Inter-Magisteria Cooperation

by Patrice Stanton

  “Yup, that’s all he wrote and I tend to agree. What about you? Agree?”

  “Oh, who wouldn’t? I mean more than 700,000 slaughtered in the end. And that doesn’t even count…” Not again.

  “Yeah, yeah, the women and children, like their lives were even more of a loss. So…” now he was all matter of fact. No more babysitting or pussy-footing. “I’ve shown you mine…let’s see yours.” As the demon talked he whipped the parchment of fiery-text back into a tight roll and had it stowed away as if he were a Vegas yo-yo champ.

  “But she said--”

  “Whoa, sister. ‘She?’ What’re they doing up there these days. Are those Avenging-Angels so bored they’ve taken to cross-dressing or something?” Mel was about to laugh again but thought better of it. The comment was bad enough on its face. He’d known lesser demons than himself who’d tangled with avengers and there was nothing pretty in the after-action reports.

  “Are you saying” she began, “Mother-T isn’t a lady? If so, I think I’d better leave now and find--” He cut her off.

  That one was the patron saint of all earthly Doubting-Teresa’s, which meant she was practically working for the other side – his side.

  “No, no, no. Hell, no. Just pulling your wings a little. Say…why don’t you check your pockets for your orders,” he said, of course preferring to take that chore upon himself, “I know they wouldn’t have let you just go ahead with my plan.” He tried to defuse the moment with a smile. She’d started pat-a-patting down both sides but now looked confused. Must be he was doing that queer ‘zombie’ face the head chef got such a kick out of.

  “Hey,” she’d zeroed in on one area of the skirt part, where countless fabric “petals” seemed to overlap, “I think I’ve found…yes!” She held aloft a literally golden envelope about the size of the ones florists attach to gift bouquets.

  “Well-l-l?”

  “Should I just--”

  “Open the damned thing,” Dobson practically spat the words. He did grab for it but she must have guessed he’d try so had twirled away. He listened to her rip it open. “Well-l-l?”

  “Pretty straightforward I’d say,” she turned back and held it up. The blur of words was so small that in identical text the entire Emancipation Proclamation would have fit on the reverse side. So Mel was unable to pick up so much as a single letter. His eyesight wasn’t great in the best of conditions, but down there he’d be hard pressed to make out the B-I-B-L-E on the RBG’s perennial best seller.

  “Give it here or read it aloud. Hurry up, we need to get to work.”

  “We’re going back in time so what does it matter if--”

  He bit his tongue; glared at her and put his arms down again. Balled his fists again.

  Her eyes opened so wide her lashes created an updraft.

  “Save. President. Lincoln.”

  4 – No, there’s no need to consult a professional

  “You’re sure it looks natural?” Lena asked. Her Heavenly handlers had barred Mel from witnessing them at work.

  He compared the woman in the 1860’s era photo to the actual angelic before him. He was impressed – though kept a straight face, clearly troubling his partner. Serves you right girly, girl; turning me into a scullery maid for an entire week. Now she was trying to see the full effect.

  In a handheld mirror she’d pulled from a small Victorian “opera purse.”

  In the dim light of a spring evening in Washington, D.C.

  In a shadowy alleyway just down the block from Ford’s Theatre.

  April 14th, 1865.

  The miracle workers from on high succeeded in turning her from a willowy blonde into an average brunette. All wrapped in the bindingly uncomfortable looking ladies’ fashions of the day, or thereabouts. After all she was playing stand-in for the spawn of a lowly public servant, a mere U.S. Senator. And at 30, the real living woman was practically an old-maid. Wouldn’t pay to put her in anything too au courant.

  “Ew-w-w! I’m so--”

  “Sh-h-h. Plain, yeah, but keep it down. Just because we’re invisible to them doesn’t mean we’re not making some sort of audibles.

  “Audibles? What’s that?”

