We Can Build You

  The irony was that Pris had designed it.

  Now we’ll make back some of our investment, I said to myself. It cost us plenty to build and we didn’t manage to make a deal with Barrows; all it does is sit around all day reading aloud and chuckling.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled an anecdote having to do with Abe Lincoln and girls. Some particular girl he had had a crush on in his youth. Successful? For god’s sake; I couldn’t recall how he had come out. All I could dredge up was that he had suffered a good deal because of it.

  Like me, I said to myself. Lincoln and I have a lot in common; women have given us a bad time. So he’d be sympathetic.

  What should I do until the simulacrum arrived? It was risky to stay in my motel room … go to the Seattle public library and read up on Lincoln’s courtship and his youth? I told the motel manager where I’d be if someone looking like Abraham Lincoln came by looking for me, and then I called a cab and started out. I had a large amount of time to kill; it was only ten o’clock in the morning.

  There’s hope yet, I told myself as the cab carried me through traffic to the library. I’m not giving up!

  Not while I have the Lincoln to help bail me out of my problems. One of the finest presidents in American history, and a superb lawyer as well. Who could ask for more?

  If anybody can help me, Abraham Lincoln can.

  The reference books in the Seattle public library did not do much to sustain my mood. According to them, Abe Lincoln had been turned down by the girl he loved. He had been so despondent that he had gone into a near-psychotic melancholia for months; he had almost done away with himself, and the incident had left emotional scars on him for the remainder of his life.

  Great, I thought grimly as I closed the books. Just what I need: someone who’s a bigger failure than I am.

  But it was too late; the simulacrum was on its way from Boise.

  Maybe we’ll both kill ourselves, I said to myself as I left the library. We’ll look over a few old love letters and then—blam, with the .38.

  On the other hand, he had been successful afterward; he had become a President of the United States. To me, that meant that after nearly killing yourself with grief over a woman you could go on, rise above it, although of course never forget it. It would continue to shape the course of your life; you’d be a deeper, more thoughtful person. I had noticed that melancholy in the Lincoln. Probably I’d go to my grave the same sort of figure.

  However, that would take years, and I had right now to consider.

  I walked the streets of Seattle until I found a bookstore which sold paperbacks; there I bought a set of Carl Sandburg’s version of Lincoln’s life and carried it back to my motel room, where I made myself comfortable with a six-pack of beer and a big sack of potato chips.

  In particular I scrutinized the part dealing with Lincoln’s adolescence and the girl in question, Ann Rutledge. But something in Sandburg’s way of writing kept blurring the point; he seemed to talk around the matter. So I left the books, the beer and the potato chips, and took a cab back to the library and the reference books there. It was now early in the afternoon.

  The affair with Ann Rutledge. After her death from malaria in 1835—at the age of nineteen—Lincoln had fallen into what the Britannica called ua state of morbid depression which appeared to have given rise to the report that he had a streak of insanity. Apparently he himself felt a terror of this side of his make-up, a terror which is revealed in the most mysterious of his experiences, several years later.” That “several years later” was the event in 1841.

  In 1840 Lincoln got engaged to a good-looking girl named Mary Todd. He was then twenty-nine. But suddenly, on January first of 1841, he cut off the engagement. A date had been set for the wedding. The bride had on the usual costume; all was in readiness. Lincoln, however, did not show up. Friends went to see what happened. They found him in a state of insanity. And his recovery from this state was very slow. On January twenty-third he wrote to his friend John T. Stuart:

  I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would not be one cheerful face on the earth. Whether I shall ever be better I can not tell; I awfully forebode I shall not. To remain as I am is impossible; I must die or be better, it appears to me.

  And in a previous letter to Stuart, dated January 20, Lincoln says:

  I have, within the last few days, been making a most discreditable exhibition of myself in the way of hyochondriacism and thereby got an impression that Dr. Henry is necessary to my existence. Unless he gets that place he leaves Springfield. You therefore see how much I am interested in this matter.

  The “matter” is getting Dr. Henry appointed as Postmaster, at Springfield, so he can be around to keep tinkering with Lincoln in order to keep him alive. In other words, Lincoln, at that point in his life, was on the verge of suicide or insanity or both together.

  Sitting there in the Seattle public library with all the reference books spread out around me, I came to the conclusion that Lincoln was what they now call a manic-depressive psychotic.

  The most interesting comment is made by the Britannica, and goes as follows:

  All his life long there was a certain remoteness in him, a something that made him not quite a realist, but which was so veiled by apparent realism that careless people did not perceive it. He did not care whether they perceived it or not, was willing to drift along, permitting circumstances to play the main part in determining his course and not stopping to split hairs as to whether his earthly attachments sprang from genuine realistic perceptions of affinity or from approximation more or less to the dreams of his spirit.

  And then the Britannica commences on the part about Ann Rutledge. It also adds this:

  They reveal the profound sensibility, also the vein of melancholy and unrestrained emotional reaction which came and went, in alternation with boisterous mirth, to the end of his days.

  Later, in his political speeches, he engaged in biting sarcasm, a trait, I discovered after research, found in manic-depressives. And the alternation of “boisterous mirth” with “melancholy” is the basis of the manic-depressive classification.

