by M. E. Roufa
Abe flagged down a nearby Lincoln and helped himself to some wine. He hoped it would be the kid, but it was no one he recognized, so to speak. But as impersonators went, this one had the look down. The right basic height, the right hollow cheeks, and the right hair, which went a long way. Even knowing he looked nothing like him, really, as always it still sent a bizarre chill through Abe, like looking through a funhouse mirror. Or a regular mirror after waking up with a particularly bad hangover. He reached for a glass, but the waiter pulled the tray away.
“Aren’t you supposed to be serving?” he asked suspiciously.
“No,” Abe answered, exasperated. “I’m not an impersonator.”
“You should be,” the waiter responded. “You’re a little too bony, but in the right clothes you would look just like him. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“You’re the first.” Abe answered, taking a glass off the tray. What did he mean, too bony? He tried to check out his reflection in the reflective surfaces protecting the nearest dioramas, but they kept being blocked by prettier people doing the same thing, only with much pouffier hair and clothing. He knew he wasn’t bonier than Lincoln; that was impossible, but he still wanted to feel at least partially attractive in his own right… and each outside opinion negating that was worth at least a few minutes in front of a mirror obsessing.
He wondered if any of his own students had bothered to show up, but in the crush of people he couldn’t spot anyone. He wondered idly how many of the kids would be counting on that to insist that they had been there when in fact they were currently at the movies or slouched in front of the television at home. And if he took their word for it—which he pretty much had to do, let’s face it—how many kids who hadn’t signed up or expressed an interest would suddenly show up at his desk tomorrow afternoon to insist that they were here too—“You know, toward the back, near the, um—important stuff. I came late.” Abe was a patsy, he was too honest, he was constantly being taken advantage of. He might never be fully respected by his students, but they genuinely liked him. He was just fine with them liking him for the wrong reasons. It kept them paying attention in class, or at least pretending to pay attention (even if it came with the price of never-ending abuse of his car). And Abe really loved the idea that once in a while, because they were paying attention, some of the lessons he was teaching were breaking through, just as right now he really loved the idea that maybe somewhere in that room, one, two, even all nine of those students were mingling and possibly even looking at the displays (the ones you could see through all the partygoers), or reading the information cards (the ones you could read through the mood lighting), or gazing in wonder at the Proclamation itself (instead of throwing up in the parking lot after sucking down one too many pilfered glasses of wine).
He decided to wander over to the lighted cases himself, to drink in the reason he was there. It was fairly easy; as he suspected, no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. There were several small cases, built of glass and hewn wood to better mesh with their Civil War Era surroundings, arranged in a loose triangular formation so there could be little doubt which was the main attraction. And yet all of them were small treasures, next to which everything in the room—from the ridiculous multi-thousand dollar dioramas to the cheapest-looking but still priceless slave underclothing—was mere kitsch. They ranged from signed letters documenting Lincoln’s thoughts on slavery and emancipation, a copy of The District of Columbia Emancipation Act, which set all slaves in Washington D.C. free in 1862 and led to the larger Proclamation itself nine years later, one of the few existing sets of photographs of the final draft of the Emancipation Proclamation, written in Lincoln’s handwriting, tragically destroyed in the Great Chicago Fire in 1871. And in the largest case, spread out under softly-glowing spotlights, was the preliminary draft of the Proclamation, beginning with the words “I, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States of America” in Lincoln’s scratchy yet compellingly beautiful handwriting, the capital A’s somewhat darker than the other letters, rising from the page, befitting the man and the country. This was only the first draft of the manuscript; the official document was in the National Archives with other historical Acts and Proclamations, but it was written in an anonymous clerk’s fine calligraphy and had long been considered of lesser historical interest. So much so that it hadn’t even made the tour, poor thing. This was the real deal.
It was only a rough draft, but judging from the tiny amount of emendations, the ideas had flowed from Lincoln’s pen onto the paper wholly formed. Perhaps there had been a first first draft prior to this one, with more corrections. Perhaps there had been twenty abandoned first sentences. But somehow Abe didn’t think so. It read like the work of a brilliant mind committed to a point, one more concerned with stating what was right than with political expediency. Nothing like the final draft, the one destroyed by fire in Chicago, also on display in the form of a series of large blown-up photographs. Here you could see the messy form of how a political speech was built by committee. Words were added, scratched out, occasionally invaded the margins. Comments were appended by William Seward, Lincoln’s Secretary of State. And in the most charming touch, whole paragraphs of text were cut and pasted—actually cut and pasted, out of a book or a leaflet or some other printed source—right into the middle of the manuscript. Abe couldn’t help but grin at the thought of his forebear reaching that part of his writing, stopping, taking the Act of Congress he wanted to quote, dipping his pen into the inkwell and realizing that there was no way he wanted to write down all those words if he didn’t darn well have to… then grabbing a pair of scissors and a pot of glue and saying to hell with it. The pages, faded with age, stained and worn, were haunting in their untidiness.
