a friend’s house. His family had the first television on the block. Mickey Mouse Club came on at 4 p.m., and was an hour long. The first half was singing, dancing and acting silly. It was all right. I was too young to appreciate fully Annette Funicello at that time. When I was older she became Annette Full of Jello and much more fascinating. The second half was a serial. My favorite was Spin and Marty, two boys at a summer camp. Spin was a city street kid, and Marty was a naïve rich kid. At first they didn’t like each other, but by the third season they were buddies. As soon as the final song–“MIC, see you real soon, KEY, Why? Because we love you”—finished I was supposed to be out the door and headed home. In the winter the sky was getting dark at that time of time. Everyone knew if you were caught outside after dark, something terrible was going to happen.
The only situation worse was to be out of the house in the dark and dark clouds rumbled with thunder and lightning. My brother was bringing me home from the movies. He always resented having to pick me up places. It cut into his cruising time up and down the main drag of down. On the average I’d have to wait about thirty minutes on the street outside the theater. When I decided to start walking home, he became even madder I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
“Why are you late? Didn’t you see the clouds in the sky? Didn’t you realize it was about to rain?” my mother said with a particularly angry exasperation.
Yes, I knew it was about to rain. I knew she was going to be hysterical, but there wasn’t much I could do about it since my brother continued to scour Main Street for a girl desperate enough to go out with him. Of course, I would never get away with saying that so I instead went into my sniveling little coward role and whined, “I’m sorry.” I suspected she gave up her tirade because she didn’t want to listen to me whimper. On the other hand, my brother jutted his chin up and out as he walked right past Mother without acknowledging her.
As a child I seriously debated myself whether I wished to bother to try to date when I was a teen-ager. The appeal of the young ladies hardly seemed worth the inquisition. If my brother came in after ten o’clock, she would greet him at the front door with her hands on her hips. She knew the movie downtown never let out after nine o’clock. You could drive a young lady home anywhere in town and still be home by ten.
“Why are you late?”
He tried to ignore as was his custom, but she blocked his path. Squinting she pushed her nose into his face.
“Let me smell your breath.”
“Aww, Mom.” He took a quick step to the left and escaped into the next room.
“Are you having sex with that girl? You better not get her pregnant!”
That imperative statement contained two major ironies. One, my brother did start coming in staggering from a few too many beers, and when he did Mother just stood there giggling, finding the way he lost his balance and fell on the sofa to be quaintly enchanting.
However, Father was not amused at all. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re scaring the hell out of your little brother!”
The other irony was that by the time he finally got a woman pregnant I was married and had impregnated my wife, and I was six years younger than he was.
The fear of being on the receiving end of the withering question “Why are you late?” tended to make any situation worse. One year for Halloween my mother took me downtown to a five and dime so I could buy a mask for the school festival. She sat out in the car while I was supposed to rush in to pick out the mask. I stood in front of the table and froze. Not only did it infuriate Mother for me to be late, she also blew up if I spent too much money on foolish things such as Halloween masks. I saw ones I liked but they were too expensive. Dithering for too long a moment, I finally decided on the cheapest thing I could find. By the time I paid for it and ran out to the car, it was too late—Mother’s face was crimson.
“Why are you late? How hard was it to pick out a simple mask? Now I have a splitting headache!”
Well, that took the thrill out of Halloween, and it was the last one before entering junior high school. Once you’re in junior high you’re too big to wear silly Halloween masks.
I soon found out the reason Mother had such a short fuse. She had cancer and died before I entered high school. All dread of the scoldings went out the window. After a while I kind of missed them. It wasn’t any fun staying out after midnight on a date because Father went to bed at 9 o’clock every night and didn’t know when I came in or even that I had gone out in the first place. In fact, I was usually home by ten o’clock anyway. After all, the movie was over by 9:30. We could make the drag a couple of times to see who else was out that night, drop by the local drive-in for a quick soda and still be home in time to make Mother happy, if Mother had been there.
I am now older than my mother was when she died. I’m still home by ten o’clock. I never had to stand by the front door demanding why my children were late coming home. My son hardly ever went to movies unless it was Star Wars, and my daughter always dated guys who had earlier curfews than she did.
With luck I have a few more years. Boring people like me usually live a long time. It’s too strenuous to do anything exciting. But I do know that when my life is up and I finally am reunited with my loved ones in heaven, my mother will be standing at the Pearly Gates with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her lips.
