No luck.
I’d sure hoped this part of history was going to be different, too, she thought. She checked the time again: 10:16. Better get back.
She’d been forewarned to listen for a particular sequence of lines. It sounded like they were about to that critical point in Act III.
She sighed; spoke quietly to herself, “I just wish Mel was here. I wonder where he is anyway?” If I could see such an easy solution, she reasoned, why couldn’t he? After he warns the Sewards he could just as easily have come back up here to guard the door.
“In the saloon,” The Voice said. Lena stopped dead in her tracks waiting respectfully, “and trust me you don’t really need any more of his kind of help.”
Lena heard a collective gasp come up from the audience as she opened the door to the box. This time she knew better than to think they too had heard The Voice. She began sidling her wide skirts in through the narrow opening. Sudden fear gripped her: what if the assassin was already inside? He could be aligning his shot! I’ve got to throw him off, she reasoned, since he must be crowded in the corner off to her right.
She used all her strength; forced herself through, leapt more or less like a 20th century basketball guard - with both arms outstretched to literally block-the-shot.
All she succeeded in doing however was ignominiously collapsing onto Mrs. Lincoln. Who was shoved forward into Lena’s empty chair, which caused it to crash into the Grants…all of which promptly elicited another collective gasp from the audience.
Once again the attendant gaze of those six-hundred-plus patrons was on the Presidential box. But this time it wasn’t for a good or bad reason; it was for an embarrassing one. The silly (and now virtually guaranteed to be an old-maid) daughter of a U.S. Senator had just made a full-fledged fool of herself – and by extension, had made herself an albatross around the ring finger of her Presidential aide fiancé, 2LT Henry Rathbone.
As things were set to right in the box the President had taken to his feet and again quieted and re-settled the crowd.
Lena stood along the wall like an admonished school girl; kept her head down and pretended to smooth her skirts. As Lincoln said a few words Rathbone realigned the chairs and doted on the First Lady as the Grants got settled in their seats.
“Please, please, I apologize for the disruption,” Lincoln intoned, “but truthfully I am grateful as it turns out, for now I have this opportunity to thank our unexpected stand-in, this truly unique American theatrical treasure…” he gestured with a sweeping arm motion, and most eyes followed. Countless pairs of eyes – as well as Lena’s - went back to what she realized they’d been gasping at before her unnecessary act of stupidity: a new actor in the role of “Dundreary” had taken the stage. Without the strange namesake sideburns, weird waxed mustache, or monocle affectations.
She felt as if she knew the familiarly handsome wildly-wavy dark haired man. Of course he wasn’t part of the cast, but he was no gate crasher either. He looked as if he’d simply arisen from the audience’s front row center; the fine cut and expensive tailoring of his evening clothes perfectly appropriate for such a prime position at a performance sold as one “attended by President Lincoln” himself.
“Oh my--” she exhaled the words, more than spoke them, but had managed to stop herself before taking His name in vain. It’s Booth!
Lincoln continued without noticing her, “…so I thank our own John Wilkes Booth for his unexpectedly delightful comedic interruption tonight…” the man then held his gangly hands aloft and mimed vigorous clapping. The audience did so for real. Lena looked from one military man to the other in the box and none seemed in the least concerned. They themselves were clapping and looking in turn from the actor – who’d been given most of the stage to himself by that point – to their Commander in Chief. With approving smiles.
Lena avoided meeting Rathbone’s eyes as she slinked along the wall – that is until she finally stood against the railing: of course he was staring wide-eyed, as if she’d confirmed her madness.
Maybe Clara’s eyes were playing some sort of hellacious trick on her. Does he have his derringer in the palm of his other hand? Or is it simply tucked in a pocket of his trousers or jacket? Someone behind her tugged at her skirts but she ignored them.
Lincoln continued, “Even our lovely Miss Harris is enamored by Mr. Booth tonight, in his most fashionable garb,” he paused as the tittering in the audience rose then trailed off, “I guess that means a certain junior officer had better hurry up with those plans I’ve heard rumor of.” More gentle laughter.