  “Just be quiet,” Mel whispered. Geez. Don’t they have some sort of training academy up there? “You look fine. Even with that mesmerizing watch-thingy.” Mel stepped nervously out of the shadows to look up and down 10th Street NW. It was after 8. The President’s carriage would arrive shortly. Fancy carriages lined both sides of the street for a block north and south – even down to Pennsylvania Avenue. Judging by the finely liveried men standing around in small groups everything must have gone according to his and his team’s plan. He reached to loosen his starched collar a bit.

  “I’m gonna be such a sore thumb, damn it,” he tried to be quiet, he knew his audibles usually sounded like the yowl of a crazed tomcat. “That’s what I’m going be in, in this, this skin if I can’t control my color.”

  Lena stepped up right behind him. “Did you hear that? What was--”

  “That was an ‘audible.’ My kind.”

  “Oh.” She spoke so much quieter than she had before he could barely make out her melodic tinkling wind-chime-of-a-sound. Good. I scared her a little—

  Sudden shouting came from various coachmen to the south and it spread north like buckets in a fire brigade, “Here they come,” “Here they come,” and to their north a more commanding, “Back ‘em up now, I said leave plenty of room for the Lincolns’ rig,” and then an excited warning, “They’re almost here.”

  The drivers on Mel and Lena’s theatre-side of the street hopped to it and started a chain-reaction carriage back-up.

  “Damn!” Mel shouted. The nearest horses shied, neighed, and a couple pawed and pranced heavily in place, drivers holding more firmly to their reins. The animals of course were reacting in fear to the sound of what seemed like an oversize feline shrieking. The poor horses were clearly certain it was prowling about at their very hooves. Oblivious to it, the men were simply consumed with controlling their beasts and obeying the military-security man’s orders.

  “They’re very early,” Mel began, “so we’re really late.” Lena seemed shell-shocked. He barely hissed, “What?” as he grabbed her nearest arm and started fast walking them towards the closest theatre entrance. To get her in position they had to beat the White House entourage up to the box.

  “How will we ‘stop the carnage’ if we can’t stop--” He interrupted her.

  “My boys have already taken care of everything. Clearly. Look around.” If she hadn’t noticed there’d been no dark skinned carriage attendants out in the street surely now, moving through the lobby of the theatre she could see something was missing. Everyone in sight was pale skinned: from the man holding the door to the worker at a tiny corner shoe shine stand to the strong arms of the men carrying an unwieldy piece of prop furniture.

  In this peaceful new 1865 even the young man handing out programs tonight was white.

  “What?” she said, apparently it still wasn’t registering, “I’m talking about protecting the Sewards.”

  He was leading her up the narrow stairs now; then steering her down the hallway to the President’s box. Behind them the quiet commotion of the Commander-in-Chief’s arrival had faded.

  “If you play your part and I play mine they’ll be no need to worry about Seward. Not tonight anyway. Here,” he held her back from the door. “Wait here. Let me look.”

  He faced the still closed door, stepped close, and then slowly leaned towards it as if to rest his head there. Instead, his ghostly-self merged with then pierced straight through the solid planks of wood. Even in the non-corporeal form he was certain she watched him do it. He popped back out more quickly. Waved her over to him. “Harris and Rathbone are both in there. The others are almost here so you’ve got to go. Now…Remember, stick to the plan. Go.” She looked at him like a scared puppy.

  “But what?” she began, “How? How do I know what to say t
o the Maj--” She was stepping away from the door but he grabbed her by both elbows and steered her back.

  “You’ll do fine,” he said, pretty sure he was lying or that it’d turn out to be a lie. “The RBG won’t let you down. Just listen for that swell small voice of his.” This time she actually had tears forming. Maybe it was because she thought she was about to do some kind of a noble thing. “Now go slowly like I did ‘til you’re through,” she was part way in so would barely hear him at that point, “don’t want you gettin’ splinters or anything.” He stifled a laugh then looked around. That one, he was always told, sounded like a cat wrestling with a hellacious hairball.

  There. The last of her voluminous costume was in. He did a quick inside-the-box visual again; saw Lena take possession of the sorry little mousy-haired Clara just the way they’d practiced – all of once before. She’s a pretty quick study though. Might be handy to have her around on some future assignment, Mel thought as he came back into the hallway. He sauntered towards the backstage area for a quick reconnoiter before heading over to the Star Saloon for a couple of tall ones.