But on this draft, the real one—Lincoln’s own draft in Abe’s opinion—the ideas still seemed alive, fresh from the pen. If the penmanship hadn’t been so old-fashioned, it might have been written within the last week, the ink still seemed so strong. Abe couldn’t look away. He longed to break the glass, to run his fingers over the lines, to retrace the letters. What made him choose the words he picked? And why the ones he corrected? They belonged to him, somehow. In some distant part of his mind he almost felt like he remembered these pages, but of course that was impossible. It could only have been that he had seen their images in a book somewhere, or on the Web. He never came across anything related to Lincoln that he didn’t stop and inhale, so it could easily have been buried in his memory banks from a single glance ages ago. The thought passed. All he knew is that he was communing with this writing, these pages, because they were so unique, so rough. It had nothing to do with slavery, or the Civil War, or even history, or any of the reasons he thought he was there for. Instead, he found himself looking at a piece of someone’s mind at work, evidence of his hands on the paper in the patchwork of text, of his association with his colleague Seward… he was eavesdropping on a complete moment in a man’s life. Of his own life, sort of, he couldn’t help but feel. As if he had been there.
A tap on his elbow broke him out of his reverie and brought him back to the present and his own skin. It was the angry man from earlier in the evening, the man from the kitchen. Abe flinched, half expecting to be thrown back into the staff bathroom and forced into new indignities, possibly involving a stovepipe hat. But the man didn’t seem at all angry now. If anything, he had a slightly bemused expression on his face, though that disappeared as Abe looked back at him, fading into a politely blank smile. Abe stepped aside, making room for him at the display. He hoped he was merely in the way. But the stranger kept looking at him, as if their former connection meant a conversation was in order. Abe had the vaguely uneasy sense that he was supposed to apologize. Then again, in most awkward social situations he had the feeling that he was supposed to apologize. But years of then being asked “What are you apologizing for?” followed by his saying he was sorry for apologizing had finally cured him of the habit. Not of the impulse though.
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nbsp; The man kept looking at him, almost sizing him up. Abe tried to walk away, but he was hedged in between the display case and the man’s body—there was no way for him to get past him without saying something, even if that something was just “excuse me,” and it was starting to dawn on him that he was hoping to catch Abe into a conversation if he made the mistake of speaking first. The ritual dance of the uncomfortable male partygoer, small talk division.
Finally he spoke. “So what does it mean to be a freelance Lincoln?”
“Excuse me?” Abe had no idea what he was talking about.
“You said you were a freelance Lincoln impersonator. Back in the Green Room.”
The green room? Did he mean the kitchen? Abe shook his head, confused. He vaguely remembered the comment, but there was so much going on at the time that it was hard to believe anyone else had picked up on it. And with all the other assumptions about who he wasn’t, and all the humiliating dressing up and dressing down it had led to, the fact that this was what this man had come to talk to him about was pretty disconcerting.
“No, actually,” he confessed, “I’m a history teacher. I just said that to the kid to make him feel better.”
“Why would it make him feel better?”
“Well, he seemed pretty upset to think his job was taken out from under him. It seemed like adding insult to injury for him to think he could be replaced by somebody right off the street. Plus he really seemed to need the work.”
“Nah, it would have been good for him. He’s always late—would have served him right to lose a gig, especially to someone pulled off the street. He’s too cocky because he’s top of the list.”
“Top of the list?”
“When people want a Lincoln and they look through the photo book, they usually pull him. He’s not the best look-alike, but he’s got the right height and the right bones, and because he’s young and has that soulful puppydog-eyes look he’s got some sex appeal thing—you know, sexy Illinois-Junior-Senator-Lincoln. Good for bachelorette parties and bat mitzvahs and stuff. You know what I’m talking about.”
Abe couldn’t think of a single scenario in which a bat mitzvah or bachelorette party would go hand in hand with anything resembling an Abraham Lincoln impersonator, let alone a sexy Abraham Lincoln impersonator, but he decided to keep that to himself. He nodded, uncomfortably, and made a move toward the rest of the room. The man held out his hand, blocking him.
“Harold Harmon.”
“Abe Finkelstein,” Abe responded automatically, wishing immediately that he’d made something up.
“Abe, huh? You don’t say.”
“I don’t say what?”
“Well, you can’t tell me I’m the first person to notice the coincidence that your name is Abraham, and you look so much like Abraham Lincoln?”
Abe tried to smile casually. He hated when this happened. “Why, no. You’re the first.”
Harold took it in stride. “Me and about a million other people, huh. I get it.”
“The other coincidence, which is really freaky, is that my last name is Finkelstein.” Abe said
“Yeah? Why’s that?” Harold leaned in, interested.
“Well, considering how much I look like Marvin Finkelstein.”
“Marvin?”
“My dad. Excuse me.” Abe sidled past him and hightailed his way through the crowd to his car.