Now look what I‘ve done. Lena was now too confused to be embarrassed. Could she still fix this? She turned away from the stage to face Lincoln; had to try to understand how it was the man she thought she was here to protect could know and could actually seem to be friends with the one individual she knew was supposed to kill him. And in mere moments.
She was then struck with another inspiration: Maybe someone else…who’s already in the box…
Mrs. Lincoln suddenly took up her fan something feverish. The other ladies followed suit and the men put hands to their noses.
Though the doorway to the Presidential box remained firmly closed - since Lena’s “dramatic” entrance - the essence of something long putrefied rushed across the small space. And it was carried on a marrow chilling breeze.
She saw translucent tendrils approach then blessedly retreat from her; watched in horror though, as they encircled Rathbone’s entire body, then penetrated, and finally, possessed it. He spasmed and jumped up from his chair - clearly not himself. The body rushed towards her pushing a wave of familiar infernal power. Rathbone’s face didn’t look particularly mad, rather it was much more smug than angry.
Dobson!
8 – The long way home
She looked straight into Mel Dobson’s demon-eyes now, even as his - or its - hands shot out in front, towards her. With all the novice-might she had, she willed whatever human potential remained inside the lieutenant to Stop. But that same invisible-yet-irresistible force Dobson had used back at the White House kept coming: it slammed into her at chest height. By molecular or electron or perhaps demonic force alone, absent any human-to-human physical contact, the creature sent her flailing backwards out of control. Lena Winger in the borrowed physical form of Miss Clara Harris did a reverse swan dive of sorts: straight over the low second story railing and down, down, down to the hardwood flooring of the stage.
Wide-eyed all the way, she marveled at that strange upside down and then sideways slow moving-picture scroll. The theatre ceiling, followed by a slice of audience, then a few panels of velvet curtain, and finally a sliver of stage-right. And during the entire vision it was eerily quiet and she seemed to have more than enough time to think.
I have no idea how to un-possess this poor woman, Lena thought, and then, I’m not even scared. And, I wonder if this means I’m going to die again?
She got no answer from The Voice save for an unnatural calmness considering the peril she was in. She blessedly blacked out just before the end frame passed before her eyes.
After what seemed like mere moments however she saw some light again, through eyelid slits this time. Lena hoped for Heaven but quickly realized her spiritual self was still “one” with Clara. Gripped with a fear that was literally all in her head she realized their body, Lena’s and Clara’s, was numb from the neck down.
Miraculously she discerned a woman was leaning over her; saw her face, though it was a blur. Something around her neck swung slowly across Lena’s field of view: first one way, then back. Again and again. Like Beethoven’s metronome and this one, too, was silent.
“Miss? Miss?” the other said, “Can you hear me? Blink your eyes if you can.” Her warm gentle hands were supporting Lena’s head. The feminine voice sounded familiar, but then so had the Lincolns, and Henry Rathbone’s. After 150 years in the heavenlies chances are Lena’d heard about every American accent, every tenor of human voice, male or femal
e, young or old. But still…
“I’m a doctor,” said another voice, this time a male, “let me through. Please. I’ll take care of her now, miss. Miss?”
Is he talking to me, wondered Lena?
“Miss Winger?” a second man, a louder man, said, “Step back, Miss Winger. Off the stage, please, everyone!” and quieter, “There, let the doctor take charge now; you’ve done enough Miss Winger.”
Same name as me, Lena thought hazily. The warm hands seemed to slide reluctantly from the injured woman’s face. As physical contact was lost and as the other eased away Lena felt an odd sense of abandonment. Her heart was broken she was sure. It seemed to lose a beat, then it would come back, lose two, then beat a couple more until finally she knew it was on its next-to-the-last.
But there was no pain, only relief.
I’ll be “home” soon. With my brother... She couldn’t quite recall his name. And, and, I’ll be with… just all the others I’ve…learned so much, so much about or from...
