Tears were rolling down Mr. Vollman’s face.
She did you the honor, sir, of coming to say goodbye and, standing at your grave, explained that she would not, in future, be able to join you there, as she must, instead, eventually, lie beside this new fellow, her husband, who was—
Please, Mr. Vollman said.
Who was much younger, I said. Than you. Closer, that is, to her own age.
You, Mr. Vollman said abruptly. You cut your wrists and bled to death on your kitchen floor.
Yes, I said. Yes I did.
Many years ago, he said.
So many years ago, I said.
Ah, God, Mr. Vollman said, and his flesh grew thin as parchment, and tremors ran through his body, and his form began to flicker between the various selves he had been in that previous place:
Fresh-faced apprentice in an ink-stained smock;
Young widower, wiping away tears for his first wife, fingernails blue-rimmed with his work, despite an obsessive pre-funeral scrubbing;
Lonely middle-aged fellow, with no hopes at all, who only worked and drank and (in a depressed state) occasionally whored;
A heavy-set, limping, wooden-toothed forty-six-year-old printer, glimpsing, from across the parlor, at the Wicketts’, upon New Year’s Day, a radiant young woman in a lime dress (little more than a girl, really), and in that moment, he felt himself no longer old, but young (interesting, vital, dashing), and, for the first time in years, felt he had something to offer, and someone to whom he hoped he might be allowed to offer it.
roger bevins iii
Shall we? Mr. Bevins said. Shall we go together?
And assumed his various future-forms (forms he had never, alas, succeeded in attaining):
A fine-looking young man on the prow of a ship, gazing off at a row of yellow and blue houses just coming into view upon a distant shoreline (and on that voyage he had been fucked and fucked well by a Brazilian engineer, who had taught him much and given him much pleasure) (and now Mr. Bevins knew that that life was for him, whether it be good or not in God’s eyes);
The contented lover, for many years now, of a gentle, bearded pharmacist named Reardon;
A prosperous, chubby, middle-aged fellow, nursing poor Reardon through his final illness;
An old geezer of nearly a hundred, blessedly free of all desire (for man, food, breath) being driven to church in some sort of miracle vehicle, before which stood no horse, and which went about on rubber wheels, loud as some perpetually firing cannon.
hans vollman
Yes, all right, Mr. Vollman said. Let us go. Together.
roger bevins iii
And it seemed we had passed the point of choosing. The knowledge of what we were was strong within us now, and would not be denied.
hans vollman
And yet something held us back.
roger bevins iii
We knew what.
hans vollman
Who.
roger bevins iii
Of one mind now, we flew-skimmed east (erratically, caroming off boulders and hillocks and the walls of stone homes, like wounded birds, feeling nothing but urgency to reach our destination), flickering on and off, weak and growing weaker, sustained, barely, by some lingering, dissipating belief in our own reality, east and east and east, until we reached the edge of that uninhabited wilderness of some several hundred yards.
hans vollman
That ended in the dreaded iron fence.
roger bevins iii
CIII.
The Traynor girl lay as usual, trapped against and part of the fence, manifesting at that moment as a scaled-down smoking wreck of a rail car, several dozen charred and expiring individuals trapped within her barking out the most obscene demands as Miss Traynor’s “wheels” turned mercilessly upon several hogs, who (we were given to understand) had caused the crash, and possessed human faces and voices, and were crying out most piteously as the wheels turned and turned and crushed and re-crushed them, giving off the smell of burning pork.
hans vollman
We had come to apologize.
roger bevins iii
For our cowardice at the time of her initial doom.
hans vollman
Which had always, in every minute since, gnawed at us.
roger bevins iii
Our first huge failing.
hans vollman
Our initial abandonment of the better nature we had brought with us from that previous place.
roger bevins iii
Standing outside the burning car, I called in.
Can you hear me, dear? I shouted. There is something we wish to say.
hans vollman
The train shifted a bit on its tracks, and flames leapt up, and several of the hogs who had caused the crash turned to us and, in a beautiful American dialect that came out of their perfectly formed human faces, told us, in no uncertain terms, that she could not and would not be saved, and hated it all, and hated us all, and if we did, indeed, care for her, why not leave her alone, for our presence aggravated her already considerable torment, reminding her, as it did, of the hopes she had held in that previous place, and of who she had been upon first arriving here.
roger bevins iii
A spinning young girl.
hans vollman
In a summer frock of continually shifting color.
roger bevins iii
We are sorry, I shouted in. Sorry that we did not do more to convince you to go, back when you still had the chance.