  But what undermines this diagnosis of mine is the following ominous note.

  Reticence, degenerating at times into secretiveness, is one of his fixed characteristics.

  And:

  … His capacity for what Stevenson called “a large and genial idleness” is worth considering.

  But the most ominous part of all deals with his indecision. Because that isn’t a symptom of manic-depression; that’s a symptom—if it’s a symptom at all—of the introverted psychosis. Of schizophrenia.

  It was now five-thirty in the afternoon, time for dinner; I was stiff and my eyes and head ached. I put the reference books away, thanked the librarian, and made my way out onto the cold, wind-swept sidewalk, in search of a place to eat dinner.

  Clearly, I had asked Maury for the use of one of the deepest, most complicated humans in history. As I sat in the restaurant that evening eating dinner—and it was a good dinner—I mulled it over in my mind.

  Lincoln was exactly like me. I might have been reading my own biography, there in the library; psychologically we were as alike as two peas in a pod, and by understanding him I understood myself.

  Lincoln had taken everything hard. He might have been remote, but he was not dead emotionally; quite the contrary. So he was the opposite of Pris, of the cold schizoid type. Grief, emotional empathy, were written on his face. He fully felt the sorrows of the war, every single death.

  So it was hard to believe that what the Britannica called his “remoteness” was a sign of schizophrenia. The same with his well-known indecision. And in addition, I had my own personal experience with him—or to be more exact, with his simulacrum. I didn’t catch the alienness, the otherness, with the simulacrum ¿hat I had caught with Pris.

  I had a natural trust and liking for Lincoln, and that
was certainly the opposite to what I felt toward Pris. There was something innately good and warm and human about him, a vulnerability. And I knew, by my own experience with Pris, that the schizoid was not vulnerable; he was withdrawn to safety, to a point where he could observe other humans, could watch them in a scientific manner without jeopardizing himself. The essence of someone like Pris lay in the matter of distance. Her main fear, I could see, was of closeness to other people. And that fear bordered on suspicion of them, assigning motives to their actions which they didn’t actually have. She and I were so different. I could see she might switch and become paranoid at any time; she had no knowledge of authentic human nature, none of the easy, day-to-day encounter with people that Lincoln had acquired in his youth. In the final analysis, that was what distinguished the two of them. Lincoln knew the paradoxes of the human soul, its great parts, its weak parts, its lusts, its nobility, all the odd-shaped pieces that went to make it up in its almost infinite variety. He had bummed around. Pris—she had an ironclad rigid schematic view, a blueprint, of mankind. An abstraction. And she lived in it.

  No wonder she was impossible to reach.

  I finished my dinner, left the tip, paid the bill, and walked back outside onto the dark evening sidewalk. Where now? To the motel once more. I attracted a cab and soon I was riding across town.

  When I reached the motel I saw lights on in my room. The manager hurried out of his office and greeted me. “You have a caller. My god, he sure does look like Lincoln, like you said. What is this, a gag or something? I let him in.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and went on into the motel room.

  There, in a chair, leaning back with his long legs stuck out before him, sat the Lincoln simulacrum. He was engrossed, unaware of me; he was reading the Carl Sandburg biography. Beside him on the floor rested a little cloth bag: his luggage.

  “Mr. Lincoln,” I said.

  Presently he glanced up, smiled at me. “Good evening, Louis.”

  “What do you think of the Sandburg book?”

  “I have not yet had time to form an opinion.” He marked his place in the book, closed it and put it aside. “Maury told me that you are in grave difficulty and required my presence and advice. I hope I have not arrived too lately on the scene.”

  “No, you made good time. How did you like the flight from Boise?”

  “I was taken with astonishment to observe the fast motion of the landscape beneath. We had hardly risen, when we were already here and landing; and the shepherdess told me that we had gone over a thousand miles.”

  I was puzzled. “Oh. Stewardess.”

  “Yes. Forgive my stupidity.”

  “Can I pour you a drink?” I indicated the beer, but the simulacrum shook its head no.

  “I would prefer to decline. Why don’t you present me with your problems, Louis, and we will see at once what is to be done.” With a sympathetic expression the simulacrum waited to hear.

  I seated myself facing him. But I hesitated. After what I had read today I wondered if I wanted to consult him after all. Not because I did not have faith in his opinions—but because my problem might stir up his own buried sorrows. My situation was too much like his own with Ann Rutledge.

  “Go ahead, Louis.”

  “Let me fix myself a beer, first.” With the opener I set to work on the can; I fooled with that for a time, wondering what to do.

  “Perhaps I should speak, then. During my trip from Boise I had certain meditations on the situation with Mr. Barrows.” Bending, he opened his overnight bag and brought out several lined pages on which he had written in pencil. “Do you desire to put great force to bear against Mr. Barrows? So that he will of his own will send back Miss Frauenzimmer, no matter how she may feel about it?”

  I nodded.

  “Then,” the simulacrum said, “telephone this person.” He passed me a slip of paper; on it was a name.

  SILVIA DEVORAC

  I could not for the life of me place the name. I had heard it before but I couldn’t make the connection.