“Doctor,” it sounded like Henry Rathbone, though she wouldn’t have sworn to it.
“Leale, Dr. Charles Leale. Major, are you her…her fiancé?” the doctor spoke so low Lena had to focus very hard to understand each and every syllable.
He’s a major?
“Yes, well, not formally, I was going to, well, never mind that now. Just tell me, is she going to…is she…” The doctor must have assented to the worst, for the second man hit the stage presumably on his knees with a loud thud on Lena’s other side and opposite the doctor. He was touching her cheek, Clara’s cheek, with his humanly-warm hand now.
Clearly the bad angel, Mel or Del or whatever the hell, is gone.
He leaned close to her ear, “I tried,” he started, then choked, “I tried to grab you, to save you, but something stopped me…”
I know; I mean, I think I know what he means. Lena felt her last heartbeat.
Another hand – the doctor’s most likely – gently brushed down over her eyelids, erasing the last of her blurry sight. The sliver of muted mixed colors turned to deepest greys, then to pitch black. And deathly silent.
9 – Second chances
The young woman standing in the wings swayed though she seemed to catch herself. Two others, in full face paint, rushed alongside and grabbed her arms just in case.
“Careful, Lena,” said one.
“Yes. For heaven’s sake…after all you just did, don’t faint away now,” said the second.
“Especially not with the handsome Dr. Leale in attendance and full view.” The two “…American Cousin” actresses were of course still in their “eligible daughter” costumes since the show had been stopped in mid-Act III; they tittered like school girls then sh-h-h’d each other.
Lena was far from understanding what was happening. Her sight came to her like a gas light turned up ever so slowly in a very dark room. Looking from one grinning girl to the other she fought through her mind, grabbing onto tiny bits and pieces of her last memories. They were a jumbled mess.
She was dead. She was an angel – working with a devil? She’d been up in the President’s box and yet she was also stationed backstage as the theatre’s nurse-on-duty - and the show’s never-utilized understudy to the two actress-friends by her side.
A cacophonous wave of other sounds were now filtering into her ears as she glanced around then up to the Presidential box. The two generals were the only ones left and their backs were all she could see. Presumably they awaited their wives’ departure.
The crowd and its aggregate of respectfully muffled voices was flowing out the back of the theatre. However a lone man looked to be forcing his way against that stream, towards the real-life tragedy unfolding on stage.
“Finally…” said one of her friends, “there’s Washington’s other just-as-handsome medical man.”
Lena saw she referred to the approaching gentleman who was now nearly straight ahead, straight in line with the two leaning over the crumpled body of Clara Harris. Off to the front and right of Lena and her companions were several men. Why that one, she thought, shuddering, I remember him from, from before. It was John Wilkes Booth and she was still fearfull for some reason. The other, she suddenly remembered, was the manager, Mr. Ford; he had grabbed a blanket or sheet and held it uneasily. To cover the body?
“Sorry, old man,” the latest arrival spoke to Dr. Leale, but Lena, several yards away, heard every word as if he breathed them directly in her ear. She snapped her head their way, attentive to the familiar voice. “Just finished in surgery…”
One of her friends turned to her, “He’ll be so proud of what his ‘big sis’ just did.” Lena’s knees were weak, What? It can’t be… She took a deep breath and shook her head to straighten out her thoughts.
“Yes, so now will you introduce--” the other had begun but Lena cut her off.
“No,” Lena told her sharply, “Sh-h-h…”
“Are you going to faint? Shall we take you backstage and let you lie down--” Lena’s glare shut the woman up.
The now-Major Rathbone leaped to his feet, “Maybe you can help my Clara, Sir! And may God forgive me but if this sawbones here,” he gestured to Leale, “if he’d been here the night the President got that flesh wound, four years ago this very month…he’d have never lived through ’65 much less to his third victory last November, but you…”
Lena could see the newcomer’s face clearly. It was her brother Richard. Somehow he lived. And she did, too, here and now. In 1860-whatever it is. But the protest, New York, that summer…Yes. It was coming back to her. He was starting his medical studies in 1863 and I worked as a nurse to support us both…
“I sir, have practiced medicine alongside this fine doctor for years,” Richard Winger was saying to the highly charged Rathbone, “and you, Sir, have just publically shamed him.” As Lena’s brother spoke, the manager stepped over to, and began covering, the dead woman’s body.
