© by Tony WolkAll rights reserved.

Illustrations by Jessica Wolk-Stanley

Ooligan PressCenter for Excellence in Writing

Department of EnglishPortland State University

P.O. Box Portland, OR -

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wolk, Tony, 1935- Abraham Lincoln, a novel life / Tony Wolk.

p. cm.Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 1-932010-00-9 1. Lincoln, Abraham, 1809-1865--Fiction. 2. Presidents--United

States--Fiction. 3. Evanston (Ill.)--Fiction. 4. Timetravel--Fiction. I. Title.PS3623.O59 A27 2004

813’.6--dc222003026912

Printed in the United States of America

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iv

The Theater April

S srd r frd, a habit, as though she were prone to headaches. Her fingers felt oily. She wished she had phrased the question differently. “Was there anything else you

wanted?” she had asked, thinking of nothing but dessert, but the words said more. It was as if their words were in a hot oven, rising, carrying more than the usual burden. She grimaced. As though she wanted No for an answer. They were in no great hurry. “No,” he said swallowing, “I’ve had plenty, thank you. Three big meals in one day is a lot for me.” He seemed so matter-of-fact. It was her impatience speaking. It was a month until his inauguration; Lee was yet to come to Ap-pomattox. Must be early ’6. He would be killed just after Lee sur-rendered. Meanwhile he’s enjoying pickles and mustard, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, sliding out of the booth. She followed the arrow to the Ladies’ Room. She closed and locked the door, then stood there. If she could start the day over, she’d go the other direction with Rusty, and by now she’d be home with a book, carefree. What did he expect from her? He was like the stray cat that shows up on your doorstep, and you make the mistake of giving it a dish of milk. She shuddered. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above the washstand. Fool, it said. Better hustle your bustle back out there, and pronto. No matter how you figure, this man doesn’t have much time. “I know,” she said aloud. “I just don’t want to get hurt.”

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And how much longer could she go on chitchatting with Abraham Lincoln? With the man whose signature she had recognized, “A. Lincoln,” the two capital letters joined with a loop, a totally legible signature, almost like a schoolchild’s. It was a jarring moment, snag-ging her doubt, her wariness, and rattling her bones. And he had seen it, had seen the game turn to no game, and they had gone back to a land of make-believe, as though life were nothing but a lark, two children side by side at the beach with bucket and shovel. The doorknob rattled. “Just a minute,” she called out softly. “Sorry, hon,” called the voice from the other side. Joan took another look at herself. No one but herself. She flushed the toilet, as though she had used it, smoothed her skirt, and opened the door. It was their waitress, a florid woman, maybe her own age, with dyed blonde hair. She rolled her eyes at Joan, and Joan nodded, acknowledging the message, whatever it meant. Kindred spirits. Of course he was still sitting there, his spectacles perched on his nose, menu in hand, reading. She stood alongside the table and said, “We might as well be going.” She picked up the check from beside his plate and crossed over to the cashier. She handed across a ten, waited for her change, left a tip on the table, let him hold the door for her as they left. “Has something gone wrong?” he asked. It was nearly dark, and no one else was on the sidewalk. “You’ve already done more than was necessary.” She turned his way. “Is that what you want. To be set free?” He recoiled as if she had struck him. “No,” he said. “I just want to be sure you don’t feel obliged. I just want you to know—” “Know what?” “That you don’t have to put up with me. I’m sorry I’m having such a hard time with words. I do, unless I get to rehearse. But I haven’t had time for that, so I’m kind of raw. I don’t mean to tie you down, but I don’t want you to walk off either. Or send me off to see Secretary Stanton.” She looked up at him and had a fleeting impulse to rise on tiptoe and kiss his lips. She’d never kissed a man with a beard. She hadn’t kissed many men. “I too am out of my element,” she said, “and I’m

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tripping over my own feet left and right. Sounds so stupid, what I just said. What other feet do I have?” “Only ones I see are those two. Can I say that I hope you’ll give me the pleasure of your company a while longer?” “Yes, you can, and yes, I will.” “Good,” he said. “Which way?” “It depends,” she said, “whether we walk or not. If we walk, then we have to walk back. I’d say drive.” “Drive it is then,” he said. “I’d offer my arm, but I don’t see much of that here.” “You’re right. People sometimes hold hands, but that’s a bit more intimate, I think, than a gentleman giving a lady his arm.” They stopped for the light. “Of course parents and their young children do it. It’s one of those things we learn not to do as we grow up.” “I could pretend to be your son,” he said with a wry smile. “I am a newborn, if you think about it.” “Which makes me old enough to be your grandmother, thank you kindly. And here’s my car.” She unlocked his door, then circled round to her side. It came easily enough, the man’s role—paying the bill, the chauffeuring, deciding whether to walk or drive, to do this or that, stay here or there. “Tell me again about this movie we’re going to see. You say it’s like a story?” “Yes. It’s a story with pictures, but the pictures are continuous. What it really is, is a machine that shows a succession of photo-graphs, each one almost exactly like the next, with just a tiny differ-ence, and to the eye it’s like a river flowing smoothly along. I guess it doesn’t take all that many pictures to fool the eye.” “Hmmn,” he said. “Sounds like a glorified magic lantern. Or even like those little geegaws for children, where you spin something like a disk, one side maybe with a horse, its legs outstretched, the other side with the legs tucked in, and seen together the horse is galloping.” “Yes. I had one of those when I was a teenager, on a charm brace-let. Anyway, they project the images on the screen, up front. Like a theater. This one’s from a story by John Steinbeck, the same man who wrote about the Great Depression. I haven’t read the book.”