“Why are you late?”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seven


Leon comes home to Eleuthera
Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, is foiled in taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War by a mysterious man in black. The man in black turns out to be Edward the Prince of Wales.

Leon Johnson walked down the gangplank of an ancient freighter. In his pocket was most of the British pound sterling the mysterious young man in black had given him in the depths of Canterbury Castle. He told Leon to go home to his mum and be a good boy. Taking the coins from his pocket and tossing them in his palm, Leon smiled. He knew how to save his money. He worked in the boiler room of the freighter to pay for his passage. He was not afraid to work hard. He saved the coins to support his family for the rest of 1916 on Eleuthera. Leon followed the first part of the man’s advice to save his money and go home to his mum. As for being a good boy, well, being bad was more profitable.
Walking the docks of Freeport, Leon saw a fisherman unloading his catch for the day and waved at him. He was old Joe from Eleuthera and lived down the road from the Johnson family. Leon had found free transport to his mother’s door.
“Where did you go, boy? Joe asked as Leon jumped into the boat.
“No place special.” He reached for the ropes. “Here, let me help you. I want to get home to Mum.”
“It won’t be long now,” Joe assured him. “Sit back. Relax.”
Leon reclined as the fishing boat headed toward Eleuthera. He thought again about the advice from the Canterbury stranger—find another way to make money. Sadly, Leon knew that decision had been made centuries ago, when his ancestors lost a war to a neighboring African tribe which sold his early family members into slavery.
Initial history of his family was fuzzy but by the time of the American Revolution, the stories took form. His great grandfather Moses had taken the name of his owner, a successful American sea captain named Johnson. Moses served as butler in the captain’s Baltimore mansion in the colony of Maryland and sensed during the growing turmoil that his master was a Tory.
And why shouldn’t he be, Moses reasoned to the other slaves in the cook house. “My family has been elevated from a primitive existence in Africa to an affluent lifestyle which the Britons have given us,” he declared.
“Primitive existence?” A footman sat in a corner polishing boots. “What can be more primitive than being owned by white men who treat you like you ain’t even human? They treat their damned dogs better than us!”
Moses snorted. “Your ma and pa should be horsewhipped if they didn’t tell you it was other black folks that sold us into slavery in the first place!”
“And what difference does that make?” The footman threw a boot across the cook house. “You’re still a damn slave either way!”
When Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown and American independence became secure, Captain Johnson loaded his family and slaves onto his ship and relocated to Freeport in the Bahamas. Except for the footman who, according to family lore, escaped and was never heard from again.
Moses jumped the broom with a lovely young lady who was Mrs. Johnson’s personal maid. She gave birth to one son and several daughters. Moses name his son Cyrus and indoctrinated him into the life of a good and loyal slave to the Johnson family. Moses, probably most probably, died before the British Parliament abolished slavery. While most of the servants discreetly slipped away to take up lives of their own purpose, Cyrus informed his kindred that they would remain servants of the household accepting the wages the Johnsons deigned to pay.
The next generation listened patiently as Cyrus lectured on the superiority of the British system during the brutal American civil war which ended slavery on the continent. Perhaps because his youngest son Jedidiah had not been born yet to hear the dissertations, Jed announced in adulthood he was leaving the employment of the Johnson family, which was on its last legs anyway. Cyrus was appalled. The third generation of white Johnsons preferred a life of dissolution made possible through the hard work of the original sea captain. Soon there would be no money left for the white Johnsons to waste.
Jed set forth to find an acceptable black fisherman to work for, learned fishing skills and saved his money to buy his own boat. After obtaining the skills and the boat, he searched for a woman to marry who was not too delicate for hard work by her husband’s side. When he found Dorothy, and a fine woman she was, they married in a proper church. After the ceremony his father Cyrus doddered towards him.
“I’m disappointed you did not have the traditional jumping of the broom.”
“Dorothy decided—and I agreed—we did not want to commemorate a time when our families were slaves,” Jed whispered so his bride did not hear.
“It’s our family tradition and has nothing to do with slavery. Your grandfather jumped the broom. You think you are better than him?” Cyrus protested. “Your mother, God rest her soul, agreed with me. Why would you want to desecrate her memory like this?”
Jed knew better than to argue with his father so he merely smiled. Dorothy came up and hooked her hand around his elbow. She nodded curtly to her new father-in-law.