So far the distraught man hadn’t noticed the other’s actions.
Winger continued, “…And I vow to the highest heavens I’ll have your commission, if not more than that, for such libelous sayings,” he glanced behind Rathbone and saw the body was wrapped and about to be lifted up by several stagehands. “Your loved one, I’m sorry to concur, has clearly departed this earthly realm and you, Sir, will most certainly have my deepest sympathies… but if and only if you yourself depart this theatre, now, and allow us to take care of things here. For you and for her family…Sir.” But Rathbone had whipped back around towards the goings on.
“No!” the man barked, as if issuing an order, then suddenly seemed vulnerable, “Don’t take her yet. She can’t be dead.” The men looked at Ford, who shrugged then nodded. They set the corpse down; took a few steps away. “You haven’t done enough, you’re letting her die. We were just, we were just up there,” he pointed to the now empty Presidential box, “we spoke and I was going to ask her…”
Now it was Dr. Leale, “No, Sir, you have done too much,” Rathbone now turned from Winger to Winger’s partner-turned-accuser as the latter stood back up from checking something on the body. The Major’s eyes grew wild as Leale continued, “You have killed her. I saw it with my own eyes as you pushed her back or at the minimum frightened her over the balustrade…”
Lena’s mind was spinning. First it had been the shock that Lincoln had survived the shooting, then that he was in his third term, now, this revelation was causing her to flash back to Rathbone up in the box, as a 2LT, coming towards her. Putting his arms out towards her and causing her or Clara or both to tumble backwards.
She blinked hard; noticed Booth again, still off to the right of the wild man, and still out of his line of sight. The actor was fumbling with something. Something in his jacket pocket. Once more an unexplained wave of fear washed over Lena.
Then she saw a small gun in his hand. Booth has a gun, she wanted to shout, but couldn’t. Her throat was tight. She tried to whisper it but all that she produced was a c
onstricted breath of air, as if she were about to clean a pair of spectacles. She looked to Rathbone whose attention vacillated from one doctor to the other and saw he too was un-holstering the pistol she somehow knew he’d worn all night at his right side.
Now he waved that service weapon in tandem with his gaze and cried out, “Somebody has to pay; somebody must take responsibility for this crime…somebody…”
John Wilkes Booth rushed towards the distraught officer as the man was turning the pistol from Dr. Leale’s face towards his own. Before he could pull the trigger Booth jabbed his derringer towards Rathbone; it exploded at point blank range, slightly upwards; the shot traveled through the major’s back, under his ribcage, tore into his heart and lodged in his chest.
The sound of the palm sized gun’s shot reverberated with the near simultaneous screams of Lena and her two equally horrified friends.
The energy from Lena Winger’s reborn voice effectively dissipated off into the ethereal realm any and all conflicting memories. No more would she be troubled or confused by facts that didn’t match her new reality. No more would visions of an angelic earth-assignment or old life-and-death bump into her new, longer and hopefully happier life in 1869 America.
Everyone watched in horror as Major Henry Rathbone’s body collapsed on top of the partially covered body of his dead intended fiancée, Clara Harris.
Lena noticed her brother had leapt up on stage, clapped a hand on the shoulder of Booth and said a few words before turning towards her. He, too, appeared exhausted mentally and physically and she knew it was not just from the violent ending they all had just witnessed.
Relieved at his presence she raised a hand in greeting; felt that if this night didn’t end soon she’d go limp, body and soul. Somehow, though, just knowing he was there for her to lean on, after all that had happened, made doing so unnecessary.
His being there apparently made the world a nicer place for her friends as well.
“Lena…Lena?” one of her friends whispered as the other poked her in the ribs.