We were afraid, Mr. Bevins said. Afraid for ourselves.
Anxious, I said. Anxious that we might fail in our endeavor.
We felt we must conserve our resources, Mr. Bevins said.
We are sorry this happened to you, I said.
You did not deserve it, Mr. Bevins said.
And sorry, especially, that we did not stay to console you, as you went down, I said.
You did rather slink away, said one of the hogs.
hans vollman
Mr. Vollman’s face contorted with the memory.
Then something changed, and he looked strong and vital, like the man he must have been in his shop, a man who would not have slunk away from much of anything at all.
And sped through his various future-forms:
A beaming fellow in a disordered bed, the morning after he and Anna would have consummated their marriage (she gleefully threw her head upon his chest, and reached between his legs, eager to begin again);
A father of twin girls, who looked like paler, smaller Annas;
A retired printer with bad knees, helped along a boardwalk by that same Anna, older now herself but still beautiful, and as they went along, they spoke confidentially back and forth, somewhat habitually, not always agreeing, in a code that seemed to have developed between them, about the twins, now mothers themselves.
Mr. Vollman turned to me, smiling in a pained but kindly way.
None of that ever was, he said. And it never will be.
Then he drew a deep breath.
And stepped into the burning train.
roger bevins iii
I could see Miss Traynor there, in what had been the dining car, her face clearly visible within the striped lavender wallpaper.
hans vollman
Younge Mr Bristol desired me, younge Mr Fellowes and Mr Delway desired me, of an evening they would sit on the grass around me and in their eyes burned the fiercest kindest Desire.
It was all very
Then Mother would send Annie to come and
I want ed so much to hold a dear Babe.
You might sir
You might sire do me a service A great service
I know very wel I do not look as prety as I onseh.
You might try
Might at least try
Do it here. Do it now Wont you
Blow this fuk cok ass ravage train up. Sir.
With yr going
If you pls It mite free me Dont know Cant say for sur
e
But have been so unhappy here so long.
elise traynor
I will try, I said.
hans vollman
From within the train came the familiar yet always bone-chilling firesound of the matterlightblooming phenomenon.
The train began to vibrate, the hogs to squeal.
I threw myself down on the good and blessed earth, soon to be mine no more.
The train exploded. Seats rained down, hog-parts rained down, menus rained down, luggage, newspapers, umbrellas, ladies’ hats, men’s shoes, cheap novels rained down.
Rising to my knees I saw that, where the train had been, was now only the dreaded iron fence.
And there was nothing left for me to do, but go.
Though the things of the world were strong with me still.
Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen clock, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one’s clinging shirt post–June rain.
Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth.
Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease.
A bloody roast death-red on a platter; a hedgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse.
Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded.
The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger.
Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead.
Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it.
Loon-call in the dark; calf-cramp in the spring; neck-rub in the parlor; milk-sip at end of day.
Some bandy-legged dog proudly back-ploughs the grass to cover its modest shit; a cloud-mass down-valley breaks apart over the course of a brandy-deepened hour; louvered blinds yield dusty beneath your dragging finger, and it is nearly noon and you must decide; you have seen what you have seen, and it has wounded you, and it seems you have only one choice left.
Blood-stained porcelain bowl wobbles face down on woodfloor; orange peel not at all stirred by disbelieving last breath there among that fine summer dust-layer, fatal knife set down in passing-panic on familiar wobbly bannister, later dropped (thrown) by Mother (dear Mother) (heartsick) into the slow-flowing, chocolate-brown Potomac.
None of it was real; nothing was real.
Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear.
These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth.
And now must lose them.
I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant.
Goodbye goodbye good—
roger bevins iii
CIV.
Caroline and Matthew and Richard and I lay entangled there in our spot near the flagpole: my part to Caroline’s mouth, her rear to Richard’s part, Matthew’s part to my rear, Caroline’s part being shared by Matthew’s mouth and my extended stroking middle finger.
mr. leonard reedy
Seems we’d missed the big excitement.
mrs. caroline reedy
Having been engaged in some excitement of our own.
richard crutcher
But then, the noise of the many matterlightblooming phenomena growing annoying—
mrs. caroline reedy
We men became flaccid.
mr. leonard reedy
Making further excitement problematic.
mrs. caroline reedy
Me and Richard and Mr. Reedy hiked up our pants and Mrs. Reedy re-did her skirt and blouse and we rushed over along the fenceline toward that other (lesser) excitement.
matthew crutcher
En route we glimpsed Mr. Bevins—
mrs. caroline reedy
Damned nance.
richard crutcher
On his knees by the fence, mumbling to himself.
mr. leonard reedy
Then, the usual big to-do:
Flash of light, clothes raining down.
matthew crutcher
No more Bevins.
richard crutcher
CV.