The Theater

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“I don’t suppose every movie retells a book?” “No, and maybe it’s better if they don’t try to. There’s always so much more to the story in a book. I wish Casablanca was showing, my favorite movie. I don’t think it’s from a book.” His door clicked open and swung shut, locked. She locked her own door and joined him on the sidewalk. “East of Eden,” he said, pointing to the marquee. “You haven’t seen it, have you?” “No.” “But you know who these actors are: James Dean, Julie Harris, Raymond Massey?” “Yes, they’re the draw. James Dean is our current enfant terrible. Julie Harris is the plain and sensitive type. Raymond Massey is a character actor, a generation older.” She bit her tongue. It would have been so easy to go on: What he’s famous for is having played you. Two couples were in line, and Joan recognized the older, the Sil-vermans, Beth and Ira. They had a cabin at Lake Geneva, where she and Robert used to vacation. She handed Lincoln a five-dollar bill, gesturing toward the ticket booth. As Lincoln stepped forward to the cashier, Beth Silverman turned their way. “Why, Joan Matcham!” she said. “It is you, isn’t it? Haven’t seen you in an age.” “Yes,” said Joan. “It’s me.” This wasn’t going to be easy. “How have you been, and how are your little girls? Not so little any more?” Lincoln turned their way. “This is a friend of mine,” she said before Beth could say anything. “Alfred Abrams. Alfred, Beth Silverman. Robert and I used to rent a place up by Lake Geneva, where the Silvermans have a cottage.” “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Lincoln with a slight bow. “Beautiful country thereabouts. I was up there years ago, be-fore it was built up. No time for that nowadays of course.” Tickets in hand, he was moving toward the glass doors, elbowing aside easy conversation. “Well,” said Beth. “Hope you enjoy the film. I’d love to see you

6

again, Joan. Give me a call. We’re in the book. Nice meeting you, Mr. Abrams,” and with that she joined her party, already inside. Lincoln handed the usher the tickets, then leaned close. “Hand-some devil on that five-dollar note.” “I’m sure,” she said. “What’s his name? Abrams?” “Could be. Without my spectacles, I couldn’t be positive. You did that well, by the way, with Mrs. Silverman, as if you had been rehearsing.” “Partly,” she said, “but I’ve also gotten pretty good at forestalling small talk when it’s inconvenient. Looks like the theater’s not at all crowded tonight.” “Quite right,” he said. “We can sit anywhere we please?” “Yes, just so it’s not right up front.” “Well then,” he said, leading the way down the aisle. About a third of the way along he stopped. “Far enough?” “Perfect,” she said, taking the second seat in to leave room for his legs to stretch. Immediately the lights dimmed and the curtains swept across the stage. “VistaVision Visits Norway” declared the screen. “They call this a short subject,” she said. “It won’t last too long. This new wide-screen technique is all the rage, and here they make the most of it.” “Amazing,” whispered Lincoln, who sat leaning forward and star-ing raptly as the credits flowed across the landscape. “No wonder you wanted me to see one of these. I had an idea of what this would be, but my, the idea falls a mile short of the thing itself. It’s like the camera is soaring in mid-air—” She was airborne, her eyes shut, her shoulders pressed against the seat. She felt a hand on her wrist. His. Three deep breaths. She hadn’t guessed what the scene was leading up to, and now it was all too clear, even with her eyes closed—the camera airborne and hurtling deep into one of Norway’s ragged fjords. She willed her eyes open. The camera had come out of its sharp dive. He was looking at her closely. “It’s okay.” Her breathing was returning to normal. “It caught me by surprise too. One moment they were just beautiful mountains,

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and suddenly the camera was diving toward the water and sweeping along the fjord and you felt as if the wings were about to scrape. But I also knew you were here, that we were in a theater, and I couldn’t die in a plane crash in a theater.” “No,” he said softly. “You couldn’t. Though I think that I am go-ing to die in a theater.” “You do?” “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “This morning in the college library I read a few sentences on a small card saying that a man named Edi-son would make a motion picture of my life, from my early years in Washington to my death in Ford’s Theater. Sooner or later every one of us must die, and why not in a theater? Who says it must it be on a battlefield? Or in bed? Of course I could avoid Ford’s Theater like the plague, but there’s no cheating death. Hamlet has words for it, doesn’t he? The fine line between now and later.” She said nothing. His voice had come to the end of his soliloquy, and as in a soliloquy, he had spoken his inner thoughts. He had seen what must read like a prophecy, and had been mulling it over all day, wrestling to give it meaning. What would it be like to know the place of your death? And she who knew the fuller story of how he would die, hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to what a theater would represent in the life of Abraham Lincoln. Now on screen, it was Mr. Magoo’s turn. As usual, he and Waldo were out for a Sunday drive, and Magoo nine-tenths blind would—thanks to the good grace of the Lord—survive to see another day. Lincoln was beyond restraint, shaking and guffawing, helpless as a newborn baby. He didn’t catch his breath until Waldo was safe and sound and the indignant and righteous Magoo had said what needed saying to the stunned policemen. “I’m sorry,” Lincoln said. “You should have given me notice.” “Had I known,” she said. “Here.” And she handed him a handker-chief. He dabbed at his cheeks and returned it to her. “Thank you.” “Sure. I think you can relax now,” she said. “Once the film starts there shouldn’t be any big surprises. After that we shouldn’t be talk-ing, even whispering.”

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“I understand. I will exercise firm control.” Joan returned her eyes to the screen, and there he was, his young majesty, James Dean, tiptoeing through the shadows like Puck, wary but urgent, drawing closer and closer to a clapboard house. He certainly was intense, you had to say that for him. Tormented. She glanced to her right. Lincoln’s eyes were riveted to the screen. She settled back, willing her shoulders to relax. The story un-folded; she tried to give it her full attention. But it was hard to give oneself up to theater, however worthy, while brushing arms with Abraham Lincoln and wondering what the rest of the evening could hold.

The Theater