  “Tell her,” the simulacrum went on softly, “that you would like to visit her in her home and discuss a matter of delicacy. A topic having to do with Mr. Barrows … that will be enough; she will at once invite you over.”

  “What then?”

  “I will accompany you. There will be no problem, I think. You need not resort to any fictitious account with her; you need only describe your relationship with Miss Frauenzimmer, that you represent her father and that you have profound emotional attachments toward the girl yourself.”

  I was mystified. “Who is this Silvia Devorac?”

  “She is the political antagonist of Mr. Barrows; it is she who seeks to condemn the Green Peach Hat housing which he owns and from which he derives enormous rents. She is a socially-inclined lady, given to worthy projects.” The simulacrum passed me a handful of newspaper clippings from Seattle papers. “I obtained these through Mr. Stanton’s assistance. As you can see from them, Mrs. Devorac is tireless. And she is quite astute.”

  “You mean,” I said, “that this business about Pris being under the age of consent and a mentally-ill ward of the Federal Government—”

  “I mean, Louis, that Mrs. Devorac will know what to do with the information which you bring to her.”

  After a moment I said, “Is it worth it?” I felt weighed down. “To do a thing like that …”

  “Only God can be certain,” the simulacrum said.

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “Pris is the woman whom you love. Is that not the actual fact of the matter? What is there in the world more important to you? Wouldn’t you stake your life in this contest? I think you have already, and perhaps, if Maury is correct, the lives of others.”

  “Hell,” I said, “love is an American cult. We take it too seriously; it’s practically a national religion.”

  The simulacrum did not speak. It rocked back and forth instead.

  “It’s serious to me,” I said.

  “Then that is what you must consider, not whether it is properly serious to others or not. I think it would be inhuman to retire to a world of rent-values, as Mr. Barrows will do. Is it not the truth that he stands opposite you, Louis? You will succeed precisely on that point: that to him his feeling for Miss Pris is not serious. And is that good? Is that more moral or rational? If he felt as you do he would let Mrs. Devorac obtain her condemnation notice; he would marry Pris, and he would, in his own opinion, have obtained the better bargain. But he does not, and that sets him apart from his humanity. You would not do that; you would—and are—staking all in this. To you, the person you love matters over everything else, and I do think you are right and he wrong.” ‘Thank you,” I said. “You know, you certainly have a deep understanding of what the proper values in life are; I have to hand it to you. I’ve met a lot of people but I mean, you go right to the core of things.”

  The simulacrum reached out and patted me on the shoulder. “I think there is a bond between us, Louis. You and I have much in common.”

  “I know,” I said. “We’re alike.”

  We were both deeply moved.

  15

  For some time the Lincoln simulacrum coached me as to exactly what I should say on the phone to Mrs. Silvia Devorac. I practiced it again and again, but a dreadful foreboding filled me.

  However, at last I was ready. I got her number from the Seattle phone book and dialed. Presently a melodious, cultivated, middle-aged type of woman’s voice said in my ear:

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Devorac? I’m sorry to bother you. I’m interested in Green Peach Hat and your project to have it torn down. My name is Louis Rosen and I’m from Ontario, Oregon.”

  “I had no idea our committee had attracted notice that far away.”

  “What I was wondering is, can I drop over with my attorney for a few minutes to your house and chat with you?”

  “Your attorney! Oh goodness, is anything wrong?”

  “Th
ere is something wrong,” I said, “but not with your committee. It has to do—” I glanced at the simulacrum; it nodded yes to me. “Well,” I said heavily, “it has to do with Sam K. Barrows.”

  “I see.”

  “I know Mr. Barrows through an unfortunate business association which I had with him in Ontario. I thought possibly you could give me some assistance.”

  “You do have an attorney, you say … I don’t know what I could do for you that he can’t.” Mrs. Devorac’s voice was measured and firm. “But you’re welcome to drop by if we can keep it down to, say, half an hour; I have guests expected at eight.”

  Thanking her, I rang off.

  The Lincoln said, “That was satisfactorily done, Louis.” It rose to its feet. “We shall go at once, by cab.” It started toward the door.

  “Wait,” I said.

  At the door it glanced back at me.

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Then,” the simulacrum said, “let us go for a walk instead.” It held the door open for me. “Let us enjoy the night air, it smells of mountains.”

  Together the two of us walked up the dark sidewalk.

  “What do you think will become of Miss Pris?” the simulacrum asked.

  “She’ll be okay. She’ll stay with Barrows; he’ll give her everything she wants out of life.”

  At a service station the simulacrum halted. “You will have to call Mrs. Devorac back to tell her we are not coming.” There was an outdoor public phone booth.

  Shutting myself in the booth I dialed Mrs. Devorac’s number once more. I felt even worse than I had earlier; I could hardly get my finger into the proper slots.

  “Yes?” the courteous voice came in my ear.

  “This is Mr. Rosen again. I’m sorry but I’m afraid I don’t have my facts completely in order yet, Mrs. Devorac.”

  “And you want to put off seeing me until a later time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s perfectly all right. Any time that’s convenient for you. Mr. Rosen, before you ring off—have you ever been to Green Peach Hat?”