“Excuse us, we have to leave now to reach our new home in Eleuthera by dark.”
Cyrus’s eyes widened. “Eleuthera? I didn’t know you were moving to Eleuthera. I have a job all lined up for you in the kitchen at the hotel.”
The Johnson estate had finally been sold at auction after the last son of the family died falling off the balcony in a drunken stupor. The new owners told Cyrus his services were no longer needed. So he found a job as a butler at a hotel catering to wealthy British families on holiday in the Bahamas.
“Father,” Jed began slowly, choosing his words carefully, “I appreciate your effort but I have been successful as a fisherman for the past couple of years and I’ve bought my own boat. Dorothy and I will be our own bosses.”
“You come from a long proud line of house servants,” Cyrus said. “Now you’re going to catch fish all day? That is not suitable for the Johnson family!”
Dorothy stood between the two men. “All right. I’ve taken enough of this nonsense. I know the Bible says to honor thy father and thy mother, but God didn’t know how stupid some of those fathers were going to be!” Then she dragged Jed away. She was a very strong woman.
“If you leave with that woman, I will never speak to you again!” Cyrus shouted at Jed’s back.

Marina Darling

Marina Oswald awoke in a vodka-induced haze the morning of Nov. 22, 1963. Rolling over, she reached for her bottle, only to find it empty.
“Lee Harvey Oswald,” she slurred in a sing-song voice. “I need some more vodka.” When he didn’t respond, she repeated, a little louder, “Lee Harvey Oswald, I need some more vodka.”
“Huh?” He had a distant air in his voice as he cleaned his rifle.
“I need more vodka.” Marina giggled. “Don’t you understand good old American English? I want vodka.”
“Oh.” Lee stood, walked out of the bedroom and reappeared a few minutes later with a full bottle. “Here you go, honey.” He handed it to her with a smile. Then he sat and resumed cleaning his rifle.
“You are so good to me, Lee Harvey Oswald.” Marina put the bottle to her lips and sucked down as much as she could before it began dribbling from the corners of her mouth. “Why are you so good to me, Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“I guess because I love you so much.”
Marina remembered the first time she saw him bundled up in a fur coat on a Moscow winter morning. The only object she saw was this cute round face sticking out, all twisted up and shivering. He had the most delectable lips she had ever seen on a man. By that night she had him in her apartment and peeled off each layer of his clothing until he was naked. Her hands ran over his thin torso.
Before she knew it, they were married and living in a place called Dallas, Texas. Marina gulped vodka as she regarded him sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning his rifle. His slender arm muscles rippled as he rubbed a cloth up and down on the barrel.
“Lee Harvey Oswald, you are a sexy Marine man, do you know that?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I haven’t been a Marine in a while.”
“You still sexy Marine man to me, Lee Harvey Oswald.” After her third slurp, Marina carefully positioned the bottle on the bed stand and crawled across the sheets to him. “Why do you have to go to work today? I am—what do you call it—I am horny, Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“I’d be glad to stay home, honey, but this is a special day.”
“What makes it so special?” She ran her hands across his back.
“Well, President Kennedy is coming to Dallas today.” He paused wiping his rifle. “His car is going right past my building.”
“Oh, who cares about the silly old president? I don’t like him. He’s an old man.” Sighing deeply, the young woman wrapped her arms around his waist. “I like young man. I like you.”
“But I care about the president.” He disassembled his rifle. “I care very much.”
“Why don’t you stop playing with your gun and play with me?”
“I keep telling you. It’s not a gun. It’s a rifle.”
“Oh yes, I know.” She stretched her arms out to touch the weapon. “This is my rifle.” Marina lowered her hands to his crotch. “This is my gun. One is for shooting. One is for fun.”
She breathed on the nape of his neck.
“Marina, baby, you know what that does to me.” He emitted a guttural sound, but then he shook his shoulders. “You don’t understand. I’m making history today.”
“Don’t make history,” she whispered in his ear. “Make me.”
“The proletariat needs me.” Lee’s voice began to reflect his dwindling willpower.
“I am the proletariat. I need you.” Marina’s hands went up under his T-shirt to his chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald, Lee Harvey Oswald….”
He dropped the rifle to the floor and turned around. Marina pulled his shirt off him and proceeded to lick and kiss his stomach.