The sun was nearly up.
Those of us who had survived that ghastly night huddled, conferred, went on brief sprinting expeditions, searching for survivors.
We did not find Purdy, nor Johannes, nor Crawley.
Did not find Pickler, Ella Blow, Verna Blow, Appleton, Scarry, Thorne.
Midden was missing, as were Goncourt, Cupp, Edwell, and Longstreet.
Reverend Thomas: missing.
Even Bevins and Vollman, two of our most long-standing and faithful residents: gone.
How we pitied these. So gullible. Broken by the rantings of a mere boy. Lost forever.
Sweet fools.
lance durning
Here we were. Were we not? If not, who spoke? Who heard?
percival “dash” collier
What a slaughter.
And we had only managed to survey a tiny fraction of the premises.
lance durning
Soon day began to break in earnest, and here came the usual all-body weakness, and the accompanying sense of diminishment, and we dashed off for our respective home-places, and situated ourselves squeamishly within our sick-forms, eyes closed or averted, so as not to see what those foul things had become.
robert g. twistings
And as the sun came up, we prayed, each within ourselves, our usual prayer:
lawrence t. decroix
To still be here when the sun next set.
mrs. antoinette boxer
And discover, in those first moments of restored movement, that we had again been granted the great mother-gift:
robert g. twistings
Time.
lance durning
More time.
percival “dash” collier
CVI.
As always at Sun’s rising, the two realms Merg’d, and all that was true in Ours, became true in Theirs: all the Stones, Trees, Shrubs, Hills, Valleys, Streams, Pondlets, Marshes, Patches of Light & Shade, merg’d, and were the same Betwixt the two Environs, and you could not have told one Realm from the other.
Much that was New & Strange & Unnerving had occurr’d this night.
We Three Bachelors had watched it all unfold from On-High: safe, separate, & Free—the way we liked it.
I enjoined my young Charges that we must now beat a hasty Retreat to our Sick-boxes, & get Ourselves within.
Within that which Awaited us there.
stanley “perfesser” lippert
Faugh.
gene “rascal” kane
We did not like entering those things.
jack “malarkey” fuller
At all.
gene “rascal” kane
But that was the Price; we must abide, fully Awake but Inert, within those Foul Things that had once Resembled (aye, had once Been) us (& which we had loved so Dearly) until such time as Night Again fell, at which time, shooting Forth, we would be—
stanley “perfesser” lippert
Free.
gene “rascal” kane
Free again.
jack “malarkey” fuller
Ourselves, truly.
gene “rascal” kane
All of Bless’d Creation restored to us.
stanley “perfesser” lippert
Everything again possible.
gene “rascal” kane
We Three had never Wed, nor truly Lov’d, but, once Night
fell again, and if we found ourselves still Resident here, might strike the “never”—
stanley “perfesser” lippert
For until we are ended, “never” may not be truly said.
jack “malarkey” fuller
And love may yet be ours.
gene “rascal” kane
CVII.
Just now took lantern out to Carroll crypt Tom to make sure all was well and found young Lincoln’s coffin slightly jutting out of the wallslot and pushed it back in oh that poor little fellow concluding his first ever lonely night here of many such lonely nights to come a long sad eternity of such nights.
Could not help but think of our Philip about same age as Pres’s boy who will be racing about the yard and come in just positively lit up from inside with joy of living having been flirting over fence with the misses amy & reba leonard nextdoor his hair tousled and grab a broom and in his overflow of happy spirits goose Mrs Alberts the cook in her hindquarters but when she turns to give him a wallop back holding a tremendous turnip and sees that glowing face what can she do but drop said turnip into washbasin and grabbing him about neck smother him with kisses while I secretly hand her broom so as he scats away victorious she can give him a sort of avenging goose of her own in his familiar playworn trousers and a good poke too as that ladys arms are like pot roasts O Lord I cannot bear the thought of Philip lying still in such a place as this and when that thought arises must hum some scrap of tune energetically while praying No no no take that cup away Lord let me go first before any of them I love (before Philip Mary Jack Jr. before dear Lydia) only thats no good either since when they reach their end I will not be there to help them? O either way it is unbearable O God what a bind one is in down here Tom dear friend Tom I long for sleep I await your arrival, & hope these sad & morbid thoughts will soon fade away soon with the happy sight of our dear friend rising the Sun.
Lincoln in the Bardo Page 22