  5 – Be still my wildly beating heart…or yours

  O.K. Lena, breathe. You can do it. You really can. Just breathe, relax, and push, she told herself.

  The angelic had never needed to give herself pep talks before, typically it was Mother-T giving the entire DPSS (Dept. of Prayers, Silent or Spoken) such encouragement, every hour on the hour. More often during times of particularly severe human tragedies. Of course as this was Lena’s first earthly assignment she still didn’t quite grasp all the power and authority she’d been endowed with upon leaving those heavenly heights. Didn’t realize she had an as needed direct-connect to her Boss, the RBG as her IM partner called him.

  Golly this feels beyond strange. Lena’s spark of a spiritual essence floated at just about the center of Clara Harris’s thoracic cavity now that she’d crossed-over. She’d entered through that proverbial “window to the soul,” the eyes and hovered in the other’s heart. Literally. But slipping under a pair of corneas then in through subtly modulating irises was a piece of cake compared to what the novice had to do next.

  I can do it. She gritted her now ethereal teeth and with an Uh-h-hh! that nobody but she could hear forced her essence through the totality of the other. Until there really was no “other.” She and Clara were one physically; Lena however, had the controls, cerebrally. Psychologically Clara was officially “possessed.”

  In a good way.

  Even with Clara’s humanly-poor hearing Lena detected footsteps heading her way from far down the hall. They gulped nervously. Their eyes were starting to tear up. Lena tried to sniff back a sudden rising sadness. What if I can’t pull it off? What if he gets shot anyway? What if—

  “Sweetheart?” the man next to her spoke in a low gentle tone; leaned in so close she could feel his breath as the two warm syllables caressed her face. She blushed, pressing her hand to her chest to contain the living and now wildly beating heart she shared.

  She glanced generically in his direction. Saw only vaguely the deep blue of his Union jacket, then more sharply the contrast of its bright decorative braid, and then sharper still, the twinkle of gas lamplight off the brass officer’s bar on his shoulder epaulet. “Clara, what’s wrong?”

  Light-headed, she turned, looked full on at the gleaming Army-lieutenant insignia. Rathbone was supposed to be a major. Something had gone very wrong in their plan. Lena knew anyone sporting the 2nd lieutenant’s bars was years away from a golden oak leaf. As the daughter of an Army officer who’d fought in his country’s wars in the ‘40’s she knew all the insignia - from the lowest enlisted to the highest generals.

  This was either the wrong man or the wrong year.

  “Is it…” she stalled, knowing this question would qualify her for the asylum. But she had to ask. Besides, as Mel Dobson would say, You won’t be the one they’ll lock up. “Is it 1865?”

  Before he could answer the door behind them opened and Rathbone was showing his true allegiance by jumping to his feet. To attention she presumed. Lena forced herself – and Clara – to turn around more casually than she truly wanted to.

  She expected she’d face merely the First Lady and President Lincoln. Instead a group of four others entered ahead of them. First, two Generals in Union dress blues. Even Lena recognized them immediately: Grant and Lee. Lee?

  The angelic-in-human-drag sucked in audibly, her hand flew to her forehead. Surely I’m feverish. Unwittingly she whispered aloud, “What in God’s name is happening?” A deep familiarly resonant voice from somewhere way outside Lena’s head answered: “Unintended consequences.”

  Immediately behind the formally garbed senior military men (and effectively herded by the First Lady) were two women in fine silk dresses: presumably their wives.

  The actors on stage had stopped and turned - along with nearly everyone in the house – to face their box. Oh, no…they heard The Voice, too. But as soon as the spontaneous applause broke out and many people began standing she knew it wasn’t The Voice they’d heard. It was out of respect for these latest arrivals.

  Mrs. Lincoln rushed to Lena’s side, seemingly oblivious or at least accustomed to such accolades. She squeezed right between the angelic and “her” beau.