“You do this to me all the time,” he murmured as he lifted her head and kissed her lips. “You drive me mad.”
“I know. I love you so much.”
And that’s how John F. Kennedy would have lived to serve two full terms as president of the United States if Marina Oswald had been an alcoholic nymphomaniac.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Thirty-One


Gen. McClellan–out for the second time.
Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting. Then he told Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything. Janitor Gabby Zook, caught in the basement room with the Lincolns, begins to think he is president. Stanton rips Gabby’s quilt from his sister Cordie and then proceeds with a strategy meeting with the President.

“If I know my politics,”—Stanton sat, his chin barely clearing the top of the table, pulled out a notepad, and flipped it open—“the general victory of the Republican Party in the congressional elections give us—rather, you—the mandate to remove General McClellan.”
“Which finally fulfills your wish that led to our detention in the basement,” Lincoln said, staring at Stanton, who continued to read his notes. “Does this mean I may return to the world of the living, so to speak?”
“And give you the opportunity to reinstate him yet a third time?” Stanton kept his eyes down. “I think not.”
“I assure you, that’s a mistake I won’t make again.”
“And I’m going to make sure that you don’t, by keeping you where you are.” Stanton looked at Lincoln. “I’d hoped to have the war over by the end of the year, but getting rid of McClellan took longer than I thought.”
Gabby did not understand Stanton’s apparent disdain for Lincoln. Over the last two months, he had observed the man and found him to be quite capable. In fact, if Gabby were not president, Lincoln would make a good one. If he were president, Gabby corrected himself, because he was still not clear on that point.
Lincoln sighed. “So who is to replace General McClellan?”
“General Ambrose Burnside.”
“He’s turned it down before. Said he was not fit for the job.” He chuckled. “Of course, that makes him smarter than McClellan right there.”
“His excursion into North Carolina last year was commendable.”
“But his actions at Antietam were questionable.”
“We should be careful in our judgment of Antietam,” Stanton said. “After all, our facts of the situation are taken from the report filed by General McClellan.”
“Who feared Burnside as a pretender to his post,” Lincoln continued, filling in the supposition. “It’s not that I don’t like the fellow personally. He’s the first person I’d head toward to talk to at a party; unfortunately, we’re not making out a party list, but an appointment to lead the Army of the Potomac.”
“Whom would you select, then?” Stanton sat back and crossed his arms.
“Are you asking my opinion?” Lincoln smiled. “I didn’t think my opinion counted for much.”
“I’m wasting my time here.” Sitting up, Stanton took off his glasses.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Lincoln stood and stretched.
“I merely came down here to keep you informed.” Stanton stood, putting away his notepad. “Out of professional courtesy.”
Was it very courteous to lock the man and his wife up in the basement? Gabby wanted to ask, but did not want to incur another round of Stanton’s wrath. If he were indeed president, he thought distractedly, he would want to follow the diplomatic approach with the obstinate little man with the pharaoh beard.
“Where’s the Army of the Potomac encamped at this moment?” Lincoln asked.
“Warrenton, Virginia.”
“And its current troop strength?”
“I believe one hundred twenty thousand.”
“I appreciate your professional courtesy.” Lincoln smiled.
“I must be on my way.” Stanton turned to leave.
“When you speak to General Burnside,” Lincoln added, “you might suggest that he abandon McClellan’s movement to the southwest down the peninsula, but instead take an aggressive advance on Fredericksburg.”
“Fredericksburg?” Stanton pulled out his notepad.
“That’d position our troops on the road to Richmond and also protect our supply line to Washington.”
“I’ll pass on your ideas.” Stanton wrote quickly. “As a professional courtesy.”
“I’m grateful.” Lincoln paused, then raised a bony finger to his forehead. “And he should attempt to move by the end of November.”
As Stanton put away his pad again, Mrs. Lincoln stepped from behind the curtain.
“Mr. Stanton?”
“Now, Molly, Mr. Stanton is a busy man and must be on his way,” Lincoln said.
Sighing, Stanton asked in his low musical voice, “What is it, Mrs. Lincoln?” He took out his pocket watch to check the time.
“I’m so sorry for slapping you,” she said. “It’s just that the quilt means so much to Mr. Gabby. Even so, ladies must express themselves in a proper manner.”
“Apology accepted.”