11
L’Oiseau Unique was one of the nicest restaurants in that section of town, if you liked dodo. Holding true to the unwritten Orlando law that no business can be successful without being themed, L’Oiseau Unique billed itself as “a fine French bistro devoted to America’s oldest, newest and most exciting land fowl.” Whether the dodo was, or was not, actually America’s most exciting bird, was of course open to debate, but that L’Oiseau Unique was devoted to it was absolutely without question. Diners could choose from “recently-sequenced” or “farm-raised” varieties of the bird, shipped from the handful of nations that had managed to perfect the cloning process. The differences were negligible, and were most likely highlighted in order to produce a sense of connoisseurship in snobbish diners. The birds had been brought back from extinction to be enjoyed cold or hot, prepared countless ways. This being Orlando, of course, diners could also have chicken or steak.
The prices were a little higher than the norm, the napkins were of actual linen and the glasses were of fine enough crystal that a few tended to escape from the restaurant in customers’ purses on the occasional evening despite the higher class of diner—again, this being Orlando, home of the obligatory souvenir. Norma could feel her kitten heels sinking into the carpet slightly as she followed the hostess to their table. She had never been here before and she was glad she had dressed up for the occasion. Not dressed up-dressed up, she hadn’t wanted to send any signals. She certainly didn’t want her date to think she liked him enough to get dolled up just for him. But she liked to fit with her surroundings, or even better to rise above them so they set her off like a jewel in a ring, and she was certainly ready to shine here. And while no venue in this town was ever likely to be a place to run into locals, a place that attracted a wealthier crowd was never a bad thing. If she met someone new while she was here, and if that someone new asked for her number…? Well, anything could happen.
And if not, at any rate she had read that dodo was full of anti-oxidants and Omega-3 fatty acids, which were very good for the brain.
As they got to their table, her escort pulled her chair out for her before sitting down himself. He was incredibly solicitous. Norma couldn’t help but feel like this was the kind of date she had wanted to be taken on for quite some time. If only the company were better. She didn’t want to be the kind of person who judged people based on their looks, but she just couldn’t get past his. Something about the way his Adam’s apple kept bobbing up and down, like a gumball trying to parallel park. Or the way his lips curled just slightly over his teeth. And it didn’t help that he was so much shorter than she was. She watched him as he read over the wine list, his slightly bulging eyes scanning up and down and up and down, and was again reminded of a frog. It would never work. Plus, how could you ever fall for someone you were only dating out of blackmail?
“Nice place, right?” he said.
“It’s beautiful,” she replied, and meant it. She followed his eyes, taking in the candles on the table, the flower arrangements, the view out the windows of the fake pond with a little bridge spanning it, filled with water lilies and even… some… lily pads.
Oh dear.
No, it would never work.
“I take all my dates here. There’s just something about this place.” He was saying. “I don’t know what it is… I guess it’s that thing the French call the je ne sais quoi. Anyhow, I hope you like dodo. Though they also have chicken and steak.”
“I love dodo.” Norma smiled. She had only tried it once, as a child with her parents, and found it tough and stringy. America’s oldest, newest and most exciting land fowl had this effect on a lot of people, but a lot of people also found Picasso’s art to be boxy and unflattering and Shostakovich’s music to sound like cats set loose in a piano factory. It was rare and expensive and got great reviews from people who also got great reviews, therefore officially she loved it, and that was that. “Especially with chardonnay,” she added. There was no way she was going to do this—the meal or the date—without a bottle along. His eyes, which had been hopping up and down the narrow menu, came in for a landing in relief at her suggestion.
“Chardonnay,” he told the hovering waiter.
“Very good,” the waiter said.
“Very good,” he echoed to Norma, his eyebrows lifted in happy expectation.
“Good,” she said back to him. It was about as enthusiastic as she was willing to get.
“So tell me about yourself.” She leaned in, tugging a hole in the silence. It was about as good a start as any. If he was any kind of a talker, that should last her at least through the a
ppetizers, and possibly halfway through the entrée.
As it turned out, he was a particularly longwinded kind of talker. His name was Stuart. He worked for the Mouse.
12
The food was, as expected, delicious. It was also, as expected, dodo. But this was not actually a bad thing. A distant (not to mention larger and stupider) relative of the pigeon, the dodo could be taught to eat almost anything. As a result, it could also be made to taste like almost anything—nutty, fruity, like meat or like seafood—anything except, oddly enough, chicken. For a good chef who could work past the naturally tough and stringy nature of their flesh, the possibilities were endless.
After the complimentary spicy dodo bruschetta, Norma had a lovely smoked dodo salad on wild greens, followed by roasted dodo tips on toast which were genuinely delicious (though what they were the “tips” of was never properly explained, possibly for good reason). Stuart was a bit less ambitious, moving from a simple dodo-egg omelet to a simpler grilled dodo steak with rice. They decided to pass on dessert. No matter how lovely the calligraphy on the menu cards, there was no way to make “dodo tiramisu” sound tempting. But otherwise, the restaurant was a success. The waiters were certainly attentive. And other than holding a forkful of his omelet out and insisting she try a taste, from his fork, while he was holding it across the table, Stuart’s dating comportment was reasonably good. From a distance—albeit a far distance, possibly involving a satellite—Norma believed she appeared to be having a very good time. If she were myopic and deaf, she probably would have been having an excellent evening. If only her escort weren’t the man sitting across the table. Or if he were, well, if only he were better looking. Or at least if he would just. Shut. Up.