At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

by David Bischoff

  Lyndon Johnson nodded. “The Twilight’s Last Gleaming.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So? He’s a patriot. A werewolf patriot. I guess he’s covered under mah Civil Rights Act too!”

  I laughed.

  I told him then about the speech that I’d received upon being admitted to Principal Canthorpe’s office for the egregious sin of my gloomy dress.

  “In England, Lyndon, I had a very good American History teacher.” I said. “He claimed that the U.S. Senate had never quite seen the likes of you. He said that you had figured out how to get power there long before you got any seniority power. And when you became Majority Leader, you used that to get more power. And when you thought it was the right time, you used that power to pass the first Civil Rights Act from Congress in almost a century. The Bill that started things rolling toward what you did as President. And he said you did it by negotiation and compromise.”

  “And a hell of a lot of work!” exclaimed the President.

  “So we’ve got a Senator here from the vampire side,” I said. “And we’ve got a ringleader from the werewolf side. Seems to me, you might be right in your element. Seems to me, Brer Wolf has put the rabbit in the briar patch!”

  I took a deep breath and forged onward.

  “You know, Lyndon. My teacher called you the Master of the Senate. Of course, you were Master of the Senate almost a decade ago and you may not be up to that kind of thing…especially with scary patriotic werewolves.”

  Lyndon Johnson looked incredibly indignant.

  “Scary? Rebecca, you never saw the Senate Southern Caucus.” His eyes were afire. “’Course I’m up to it!”

  He turned his head toward the door.

  “Canthorpe!” he bellowed. “Canthorpe! Get your tail back in here!”

  Silence.

  His powerful voice echoed through the weird corridors.

  “Canthorpe! D’ye here me, you varmint! I know what you want! And I know a damn sight better way for you to get it!”

  Silence again draped that strange place for many heartbeats.

  And then there cam a snorting, scrabbling ruckus.

  Into the room prowled Canthorpe, bent over with pure wolfish predation.

  “I harbor no hog-calling in my domain, Johnson!” he snarled.

  “That’s just fine, Canthorpe. I respect that, but I had to get your attention. Don’t know how well you hear, do I? Now Canthorpe… Do you know Dick Nixon?”

  The werewolf’s ears pricked up.

  A kind of hairy smile picked up the back edges of his broad lips, showing blood red gums.

  “Yes. I know Dick.”

  “’Course you do! All is clear. Well now, Canthorpe… Pardon me…Dr. Canthorpe. You just ask him if Lyndon Johnson ain’t his friend? We’ve worked together. Hell, we’ve both been stuck in the damned Vice Presidency. We’re like bosom buddies. Well, if I can work with that damned wolvine sneaky son-of-a-bitch -- Now why the hell can’t I work a straight ahead moral fella like you?”

  Canthorpe cocked his head. “What are you getting at?”

  “That clan! The damned commies! Do you think I like ‘em? Hell no! I fight ‘em too. Bastards. Joe Stalin’s spawn. Mao Tse-tung’s breed! And I know that better now that I’ve been dealing with the Russkies! The Russkies! I bet you don’t like that clan of werewolves either!”

  Canthorpe growled low in his throat, lost in feral enmity.

  “Exactly. And I tell you what. I can do a hell of a lot better at dealing with those packs of bastards….Without mah brain muddled by all this crap!”

  The Principal’s tone changed.

  “You….You would….work with us?’

  “Hell yes! What, you don’t think I been working with Senator Clarke and his ilk for 35 years! I sure as well see that there are a hell of a lot more vampires in the Democratic Party than just Clarke.” A sly smile spread over his lips. “Hell, I think I’ve sucked a little blood now and then myself.”

  President Johnson lifted an eyebrow higher than Mr. Spock’s. “And there’s more…”

  “Go on.”

  “What if I resign. I mean, resign from the race…the 1968 election. Let Hubert Humphrey run for President. Give Dick Nixon a shot again. I hear he and that Pat Buchanan have got some folk howling at the moon already.”

  Canthorpe lifted his head high.

  “Why yes. Yes! Richard Milhous Nixon! Of course!”

  “Well then,” said Johnson. “Get Clarke back in here. We’ll have a talk!”