James Brown’s Favorite Uncle The Hal Neely Story Chapter Thirty-One


Manuel Noriega
Previously in the book: Nebraskan Hal Neely began his career touring with big bands and worked his way into Syd Nathan’s King records, producing rock and country songs. Along the way he worked with James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, who referred to Neely as his favorite uncle. Eventually he became one of the owners of Starday-King, until the other owners bought him out.He found himself sitting further back in music industry room.

In 1989 Hal Neely and Victoria Wise left the problems of Nashville behind and moved to Orlando, Florida. They looked forward to new careers in music, film, and education based on the connections they had made over the years.
For example, Neely had been a judge in the Miss Panama beauty pageant which was part of the Miss Universe franchise. During this project he met a former diplomat to the Vatican and a retired actor who was a member of one of the seven families that formed the core of Panama’s society in the early 1900s. He also befriended President Manuel Noriega.
In Florida Wise wrote a screenplay called “Panama Bay,” an Indiana Jones-type adventure and encouraged Neely to find investors to finance it. Neely contacted his old friend Noriega, told him about the film project and talked him into spearheading it along with his other influential friends.1
Noriega was not exactly the best government leader to be doing business with at the time. He had a reputation as a corrupt and heavy-handed dictator.
Noriega came into this world under corrupt circumstances, the result of a liaison between an accountant and his maid in 1934. Five years later a school teacher adopted him. He received a scholarship to a military academy in Peru where he graduated with a degree in engineering. When he returned to Panama Noriega became a favorite in the Army of Col. Omar Torrijos. Noriega took control of Panama after Torrijos died in a mysterious airplane crash. His reign over the Panamanian people became so oppressive that the United States considered intervention.2
Neely and Wise apparently were more interested in their film project than keeping up with the current political situation. Even today, years later, Wise becomes enthusiastic describing the plot.
“The movie opened on the sea at dawn as a B-52 buzzed a hotel on a small island owned by a young woman named Hattie who came from a rich family,” Wise explained. “A vast treasure had been found on Hattie’s island.” This drew the attention of the Indiana Jones character which Wise called Ace. A love triangle developed between Hattie, Ace, and an old sea captain. Wise wanted the main characters played by Sheree North, Sheb Woolly and Burl Ives. “I had a lot of fun writing it,” Wise said. “I’m kind of glad no one changed it around.”
In December of 1989 Neely and Wise flew to Panama to scout out shooting locations for the movie. Noriega arranged for them to go through the exclusive route at the airport. After they got off the airplane, Neely showed Wise to the VIP lounge. As they were enjoying their cocktails, men in uniform escorted them to an interrogation room where they demanded to know what Neely and Wise were doing in the lounge. Neely said nothing but gave them a telephone number to call. It turned out to be the personal number of Noriega’s mistress. After the mistress explained the situation to the men in uniform, the officials were very polite and escorted them to their hotel. The next few days went very smoothly. Noriega gave Wise a necklace which consisted of two pieces of Plexiglas, one side yellow and the other side blue.
Then Neely got a call from the office of Tennessee Sen. Howard Baker telling him to leave everything, including his clothing and film equipment, at the hotel and go immediately to the airport to fly home.3
Operation Just Cause, a full-scale attack with 24,000 American troops, had just begun. Over the next four days several hundred American troops and thousands of Panamanian soldiers died. Noriega surrendered to the Vatican Embassy on January 3, 1990. The United States convicted him on drug charges, and the new Panamanian government wanted to try him on murder charges.4 “Panama Bay” was never produced, which became a pattern of behavior for Neely, according to his friend Art Williams who also moved to Florida in the 1990s. Neely became easily excited about business deals which never came to fruition.5
Perhaps the most fortunate meeting in Neely’s later years came at Orlando International Airport in 1989 when by chance he came upon musician Roland Hanneman who had brought a mutual acquaintance to catch a flight. After the man had boarded his airplane Neely and Hanneman realized they had quite a bit in common. The man who had just left them had taken them both for not inconsiderable amounts of money.
“He would shake your hand with one hand and give you a rubber check with the other,” Hanneman said. “Hal told me that this fellow had sold him music which he didn’t own and that he was always one step ahead of federal authorities.”
Over the next few years Neely and Hanneman worked on several small music projects. Neely produced albums for people in country and gospel music.