  “My dear girl,” the First Lady crooned, her own face twisted into a most unpleasant expression, “I’m so-o-o sorry to overwhelm you. I tried to dissuade…him.” She threw a glance at the tall spindly iconic figure ducking to get through the doorway. My God, Lena thought, it’s really him! If only my brother could have— But what in heaven’s name is he doing? Lincoln winked at her, boyishly. He must have seen Lena-as-Clara’s unnatural stare as well as his wife’s glare. Unlike his wife’s seeming indifference, he turned to face and acknowledge the audience.

  The First Lady watched him through narrowed eyes as he waved, motioning for the crowd to Stop, Stop, and then to Sit, Sit. They did. Mrs. Lincoln finally seemed less annoyed, even slightly pleased as the people began to quiet down. She turned back to “Clara.”

  “It was a last minute change,” she said quietly, “Their meeting was running late so he thought, Why not continue in the carriage, then, well, here we all are. You understand. Or you will,” with that she looked up at the lieutenant and actually smiled. Her nearly round face turned momentarily into a perfect fleshy sphere. With a quick pat, pat on the junior officer’s sleeve she’d maneuvered around and began wiggling and working her way into the seat right behind Lena.

  6 – Watch the time (piece)

  Lena seemed disinterested, her head turned slightly away from the stage. She needed to listen “past” the actors’ dialogue though; needed to pick up on the would-be shooter’s footsteps in the hall.

  She checked the “watch-thingy” again (as Dobson called the pendant watch she’d vowed never to go without) for the umpteenth time.

  This time when she lifted the timepiece she looked at it more closely. It was after all a miracle of heaven; didn’t matter that she was the only one who knew.

  She was amazed again (even as an angelic) for the umpteenth time that it looked so good and that it worked. Considering. No more edge dents. And the crystal…not smashed, not even cracked…like that day of the protest. Just before I, we, were…

  Lena closed her eyes briefly, then again stared at the pristine engraved case trying not to figure it out. Just be thankful, she thought, captivated by the simple entwined monogram. Unwittingly she slipped back in time the human way, simply by staring at the heirloom, once again. It was given to her at 16 and she’d worn it nearly every day since, for as long as she could remember.

  She looked over at Rathbone fearing he’d noticed her scrutiny of it. He merely smiled and went back to watching the performance. Thank you, Lord!

  She pressed the stem to open the cover and to expose the face. Through its perfected crystal she read 10:10. It was time for her to play her part.

  Using the opera glasses she’d
borrowed from the President she pretended to admire something on stage - all the while mentally rehearsing her next few moves. First she’d turn to return the glasses, then “accidently” drop them, and finally Lincoln would have to bend down to retrieve them. Certainly this would put him out of any gunman’s most straightforward line of fire, all bent over and contorted, reaching between the chairs.

  So John Wilkes Booth’s deadly plot would thereby be thwarted.

  But a new plan popped into Lena’s head. The one thing that apparently neither Heaven nor Hell had thought of. And there was still time to try it!

  She lowered the glasses, remained facing forward, and used her free hand to fan herself something dreadful.

  “Here my dear,” the First Lady leaned closer, attempted to hand her a fan.

  “Thank you so much, but,” Lena began, “but, I just need to…to get some air.” She rose abruptly. Rathbone did too. “No, uh, Henry?” she handed him the glasses, “You stay. I’ll be fine. Just out in the hall. That’s all…” The other men – except for Lincoln – had made a show of rising then stopped.

  Memories of living in the mid-19th century were suddenly flooding back. Moving through the close space in the theatre box, fully-corporeal, was so much more challenging than waltzing that same way through the 21st century in nothing but gauzy chiffon had been. Simple walking in her current whalebone and taffeta get-up was like wading through a hip deep molasses swamp. She grabbed at her full skirts; tried to flatten them closer so she could at least take half-strides.

  If I ever get all the way out into the hall I’ll call out for the President’s bodyguard…or find him. The first time around at least, the guard, John Parker, had abandoned his post. This time if she could just get him back into place she wouldn’t have to put on her own sure-to-be-clumsy charade in a matter of minutes back in the box.

  7 – Nowhere Man

  Lena scoured the hallway for the missing policeman turned presidential bodyguard.