  The wolfish eyes narrowed.

  “And all this toward letting you go….. Unaltered?”

  “Damned straight.”

  “Knowing what you know now?”

  “Hell, Canthorpe! I know flying saucers crashed in Roswell, New Mexico! I know that aliens from other planets -- or maybe other dimension, if that guy John Peel is right -- aliens are kidnapping people! I ain’t getting’ on the phone to MEET THE PRESS about that! I know you’re a damned a werewolf. But I’m thinking’ I’m a meaner beast than you, Canthorpe. Let’s live and let live… ally and kick ourselves some hairy Commie ass! And you know what, Canthorpe? Like it or not, I am President of the United States of America. I am your President!” His eyes twinkled. “And you know what? You may not have voted for me, ever… But it’s my duty before the great flag of our great country and freedom and all those things stand for…to be your President.”

  Canthorpe nodded.

  “Maybe, Mr. President,” he said. “You have some very good points and some equally good proposals!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  THE DEDICATION CEREMONY went very well.

  President Johnson delivered a short and vigorous speech about the importance of education for everyone in American society and the responsibilities to pass that education along for the betterment of self, family and community.

  Afterwards, he shook a few hands and had some pictures taken of himself with the locals.

  Pretty soon, many of those photos were display in a showcase window at the front of Crossland Senior High School, decorated in American flags.

  Centered full in the middle is a glossy eight by ten photo of President Lyndon Johnson and Principal Croydon Canthorpe shaking hands and grinning white toothed smiles like long-lost political brothers.

  Just before he took his helicopter flight back to the White House I found on of his great big hands draped around my shoulder.

  “Rebecca Williams,” said President Lyndon Baines Johnson.

  “Yes sir?”

  “It’s Lyndon, remember?” He smiled. “I’m getting one of my staff to get your address and phone number. Please give it them, ya hear? Why don’t you come on over sometime to meet mah girls. I’m sure you’d get along just fine.”

  “I’d like that, Lyndon,” I said. “Sure.”

  He wrapped his long arms around me and gave me a big Texas hug.

  “Master of the Senate, huh? Yeah, I like that. I like that a lot.”

  When he was gone, I turned around.

  There was Principal Canthorpe, towering over me menacingly.

  But suddenly a smile moved over the menace in his features.

  “I knew I saw something in you, Rebecca,” he said. “Looks like I can smell out talent very well indeed.”

  “Yes sir,” I said, for the first time truly noticing just how sharp his teeth were.

  “But mark my words, Rebecca. I’ll be watching you!”

  “Yes sir. I’m sure you will.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Oh,” I said. “Just one for thing, sir.”

  He swiveled around, annoyance and menace all asnarl on him again.

  “What!”

  “I hope you’ll come and see our s
chool play!”

  He smiled. “I’ll be there, Rebecca. Dracula, eh? I love that line…’Listen. The Children of the Night! What glorious music they make!’”

  “It is glorious, isn’t it sir!” I said.

  He smiled mischievously.

  “It will be in our version, Rebecca!”

  EPILOGUE

  THE CAPE SNAPPED.

  Soon I found it draped over me as the vampire leaned close.

  I could hear …no, sense… the audience react.

  The show was going well indeed.

  This was our second performance of Dracula and already there was excited talk about drama competitions. Tonight, my family was in the audience. Even my brother Donald had come.

  For my dear friend Harold it was the second time he’d seen us. Harold swore he was going to see every show.

  Harold had started borrowing my gothic paperbacks.

  Which was fine, because I’d gotten tired of them.

  I was borrowing his science fiction paperbacks.

  And I was also getting the taste for a political novel here and there.

  Now, the land of gothics and science fiction and even politics seemed very far, far away.

  I felt Emory Clarke lean close to me.

  “Uh uh,” I said. “Stay away from the neck!”

  He chuckled.

  “Extremely difficult. But okay.”

  He whispered into my ear most delightfully.

  “You coming over to see Daddy tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I whispered. “It’s nice to have a guilty Vampire Senator as a ….patron.”

  “Again, Rebecca,” he said, with pure Southern gentleman sincerity. “I am sorry.”

  “Silly!” I said.

  And then, Dear Reader, I kissed him!

  THE END