Hanneman, a native of Great Britain, is also known in the entertainment industry as John St. John. He studied music at the Cambridge College of Arts. After moving to the United States, Hanneman worked for Miami’s WINZ as production director. He has recorded and/or produced for the Miami Sound Machine, Mary Hart, Jon Secada, Clint Holmes, Jimmy Buffett, the Orlando Philharmonic and many more musical projects. He has written music for two Orange Bowl Shows and composed and/or produced more than 241 records and CDs. He has his own production company.6
“Hal was an extremely generous man and was always helping people. But he could see through people in seconds,” Hanneman said. “I would run people past him to get an opinion, and he was never once wrong about any of them. I asked him once how he could judge people so well and he replied, ‘I’m a hustler, and a hustler can always spot another hustler.’
Hal described his life as being fortunate to be in the right place at the right time and somewhat charmed, but he was always–to his dying day–looking ahead to some kind of business venture. It was difficult for him to accept the industry had changed and the paradigm had shifted. At one time, 200,000 records were a lot but now it’s half a million.”
Hanneman learned Neely’s technique of using ego to get his way with an artist. One time Hanneman was trying to get payment from a client who had recorded at his studio. Neely volunteered to get the money for him.
“Hal called the guy, identified himself as ABC Records and offered a record contract on his cassette and a plane ticket to California. ‘You do own all the rights, don’t you?’ Hal asked him.” Neely offered him $10,000 for the master tape remix. The man immediately called Hanneman for the master tape, but Hanneman told him he had to pay the full amount of the studio fees to get it.
“The next week he called Hal who told him this song might be used in a movie so he increased his offer to $25,000 and again reminded the man he had to have the master tape.” He called Hanneman again and agreed to pay the full amount and was at his doorstep the next morning with the cash. He received his master tape, but he never heard from the guy from ABC records again. 7
Neely’s relationship with Wise resulted in marriage in October of 1990, one day after his divorce from Mary Stone Neely was final. He was seventy years old, and she was in her middle forties.
Wise had fond memories of her years with Neely. They would pack a lunch and a bottle of wine, go on long drives in the country and have conversations about acoustic theories. For example, she said, boys between the age of 10 and 11 are at the peak of their hearing capacity to discern low-level tones. They even talked about the sound of wooden posts as they drove by would change according to the thickness of wood, speed of the car and spacing of the posts
“Hal would write letters with poor grammar to somebody about credit card issues, threatening lawsuits and saying he was sending copies to officials,” Wise said. “And then he would sign my name.”
Wise said she was bothered because she did not notice Neely’s decline into dementia but only concentrated on how hurt she felt during his emotional outbursts.
“He was like an angry gorilla throwing things.”
When Neely’s brother Sam came to visit them in Orlando they would wait at the curb right in front of a liquor store, Wise related. Sam went in, but when he came out he didn’t recognize the car. “I could see it (the cognitive decline) in Sam but not in Hal.”8
His finances began to decline also, to such an extent that Neely had to sell off personal items, Hanneman said. Neely had a Baldwin grand piano which had belonged to Liberace. Neely thought the provenance would make it more valuable, but he had trouble selling it for a good price. The person who finally bought it never paid for it.
Neely and Wise moved to an apartment in Tampa so she could study geriatrics at the University of South Florida.9
***
It was during this time James Brown was paroled from the South Carolina prison where he had spent 2 1/2 years of a six-year sentence. Upon his release in February of 1991 he announced a Freedom Tour.
“I am hotter now than I ever was in my life,” he announced to the press. In March of 1991 he starred in a live, pay-per-view concert from Los Angeles, and by the end of the year produced a new album “Love Over Due.”10
***
Neely’s marriage to Wise steadily declined throughout the 1990s while she continued her studies and eventually worked at the University of South Florida in Tampa. As she studied, Neely produced gospel music for small groups in central Florida. Eventually they separated in 2003, and Neely came to rely more and more on his friends Hanneman and Williams.
“Hal would come to my house to sit by the pool and cry about the way Victoria treated him and talked to him,” Williams said. “I told him to go back to Mary who had a farm in Nebraska.” When Mary died she left the farm to her family members who, according to Williams, detested Neely.
Sitting around the pool, Neely also complained about business deals which had gone badly for him, particularly the sale of Starday-King master recordings to Moe Lytle of Gusto Records.
