Lincoln in the Bardo(60)

thomas havens





XCVII.

Elson and Litzie had been by the chapel door, listening in.

Now they trot-skimmed over, holding hands.

That little white boy? Litzie said.

Said we are dead, said Elson.

mrs. francis hodge Goodness, said Mrs. Hodge.

elson farwell All these years, in our pit, I had treasured up the notion that someday Annalise and Benjamin, my children, would— Would what? Join me? Someday join me? Here? It was ludicrous.

Suddenly I saw just how ludicrous.

Poor me.

Poor me, all of those years.

They would never join me here. They would age and die and be laid to rest there, in those far-flung locales to which they had been taken (when taken from me). They would not come here. And anyway, why would I want that? I had wanted it, somehow, while I only waited, believing myself paused. But now, now that I— Now that I knew I was dead, I wanted for them only to go to where they should. Directly there. Wherever that was. And feeling that way, saw that I ought to go there myself.

I looked at Litzie in our old way, as if to say: Lady, what do you think?

I’ll do what you do, Mrs. Hodge, Litzie said. You always been like a mother to me.

mrs. francis hodge Sad though.



I’d only just got my voice back, and now it was time to leave.

litzie wright Elson? I said.

No, he said. If such things as goodness and brotherhood and redemption exist, and may be attained, these must sometimes require blood, vengeance, the squirming terror of the former perpetrator, the vanquishing of the heartless oppressor. I intend to stay. Here. Until I have had my revenge. Upon someone.

(Such a dear boy. So proud. So dramatic.) We are dead, I said.

Here I am, he said. I am here.

I said no more—for if he wished to stay, I would not impede him.

We all must do what we like.

Ready? I said to Litzie.

As if for old times’ sake, she gave me the double-eyed blink, which had always meant: Yes.

mrs. francis hodge





XCVIII.

Dear Brother, a post-script—After writing the above went to bed—Some time later woke to sound of horse’s hooves—I summoned Grace & she helped me into the wheeled chair & to the window—And who should be leaving but Mr. L. himself—I swear it—Looking ever so weary & stooped in the saddle as he rode away—I opened the window & shouted down to “good old Manders” to confirm—It was indeed the Pres—What must be the extent of his heartache for him to have come here at this cold & cruel hr of the night?

Now I must have Grace help me back to bed—Am doing my best to summon her only when necessary, as she has been out of sorts with me lately—Always in a bad temper & never jolly with me anymore—as if sick of me, & who could blame her—it is not happy to be at the beck & call of one so immobilized—& I cannot blame her for I recently am having more pain, & my good spirits often compromised—but she is no friend—Of this I must constantly remind myself—She is hired, by us, to care for me—And that is ALL.

Brother, when do you come home? I know you wander for your own purposes—but find it hard to believe you are not lonely—Or perhaps you have charmed some Prairie lady—Your sister is tired & lonely & sick—Do you not love me, do you not wish to see me again?—Pls come home—I do not wish to alarm you—Do not say these things to force you home but feel so poorly lately. Weak & drifting in mind & unable to eat—Is it not right that we who love one another, should be together?

Please come home. I miss you so. And have no real friend here in this place.

Yr loving sister, Isabelle.

Perkins, op. cit.





XCIX.

As Pres emerged from chapel I hightailed it out of guardhouse to unlock gate Pres went out saying nothing seeming distracted reached over gave my forearm warm squeeze then hopped upon the back of his little horse and I thought whole caboodle might go over on its side but no that little horsehero steeling himself clopped away quite dignified as if he meant to protect Pres’s reputation by acting as if Pres’s feet were not nearly scraping the ground and I tell you Tom that noble nag might have been bearing Hercules or G Washington for all the pride in his step as they disappeared down R Street into chilly night.

As I was locking back up Tom had feeling of being watched and looked up and saw that our “mystery girl” from across the street sat her faithful post at her window and lifting said window from her sitting position with considerable effort called across to me was that Pres who just rode off and I called back yes indeed and it was sad Tom as I have known her or seen her at least since she was a little girl who could still walk and run with all the others and now she must be nearly 30 and feeling kindly inclined toward her now I called up that she best shut the window for the cold for I had heard she was not well and she thanked me for my concern and said it was a sad thing wasn’t it about Pres’s son and I said oh very sad indeed and she said she thought the child must surely be in a better place and I said I hoped so and prayed so and our voices hung there as if we were last living souls on earth and goodnight said I and goodnight said she and brought her window down and soon enough her light went out.

Manders, op. cit.