“He hated this guy(Moe Lytle). They would tell anyone wanting rights to sell not to deal with the other one. Each claimed the same catalog. It ended in a stalemate with no one buying the rights. Hal was always involved with threatening to sue people and writing letters. One of his lawyers would filter them. He had no follow through on legal matters.”
Neely told Williams he was going to serve Wise with divorce papers but he never did.
“I told Hal to sue her for support,” Williams said
Williams also suggested to Neely that he should apply for Medicaid. “As long as Hal sat there and talked about his million-dollar catalog he wasn’t getting Medicaid. He had to admit he was broke.”
Another mutual friend told Williams he should help out Neely financially, but he declined. “I had lent him thousands of dollars over the years. People who loved Hal took care of him, and it may not have been the best for him.
“Hal never lost his optimism and always thought the deal was about to happen. The catalog deal was always about to break.”11
Footnotes
1 Wise Interview.
2 http://notable_biographies.com/Ni-Pe/Noriega_Manuel.html.
3 Wise Interview.
4 http://notable_biographies.com/Ni-Pe/Noriega_Manuel.html.
5 Williams Interview.
6 Hanneman Interview.
7 Ibid.
8 Wise Interview.
9 Hanneman Interview.
10 The Life of James Brown, 183.
11 Williams Interview.

Maude Knows Best

I laughed (on the inside) the first time Janet and I visited her mother after we returned from our honeymoon in the Smoky Mountains. As is true of many newlyweds, Janet was kidding around about one of my human flaws. I have a sleep disorder so I am loud and twist and turn at night. I had warned Janet about it before the wedding, but it was worse than she anticipated.
Maude raised an eyebrow, an all-knowing smile perched on her pouty lips, and she lifted her coffee cup to take a sip.
“Well, you should have slept with him first, and then you would have known.”
Janet, who had lived with her mother for more than twenty years, knew better and said not a word.
I didn’t say anything either. But I did think I wish I had known about her cavalier views on premarital sex because we could have had a whole lot more fun on our dates. Not really. Janet and I always adhered to our own personal rules of behavior.
Janet clued me in that her mother often gave advice before considering all the ramifications of what she was saying.
It was a long time before I fully comprehended the extent of Maude’s penchant for quick judgements.
By the time our son was born, we were living in Texas so we drove to their little mountain town for a two-week visit. Each evening we would drive through every holler to visit Maude’s friends and relatives. By the weekend we had heard a litany of family problems and unfiltered gossip about the neighbors. We decided we needed a couple of days at Gatlinburg for fun time for our young family before starting week two of smiling and nodding as the rest of Maude’s family told us things we didn’t want to know.
After a couple of years like this, I foolishly asked if there were a way to have them all over at Maude’s house one evening so we could say hello to them at one time. She fluttered her big blue eyes.
“Oh, they work during the week, and you insisted on going to the Smokies on the weekend, so this is their only chance to see the baby.”
I wasn’t asking the kinfolk to take a day off from work, and I thought that Virginia mountain people were rugged enough to endure a drive to Maude’s house for an hour or two reception on a week night.
By this time I knew it was futile to discuss such issues so we decided to drop off at Gatlinburg for one day on our way to Maude’s house. But I could tell from the holy judgement in her eyes that she was not pleased.
Over the years I learned what Janet knew all along. It was easier to go ahead and do what Maude wanted in the first place.
Eventually Maude moved to Spring Hill, Florida, and immediately telephoned us to say she was terribly lonely living in her lovely, big new home. She begged us to move near her. We should have known better, but we did exactly what she wished. I still tried to defer to her better judgement. Our daughter Heather was about six or seven and wanted to go down the street to play with some friends, which Maude had selected for her.
“I’m sure your friends’ mother will have them wear a jacket,” she informed my daughter.
“What do you think, Daddy?” my little girl asked.
I lowered my head. My initial instinct was that the current cool in the air would dissipate in less than an hour (remember, this was Florida). I deferred to Maude. “Whatever Grandma thinks best, dear.”
“Oh no,” Maude said magnanimously. “Whatever your father decides will be best.”
Foolishly I believed her. “”It’ll be warm before you know it. Don’t bother with a jacket.”
“Of course, the neighbor’s children will be wearing their jackets, and we don’t want their mother to think we don’t care about Heather’s health.”
I put a jacket on her and send her on her way. I looked out the window to see that, indeed, the other children had jackets off. Within ten minutes all three jackets were on the ground, and none of the children suffered even a slight sniffle.
But Maude was right. Maude was always right.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Six


Wallis and Win
(Author’s note: Caution: adult content)
In her Washington hotel room, Wallis hoped her new husband Winfield Spencer would awake with the same look of terror in his eyes as Uncle Sol had. It would be ever so much fun. Wallis, however, bored quickly. Emptying the rest of her champagne, she set the glass aside and leaned forward to slap Win’s face.
His eyes fluttered open and he looked around the room. He saw he was tied to the bed, completely naked with his new wife, in a filmy nightgown straddling him. He jerked on the ropes. Win smiled.
“I didn’t know you were this adventuresome.”
“Calm down. I’m not. Well, at least not in the way you might hope.” Wallis removed her gown.
His eyes widened as he looked closely at her nude body illumined by candles on the night tables.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, I didn’t suppose you would,” she replied in a flat voice. “That’s why I drugged you and tied you up for the great disclosure.”
His head came forward, and his eyes squinted in the dim light. Wallis watched him start at the top. No surprise there. She knew he was used to her face. Then his look went to disappointment. She was expecting that too. Most men assumed a woman’s bosom would be bigger when not hidden by a dress. Finally his attention turned to the dark area between her legs.
“But I don’t see—“
“Yes, but don’t be so bourgeois to say what isn’t there and what is. I won’t go into medical details. My doctors told my mother and me that I have small male parts but female hormones to make me look female. If I had my preferences, I would be a man and not a woman. But women get to wear such nice clothes.” She shrugged. “It has not been an easy life.”
“If you want to be with a woman then go be with a woman. Why involve me in this at all?”
“Money, prestige, travel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t you notice how vain and greedy I am? Really, that’s the first thing people say about me. If I had feelings they would be hurt.”
“I just thought you were being clever and witty. I thought I was marrying a shallow, harmless female whose charm and personality would help me in my career.”
Her eye brow went up in mockery. “Harmless?” Wallis leaned over Win’s body with the glowing butt of a cigarette between the lacquered tips of her fingernails.
“I know where to stick this in places on your body that could reduce you to tears, and no one could ever figure out why you were in pain.”
“Why are you doing this to me? What have I ever done to be punished by being legally married to—to that body?”
Wallis withdrew the cigarette and puffed on it. “Your body isn’t exactly a woman’s dream, believe me. You have a somewhat handsome face, you wear a uniform well, and you have a commendable swagger. But, my god, that belly is a disgrace. And your breasts are bigger than mine. They’re not muscle either, but ugly fat, like an old woman.”
Struggling against the ropes, Win twisted his face in a rage. “If you find me so disgusting why the hell did you marry me?”
She blew smoke in his face. “Because you are the greatest aviator in the United States military. From my sources, you might even be the greatest in the world. In all probability you will rise to the highest rank , travel the world—I’ve always wanted to see the best places in the world—and you will make a comfortable income. Enough to buy me many pretty dresses.”
Win lunged toward her. “Don’t you know I will beat the living daylights out of you when I get out of these ropes?”
She shook her head. “You haven’t been paying attention. You might have brute strength but you are incredibly stupid. How you have the intelligence to keep an airplane in the sky I don’t know.” Wallis thrust the hot cigarette butt into his hairy navel, causing him to pull back his head in pain. “And you will learn what I can do with hat pins. Uncle Sollie knows. Didn’t you notice how nervous he was at the wedding? Also, I have experimented with natural herbs, knowing how much to use to send you to the brink of death but bring you back to wrack your body with indescribable agony.
“Remember when I told you my mother and I spent our summers in the Blue Ridge Mountains? Those mountain people can teach a little girl so many fascinating things about plants. You must learn to listen more carefully.”
Leaning back, Wallis pulled her night gown over her head. “I also know how to punch myself to create shocking bruises. What life would you have in the military if you were labelled a wife beater?”
“I’ll divorce you. Or have the marriage annulled!”
“Wifebeater.”
“It’s my word against yours!”
“Yes, it’s been my word against many people in my life time, darling, and my word always prevails.”
Win tried to hold back tears. “Oh my God, I am damned.”
Wallis laughed raucously, reveling in its rough maleness.
“You know, if you were to take my name instead of me taking yours, you would be Winfield Warfield. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”